minds of our readers through the medium of the present work, we intend
to devote a portion of our space to a brief introduction regarding the
organic structure and physiology of fishes. We know, from experience,
that time may hang heavy even on the hands of anglers, who are seldom
either feeble or faint-hearted men. We know that spring (all genial
though it be in poet’s fancy) has yet its frequent flaky snows on mead
and mountain, its spiky ice along the crystal stream;—that summer in
its sunlit splendor suffers its long-enduring droughts, its sudden
_speats_, and fearful overflows;—that melancholy autumn, in spite of
all its mild effulgence, is not seldom violent, and perturbed
“By lightning, by fierce winds, by trampling waves;”
—and that each of these conditions of time and space is adverse to the
angler’s art. Even with every sweet advantage yielded by cheerful
spring, by glorious summer, by refulgent autumn (we now seek to soothe
the seasons by more endearing terms), daylight does not last for ever,
and so the angler cannot always ply his trade. Of night-fishing we
seldom think—except in murmuring dreams of rheumatism and
water-rats—and eye-sight often fails,
“When comes still evening on, and twilight grey
Has in her sober livery all things clad.”
Moreover, it is chiefly the home-hunting angler, he whose “lines have
fallen in pleasant places,” who dwells habitually by river side, or sees
“beneath the opening eyelids of morn” some broad lake gladdening his
daily gaze—in moonlight sparkling with bright columnar fire within its
cincturing trees, or greener margins—he, or some happy friend who
shares his dwelling, alone can cast his angles in the night. No man, who
“long in populous city pent,” wanders for a time in lonesome gladness by
the side of glittering waters, can wait with patience for a summer
night, however beautiful may be the countless stars—
“That sparkle in the firmament of June.”
Whether he will or no, he must wend his way to grassy bank, or pebbly
shore, or alder-skirted brink, and if there he fishes all the live-long
day, he cannot fish at night, at least he ought not so to do. He who
spareth not the rod hateth himself, and produces a degree of fatigue and
satiety which ought never to mingle with his healthful toil.
Suppose, then, that the gentle reader does not fish at night, that he
dines heartily (_sero sed serio_), imbibes moderately, takes tea
sedately, and has still an hour to spare before a light supper—let him
read this article, and we promise to be as little prolix as we can.
[Illustration]
THE PERCH.
This gregarious fish is angled for with a worm or minnow. It is a bold
biter during the warm months of the year, though very abstemious in the
winter season. When a shoal is met with, great sport is frequently
obtained. A small cork float is used, and the bait is hung at various
depths, according to circumstances, a knowledge of which can only be
obtained by practice. In angling near the bottom, the bait should be
frequently raised nearly to the surface, and then allowed gently to sink
again. When the weather is cool and cloudy, with a ruffling breeze from
the south, perch will bite during the whole day. The best hours towards
the end of spring are from seven to eleven in the morning, and from two
to six in the afternoon. In warm and bright summer weather, excellent
times are from sunrise till six or seven in the morning, and from six in
the evening till sunset.
The Perch is one of the most beautiful of the fresh water fishes, but is
too familiarly known to need description. It inhabits both lakes and
rivers, but shuns salt water. Pallas, however, is said to have stated in
his _Zoographia Russo-Asiatica_ (a work still unpublished), that about
spawning time both Pike and Perch are found in a gulf of the Caspian
Sea, about thirty verstes from the mouth of the Terek. The female
deposits her eggs, united together by a viscid matter, in lengthened
strings—a peculiarity noticed by Aristotle. Spawning takes place in
April and May, and the number of eggs sometimes amounts to near a
million. The Perch occurs all over Europe, and in most of the northern
districts of Asia. It is easily tamed, and if kept moist will live for a
long time out of water. It sometimes attains to a great size, but the
majority are smallish fishes. Pennant alludes to one said to have been
taken in the Serpentine River, Hyde Park, which weighed nine pounds. But
even one half of that weight would be anywhere regarded as
extraordinary, and a Perch of a pound is looked upon as a fine fish. The
flesh of this species as an article of food is wholesome, though neither
rich nor high flavoured. The months of April, May, and June, are those
during which it is least esteemed.
The Basse, or Sea Perch, (_Perca labrax_, Linn. _Labrax lupus_, Cuv. and
Val.) is a fish of a chaste and pleasing aspect, though destitute of the
strongly contrasted coloring of the preceding, from which it is also
distinguished by an abundance of small teeth upon the tongue. It is
abundant in the Mediterranean. It is a very voracious fish, remarkable
for the size of its stomach, and was known to the ancients by the
appropriate name of _lupus_. It takes a bait freely (_onisci_, broken
shell-fish, etc.) when angled for during flood-tide, with strong tackle,
from projecting rock or pier. The ordinary size ranges from 12 to 18
inches, although Willoughby has stated that it sometimes attains the
weight of 15 pounds. Its flesh is excellent.
EXTERNAL FORM AND ATTRIBUTES OF FISHES.
To aid the Angler in his scientific researches, as well as to add to the
interest of the ordinary observer, we now proceed to a brief exposition
of the principal characteristics of the _class_ of fishes, and shall, at
an after period, expatiate upon the more peculiar attributes of each
particular kind, when we come to treat of the _species_ in their order.
We need scarcely say to the student of nature, that the form and
functions of fishes are as admirably adapted for easy movement through
the water, as are those of birds for that aërial motion called flight.
Suspended in a liquid element of almost equal specific gravity with
themselves, external organs resembling those of birds in size, would
have been disproportionate and unnecessary; but the air-bladder (the
functions of which, by no means entirely understood, have never been
satisfactorily explained in all their bearings) is known to possess the
power of contraction and dilatation, the exercise of which is followed
by a corresponding descent or ascent of the animal’s body. Thus a small
central and inconspicuous organ effects, in the easiest and most simple
manner, the same object which even the soaring eagle or giant condor can
only accomplish by great exertion of the wings, and after laborious and
frequently repeated gyrations. We shall ere long, however, have occasion
to remark in more detail, that the air-bladder, although essential to
the economy of such species as possess it, is by no means indispensable
as a general attribute of the class, as in many tribes it is entirely
wanting. It is not even a generic characteristic, as it does not exist
in the red mullets of the British seas, though possessed by the
corresponding species of Asia and America—while of our two kinds of
mackerel, the so called Spanish species (_Scomber colias_) is
distinguished by a swimming bladder, and the common mackerel (_Sc.
scomber_) does not possess that organ.
Fishes being without a neck, and the portion called the tail being
usually equal at its origin to the part of the body from which it
springs, the prevailing shape is somewhat uniform and continuous,
diminishing gradually towards either extremity. Of this, the most
elegant and characteristic form of fishes, the salmon and mackerel
exhibit familiar examples. Yet a vast variety of shape, as well as of
size and colour, is naturally presented by a class which now contains
some seven or eight thousand known species; and no further illustration
of the subject will be deemed necessary by him who has seen and
remembers the difference between an eel and a skate.
The mouth of fishes either opens from beneath, as in the rays, or at the
extremity of the muzzle, as in the great majority of species, or from
the upper surface, as in a small foreign group called _Uranoscopus_, or
moon-gazer—an odd name for species, some of which have been alleged to
bury themselves to the depth of twenty feet in sand—a bed not easily
obtained, and in no way fitted for astronomical observation. It also
varies much in its relative dimensions, from the minute perforation of
the genus _Centriscus_, to the vast expanded gape of the ugly
angler-fish. We mean nothing personal in the last allusion.
The teeth of fishes are frequently very numerous, and are sometimes
spread over all the bony parts of the interior cavity of the mouth and
pharynx, that is, on the maxillary, inter-maxillary and palatal bones,
on the vomer, tongue, branchial arches, and pharyngeal bones. In certain
genera they exist on all those parts; while in others they are wanting
on some, or are even entirely absent on all. The denominations of the
teeth are derived from their position, that is from the bones to which
they are attached, and are consequently as numerous as the varieties of
their situation. In the upper portion of the mouth of a trout, for
example, there are five rows of teeth. The single middle-row is placed
upon the central bone of the mouth called the _vomer_; a row on each
side of it is fixed on the right and left _palatal_ bones, while the
outer-rows or those of the upper-jaw, properly so called, are situate on
the _maxillary_ bones. In the under portion of the mouth there are four
rows, that is, one on each side of the tongue, and another external to
these on each side of the lower-jaw. As to the form of teeth in fishes,
the majority are hooked and conical, and more or less acute.
In the majority of osseous fishes, besides the lips, which, even when
fleshy, having no peculiar muscles, can exert but little strength in
retaining the aliments, there is generally in the inside of each jaw,
behind the anterior teeth, a kind of membranous fold or valvule, formed
by a replication of the interior skin, and directed backwards, of which
the effect is to hinder the alimentary substances, and especially the
water gulped during respiration, from escaping again by the mouth. This
structure does not, as formerly supposed, constitute a character
restricted to the genus _Zeus_, but exists in an infinity of fishes.
The food seized by the teeth of the maxillæ, and detained by the valve
just mentioned, is carried still further backwards by the teeth of the
palate and tongue, when these exist, and is at the same time prevented
by the dentations of the branchial arches from penetrating between the
intervals of the branchiæ, where it might injure those delicate organs
of respiration. The movements of the maxillæ and tongue can thus send
the food only in the direction of the pharynx, where it undergoes
additional action on the part of the teeth of the pharyngeal bones,
which triturate or carry it backwards into the œsophagus. The last-named
portion is clothed by a layer of strong, close set, muscular fibres,
sometimes forming various bundles, the contractions of which push the
alimentary matter into the stomach—thus completing the act of
deglutition.
* * * * *
“AWAY, THEN, TO THE MOUNTAINS:”
WRITTEN AND ADAPTED TO
A FAVORITE MELODY
FROM
Amilie,
BY JOHN H. HEWITT.
_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns’ _Copyright, 184 Chesnut Street_.
[Illustration: musical score]
[Illustration: musical score]
Away then to the mountains,
While the morning sun is shining;
The mist has left the fountain,
And the herds in shade are reclining.
Up the rocks we’ll climb,
To the top sublime,
And we’ll
The hunter dreads no danger,
While along steep locks wending;
From youth a mountain ranger,
With the wind and snow contending.
From the peak he looks
On the valley brooks,
While his
[Illustration: musical score]
watch the light deer bounding;
While the Sun wades through the Sea of blue,
And the Alpine horn is sounding.
Away then to the mountains,
While the morning sun is shining;
The mist has left the fountains,
And the herds in shade are reclining.
heart for home is bounding;
And he marks the maid
On the valley glade,
Who lists to his wild horn sounding.
Away then to the &c. &c.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_A Grammar of the English Language, in a series of Letters,
addressed to every American Youth. By_ Hugh A. Pue.
_Philadelphia: Published by the Author._
This is the title of a queer little book, which its author regards as
“not only necessary, but urgently called for,” because not only “the
mass of the people are ignorant of English Grammar, but because those
who profess great knowledge of it, and even those who make the teaching
of it their business, will be found, upon examination, to be very far
from understanding its principles.”
Whether Mr. P. proceeds upon the safe old plan of _Probe meliora;
deteriora sequer_—whether he is one of “the mass,” and means to include
himself among the ignoramuses—or whether he is only a desperate
quiz—we shall not take it upon ourselves to say; but the fact is clear
that, in a Preface of less than two small duodecimo pages (the leading
object of which seems to be an eulogy upon one William Cobbett), he has
given us some half dozen distinct instances of bad Grammar.
“For these purposes,” says he—that is to say—the purposes of
instructing mankind and enlightening “every American youth” without
exception—“for these purposes, I have written my lessons in a series of
letters. A mode that affords more opportunity for plainness,
familiarity, instruction, and entertainment, than any other. A mode that
was adopted by Chesterfield, in his celebrated instructions on
politeness. A mode that was adopted by Smollett, in many of his novels,
which, even at this day, hold a distinguished place in the world of
fiction. A mode that was adopted by William Cobbett, not only in his
admirable treatise on English Grammar, but in nearly every work that he
wrote.” “To Mr. Cobbett,” adds the instructor of every American
youth—“to Mr. Cobbett I acknowledge myself _indebted_ for the greater
part of the grammatical knowledge which I possess.” Of the fact stated
there can be no question. Nobody but Cobbett could have been the
grammatical Mentor of Mr. Pue, whose book (which is _all_ Cobbett)
speaks plainly upon the point—nothing but the ghost of William Cobbett,
looking over the shoulder of Hugh A. Pue, could have inspired the latter
gentleman with the bright idea of stringing together four consecutive
sentences, in each of which the leading nominative noun is destitute of
a verb.
Mr. Pue may attempt to justify his phraseology here, by saying that the
several sentences, quoted above, commencing with the words, “A mode,”
are merely continuations of the one beginning “For these purposes;” but
this is no justification at all. By the use of the period, he has
rendered each sentence distinct, and each must be examined as such, in
respect to its grammar. We are only taking the liberty of condemning Mr.
P. by the words of his own mouth. Turning to page 72, where he treats of
punctuation, we read as follows:—“The full point is used at the end of
every complete sentence; and a complete sentence is a collection of
words making a complete sense, without being dependent upon another
collection of words to convey the full meaning intended.” Now, what kind
of a meaning can we give to such a sentence as “A mode that was adopted
by Chesterfield in his celebrated instructions on politeness,” if we are
to have “no dependence upon” the sentences that precede it? But, even in
the supposition that these five sentences had been run into one, as they
should have been, they would still be ungrammatical. For example—“For
these purposes I have written my lessons in a series of letters—a mode
that affords more opportunity for plainness, familiarity, instruction,
and entertainment than any other—a mode, etc.” This would have been the
proper method of punctuation. “A mode” is placed in apposition with “a
series of letters.” But it is evident that it is _not_ the “series of
letters” which is the “mode.” It is _the writing the lessons_ in a
series which is so. Yet, in order that the noun “mode” can be properly
placed in apposition with what precedes it, this latter must be either a
noun, or a sentence, which, taken collectively, can serve as one. Thus,
in any shape, all that we have quoted is bad grammar.
We say “_bad grammar_,” and say it through sheer obstinacy, because Mr.
Pue says we should not. “Why, what is grammar?” asks he indignantly.
“Nearly all grammarians tell us that grammar is the writing and speaking
of the English language correctly. What then is bad grammar? Why bad
grammar must be the bad writing and speaking of the English language
correctly!!” We give the two admiration notes and all.
In the first place, if grammar be only the writing and speaking the
_English_ language correctly, then the French, or the Dutch, or the
Kickapoos are miserable, ungrammatical races of people, and have no
hopes of being anything else, unless Mr. Pue proceeds to their
assistance:—but, let us say nothing of this for the present. What we
wish to assert is, that the usual definition of grammar, as “the writing
and speaking _correctly_,” is an error which should have been long ago
exploded. Grammar is the analysis of language, and this analysis will be
_good_ or _bad_, just as the capacity employed upon it be weak or
strong—just as the grammarian be a Horne Tooke or a Hugh A. Pue.
But perhaps, after all, we are treating this gentleman discourteously.
His book may be merely intended as a good joke. By the bye, he says in
his Preface, that “while he informs the student, he shall take
particular care to _entertain_ him.” Now, the truth is, we have been
exceedingly entertained. In such passages as the following, however,
which we find upon the second page of the Introduction, we are really at
a loss to determine whether it is the _utile_ or the _dulce_ which
prevails. We give the italics of Mr. Pue; without which, indeed, the
singular force and beauty of the paragraph cannot be duly appreciated.
“The _proper_ study of English grammar, so far from being _dry_, is one
of the most rational enjoyments known to us; one that is highly
calculated to rouse the dormant energies of the student; it requiring
continual mental effort; unceasing exercise of mind. It is, in fact, the
_spreading of a thought-producing plaster of paris upon the extensive
grounds of intellect_! It is the parent of idea, and great causation of
reflection; the mighty _instigator of insurrection in the interior_;
and, above all, the unflinching _champion of internal improvement_!”
We know nothing about plaster of Paris; but the analogy which subsists
between ipecac and grammar—at least between ipecac and the grammar of
Mr. Pue—never, certainly, struck us in so clear a point of view, as it
does now.
But, after all, whether Mr. P.’s queer little book shall or shall not
meet the views of “Every American Youth,” will depend pretty much upon
another question of high moment—whether “Every American Youth” be or be
not as great a nincompoop as Mr. Pue.
* * * * *
_Powhatan; a Metrical Romance, in Seven Cantos. By_ Seba Smith.
_New York: Harper and Brothers._
What few notices we have seen of this poem, speak of it as the
production of _Mrs._ Seba Smith. To be sure, gentlemen may be behind the
scenes, and know more about the matter than we do. They may have some
private reason for understanding that black is white—some reason into
which we, personally, are not initiated. But, to ordinary perception,
“Powhatan” is the composition of Seba Smith, _Esquire_, of Jack Downing
memory, and _not_ of his wife. _Seba Smith_ is the name upon the
title-page; and the personal pronoun which supplies the place of this
well-known prænomen and cognomen in the preface, is, we are constrained
to say, of the masculine gender. “The author of Powhatan,”—thus, for
example, runs a portion of the prolegomena—“does not presume to claim
for _his_ production the merit of good and genuine poetry, nor does _he_
pretend to assign it a place in the classes or forms into which poetry
is divided”—in all which, by the way, he is decidedly right. But can it
be that no gentleman has _read_ even so far as the Preface of the book?
Can it be that the critics have had no curiosity to creep into the
_adyta_—into the inner mysteries of this temple? If so, they are
decidedly right too.
“Powhatan” is handsomely bound. Its printing is clear beyond comparison.
Its paper is magnificent, and we undertake to say (for _we have_ read it
through with the greatest attention) that there is not a single
typographical error in it, from one end to the other. Further than this,
in the way of commendation, no man with both brains and conscience
should proceed. In truth, a more absurdly _flat_ affair—for flat is the
only epithet which applies in this case—was never before paraded to the
world, with so grotesque an air of bombast and assumption.
To give some idea of the _tout ensemble_ of the book—we have first a
Dedication to the “Young People of the United States,” in which Mr. Jack
Downing lives, in “the hope that he may do some good in his day and
generation, by adding something to the sources of rational enjoyment and
_mental culture_.” Next, we have a Preface, occupying four pages, in
which, quoting his publishers, the author tells us that poetry is a
“very great bore, and won’t sell”—a thing which cannot be denied in
certain cases, but which Mr. Downing denies in his own. “It may be
true,” he says, “of endless masses of words, that are poured forth from
the press, under the _name_ of poetry”—but it is not true “of _genuine_
poetry—of that which is worthy of the name”—in short, we presume he
means to say it is not in the least little bit true of “Powhatan;” with
regard to whose merits he wishes to be tried, not by the critics (we
fear, in fact, that here it is the critics who will be tried), “but by
the _common_ taste of _common_ readers”—all which ideas are common
enough, to say no more.
We have next, a “Sketch of the Character of Powhatan,” which is
exceedingly interesting and commendable, and which is taken from Burk’s
“History of Virginia:"—four pages more. Then comes a _Poem_—four pages
more—forty-eight lines—twelve lines to a page—in which all that we
can understand, is something about the name of “Powhatan”
“Descending to a distant age,
Embodied forth on the deathless page”
of the author—that is to say, of Jack Downing, Esquire. We have now,
one after the other, Cantos one, two, three, four, five, six, and
seven—each subdivided into Parts, by means of Roman numerals—some of
these Parts comprehending as many as six lines—upon the principle, we
presume, of packing up precious commodities in small bundles. The volume
then winds up with _Notes_, in proportion of three to one, as regards
the amount of text, and taken, the most of them, from Burk’s Virginia,
as before.
It is very difficult to keep one’s countenance when reviewing such a
_work_ as this; but we will do our best, for the truth’s sake, and put
on as serious a face as the case will admit.