Presently emerging into an open glade, I came full in sight of the

mighty game: it was a truly glorious sight; there were nine or ten of

them, which were, with one exception, full-grown, first-rate bulls, and

all of them carried very long, heavy, and perfect tusks. Their first

panic being over, they had reduced their pace to a free, majestic walk,

and they followed one leader in a long line, exhibiting an appearance so

grand and striking, that any description, however brilliant, must fail

to convey to the mind of the reader an adequate idea of the reality.

Increasing my pace, I shot alongside, at the same time riding well out

from the elephants, the better to obtain an inspection of their tusks.

It was a difficult matter to decide which of them I should select, for

every elephant seemed better than his neighbor; but, on account of the

extraordinary size and beauty of his tusks, I eventually pitched upon a

patriarchal bull, which, as is usual with the heaviest, brought up the

rear. I presently separated him from his comrades, and endeavored to

drive him in a northerly direction. There is a peculiar art in driving

an elephant in the particular course which you may fancy, and, simple as

it may seem, it nevertheless requires the hunter to have a tolerable

idea of what he is about. It is widely different from driving in an

eland, which also requires judicious riding: if you approach too near

your elephant, or shout to him, a furious charge will certainly ensue,

while, on the other hand, if you give him too wide a berth, the chances

are that you lose him in the jungle, which, notwithstanding his size, is

a very simple matter, and, if once lost sight of, it is more than an

even bet that the hunter will never again obtain a glimpse of him. The

ground being favorable, Kleinboy called to me to commence firing,

remarking, very prudently, that he was probably making for some jungle

of wait-a-bits, where we might eventually lose him. I continued,

however, to reserve my fire until I had hunted him to what I considered

to be a safe distance from the two old fellows which we had at first

discovered.

At length closing with him, I dared him to charge, which he instantly

did in fine style, and as he pulled up in his career I yelled to him a

note of bold defiance, and cantering alongside, again defied him to the

combat. It was thus the fight began, and the ground being still

favorable, I opened a sharp fire upon him, and in about a quarter of an

hour twelve of my bullets were lodged in his fore-quarters. He now

evinced strong symptoms of approaching dissolution, and stood catching

up the dust with the point of his trunk, and throwing it in clouds above

and around him. At such a moment it is extremely dangerous to approach

an elephant on foot, for I have remarked that, although nearly dead, he

can muster strength to make a charge with great impetuosity. Being

anxious to finish him, I dismounted from my steed, and availing myself

of the cover of a gigantic nwana-tree, whose diameter was not less than

ten feet, I ran up within twenty yards, and gave it him sharp right and

left behind the shoulder. These two shots wound up the proceeding; on

receiving them, he backed stern foremost into the cover, and then walked

slowly away. I had loaded my rifle, and was putting on the caps, when I

heard him fall over heavily; but, alas! the sound was accompanied by a

sharp crack, which I too well knew denoted the destruction of one of his

lovely tusks; and, on running forward, I found him lying dead, with the

tusk, which lay under, snapped through the middle.

I did not tarry long for an inspection of the elephant, but mounting my

horse, at once set off to follow on the spoor of the two old fellows

which the ostrich had alarmed. Fortunately, I fell in with a party of

natives, who were on their way to the wagons with the impedimenta, and

assisted by these, I had sanguine hopes of shortly overtaking the noble

quarry. We had not gone far when two wild boars, with enormous tusks,

stood within thirty yards of me: but this was no time to fire: and a

little after a pair of white rhinoceroses stood directly in our path.

Casting my eyes to the right, I beheld within a quarter of a mile of me

a herd of eight or ten cow elephants, with calves, peacefully browsing

on a sparely-wooded knoll. The spoor we followed led due south, and the

wind was as fair as it could blow. We passed between the twin-looking,

abrupt, pyramidal hills, composed of huge disjointed blocks of granite,

which lay piled above each other in grand confusion. To the summit of

one of these I ascended with a native, but the forest in advance was so

impenetrable that we could see nothing of the game we sought. Descending

from the hillock, we resumed the spoor, and were enabled to follow at a

rapid pace, the native who led the spooring-party being the best tracker

in Bamangwato. I had presently very great satisfaction to perceive that

the elephants had not been alarmed, their course being strewed with

branches which they had chewed as they slowly fed along. The trackers

now became extremely excited, and I strained their eyes on every side in

the momentary expectation of beholding the elephants. At length we

emerged into an open glade, and, clearing a grove of thorny mimosas, we

came full in sight of one of them. Cautiously advancing, and looking to

my right, I next discovered his comrade, standing in a thicket of low

wait-a-bits, within a hundred and fifty yards of me; they were both

first-rate old bulls, with enormous tusks of great length. I dismounted,

and warily approached the second elephant for a closer inspection of his

tusks. As I drew near, he slightly turned his head, and I then perceived

that his farther one was damaged toward the point; while at the same

instant his comrade, raising his head clear of the bush on which he

browsed, displayed to my delighted eyes a pair of the most beautiful and

perfect tusks I had ever seen.

Regaining my horse, I advanced toward this elephant, and when within

forty yards of him, he walked slowly on before me in an open space, his

huge ears gently flapping, and entirely concealing me from his view.

Inclining to the left, I slightly increased my pace, and walked past him

within sixty yards, upon which he observed me for the first time; but

probably mistaking "Sunday" for a hartebeest, he continued his course

with his eye upon me, but showed no symptoms of alarm. The natives had

requested me to endeavor, if possible, to hunt him toward the water,

which lay in a northerly direction, and this I resolved to do. Having

advanced a little, I gave him my wind, when he was instantly alarmed,

and backed into the bushes, holding his head high and right to me. Thus

he stood motionless as a statue, under the impression, probably, that,

owing to his Lilliputian dimensions, I had failed to observe him, and

fancying that I would pass on without detecting him. I rode slowly on,

and described a semicircle to obtain a shot at his shoulder, and halting

my horse, fired from the saddle; he got it in the shoulder-blade, and,

as slowly and silently I continued my course, he still stood gazing at

me in utter astonishment. Bill and Flam were now slipped by the natives,

and in another moment they were barking around him. I shouted loudly to

encourage the dogs and perplex the elephant, who seemed puzzled to know

what to think of us, and, shrilly trumpeting, charged headlong after the

dogs. Retreating, he backed into the thicket, then charged once more,

and made clean away, holding the course I wanted. When I tried to fire,

"Sunday" was very fidgety, and destroyed the correctness of my aim.

Approaching the elephant, I presently dismounted, and, running in, gave

him two fine shots behind the shoulder; then the dogs, which were both

indifferent ones, ran barking at him. The consequence was a terrific

charge, the dogs at once making for their master, and bringing the

elephant right upon me. I had no time to gain my saddle, but ran for my

life. The dogs, fortunately, took after "Sunday," who, alarmed by the

trumpeting, dashed frantically away, though in the heat of the affray I

could not help laughing to remark horse, dogs, and elephant all charging

along in a direct line.

The dogs, having missed their master, held away for Kleinboy, who had

long disappeared, I knew not whither. "Sunday" stood still, and

commenced to graze, while the elephant, slowly passing within a few

yards of him, assumed a position under a tree beside him. Kleinboy

presently making his appearance, I called to him to ride in, and bring

me my steed; but he refused, and asked me if I wished him to go headlong

to destruction. "Sunday" having fed slowly away from the elephant. I

went up, and he allowed me to recapture him. I now plainly saw that the

elephant was dying, but I continued firing to hasten his demise. Toward

the end he took up a position in a dense thorny thicket, where for a

long time he remained. Approaching within twelve paces, I fired my two

last shots, aiming at his left side, close behind the shoulder. On

receiving these, he backed slowly through the thicket, and clearing it,

walked gently forward about twenty yards, when he suddenly came down

with tremendous violence right on his broadside. To my intense

mortification, the heavy fall was accompanied by a loud, sharp crack,

and on going up I found one of his matchless tusks broken short off by

the lip. This was a glorious day's sport: I had bagged, in one

afternoon, probably the two finest bull elephants in Bamangwato, and,

had it not been for the destruction of their noble trophies, which were

the two finest pair of tusks I had obtained that season, my triumph on

the occasion had been great and unalloyed.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE POWER OF MERCY.

Quiet enough, in general, is the quaint old town of Lamborough. Why all

this bustle to-day? Along the hedge-bound roads which lead to it, carts,

chaises, vehicles of every description are jogging along filled with

countrymen; and here and there the scarlet cloak or straw bonnet of some

female occupying a chair, placed somewhat unsteadily behind them,

contrasts gayly with the dark coats, or gray smock-frocks of the front

row; from every cottage of the suburb, some individuals join the stream,

which rolls on increasing through the streets till it reaches the

castle. The ancient moat teems with idlers, and the hill opposite,

usually the quiet domain of a score or two of peaceful sheep, partakes

of the surrounding agitation.

The voice of the multitude which surrounds the court-house, sounds like

the murmur of the sea, till suddenly it is raised to a sort of shout.

John West, the terror of the surrounding country, the sheep-stealer and

burglar, had been found guilty.

"What is the sentence?" is asked by a hundred voices.

The answer is "Transportation for Life."

But there was one standing aloof on the hill, whose inquiring eye

wandered over the crowd with indescribable anguish, whose pallid cheek

grew more and more ghastly at every denunciation of the culprit, and

who, when at last the sentence was pronounced, fell insensible upon the

green-sward. It was the burglar's son.

When the boy recovered from his swoon, it was late in the afternoon; he

was alone; the faint tinkling of the sheep-bell had again replaced the

sound of the human chorus of expectation, and dread, and jesting; all

was peaceful, he could not understand why he lay there, feeling so weak

and sick. He raised himself tremulously and looked around, the turf was

cut and spoiled by the trampling of many feet. All his life of the last

few months floated before his memory, his residence in his father's

hovel with ruffianly comrades, the desperate schemes he heard as he

pretended to sleep on his lowly bed, their expeditions at night, masked

and armed, their hasty returns, the news of his father's capture, his

own removal to the house of some female in the town, the court, the

trial, the condemnation.

The father had been a harsh and brutal parent, but he had not positively

ill-used his boy. Of the great and merciful Father of the fatherless the

child knew nothing. He deemed himself alone in the world. Yet grief was

not his pervading feeling, nor the shame of being known as the son of a

transport. It was revenge which burned within him. He thought of the

crowd which had come to feast upon his father's agony; he longed to tear

them to pieces, and he plucked savagely a handful of the grass on which

he leant. Oh, that he were a man! that he could punish them

all--all--the spectators first, the constables, the judge, the jury, the

witnesses--one of them especially, a clergyman named Leyton, who had

given his evidence more positively, more clearly, than all the others.

Oh, that he could do that man some injury--but for him his father would

not have been identified and convicted.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him, his eyes sparkled with fierce

delight. "I know where he lives," he said to himself; "he has the farm

and parsonage of Millwood. I will go there at once--it is almost dark

already. I will do as I have heard father say he once did to the squire.

I will set his barns and his house on fire. Yes, yes, he shall burn for

it--he shall get no more fathers transported."

To procure a box of matches was an easy task, and that was all the

preparation the boy made.

The autumn was far advanced. A cold wind was beginning to moan among the

almost leafless trees, and George West's teeth chattered, and his

ill-clad limbs grew numb as he walked along the fields leading to

Millwood. "Lucky it's a dark night; this fine wind will fan the flame

nicely," he repeated to himself.

The clock was striking nine, but all was quiet as midnight; not a soul

stirring, not a light in the parsonage windows that he could see. He

dared not open the gate, lest the click of the latch should betray him,

so he softly climbed over; but scarcely had he dropped on the other side

of the wall before the loud barking of a dog startled him. He cowered

down behind the hay-rick, scarcely daring to breathe, expecting each

instant that the dog would spring upon him. It was some time before the

boy dared to stir, and as his courage cooled, his thirst for revenge

somewhat subsided also, till he almost determined to return to

Lamborough, but he was too tired, too cold, too hungry--besides, the

woman would beat him for staying out so late. What could he do? where

should he go? and as the sense of his lonely and forlorn position

returned, so did also the affectionate remembrance of his father, his

hatred of his accusers, his desire to satisfy his vengeance; and once

more, courageous through anger, he rose, took the box from his pocket,

and boldly drew one of them across the sand-paper. It flamed; he stuck

it hastily in the stack against which he rested--it only flickered a

little, and went out. In great trepidation, young West once more grasped

the whole of the remaining matches in his hand and ignited them, but at

the same instant the dog barked. He hears the gate open, a step is close

to him, the matches are extinguished, the lad makes a desperate effort

to escape, but a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and a deep, calm

voice inquired, "What can have urged you to such a crime?" Then calling

loudly, the gentleman, without relinquishing his hold, soon obtained the

help of some farming men, who commenced a search with their lanterns all

about the farm. Of course they found no accomplices, nothing at all but

the handful of half-consumed matches the lad had dropped, and he all

that time stood trembling, and occasionally struggling, beneath the firm

but not rough grasp of the master who held him.

At last the men were told to return to the house, and thither, by a

different path, was George led, till they entered a small,

poorly-furnished room. The walls were covered with books, as the bright

flame of the fire revealed to the anxious gaze of the little culprit.

The clergyman lit a lamp, and surveyed his prisoner attentively. The

lad's eyes were fixed on the ground, while Mr. Leyton's wandered from

his pale, pinched features to his scanty, ragged attire, through the

tatters of which he could discern the thin limbs quivering from cold or

fear; and when at last impelled by curiosity at the long silence, George

looked up, there was something so sadly compassionate in the stranger's

gentle look, that the boy could scarcely believe that he was really the

man whose evidence had mainly contributed to transport his father. At

the trial he had been unable to see his face, and nothing so kind had

ever gazed upon him. His proud bad feelings were already melting.

"You look half-starved," said Mr. Leyton; "draw nearer to the fire, you

can sit down on that stool while I question you; and mind you answer me

the truth. I am not a magistrate, but of course can easily hand you over

to justice if you will not allow me to benefit you in my own way."

George still stood twisting his ragged cap in his trembling fingers, and

with so much emotion depicted on his face, that the good clergyman

resumed, in still more soothing accents: "I have no wish to do you any

thing but good, my poor boy; look up at me, and see if you can not trust

me: you need not be thus frightened. I; only desire to hear the tale of

misery your appearance indicates, to relieve it, if I can."

Here the young culprit's heart smote him. Was this the man whose house

he had tried to burn? On whom he had wished to bring ruin and perhaps

death? Was it a snare spread for him to lead to a confession? But when

he looked on that grave compassionate countenance, he felt that it was

_not_.

"Come, my lad, tell me all."

George had for years heard little but oaths, and curses, and ribald

jests, or the thief's jargon of his father's associates, and had been

constantly cuffed and punished; but the better part of his nature was

not extinguished; and at those words from the mouth of his _enemy_, he

dropped on his knees, and clasping his hands, tried to speak; but could

only sob. He had not wept before during that day of anguish; and now his

tears gushed forth so freely, his grief was so passionate as he half

knelt, half rested on the floor, that the good questioner saw that

sorrow must have its course ere calm could be restored. The young

penitent still wept, when a knock was heard at the door, and a lady

entered. It was the clergyman's wife, he kissed her as she asked how he

had succeeded with the wicked man in the jail?

"He told me," replied Mr. Leyton, "that he had a son whose fate

tormented him more than his punishment. Indeed, his mind was so

distracted respecting the youth, that he was scarcely able to understand

my exhortations. He entreated me with agonizing energy to save his son

from such a life as he had led, and gave me the address of a woman in

whose house he lodged. I was, however, unable to find the boy in spite

of many earnest inquiries."

"Did you hear his name?" asked the wife.

"George West," was the reply.

At the mention of his name, the boy ceased to sob. Breathlessly he heard

the account of his father's last request, of the benevolent clergyman's

wish to fulfill it. He started up, ran toward the door, and endeavored

to open it; Mr. Leyton calmly restrained him, "You must not escape," he

said.

"I can not stop here. I can not bear to look at you. Let me go!" The lad

said this wildly, and shook himself away.

"Why, I intend you nothing but kindness."

A new flood of tears gushed forth; and George West said, between his

sobs,

"While you were searching for me to help me, I was trying to burn you in

your house. I can not bear it." He sunk on his knees, and covered his

face with both hands.

There was a long silence, for Mr. and Mrs. Leyton were as much moved as

the boy, who was bowed down with shame and penitence, to which hitherto

he had been a stranger.

At last the clergyman asked, "What could have induced you to commit such

a crime?"

Rising suddenly in the excitement of remorse, gratitude, and many

feelings new to him, he hesitated for a moment, and then told his story,

he related his trials, his sins, his sorrows, his supposed wrongs, his

burning anger at the terrible fate of his only parent, and his rage at

the exultation of the crowd: his desolation on recovering from his

swoon, his thirst for vengeance, the attempt to satisfy it. He spoke

with untaught, child-like simplicity, without attempting to suppress the

emotions which successively overcame him.

When he ceased, the lady hastened to the crouching boy, and soothed him

with gentle words. The very tones of her voice were new to him. They

pierced his heart more acutely than the fiercest of the upbraidings and

denunciations of his old companions. He looked on his merciful

benefactors with bewildered tenderness. He kissed Mrs. Leyton's hand,

then gently laid on his shoulder. He gazed about like one in a dream who

dreaded to wake. He became faint and staggered. He was laid gently on a

sofa, and Mr. and Mrs. Leyton left him.

Food was shortly administered to him, and after a time, when his senses

had become sufficiently collected, Mr. Leyton returned to the study, and

explained holy and beautiful things, which were new to the neglected

boy: of the great yet loving father; of Him who loved the poor, forlorn

wretch, equally with the richest, and noblest, and happiest; of the

force and efficacy of the sweet beatitude, "Blessed are the Merciful,

for they shall obtain Mercy."

I heard this story from Mr. Leyton, during a visit to him in May. George

West was then head ploughman to a neighboring farmer, one of the

cleanest, best behaved, and most respected laborers in the parish.

[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

BORAX LAGOONS OF TUSCANY.

In a mountainous district of Tuscany, lying about twenty miles west of

Sienna, are situated the extraordinary lagoons from which borax is

obtained. Nothing can be more desolate than the aspect of the whole

surrounding country. The mountains, bare and bleak, appear to be

perpetually immersed in clouds of sulphurous vapor, which sometimes

ascend in wreathed or twisted columns, and at other times are beaten

down by the winds, and dispersed in heavy masses through the glens and

hollows. Here and there water-springs, in a state of boiling heat, and

incessantly emitting smoke and vapor, burst with immense noise from the

earth, which burns and shakes beneath your feet. The heat of the

atmosphere in the vicinity of the lagoons is almost intolerable,

especially when the wind blows about you the fiery vapor, deeply

impregnated with sulphur. Far and near the earth is covered with

glittering crystallizations of various minerals, while the soil beneath

is composed of black marl, streaked with chalk, which, at a distance,

imparts to it the appearance of variegated marble. As you proceed, you

are stunned by the noise of constant explosions, which remind you that

you are traversing the interior of a mighty crater, which in past ages

was, perhaps, filled with a flood of liquid fire.

Borax was first brought to Europe, through India, from Thibet, where it

is found in a mountainous region, resembling in character the district

of Tuscany we have described. If we except some doubtful specimens, said

to have been discovered in coal-pits in Saxony, we may assert that the

mineral is found nowhere else in Europe, or that the territories of the

Grand Duke enjoy a natural monopoly of the article, which, with the

growth of the manufacturing system, is coming more and more into use

every day, especially in France. In former times, when the value of the

lagoons was not understood, the hollows and gorges in the mountains

where they are situated were regarded by the superstitious peasantry as

the entrance to hell. Experience taught them that it was in many

respects a region of death. Whatever living thing fell into the lagoons

inevitably perished, for the devouring acid almost in a moment separated

the flesh from the bones. Cattle were frequently thus lost, and the

peasants themselves or their children sometimes encountered a similar

fate. A celebrated chemist, engaged in making experiments on the

impregnated water, accidentally fell into a lagoon which he himself had

caused to be excavated, and perished immediately, leaving a wife and

several children in indigence.

For many ages no use was made of the boracic acid, and the whole

district containing it--altogether about thirty miles in length--was

dreaded and shunned by the inhabitants. Many inducements were vainly

held out to the peasantry to cultivate the lands in the neighborhood,

which might generally be obtained for nothing. From time to time a few

adventurous families would take up their residence near Monte Cerboli,

and bring a few fields into cultivation, leaving, however, more than

nine-tenths of the land fallow.

About the middle of the last century, Hoefer, who is described as

apothecary to the Grand Duke, first detected the presence of boracic

acid in the lagoon Orcherio, near Monte Botardo. Masgagin, a professor

of anatomy, found the mineral in a concrete state in several streams

issuing from the lagoons, and suggested the propriety of establishing

manufactories of borax. As late, however, as 1801, in consequence of the

failure of numerous experiments, Professor Gazzeri arrived at the

conclusion that the quantity of acid contained in the water of the

lagoons was too small to render the working of them profitable. But this

opinion was based on the old practice of attempting the extracting the

mineral by the use of charcoal furnaces. It was M. Larderel who

introduced the improved method of employing the hot vapors of the

lagoons themselves in the elaboration of the acid, and may be said to

have invented the present method, which will probably go on improving

for ages.

The system of the Chevalier Larderel, now Comte de Pomerasce, displays

at once great ingenuity and courage. The _soffioni_, or vapors, having

been observed to burst forth with more or less vehemence in various

parts of the mountains--which, fortunately for industry and commerce,

are copiously irrigated with streams of water--the idea was conceived of

forming an artificial lagoon on the site of the most elevated vent. A

large basin having been excavated, the nearest stream was turned into

it. The burning blasts from below forcing up their way through the

water, keep it in a state of perpetual ebullition, and by degrees

impregnate it with boracic acid. Nothing can be more striking than the

appearance of such a lagoon. Surrounded by aridity and barrenness, its

surface presents the aspect of a huge caldron, boiling and steaming

perpetually, while its margin trembles, and resounds with the furious

explosions from below. Sometimes the vapor issues like a thread from the

water, and after rising for a considerable height, spreads, and assumes

an arborescent form as it is diluted by the atmospheric air. It then

goes circling over the surface of the lagoon, till, meeting with other

bodies of vapor in a similar condition, the whole commingling,

constitute a diminutive cloud, which is wafted by the breeze up the

peaks of the mountains, or precipitated into the valleys, according to

its comparative density.

To stand on the brink of one of these deadly lakes, stunned by

subterranean thunder, shaken by incessant earthquakes, and scorched and

half suffocated by the fiery pestilential vapor, is to experience very

peculiar sensations, such as one feels within the crater of Vesuvius or

AEtna, or in the obscurity of the Grotto del Cave.

Another lagoon is scooped out lower down the mountain, the site being

determined by the occurrence of soffioni; and here the same processes

are followed, and the same phenomena observable. The water from the

lagoon above, after it has received impregnation during twenty-four

hours, is let off, and conducted by an artificial channel to the second

lagoon; and from thence, with similar precautions, to a third, a fourth,

and so on, till it at length reaches a sixth or eighth lagoon, where the

process of impregnation is supposed to be completed. By this time the

water contains half per cent, of acid, which Professor Gazzeri

considered far too little to repay the expense of extracting it. From

the last lagoon it is conveyed into reservoirs, whence again, after

having remained quiescent a few hours, for what purpose is not stated,

it passes into the evaporating pans. "Here the hot vapor concentrates

the strength of the acid by passing under shallow leaden vessels from

the boiling fountains above, which it quits at a heat of 80 degrees

Reaumur, and is discharged at a heat of 60 degrees (101 Fahrenheit)."

The evaporating pans are arranged on the same principles as the lagoons,

though in some cases almost four times as numerous, each placed on a

lower level than the other. In every successive pan the condensation

becomes greater. All the water at length descends into the

crystallizing vessels, where the process is completed. From these the

borax is conveyed to the drying-rooms, where in the course of a very few

hours, it is ready to be packed for exportation. The number of

establishments has for many years been on the increase, though about

twelve or fourteen years ago they did not exceed nine. Nothing can be

more fallacious than the opinions formed by hasty visitors on matters of

this kind, which are susceptible of perpetual improvement. When the

produce was from 7000 to 8000 Tuscan pounds per day, the manufacturers

were supposed to have reached the maximum, because all the water of the

mountains was supposed to have been called into requisition. Experience,

however, is perpetually teaching us new methods of economy; and though

it would _a priori_ be impossible to say by what means this economy is

to be effected, we can not permit ourselves to doubt that the

manufacture of borax in Tuscany will hereafter be carried to a degree of

perfection greatly transcending the expectations of those who formerly

wrote on the subject. One of these observes the atmosphere has some

influence on the results. In bright and clear weather, whether in winter

or summer, the vapors are less dense, but the depositions of boracic

acid in the lagoons are greater. Increased vapors indicate unfavorable

change of weather, and the lagoons are infallible barometers to the

neighborhood, even at a great distance, serving to regulate the

proceedings of the peasantry in their agricultural pursuits.

As the quantity of boracic acid originally contained in the water of the

lagoons is so very small as we now know it to be, we can no longer

wonder at the opinion formerly entertained, that it did not exist at

all. After five or six successive impregnations we see it does not

exceed half per cent., which, estimating the quantity of borax at 7500

pounds a day, will give 1,500,000 Tuscan pounds, or 500 tons, of water

for the same period. By the construction of immense cisterns for the

catching of rain water, by the employment of steam-engines for raising

it from below, and probably by creating artificial vents for the

soffioni, the quantity of borax produced might be almost indefinitely

increased, since the range of country through which the vapor ascends is

far too great for us to suppose it to be exhausted by the production of

7000 pounds of borax a day. Science in all likelihood will bring about a

revolution in this as in so many other manufactures, and our descendants

will look back with a smile on our hasty and unphilosophical decision.

We are without information on many points connected with the population

of those districts, to throw light on which it would be necessary to

institute fresh investigations on the spot. The lagoons are usually

excavated by laborers from Lombardy, who wander southward in search of

employment in those months of the year during which the Apennines are

covered with snow. They do not, however, remain to be employed in the

business of manufacture. This is carried on by native Tuscan laborers,

who occupy houses, often spacious and well built, in the neighborhood of

the evaporating pans. They are in nearly all cases married men, and are

enabled to maintain themselves and their families on the comparatively

humble wages of a Tuscan lira a day. It would have been satisfactory to

know the number of the Lombard navigators from time to time employed in

excavating the lagoons, as well as of the native laborers, who carry on

operations after their departure; but we may with certainty infer the

successive appearance of fresh soffioni on the sides of the mountains

from the perpetually-recurring necessity of excavating new lagoons.

Again, from the immense increase of borax produced in former times we

may safely infer its increase in future. The quantity obtained was

quadrupled in four years by superior methods of extraction, by economy

of water and vapor, and other improvements suggested by experience.

There can, therefore, be no doubt in our minds that similar improvements

will produce similar results. In 1832, about 650,000 Tuscan pounds were

obtained; in 1836, 2,500,000.

We quote the following suggestion from the observation of a traveler:

"It appears to me that the power and riches of these extraordinary

districts remain yet to be fully developed. They exhibit an immense

number of mighty steam-engines, furnished by nature at no cost, and

applicable to the production of an infinite variety of objects. In the

progress of time this vast machinery of heat and force will probably

become the moving central point of extensive manufacturing

establishments. The steam which has been so ingeniously applied to the

concentration and evaporation of the boracic acid, will probably

hereafter, instead of wasting itself in the air, be employed to move

huge engines, which will be directed to the infinite variety of

production which engages the attention of the industrious artisans; and

thus in course of time there can be little doubt that these lagoons,

which were fled from as objects of danger and terror by uninstructed

man, will gather round them a large, intelligent population, and become

sources of prosperity to innumerable individuals through countless

generations."

Whoever has traveled through Tuscany, will every where have observed

that the peasants live in better houses than they do any where else in

Europe. Some one has said that nearly all their dwellings have been

built within the last eighty years, an observation which in itself shows

the substantial nature of their tenements, for where else will a

peasant's house last so long? In the secluded mountain valleys, where

agriculture supplies the only employment of the industrious classes, you

sometimes meet with very ancient cottages, built quite in the style of

the middle ages, with an abundance of projection and recesses, all

calculated to produce picturesqueness of effect. The modern houses, more

particularly in the district of the lagoons, are constructed more with

reference to comfort than show, the object being to secure as much room

and air as possible. In most places a garden is attached to every

dwelling; and where trees will grow, a large linden or chestnut

stretches its large boughs lovingly about the corner, and sometimes over

the roof, of the dwelling. Under this the peasant and his family sit to

enjoy themselves on summer evenings. Not to be entirely idle, however,

the father is usually engaged in weaving baskets, while the children

amuse themselves with cleaning and preparing the twigs; the mother,

often with a baby in her lap, applies herself to the reparation of the

family wardrobe; and the whole group, especially when lighted up by the

slanting rays of the setting sun, presents to the eye a picture not to

be equaled by Dutch or Flemish school.

In other respects, the peasant of the lagoons aims at an inferior

standard of luxury. His house is by far the finest portion of his

possessions. The style of furniture, though comfortable, is inferior;

and in the matters of dress and food the most primitive theories

evidently prevail. Here, however, as in most other parts of Europe, we

behold the extremities, as it were, of two systems--the one which is

going out of date, and the one which is coming in. Much bigotry is no

doubt often displayed in the attachment of some persons to old habits

and customs, not otherwise valuable or respectable than from their mere

antiquity; but in several parts of Italy the advocates of novelty are

seldom in possession of so much comfort as they who abide by the habits

and customs of their forefathers. These, for the most part, are content

with the coarse manufactures of the country, which, rough and uncouth in

appearance, supply the requisite warmth, and are extremely enduring. On

the other hand, the imported goods within the reach of the poor, though

gay, and of brilliant colors, are too often of the most flimsy texture,

and melt away from about the persons of the wearers almost like vapor.

The two classes of peasants view each other with secret contempt; but

the old fashion is rapidly dying out because it is old, while the new

chiefly triumphs perhaps because it is new.

A native, when questioned on the subject of the recent innovations,

observed that the lower classes of the population would have the means

of providing for their necessities if they were not so eager after

luxuries. The females are given to expensive dress, which deprives them

of the means of supplying themselves with more necessary articles. The

gluttony of the artisans has become proverbial among us: what is not

spent in finery in dress is consumed in pampering the appetite. In

consequence of the prosperity of the straw trade, which lasted from 1818

to 1825, luxury spread throughout the country; and it would excite a

smile, were it not a subject for regret, to observe the country folks in

embroidered stockings and pumps, with large velvet bonnets trimmed with

feathers and lace; but in their homes they, as well as the artisans in

the towns, are miserably off; and they who are even genteelly dressed

when abroad, have rarely more than a miserable palliasse for a bed at

home. Deprived of the advantages of the straw trade, the situation of

the country people, especially those of the mountainous parts, is very

distressing.

But this and similar causes operate much less on the population in the

district of the lagoons than elsewhere; and, indeed, it may almost be

said that these persons, for the most part, offer a striking contrast

with their neighbors. Notwithstanding the nature of the vapors by which

the air they breathe is impregnated, they are said, upon the whole, to

be healthy and long-lived; and the regularity of employment, the

goodness of their wages, and their constant residence on the same spot,

with many other causes, combine to render them one of the most thriving

sections of the Tuscan population. It must, nevertheless, be admitted

that we want several data for correctly appreciating their condition,

and these could only be supplied by one who should remain a long time

among them. The owners and conductors of the works are too much absorbed

by the love of gain to pay much attention to the state of the laborers,

who, as in most other parts of Italy, lead a retired life, and are

reserved and shy of communicating with strangers. On ordinary topics

they will converse with you freely enough, but the moment you allude to

their domestic concerns, they shrink into themselves, and decline

entering into explanations. This, however, they usually do in the most

civil manner, affecting stupidity, and carefully avoiding the least

appearance of rudeness. Even in the neighboring towns and villages the

laborers of the lagoons are little known; and the produce of their

manufacture, though exported to France and England, attracts little

notice to the country itself, except among those who are engaged in its

production. This will account for the very little that is popularly

known of the borax lagoons of Tuscany, or of the race of peasants by

whom they are rendered profitable.

[From Colburn's "New Monthly Magazine."]

WALLACE AND FAWDON.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

This ballad was suggested by one of the notes to the _Lay of the Last

Minstrel_. Wallace, the great Scottish patriot, had been defeated in a

sharp encounter with the English. He was forced to retreat with only

sixteen followers, the English pursued him with a bloodhound and his

sole chance of escape from that tremendous investigator was either in

baffling the scent altogether (which was impossible, unless fugitives

could take to the water, and continue there for some distance), or in

confusing it by the spilling of blood. For the latter purpose, a captive

was sometimes sacrificed; in which case the hound stopped upon the

body.

The supernatural part of the story of Fawdon is treated by its first

relater, Harry the Minstrel, as a mere legend, and that not a very

credible one; but as a mere legend it is very fine, and quite sufficient

for poetical purposes; nor should the old poet's philosophy have thought

proper to gainsay it. Nevertheless, as the mysteries of the conscience

are more awful things than any merely gratuitous terror (besides leaving

optical phenomena quite as real as the latter may find them), even the

supernatural part of the story becomes probable when we consider the

agitations which the noble mind of Wallace may have undergone during

such trying physical circumstances, and such extremes of moral

responsibility. It seems clear, that however necessary the death of

Fawdon may have been to his companions, or to Scotland, his slayer

regretted it; I have suggested the kind of reason which he would most

likely have had for the regret; and, upon the whole, it is my opinion,

that Wallace actually saw the visions, and that the legend originated in

the fact. I do not mean to imply that Fawdon became present, embodied or

disembodied, whatever may have been the case with his spectre. I only

say that what the legend reports Wallace to have seen, was actually in

the hero's eyes. The remainder of the question I leave to the

psychologist.

PART THE FIRST.

WALLACE with his sixteen men

Is on his weary way;

They have hasting been all night,

And hasting been all day;

And now, to lose their only hope,

They hear the bloodhound bay.

The bloodhound's bay comes down the wind,

Right upon the road;

Town and tower are yet to pass,

With not a friend's abode.

Wallace neither turn'd nor spake;

Closer drew the men;

Little had they said that day,

But most went cursing then.

Oh! to meet twice sixteen foes

Coming from English ground,

And leave their bodies on the track,

To cheat King Edward's hound

Oh! to overtake one wretch

That left them in the fight,

And leave him cloven to the ribs,

To mock the bloody spite.

Suddenly dark Fawdon stopp'd,

As they near'd a town;

He stumbled with a desperate oath,

And cast him fiercely down.

He said, "The leech took all my strength,

My body is unblest;

Come dog, come devil, or English rack,

Here must Fawdon rest."

Fawdon was an Irishman,

Had join'd them in the war;

Four orphan children waited him

Down by Eden Scawr.

But Wallace hated Fawdon's ways,

That were both fierce and shy;

And at his words he turn'd, and said,

"That's a traitor's lie.

"No thought is thine of lingering here,

A captive for the hound;

Thine eye is bright; thy lucky flesh

Hath not a single wound:

The moment we depart, the lane

Will see thee from the ground."

Fawdon would not speak nor stir,

Speak as any might;

Scorn'd or sooth'd, he sat and lour'd

As though in angry spite.

Wallace drew a little back,

And waved his men apart;

And Fawdon half leap'd up, and cried,

"Thou wilt not have the heart!"

Wallace with his dreadful sword,

Without further speech,

Clean cut off dark Fawdon's head,

Through its stifled screech:

Through its stifled screech, and through

The arm that fenc'd his brow;

And Fawdon, as he leap'd, fell dead,

And safe is Wallace now.

Safe is Wallace with his men,

And silent is the hound;

And on their way to Castle Gask

They quit the sullen ground.

PART THE SECOND.

WALLACE lies in Castle Gask,

Resting with his men;

Not a soul has come, three days,

Within the warder's ken.

Resting with his men is Wallace,

Yet he fareth ill

There are tumults in his blood,

And pangs upon his will.

It was night, and all were housed,

Talking long and late;

Who is this that blows the horn

At the castle-gate?

Who is this that blows a horn

Which none but Wallace hears?

Loud and louder grows the blast

In his frenzied ears.

He sends by twos, he sends by threes,

He sends them all to learn;

He stands upon the stairs, and calls

But none of them return.

Wallace flung him forth down stairs;

And there the moonlight fell

Across the yard upon a sight,

That makes him seem in hell

Fawdon's headless trunk he sees,

With an arm in air,

Brandishing his bloody head

By the swinging hair.

Wallace with a stifled screech

Turn'd and fled amain,

Up the stairs, and through the bowers,

With a burning brain:

From a window Wallace leap'd

Fifteen feet to ground,

And never stopp'd till fast within

A nunnery's holy bound.

And then he turn'd, in gasping doubt,

To see the fiend retire,

And saw him not at hand, but saw

Castle Gask on fire.

All on fire was Castle Gask;

And on its top, endued

With the bulk of half a tower,

Headless Fawdon stood.

Wide he held a burning beam,

And blackly fill'd the light;

His body seem'd, by some black art,

To look at Wallace, heart to heart,

Threatening through the night.

Wallace that day week arose

From a feeble bed;

And gentle though he was before,

Yet now to orphans evermore

He gentlier bow'd his head.

[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

WHAT BECOMES OF ALL THE CLEVER CHILDREN?

During a visit to a friend in the country, I was enjoying a walk in his

garden before breakfast on a delightful morning in June, when my

attention was suddenly arrested by the pensive attitude of a little boy,

the son of my host, whom I observed standing before a rose-bush, which

he appeared to contemplate with much dissatisfaction. Children have

always been to me a most interesting study; and yielding to a wish to

discover what could have clouded the usually bright countenance of my

little friend, I inquired what had attracted him to this particular

rose-bush, which presented but a forlorn appearance when compared with

its more blooming companions. He replied: "This rose-bush is my _own_;

papa gave it to me in spring, and promised that no one else should touch

it. I have taken great pains with it; and as it was covered with

beautiful roses last summer, I hoped to have had many fine bouquets from

it; but all my care and watching have been useless: I see I shall not

have one full-blown rose after all."

"And yet," said I, "it appears to be as healthy as any other bush in the

garden: tell me what you have done for it, as you say it has cost me so

much pains?"

"After watching it for some time," he replied, "I discovered a very

great number of small buds, but they were almost concealed by the leaves

which grew so thickly; I therefore cleared away the greater part of

these, and my little buds then looked very well. I now found, as I

watched them, that though they grew larger every day, the green outside

continued so hard that I thought it impossible for the delicate

rose-leaves to force their way out; I therefore picked them open; but

the pale, shriveled blossoms which I found within never improved, but

died one after another. Yesterday morning I discovered one bud which the

leaves had till then hidden from me, and which was actually streaked

with the beautiful red of the flower confined in it; I carefully opened

and loosened it, in the hope that the warm sun would help it to blow: my

first thought this morning was of the pleasure I should have in

gathering my _one_ precious bud for mamma--but look at it now!"

The withered, discolored petals to which the child thus directed my eye

did indeed present but a melancholy appearance, and I now understood the

cause of the looks of disappointment which had at first attracted my

attention. I explained to the zealous little gardener the mischief which

he had unintentionally done by removing the leaves and calyx with which

nature had covered and inclosed the flower until all its beauties should

be ready for full development; and having pointed out to him some buds

which had escaped his _care_, I left him full of hope that, by waiting

patiently for nature to accomplish her own work, he might yet have a

bouquet of his own roses to present to his mother.

As I pursued my walk, it occurred to me that this childish incident

suggested an answer to the question asked by Dr. Johnson, "What becomes

of all the clever children?" Too often, it is to be feared, are the

precious human buds sacrificed to the same mistaken zeal that led to the

destruction of the roses which had been expected with so much pleasure

by their little owner. Perhaps a few hints, suggested--not by fanciful

theory, but by practical experience in the mental training of

children--may help to rescue some little ones from the blighting

influences to which they are too often exposed.

The laws by which the physical development of every infant, during the

earliest period of its existence, is regulated, seem to afford a

striking lesson by the analogy they bear to these laws on which the

subsequent mental development depends; and by the wise arrangement of an

ever-kind Providence, this lesson is made immediately to precede the

period during which it should be carried into practice. On the babe's

first entrance into the world, it must be fed only with food suitable to

its delicate organs of digestion; on this depends its healthful growth,

and likewise the gradual strengthening of those organs. Its senses must

at first be acted upon very gently: too strong a light, or too loud a

noise, may impair its sight or hearing for life.

The little limbs of a young infant must not be allowed to support the

body before they have acquired firmness sufficient for that task,

otherwise they will become deformed, and the whole system weakened; and

last, not least, fresh and pure air must be constantly inhaled by the

lungs, in order that they may supply vigor to the whole frame. All

enlightened parents are acquainted with these laws of nature, and

generally act on them; but when, owing to judicious management, their

children emerge from babyhood in full enjoyment of all the animal

organs, and with muscles and sinews growing firmer every day in

consequence of the exercise which their little owners delight in giving

them, is the same judicious management extended to the mind, of which

the body, which has been so carefully nourished, is only the outer case?

In too many cases it is not. Too often the tender mind is loaded with

information which it has no power of assimilating, and which,

consequently, can not nourish it. The mental faculties, instead of being

gradually exercised, are overwhelmed: parents who would check with

displeasure the efforts of a nurse who should attempt to make their

infant walk at too early a period, are ready eagerly to embrace any

system of so-called education which offers to do the same violence to

the intellect; forgetting that distortion of mind is at least as much to

be dreaded as that of the body, while the motives held out to encourage

the little victims are not calculated to produce a moral atmosphere

conducive either to good or great mental attainments. Children are

sometimes met with--though few and far between--whose minds seem ready

to drink in knowledge in whatever form or quantity it may be presented

to them; and the testimony of Dr. Combe, as well as of many other

judicious writers, proves the real state of the brain in such cases, and

also the general fate of the poor little prodigies. Such children,

however, are not the subject of these observations, of which the object

is to plead for those promising buds which are closely encased in their

"hard" but protecting covering; to plead for them especially at that

period when the "beautiful red streak" appears; in other words, when,

amid the thoughtless sports and simple studies of childhood, the

intellect begins to develop itself, and to seek nourishment from all

that is presented to it. There exists at the period alluded to a

readiness in comparison, and a shrewdness of observation, which might be

profitably employed in the great work of education. And here it may be

observed, that as to "educate" signifies to _bring out_, the term

_education_ can only be applied with propriety to a system which

performs this work, and never to one which confines itself to laying on

a surface-work of superficial information, unsupported by vigorous

mental powers. Information may be acquired at any age, provided that the

intellectual machinery has been kept in activity; whereas, if the latter

has been allowed to rust and stiffen from disease, the efforts of the

man--supposing him to have energy sufficient to make an effort--to

redress the wrongs done to the boy, will in most cases be vain. That

self-educated men are generally the best educated is a trite remark; so

trite, indeed, that it frequently falls on the ear without rousing

attention to the apparent paradox which it contains; and yet there must

be some reason well worthy of attention for the fact, that so many who,

in early life, have enjoyed advantages, have, on reaching manhood, found

themselves surpassed by others who have been forced to struggle up

unassisted, and in many cases surrounded by apparent obstacles to their

rise. It is obvious that the point in which the latter have the

advantage, is the necessity which they find for exercising their _own_

intellectual powers at every step; and, moreover, for taking each step

firmly before they attempt the next; which necessity, while it may

retard the rapid skimming over various subjects which is sometimes

effected, gives new vigor continually to the mind, and also leads to the

habit of that "industry and patient thought" to which the immortal

Newton attributed all he had done; while at the same time a vivid

pleasure is taken in the acquirement of knowledge so obtained beyond any

that can be conferred by reward or encouragement from others.

From these considerations, it appears that the most judicious system of

education is that in which the teacher rather directs the working of his

pupil's mind than works for him; and it must be recollected that such a

system, compared with some others, will be slow, though sure, in

producing the desired result. Every one familiar with children must have

observed with what apparently fresh interest they will listen to the

same tale repeated again and again Now, if time and repetition are

necessary to impress on the young mind facts interesting in themselves,

they are surely more necessary when the information to be imparted is in

itself dry and uninteresting, as is the ease with much which it is

requisite for children to learn. The system here recommended is one

which requires _patience_ both on the part of parents and teachers; but

patience so exercised would undoubtedly be rewarded by the results, one

of which would be, that we should not so frequently see "clever

children" wane into very commonplace, if not stupid men.

[From Fraser's Magazine.]

LACK OF POETRY IN AMERICA.

After the Americans had established their political nationality beyond

cavil, and taken a positive rank among the powers of the civilized

world, they still remained subject to reproach, that in the worlds of

Art, Science, and Literature, they had no national existence. Admitting,

or, at any rate, feeling, the truth of this taunt, they bestirred

themselves resolutely to produce a practical refutation of it. Their

first and fullest success was, as might be expected from their

notoriously utilitarian character, in practical inventions. In oratory,

notwithstanding a tendency to more than Milesian floridness and

hyperbole, they have taken no mean stand among the free nations of

christendom. In history, despite the disadvantages arising from the

scarcity of large libraries, old records, and other appliances of the

historiographer, they have produced some books which are acknowledged

to be well worthy a place among our standard works, and which have

acquired, not merely an English, but a continental reputation. In the

fine arts, notwithstanding obviously still greater impediments--the want

at home, not only of great galleries and collections, but of the

thousand little symbols and associations that help to educate the

artist--the consequent necessity of going abroad to seek all that the

student requires--they have still made laudable progress. The paintings

of Washington Allston are the most noteworthy lions in Boston; the

statues of Powers command admiration even in London. In prose fiction,

the sweet sketches of Irving have acquired a renown second only to that

of the agreeable essayists whom he took for his models, while the Indian

and naval romances of Cooper are purchased at liberal prices by the

chary bibliopoles of England, and introduced to the Parisian public by

the same hand which translated Walter Scott. In poetry alone they are

still palpably inferior: no world-renowned minstrel has yet arisen in

the New Atlantis, and the number of those versifiers who have attained a

decided name and place among the lighter English literature of their

day, or whose claims to the title of poet are acknowledged _in all

sections_ of their own country, is but small.

If we come to inquire into the causes of this deficiency, we are apt at

first to light upon several reasons why it should _not_ exist. In the

first place, there is nothing unpoetical about the country itself, but

every thing highly the reverse. All its antecedents and traditions, its

discovery, its early inhabitants, its first settlement by civilized men,

are eminently romantic. It is not wanting in battle-grounds, or in spots

hallowed by recollections and associations of patriots and sages. The

magnificence of its scenery is well known. The rivers of America are at

the same time the most beautiful and the most majestic in the world: the

sky of America, though dissimilar in hue, may vie in loveliness with the

sky of Italy. No one who has floated down the glorious Hudson (even amid

all the un-ideal associations of a gigantic American steamer), who has

watched the snowy sails--so different from the tarry, smoky canvas of

European craft--that speck that clear water; who has noticed the

faultless azure and snow of the heaven above, suggesting the highest

idea of purity, the frowning cliffs that palisade the shore, and the

rich masses of foliage that overhang them, tinged a thousand dyes by the

early autumn frost--no one who has observed all this, can doubt the

poetic capabilities of the land.

A seeming solution, indeed, presents itself in the business, utilitarian

character of the people; and this solution would probably be immediately

accepted by very many of our readers. Brother Jonathan thinks and talks

of cotton, and flour, and dollars, and the ups and downs of stocks.

Poetry _doesn't pay_: he can not appreciate, and does not care for it.

"Let me get something for myself," he says, like the churl in

Theocritus. "Let the gods whom he invokes reward the poet. What do we

want with more verse? We have Milton and Shakspeare (whether we read

them or not). He is the poet for me who asks me for nothing;" and so the

poor Muses wither (or as Jonathan himself might say, _wilt_) away, and

perish from inanition and lack of sympathy. Very plausible; but now for

the paradox. So far from disliking, or underrating, or being indifferent

to poetry, the American public is the most eager devourer of it, in any

quantity, and of any quality; nor is there any country in which a

limited capital of inspiration will go farther. Let us suppose two

persons, both equally unknown, putting forth a volume of poems on each

side of the Atlantic; decidedly the chances are, that the American

candidate for poetic fame will find more readers, and more encouragement

in his country, than the British in his. Very copious editions of the

standard English poets are sold every year, generally in a form adapted

to the purses of the million; to further which end they are frequently

bound two or three in a volume (Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats, for

instance, is a favorite combination). Even bardlings like Pollok enjoy a

large number of readers and editions. Nor is there--notwithstanding the

much-complained-of absence of an international copyright law--any

deficiency of home supply for the market. Writing English verses,

indeed, is as much a part of an American's education, as writing Latin

verses is of an Englishman's; recited "poems" always holding a prominent

place among their public collegiate exercises; about every third man,

and every other woman of the liberally-educated classes, writes

occasional rhymes, either for the edification of their private circle,

or the poets'-corner of some of the innumerable newspapers that encumber

the land; and the number of gentlemen and ladies one meets who have

published a volume of Something and Other Poems, is perfectly

astounding.

The true secret seems to be, that the Americans, as a people, have not

received that education which enables a people to produce poets. For,

however true the _poeta nascitur_ adage may be negatively of

individuals, it is not true positively of nations. The formation of a

national poetic temperament is the work of a long education, and the

development of various influences. A peculiar classicality of taste,

involving a high critical standard, seems necessary, among the moderns,

to high poetic production; and such a taste has not yet been formed in

America. True, there are kinds of poetry--the Ballad and the Epic,

which, so far as we can trace them, are born, Pallas-like, full-grown;

which sound their fullest tone in a nation's infancy, and are but

faintly echoed in its maturity. But there are numbers in which lisps the

infancy, not of a nation merely, but of a race. And the Americans were

an old race though a young nation. They began with too much civilization

for the heroic school of poetry: they have not yet attained enough

cultivation for the philosophic.

[From the London Christian Times.]

SIR ROBERT PEEL.

All the ordinary incidents of the past week have been thrown into

temporary oblivion, by the lamentable occurrence that has deprived the

country of one of its most eminent statesmen; the House of Commons, of

one of its chiefs; the family of the right honorable baronet of its most

amiable and distinguished head; and many of the public institutions,

those of the fine arts especially, of an enlightened and generous

patron.

The late member for Tamworth was the eldest son of the first Sir R.

Peel, formerly of the house of Peel and Yates, which, in 1803, employed

about 15,000 persons at Bury, and which paid at that time L40,000 a year

duty on their printed cotton fabrics. In 1787, Mr. Peel married his

partner's daughter, Miss Yates, who bore the subject of this memoir--5th

February, 1788--in a little cottage, near Chamber Hall. The husband of

Miss Yates was very successful in his cotton speculations, and in 1798,

when the English Government appealed to the country for pecuniary aid to

carry on the French war, subscribed himself L10,000. Some notion may be

formed of the extent of the wealth of the first Sir R. Peel, from the

fact that when, in 1830, his will was proved, the _personal_ property

was sworn at L1,200,000. The much-lamented baronet received the

rudiments of his education under parental superintendence, near Bury. He

was removed to Harrow, when he became a form-fellow of the more

brilliant, but less amiable, Lord Byron, who has left several

commendatory notices of his youthful friend, and whose eminence he very

sagaciously predicted.

From Harrow, Mr. Peel became a Gentleman Commoner of Christ Church,

Oxford, where, in 1808, he was the first who took the honors of double

first-class. In the following year, having attained his majority, he

entered the House of Commons for Cashel, as the nominee of Mr. Richard

Pennefather. Mr. Peel continued to represent the twelve electors of

Cashel and their lord till 1812, when he represented the close borough

of Chippenham, with a constituency of 135. The prodigious wealth of the

first baronet of Drayton Manor gave his son great advantages in the

House of Commons, where, in 1810, he was selected to second the Address,

in reply to the Royal Speech. Shortly after, he became the

Under-Secretary of State in the Perceval Cabinet, and, upon the fall of

his chief, though only twenty-six years of age, he was made principal

Secretary for Ireland--an office, at that time, of the greatest

difficulty and importance--and held that post with as much address as

his ultra-Toryism, and his extreme unpopularity in Ireland, admitted,

under the Viceroyships of the Duke of Richmond, Earl Whitworth, and Earl

Talbot. The most permanent and beneficial measure which Ireland owes to

its former Secretary, Peel, is its constabulary force, introduced in

1817, which was the wedge to the introduction of the English body of

police.

The masterly tactics of the still youthful statesman, in part, but his

"thorough and throughout" Toryism, chiefly recommended him to the

electors of Oxford University, which he represented twelve years, till

1828; when, upon an obvious change in his opinions on the question of

Catholic emancipation, he was rejected.

In 1820, Mr. Peel, then in his thirty-third year, had married Julia, the

daughter of General Sir John Floyd, who was only twenty-five, and who

survives her illustrious husband. The issue of this marriage is five

sons and two daughters. One of his sons has already entered diplomatic

employment in Switzerland; a second has recently entered, as our readers

will remember, the House of Commons; a third is in the army, and one in

the navy. One of Sir Robert's daughters was married to Viscount Villiers

in 1840.

In 1819, the monetary affairs of the country had become so alarming,

that the House of Commons appointed a secret committee to inquire into

the state of the Bank of England, of which committee Mr. Peel was

appointed chairman. He had hitherto been one of the most strenuous

opponents of Mr. Horner's celebrated propositions of 1811, from which

period he had strongly defended the currency policy of Mr. Vansittart.

But the evidence produced to the secret committee effected a complete

change in Mr. Peel's opinions, and it was chiefly through his agency

that the currency was settled on its present metallic basis. In the

conflict, a touching incident of antagonism, between the subject of this

memoir and his father, occurred in the House of Commons. Mr. Peel was,

in 1822, promoted to the head of the Home-office, which he occupied till

the overthrow of Lord Liverpool, in 1827, when he retired, in

consequence, as it is alleged, of the elevation of Mr. Canning, whose

opinions were in favor of the abolition of the Roman Catholic

disabilities. Upon the accession of the Duke of Wellington to power, in

1828, Mr. Peel returned to the Home-office, and, in conjunction with his

noble friend, repealed the disabilities of the Roman Catholics; which

not only cost him Ireland, and brought upon him a hurricane of abuse

from his party, but shook the general confidence in either the soundness

or the integrity of his opinions.

The skirts of the Gallic storm of 1830, that crushed the Bourbonic

throne, destroyed the Wellington Administration, and made the Reform

Bill no longer deferable, which the Whigs entered office to carry.

Meantime, the deceased had succeeded to an enormous estate and the

baronetcy, by the demise of his father, Sir R. Peel. But he was, in

opposition, fiercely assailed with the maledictions of Ireland; the

censures of the High Tory party--whom he was alleged to have

betrayed--the clamors of the advocates of a paper currency; and what,

perhaps, was the most difficult to bear, his party imputed to him the

real authorship of the Reform Bill and its consequences, by his

vacillation in reference to the emancipation of the Catholics. But,

nothing dismayed by the angry elements surrounding him, and the new

political vista of England and the Continent, Sir R. Peel now displayed

all the resources of his statesmanship in concentrating the new

Conservative party. He so far succeeded--chiefly through the want of

more courage and honesty in the Whigs--that he was again called to

office in 1834, during his brief tenancy of which, no one can withhold

praise for his command of temper, his Liberal tendencies, and his spirit

of general conciliation. In 1841, Sir R. Peel again entered office;

and--though he undeniably was enabled to do so by the Protectionist

party, by the force of circumstances, the stagnation of commerce, the

failure of the crops, and the famine in Ireland--he opened the ports,

and repealed the Corn-laws forever, to the consternation of the world,

and in opposition to all the opinions of his life; this was in 1845.

Since that period Sir R. Peel has been in Opposition, indeed, but not

its leader so much as a distinguished debater, an accomplished

financier, and the expositor of opinions which neither the Whigs nor

Tories heartily espouse.

During forty years servitude in the House of Commons--though not

generally in favor of popular sentiments, and, in religious matters,

rather liberal than generous--Sir R. Peel has undoubtedly rendered, in

addition to his three great measures--the Bullion-law, Catholic

Emancipation, and the repeal of the Corn-law--many minor political

benefits to the country. Of this class of services, that which reflects

on him the most honor, is his amelioration of the Criminal Law. As to

the measures to which we have just alluded, there will still continue to

be a large diversity of opinion. Thousands of the wealthy classes will

regard them all as steps in the declination of the national power; while

the more popular mind, that rarely troubles itself with large or

profound views, has already registered its approval of them.

It is a singular fact, that he spent eleven years in Parliamentary

opposition to the Bullion doctrine that he adopted in 1822; that he

waged strenuous war against the repeal of the Roman Catholic

disabilities for eighteen years, and at last carried them in spite of

his own party; and that for thirty years in the House of Commons, he

maintained that the prosperity of Great Britain depended on the

retention of her Corn-laws, which he repealed in 1845. It is, therefore,

clear that his final measures, in reference to these three great

departments of his political life, were rather concessions to the force

of events, than the voluntary policy of his own mind. His wisdom lay in

the concession. Many of his chief colleagues, in each of these

instances, would have blindly rushed upon destruction. His greater

sagacity foresaw the gulf and turned away, choosing to win the courage

of relinquishing his life's opinions, than that of courting the dangers

of resistance. And in these three famous instances of Sir R. Peel's

life, we have the true elaboration of his own character. He was by

education and preference a Tory; by necessity he became a

Progressionist.

While we have felt it our duty to write the last paragraph, we

cheerfully record our admiration of Sir Robert Peel's great talents, of

his moral integrity, of his very exemplary private life, and, we

believe, of his firm attachment to his country and its institutions. He

is another memorable instance of what the children of democracy may

become in England, with adequate talents and exertions. Sir R. Peel owed

much to his wealth, to his associates, and to his early opinions. But

far beyond the factitious influences derivable from such sources, he had

great elements in himself. When his heart and mind received free

permission from his policy to display themselves, they were of the

highest order. Such a man is not easily made: of his loss we are only at

present very imperfectly able to appreciate the consequences, one of

which, we fear will be a mischievous re-formation of the Protectionist

party, and, if we read the auspices aright, his death will not improve

the Ministerial Whigs.

The motion on Wednesday night, in the House of Commons, not to proceed

with public business that evening, in honor of the memory of Sir R.

Peel, was as becoming to the House itself as it was to its mover, Mr.

Hume. It is a poor recompense to a bereaved family, we are aware; but it

is such a tribute as has not always been granted to even greater men,

and to some of the blood royal. In due time the public feeling will

doubtless imbody itself in more tangible and permanent forms; and when

that occurs, it will not be the least of the monumental honors of the

deceased, that the gratitude of the widow, the orphan, the neglected

genius, and suffering worth, will lead many to shed their tears on the

bronze or marble effigies of him whose like England will not easily see

again.

[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

SPONGES.

About three centuries and a half before the Christian era, the question,

Are sponges animal or vegetable? was proposed by Aristotle, who, unable

himself to solve the difficulty, was contented, in the true spirit of a

lover of nature, with carefully recording the results of his accurate

observations, and advancing his opinion rather in the form of an inquiry

than of an allegation. Upward of two thousand years rolled away ere this

question was satisfactorily answered. Nay, we believe that the vegetable

theory has, even at the present time, its advocates; while some are

still disposed to consider that the sponge is at one period of its

existence a vegetable, and at another an animal.

To any one who hesitates to acknowledge that the sponge is endowed with

animal life--confessedly in its lowest form, yet with a most exquisite

adaptation to its destiny--we would offer the spectacle of a living

sponge in a portion of its native element. We would let him gaze on the

animated fountain, which is perpetually sucking the water into its

substance through its countless pores, and after assimilating such

particles of it as are essential to its existence, ceaselessly expelling

it, at more distant intervals, through the larger channels which may be

observed on its outer surface. We would point out innumerable gemmules

of gelatinous matter, which at certain seasons of the year may be seen

spouting "from all parts of the living film which invests the horny

skeleton;"[24] until, at length, escaping from the nursery in which they

grew, they are carried off to the wide sea by means of the force of the

currents issuing from the sponge, though not left to perish at the mercy

of the waves. For he will find that the young animal or egg is covered

with numberless minute hairs or _cilia_, each one of which is endowed

with a distinct and innate power of vibration; so that by means of

thousands of almost invisible oars, the young sponge "shoots like a

microscopic meteor through the sea," until it arrives at some rock or

other place properly adapted for its future growth; then it settles

calmly and contentedly down, and gradually losing its locomotive power,

begins to spread on its base; and builds up, within its living

substance, a horny framework, such as we have already seen in its

parent.

The above-named currents may be more distinctly seen by powdering the

surface of the water with chalk or any similar substance; and Professor

Grant mentions, that by placing pieces of cork or dry paper over the

apertures, he could see them moving "by the force of the currents at the

distance of ten feet from the table on which the specimen rested."

Dr. Peysonell, who paid great attention to the structure of the sponge,

brought proofs of its animal vitality before the Royal Society in the

years 1752--57. And Mr. Ellis, five years afterward, by his dissections,

set the question quite at rest; though he fell into the error of

believing that the frame of the sponge was the outer case of worms or

polypes. Later examination, however, has shown that the _frame_ or

_sponge_, commonly so called, is an _internal_ skeleton, while the vital

power is simply composed of a slimy film which coats over every fibre,

and which, inert as it appears, possesses the power of secreting the

particles essential to its growth.

It has been affirmed, that the sponge is observed to contract or shrink

when torn from the rooks; but there is satisfactory evidence to prove

that neither this nor any degree of laceration has a sensible effect on

this nerveless though vital mass.

All sponges, however, have not a horny framework, but some, which are

thereby rendered useless in a commercial point of view, are supported by

a skeleton composed of siliceous particles imbedded in a tough, fibrous

material. These particles, or _spicula_, as they are termed, are so

uniform in the species to which they severally belong, that, in the

words of Professor Grant, if the soft portion be destroyed, and a "few

of them brought from any pan of the world on the point of a needle, they

would enable the zoologist to identify the species to which they

originally belonged." Professor R. Jones, however, considers that this

opinion should be received with considerable limitations.

The last fact, trivial as it appears, assumes immense importance when we

learn that to these spicula we must turn for an explanation of the

isolated masses of flint which abound in various chalk formations. "The

mere assertion," says Rhymer Jones, "that flints were sponges, would no

doubt startle the reader who was unacquainted with the history of these

fossil relics of a former ocean;" and yet a little reflection "will

satisfy the most skeptical." For long ages the sponge is imbedded in the

chalk, through which water is continually percolating. A well-known law

of chemistry explains why similar matter should become aggregated; and

thus the siliceous matter of the sponge forms a nucleus for the

siliceous matter contained in the water, until at length the entire mass

is converted into a solid flint. But we are not left, he adds, to mere

conjecture or hypothesis on this point, "for nothing is more common in

chalky districts than to find flints, which, on _being broken, still

contain portions of the original sponge in an almost unaltered state_."

There is every reason to believe that the sponge-fisheries of the AEgean

are at present conducted precisely in the same manner as they were in

the time of Aristotle. The sponge-divers are mostly inhabitants of the

islands which lie off the Carian coast, and of those situated between

Rhodes and Calymnos. These men--who form a distinct society, and are

governed by peculiar laws, which prohibit their marriage until they

shall have attained a prescribed proficiency in their art--go out in

little fleets, composed of caiques, each of six or seven tons' burden,

and manned by six or eight divers: each man is simply equipped with a

netted bag in which to place the sponges, and a hoop by which to suspend

it round his neck; and thus furnished, he descends to a depth of from

five to twenty, or even occasionally thirty fathoms. The sponges which

he collects are first saturated with fresh water, which destroys the

vitality, and decomposing the gelatinous matter, turns it black; this

matter is stamped out by the feet of the divers, and the sponges are

then dried in the sun, and strung in circles, after which they are ready

for sale and exportation.

In a good locality an expert diver may bring up fifty okes in a day, and

for each oke he obtains about twenty-five drachmas. The weight is

calculated, says Forbes, when the sponges are dry, and a very large

sponge may weigh two okes. The chief sponge-markets are Smyrna. Rhodes,

and Napoli.

Blount, who wrote in 1634, affirms that these sponge-divers "are from

infancy bred up on dry biscuites and other extenuatinge dyet, to make

them extreme lean; then takinge a spunge wet in oyle, they hold it, part

in their mouths, and part without, soe they go under water, where at

first they can not stay long, but after practice, the leanest stay an

hour and a halfe, even till the oyle of the spunge be corrupted.... Thus

they gather spunges from more than an hundred fathom deep," &c. All this

is very wonderful, but the narrator stamps the value of his tale by

telling us immediately afterward that "Samos is the only place in the

world on whose rocks the spunges grow." So that, in the words which he

elsewhere makes use of, "we applaude hys belief, but keep our owne." We

do not, however, mean to assert that there are not sponges of some

species (though not the sponge of commerce) which exist at a depth as

great as that which he mentions, for Forbes dredged a living specimen of

one small kind from 185 fathoms in the Gulf of Macri.

The sponge of commerce (_Spongia officinalis_) was divided by Aristotle

into three kinds--namely, the loose and porous, the thick and close, and

the fine and compact. These last, which are rare, were called the

sponges of Achilles, and were placed by the ancients in the interior of

their helmets and boots, as protections from pressure and abrasion.

The same naturalist states that those sponges are best which are found

on coasts where the water becomes suddenly deep, and attributes this

superiority to the greater equality of temperature obtained in such

waters--observations which have been corroborated by Professor E.

Forbes.

Fifty-six species of sponges have been enumerated, ten or eleven of

which are found in the British isles. A portion of these inhabit fresh

water, among which we may mention the river sponge (_S. fluviatilis_),

which abounds in the Thames. Among the British sponges, too, is the

stinging or crumb-of-bread sponge (_S. urens_), a widely-diffused

species, which, when taken out of the sea is of a bright orange color,

and which will, if rubbed on the hand raise blisters. This stinging

quality is highly increased by drying the sponge; a process which also

gives it the color and appearance of crumbs of bread, whence its popular

name.

Sponges, as may be imagined from the mode of their growth, are most

sportive in their forms: some a tubular, others mushroom-like, a few

almost globular, and still others branched or hand-shaped; in the warmer

seas they hang in fantastic and gorgeous fans from the roofs of

submarine caverns, or decorate the sides with vases of classic elegance,

though of nature's handiwork. Nor are their colors less various: some

are of the most brilliant scarlet or the brightest yellow, others green,

brown, blackish, or shining white; while Peron mentions one procured by

him in the South Sea which was of a beautiful purple, and from which a

liquor of the same color was extracted by the slightest pressure; with

this liquor he stained several different substances, and found that the

color was not affected by the action of the air, and that it would bear

several washings.

The value of the sponge in surgery is well known; and it is also used,

medicinally, being for this purpose lightly burned to powder, and given

in small doses in scrofulous complaints. It has also been regarded as a

specific in leprosy and hydrophobia. It is, however, needless to say

that in these last it can have no influence whatever.

There are several representations of sponges given in the balneal feasts

depicted on various Etruscan vases; and the sponge has been found in a

perfect state in a Roman barrow at Bartlow Hills. It was discovered near

the sacrificing utensils. Livy says that the covering of the breast of

the Samnite gladiators was sponge.

When the animal matter remains in the sponges of various kinds, they

have always a very strong fishy smell, which may perhaps be regarded as

an additional proof of the fealty which they give to the animal kingdom.

Yet we must not omit that there are substances which, though they bear

the name of sponges, would rather appear, from their microscopic

structure, to belong to the vegetable world; we allude to those known as

_gelatinous sponges_, which are perfectly different from the sponges

properly so called.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Professor Rymer Jones.

[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

THE RAILWAY WORKS AT CREWE.

"What place is this?" said the worthy old gentleman, my traveling

companion on the London and North Western railway, as he woke up from a

comfortable nap when the train slackened speed, and entered a spacious

and expensively-decorated station.

"This is Crewe, sir, I believe."

And scarcely had I answered, when there was a general shout of "Crewe,

Crewe!" from an army of porters who came rushing out, and pounced upon

the train as if it were their lawful prey.

Presently a head peered in at the door, inquiring,

"All here for the Liverpool line?"

And on my elderly friend saying that he was for Manchester, he was

politely but smartly informed that he must change carriages here. So I

we both got out; and my friend, after some bother about his luggage, and

the use of some hasty language, was at last made "all right" by being

put into a carriage bearing an announcement that that was the

"Manchester train." On another carriage in front was a similar board

announcing the "Liverpool train," and behind was a third to announce

that for Chester. Passengers were running up and down the platform: some

looking after luggage, some for the right carriage, and others darting

into the handsome refreshment-room. But nobody seemed to think of going

away from the station; indeed the only mode of exit and entrance was

through a close-shut iron gate, beside which sat a policeman looking

with enviable coolness on all the bustle around him. There was a ring of

a bell; a banging of doors; a puff of the engine; and off went the train

to Liverpool. Another locomotive now appeared moving cautiously down the

line, and was speedily attached to the Manchester train, which was soon

out of sight. A third came; caught hold of the Chester train, and away

_it_ rushed. The passengers who had journeyed so amicably together from

London were now thoroughly dispersed, and ere the sun set, some would be

crossing the Scotch Border at Carlisle, some embarking at Holyhead for

Dublin, and others attending to their business on the Mersey or the Dee,

or amid the tall chimneys of Manchester. A luggage train came crawling

out from its hiding-place, and finding the coast clear, went thundering

past: the porters wiped their foreheads, and went to have a little rest;

and I, the solitary passenger for Crewe, was left cooling my heels on

the platform.

"Where is Crewe?" I said to the guardian of the iron gate.

"Cross the bridge, go straight on, and turn to the right," was the

concise reply.

So I crossed the bridge, and found myself in a pleasant country road.

The flat rich fields of Cheshire extended on the left and to the right;

at the distance of about half a mile appeared the square massive tower

of a church, surrounded by long ranges of low buildings like work-shops,

and rows of houses evidently quite new. Some neat cottages lined the

sides of the road, and there were two or three inns all bearing marks of

youth; while some zealous people had caused a few bills, bearing the

words "Prepare to meet thy God," printed in conspicuous type, to be

affixed to the walls, giving a stranger not & very high idea of the

character of the people in the habit of using that road. Turning to the

right, I passed a Methodist chapel, bearing the date of its erection,

1848; a new flour-mill driven by water; a new inn with a brave new

sign-board; and, crossing the boundary made by the Chester line, I

arrived in Crewe.

Not many years ago, there were only two or three houses here, and the

land on which the station and the town are built formed part of a good

Cheshire farm. The worthy farmer plowed his fields and reaped his

harvest, his dame made good Cheshire cheese; and both lived merrily on,

quite unconscious of the change that their farm was about to undergo.

The eyes of engineers were on it: it was placed, as an Irishman would

say, "very convanient" for railway purposes and after a few years had

rolled away, it became the great workshop of the Grand Junction Line,

and the point where the main line to Birmingham received its tributaries

from the north and west. Several thousands of people were brought here;

the company laid out streets and built houses; shops were opened;

churches and schools erected; a market-place provided; a Mechanics'

Institution established; many hotels built, one of which was destined

to lodge royalty for a night; and a town was erected with a rapidity

unexampled even in America.

The general appearance of Crewe is very pleasing. The streets are wide,

and well paved; the houses are very neat and commodious, usually of two

stories, built of bricks, but the brick concealed by rough-cast plaster,

with porches, lattice-windows, and a little piece of garden-ground

before the door. The greater part of these houses belong to the company,

and are let to the men at rents from 2s. 9d. per week upward. The

accommodation is good, and it would be difficult to find such houses at

such low rents even in the suburbs of a large town. Water is plentifully

supplied by public pumps, and the town is well lighted with gas. The

names of the streets are expressive: some are called after the towns to

which their direction points--such as Liverpool, Chester, Sandbach, &c.;

others from the works to which they lead--such as Forge-street; and

others from well-known but very modern names--such as Prince

Albert-street. The placards on the walls, however, seem somewhat out of

place in a railway town, as nearly all have relation to sales of cattle,

timber, &c, indicating clearly enough that Crewe is but a mechanical

settlement in an agricultural district. The market-place is spacious,

and roofed over; the church is a handsome edifice of stone; and the

Mechanics' Institution a fine building with a large lecture-room (used

also as a town-hall), a good library and news-room, and commodious

class-rooms. These were all built by the company; and indeed the

completeness of every thing connected with the town gives evidence of

such an amplitude of means possessed by its founders, as seldom, if

ever, fall to the lot of private individuals.

The most interesting objects, however, about Crewe are the railway

works. These are placed on a large tongue of land near the station, and

so adapted, that wagons, and carriages, and engines can easily be run

into them from the main line. In these works every thing connected with

"the rolling stock" of the company for the northern section of the line

(Walnerton being used for the southern) is made and repaired. The number

of hands employed at present is about eight hundred; but formerly, when

railways were more prosperous than now, it exceeded a thousand. The

workmen seem to belong, in tolerably equal proportions, to the four

great divisions of the United Kingdom; and the slow, deliberate speech

of the Scot, the rich brogue of the Irishman, and the sharp, quick

utterance of the Welshman, have lost very little of their purity and

richness amid the air of the county palatine of Chester. The greater

portion of the work is carried on in long, largo sheds, for the most

part of one story, and called the "fitting," "erecting," and other

shops, according to the nature of the work done in them. The artisans

may be divided into two great classes--the workers in metal, and those

in wood; the former being employed in making locomotives' wheels, axles,

springs, &c, and the latter in constructing the carriages. By far the

greatest number of hands are employed in the former.

That our hasty inspection may begin at the beginning, let us peep at the

foundry. Both brass and iron are east here, but to-day it is iron. The

sandy floor is covered with moulds of all descriptions, and swarthy

workmen are preparing them to receive the melted iron. Occasionally you

are startled by the shout of "Mind your eye!" which must be taken in its

literal signification, for it comes from a moulder blowing away with a

bellows the superfluous grains of fine sand, which, if once in the eye,

will give some trouble. The moulds are ready, the furnace is opened, and

a stream of bright white metal rolls out into the pots prepared for its

reception, and is speedily poured into the moulds. In an adjoining shed

are blacksmiths plying forehammers; but their greatest efforts are

entirely eclipsed by the mighty steam-hammer that is seen at work in

another part of the shed. This hammer is the invention of Mr. Nasmyth,

of the Bridgewater Foundry, near Manchester. It moves up and down in a

strong frame, at a speed subject to such nice regulations, that,

according to the will of its director, it can gently drive a nail, or

crush to splinters a log of wood. When Lord John Russell lately visited

Manchester, the delicate touch of this hammer was strikingly displayed

before him: an egg was procured, and placed in a wine-glass, and such

was the power possessed over this giant, that after a little adjustment,

the mighty hammer was brought repeatedly down so as just to chip the egg

as gently as by a spoon in the hands of a child, while the glass was not

in the slightest degree injured or disturbed. The labor saved by this

hammer is immense. One man sits perched up on the frame to direct it, and

another stands below to guide the iron on the anvil. The great long bar,

white with heat, is pulled out of the furnace, laid on the massive piece

of iron under the frame, and, with a dull, heavy sound, down conies the

hammer, swiftly or slowly, according to the wishes of the director. From

the forge and the foundry the "rough-hewn" iron-work passes to be

planed, and its surface to be made "true." The wheel of an engine or a

carriage, for example, after being forged by the black-smith, requires

to be most carefully cut round the rim, so that the space between the

flange--that is, the projecting inner part of the wheel, and the outer

part--may be perfectly conical, in order that the least amount of

surface may be exposed to the rail, and consequently the least amount of

friction produced. Again, when a cylinder comes from the foundry, the

interior must be cut and polished to a perfect circle, otherwise it

would be useless. In short, there is no part of a locomotive that does

not require to be prepared with the most perfect accuracy to fit some

other part; and if this accuracy is not gained, the engine will either

not work at all, or work very imperfectly. It must be remembered that it

is hard metal, like iron and brass, that has thus to be wrought on, not

comparatively soft material, like wood and stone.

But the machinery employed at Crewe seems capable of cutting any thing,

even though it were a rock of adamant. You pass into a shed full of

little machines, standing separate from each other, with all manner of

curious wheels and belts, driven by steam, of course, and each with a

man stationed by its side, gazing attentively at the little machine, as

if he were absorbed in thought; and, indeed, were it not for an

occasional quick movement of his hands, and a rapid change of position,

you might almost suppose that he was sleeping on his legs. But go close

up, and you notice that the machine is slowly moving backward and

forward, and still more slowly at the same time in a lateral direction.

Some curious piece of mechanism is placed on it, and the movements of

the machine cause a sharp steel-cutter to pass over the iron surface,

which cuts it as easily and truly as a joiner planes a piece of fir. The

side motion brings all the surface gradually under the instrument, but

the machine, clever and powerful though it is, requires to be constantly

watched and regulated, and hence the fixed attention of the man in

charge. At a large machine, you will see those long, curious rods called

"eccentrics" undergoing this operation; at another, a cylinder is being

planed; and at a third, the rims of wheels are being cut. The filings

thus made are preserved, and will be seen in large heaps in a yard,

ready to be melted down, and "used up" again. In some cases both iron

and brass filings are produced, which, of course, are mixed with each

other; but in a quiet corner of one of the sheds you will find a boy

with a heap of these filings before him, separating the brass from the

iron by means of a magnet. Only imagine a boy of fourteen or fifteen

doing nothing all day long except raking a magnet through a heap of

black and yellow dust, and brushing into a separate heap the iron

filings off his magnet! You will also see a series of three iron rollers

working on each other, by means of which plate iron can be twisted into

any given form; a mighty "punch" which will make a hole an inch in

diameter through iron an inch in thickness as easily as though it were

clay; and a sharp-cutting instrument that shears through sheets of iron

as easily as a pair of scissors through a sheet of paper.

Go into another shed, and you will see all these various parts getting

their last touches from the hand, and being fitted into each other; and

here, also you find two or three men engraving, on circular segments of

brass, the names the various engines are to be known by. In another shed

the engines are being "erected." Here you see from twenty to thirty in

all stages of progress. Perhaps the framework only has been laid; or

the boiler, with its many rows of long, circular brass tubes, has just

been fastened, and is now receiving its outer clothing of long slips of

wood; or the whole is complete, merely wanting to be tried on the many

lines of rail in and around the sheds. There are two classes of engines

here, whose difference is observable at a glance: some have six wheels,

two of which are very large, about six feet in diameter, and the other

four much smaller. The two first only are driven by the machinery, the

others being merely what are called "bearing wheels." With this

description of engine more speed than power is obtained, and hence it is

used for passenger trains, where a high velocity is required, and where

there is usually little weight, comparatively speaking, to draw. The

others have only four wheels, not so large as the two just described,

but all driven by the machinery. Such engines I are more remarkable for

power than speed, and accordingly they are used for luggage trains. In

another shed, "The Hospital," will be found a number of engines laboring

under various disorders, sent here to be repaired.

But carriages and wagons are also built here. You enter a shed (of two

stories this time), and find wood shavings instead of iron filings, and

the hissing of a circular saw instead of the quiet, steady scraping of a

"cutter." Here all the woodwork of the carriages is executed, and when

ready they are hoisted through a large trap-door in the roof to the

second story, where they are painted and varnished, and, if first-class,

"up-holstered." In a store-room above stairs, are piled heaps of

cushions ready for the most expensive carriages; at a table is a boy

stuffing with horse-hair the leathern belts that hang by the sides of

the windows; and elsewhere an artist is painting the arms of the company

on the panels of a door. Here and there are boards placed before a

carriage, with the intimation "Wet!" indicating that you must not go too

near; and some of the carriages give evidence of having seen service,

but are now renewing their youth under the skillful hands of the painter

and the upholsterer. When ready to "go on the line," they are let down

through the trap-door, fixed on their wheels and axles, and sent to

relieve others that require repair.

Six o'clock strikes, and work ceases. In walking back leisurely to the

station, I saw many of the workmen digging in their little gardens,

"bringing themselves," as Emerson phrases it, "into primitive relations

with the soil and nature;" others were reading the papers of the day at

the Mechanics' Institution; others strolling among the green fields

round the town; and others walking to a class-room, to hear a teetotal

lecture; while some were proceeding to recreations of a very different

kind. I was admitted through the iron gate by the same policeman; the

"down" express train arrived, and it conveyed me in an hour and a half

to Liverpool, a distance of about forty-five miles, stopping only once

at the well-known town of Warrington.

[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

STEAM-BRIDGE OF THE ATLANTIC

In the summer of 1838 the Atlantic Ocean was crossed for the first time

by vessels exclusively propelled by steam-power. These pioneers were the

_Sirius_ and the _Great Western_--the former built for another class of

voyages, and afterward lost on the station between Cork and London; the

latter built expressly for Atlantic navigation, and which has ever since

been more or less employed in traversing that ocean. Other ships

followed: the _British Queen_, afterward sold to the Belgian government;

the _Great Liverpool_, subsequently altered and placed on the line

between Southampton and Alexandria; and the _President_, lost, no man

knows how or where, in the year 1841. Then came what is called "Cunard's

Line," consisting of a number of majestic steam-ships built in the

Clyde, to carry passengers and mails between Liverpool in Europe, and

Halifax, Boston, and New York in America; a service they have performed

with the most marvelous regularity. The only great misfortune that has

befallen this line has been the loss of one of the vessels, the

_Columbia_, which, in nautical phrase, "broke her back" on some rocks on

the American shore of the Atlantic. Then came the _Great Britain_, the

greatest of them all, differing from the others in two respects--first,

in being built of iron instead of wood; and second, in being propelled

by the Archimedean screw instead of by the old paddle-wheels; and, alas!

she has differed from them all in a third respect, inasmuch as neither

the same good-luck attended her as in general fell to the lot of the

ships of the Cunard Line, nor the same irretrievable bad fortune as was

met by the _President_ and the _Columbia_; for, after having made

several voyages very successfully, she, to the amazement of all mankind,

very quietly went ashore in Dundrum Bay, on the east coast of Ireland,

from whence, after spending a most uncomfortable winter, she was brought

back to Liverpool, and now lies in the Bramley-Moore Dock there, like a

huge mass of iron suffering under premature rust. But all this time

these ocean steamers that periodically brought to New York passengers

and intelligence from Europe were British built. They had been

constructed in the Avon, the Mersey, and the Clyde, the greater number

having been launched in the same waters as first received Henry Bell's

little _Comet_. Why did America not embark in such enterprise? As

regards steam navigation, Fulton was before Bell; New York before

Glasgow; the _Fulton's Folly_ before the _Cornet_; and was

"The greatest nation

In all creation"

to be outdone in the field of enterprise by the old Britishers? American

pride said "No;" American instinct said "No;" and, above all, American

capitalists said "No!" Keels were laid down in New York; the

shipbuilders' yards became unusually active; and the stately timbers of

majestic ships gradually rose before the admiring gaze of the citizens

of the great republic.

But the race of William the Doubter is not yet extinct, and many, as

usual, shook their wise heads at the enterprise. It was admitted that in

inland navigation the Americans had beaten the world; that except an

occasional blow-up, their river steamers were really models of

enterprise and skill; but it was gravely added, the Mississippi is not

the Atlantic; icebergs are not snags; and an Atlantic wave is somewhat

different from an Ohio ripple. These truisms were of course undeniable;

but to them was quickly added another fact, about which there could be

as little mistake--namely, the arrival at Southampton, after a voyage

which, considering it was the first, was quite successful, of the

American-built steam-ship _Washington_ from New York. There seemed to be

a touch of calm irony in thus making the _Washington_ the first of their

Atlantic-crossing steamers, as if the Americans had said, "You doubting

Britishers! when you wished to play tyrant over us, did we not raise one

Washington who chastised you? and now that you want to monopolize

Atlantic navigation, we have raised another Washington, just to let you

know that we will beat you again!"

The _Washington_, however, was only the precursor of greater vessels.

These were to sail between New York and Liverpool, carrying the mails

under a contract with the American government. In size, and speed, and

splendor of fittings, these new ships were to surpass the old; even

their names were, if possible, to be more grand and expressive. The

vessels of Cunard's Line had lately appropriated the names of the four

great continents of the globe, but the oceans remained, and their names

were adopted; the new steamers being called the _Atlantic_, _Pacific_,

_Arctic_, _Baltic_, and _Adriatic_. The first of these was dispatched

from New York on the 27th of April last, and arrived in the Mersey on

the 10th of May, thus making the passage in about thirteen days. The

voyage would have been made in a shorter time but for two accidents: the

bursting of the condenser, and the discovery, after the vessel was some

distance at sea, of the weakness of the floats or boards on the

paddle-wheels. About two days were entirely lost in making repairs; and

the speed was reduced, in order to prevent the floats from being

entirely torn away from the paddle-wheels. These things considered, the

passage was very successful. The average time occupied during 1849 by

the vessels of the old line between New York and Liverpool was 12; days;

but their voyages were longer than those of the _Atlantic_, as they

called at Halifax. The shortest passage was that made by the _Canada_

from New York to Liverpool _via_ Halifax in eleven days four hours.[25]