The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 37, March 13, 1841
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Title: The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 37, March 13, 1841

Author: Various

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL, VOL. 1 NO. 37, MARCH 13, 1841 ***

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

Number 37. | SATURDAY, MARCH 13, 1841. | Volume I.

ROSS CASTLE, KILLARNEY.

We have heard some of our readers express surprise that we should not before this have taken notice, among our topographical collections, of some of the features of the far-famed Lakes of Killarney; but the truth is, that those features, though of the highest beauty, are not, for the greater part, such as wood-cut illustrations could adequately express; and even those which are properly suited to the powers of the graver have been in most instances already so often drawn and described, that it is now almost hopeless to expect to find either any new points of view or historical incidents connected with them, which have not already been made familiar to the reading public. Still, as our little weekly pennyworth is not intended exclusively for the wealthy and well informed, but even to a greater extent for those by whom more expensive publications are unattainable, it is right that we should occasionally notice subjects of popular interest, however familiar they may have been already made to a portion of our readers; and in doing so, we trust that we shall be able to make them in some degree acceptable to all, by the fidelity of our drawings, or the occasional novelty of the facts with which we shall illustrate them.

We have chosen, accordingly, as the first of our Killarney subjects, the old favourite Ross Castle; not indeed as the best or least hacknied, but as properly that which should begin the series, for it is the first with which the Killarney tourist becomes familiar, and from which he usually starts to enjoy all the others.

In a historical and antiquarian point of view, however, Ross Castle is indeed one of the most interesting objects to be found in connection with the enchanting scenery of the lakes. It is the time-worn fortress of their ancient chiefs, and its presence connects the history of man in distant times with the objects of eternal natural beauty by which it is surrounded, and imparts to them that delightful feeling or charm of romance which, exquisite as they are, they would necessarily want if it were absent.

Ross Castle, as its present remains show, was similar in its plan and construction to most of those erected by the Irish chiefs in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and consisted of a lofty square tower or keep, to which were attached the domestic offices, all which were surrounded by out-works enclosing an ample bawn, and flanked by small circular towers at their angles. In its general character, therefore, Ross Castle has no peculiar features worthy of notice; and its chief interest is derived from its situation, which is of the most striking beauty, commanding the richest scenery of the lower lake, and its wooded isles, shores, and mountains. It is situated on the east shore of the lower lake, upon the narrow neck of the Ross or peninsula from which it derives its name, and which, by an artificial cut through a morass, across which a small bridge is thrown, has been converted into an island. Neither the date of the erection of this castle nor the name of its founder has been preserved; but its architectural style will not allow us to suppose it much older than the early part of the fifteenth century, and history shows that it was for a considerable period the residence of the illustrious family of O’Donoghoe, hereditary chiefs of the territory called the Eoganacht, or Onaght of Lough Lein, or the present lower lake of Killarney.

The great antiquity and dignity of the family of O’Donoghoe still lives in the popular legends of the people, and is abundantly proved, by the Irish annals and genealogies. In an inaugural ode which was recited by the poet Cathan O’Duinnin at the inauguration of Teige the Generous O’Donoghoe, in 1320, and which is still preserved in the MS. library of Trinity College, the pedigree of the O’Donoghoes, with their filiations, is given, through twenty-seven generations, from Core, the son of Lughaidh King of Munster in 380, to that time, and there is no reason to doubt its accuracy or historic truth. Our space will not permit us to enter at any length on the history of this illustrious family, but we may observe, that its ancient rank is sufficiently proved by the fact, as stated in the Annals of Inisfallin, that their ancestor Donnell, the son of Duvdavoran, was the second in command of the Eugenian forces at the memorable battle of Clontarf, and that shortly after that conflict he contested the sovereignty of Desmond or South Munster with its king, and slew him in battle.

In subsequent ages the family of O’Donoghoe split into three great branches; that of O’Donoghoe More, or the great, of which Ross Castle became the residence; O’Donoghoe of the Glens; and O’Donoghoe of Lough Lein. Of these three families the first and last are supposed to be extinct, and are at least reduced to poverty; but that of the Glens is still represented by O’Donoghoe of Killarney, who is consequently the reputed chief of this illustrious family. By a happy chance, very rare in Ireland, O’Donoghoe, who is as yet a minor, possesses a considerable portion of the estates of his ancestors of the Glens; but the properly of the O’Donoghoe More, or Ross, as well as that of the O’Donoghoe of Lough Lein, has been long in the possession of the noble house of Kenmare, of which their ancestor Sir Valentine Brown made a purchase from Donald M’Carty More, Earl of Clancarthy, as early as the year 1588, it having been forfeited by Rory O’Donoghoe More some time previously. These lands, as Dr Smith acquaints us, were subsequently confirmed to the grandson of the first purchaser, Valentine, son of Nicholas Brown, by letters patent of King James I. which passed the seal May 12, 1612, and included with others the entire country of Onaugh, alias Onaught O’Donoghoe More, in the county of Desmond, in which were contained the manor and lake of the Castle of Ross, with divers islands in Lough Lein, with all other his estate, containing 82 quarters of land, amounting to 6560 acres, besides the fishings belonging to the manor of Ross-I-Donoghoe, all which premises came to the family by immediate bargain and grant from the Earl of Clancarthy, by the indenture before mentioned. “But,” as Smith adds, “some question being made of the validity of this grant from the crown, the king, by privy seal, dated at Greenwich, 28th May 1618, directed Sir Oliver St John, lord-deputy, to accept a surrender thereof from him [Valentine], and to re-grant the same to him in fee by a new patent, for clearing all doubt, and the better settlement of his estate.”

But though the lands of O’Donoghoe More have passed away from his race, he still retains possession of the waters: and, though dead himself corporeally, he still lives, and governs spiritually in his ancient principality. If, reader, you doubt the truth of our statement, ask the people of the lakes, and they will at once remove your scepticism. They will tell you that he frequently appears to them on May-day, on a milk-white horse, gliding over the glassy lake to the sound of unearthly music, and attended by troops of spirits scattering spring flowers. They differ, indeed, a good deal in their accounts of the appearance of their ancient lord. Derrick, in his amusing Letters on Killarney, written in 1760, tells us that he was assured, when O’Donoghoe revisits his friends, which is every May morning before sunrise, he is “attended by an incredible number of followers, wrestling, hurling, and playing football upon the surface of the lake, which affords them as sure footing as the solid earth.” And Derrick’s friend, Mr Ockenden, whose letters descriptive of Killarney are printed in the same volume, describes O’Donoghoe’s horse not as a white but a black one. As this gentleman’s account of O’Donoghoe’s visits is the most minute, as well as the earliest, that we have seen, we are tempted to give it in full.

“There lived in the largest island (for there are several islands on the lake) many hundred years ago, a petty prince, named O’Donoghoe, who was lord of the whole lake, the surrounding shore, and a large district of neighbouring country. He manifested, during his stay upon earth, great munificence, great humanity, and great wisdom; for, by his profound knowledge in all the secret powers of nature, he wrought wonders as miraculous as any tradition has recorded of saints by the aid of angels, or of sorcerers by the assistance of demons; and among many other most astonishing performances he rendered his person immortal. After having continued a long time upon the surface of the globe without growing old, he one day, at Ross Castle (the place where he most usually resided), took leave of his friends, and rising from the floor, like some aërial existence, passed through the window, shot away horizontally to a considerable distance from the castle, and then descended. The water unfolding at his approach, gave him entrance down to the subaqueous regions, and then, to the inexpressible astonishment of all beholders, closed over his head, as they believed, for ever: but in this they were mistaken.

He returned again some years after, revisiting, not, like Hamlet’s ghost, ‘the glimpses of the moon making night hideous,’ but the radiance of the sun making day joyful, to those at least who saw him: since which time he has continued to make very frequent expeditions to these upper regions, sometimes three or four in a year; but sometimes three or four years pass without his once appearing, which the bordering inhabitants have always looked on as a mark of very bad times.

It was feared this would be the third year he would suffer to elapse without his once cheering their eyes with his presence: but at the latter end of last August he again appeared, to the inexpressible joy of all, and was seen by numbers in the middle of the day. I had the curiosity, before I left Killarney, to visit one of the witnesses to this very marvellous fact.

The account she gives is, that returning with a kinswoman to her house at the head of the lake, they both beheld a fine gentleman, mounted upon a black horse, ascend through the water with a numerous retinue on foot, who all moved together along the surface towards a small island, near which they again descended under water. This account is confirmed, in time, place, and circumstances, by many more spectators from the side of the lake, who are all ready to swear, and not improbably to suffer death, in support of their testimony.

His approach is sometimes preceded by music inconceivably harmonious; sometimes by thunder inexpressibly loud; but oftenest without any warning whatsoever. He always rises through the surface of the lake, and generally amuses himself upon it, but not constantly: for there is a farmer now alive, who declares, as I am told, that riding one evening near the lower end of the lake, he was overtaken by a gentleman who seemed under thirty years of age, very handsome in his person, very sumptuous in his apparel, and very affable in his conversation. After having travelled for some time together, the nobleman (for such he judged him to be by his appearance) observed, that as night was approaching, the town far off, and lodging not easy to be found, he should be welcome to take a bed that night at his house, which, he said, was not very distant.

The invitation was readily accepted; they approached the lake together, and both their horses moved upon the surface without sinking, to the infinite amazement of the farmer, who thence perceived the stranger to be no less than the great O’Donoghoe. They rode a considerable distance from shore, and then, descending into a delightful country under water, lay that night in a house much larger in size and much more richly furnished than even Lord Kenmare’s at Killarney.”

With respect, however, to the colour of O’Donoghoe’s horse, the prevailing belief seems now to be, that it is a white one, and this notion has been adopted by our national bard, Moore, in his beautiful song called “O’Donoghoe’s Mistress,” which, as he informs us, is founded on one among other stories connected with this legend of the lakes, and in which it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May morning, threw herself into the lake. But we had better give the song itself:—

Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-linked dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves

Its lingering smile on golden eves,
Fair lake, thou’rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him,
Who dwells, bright lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed chiefs on sea or shore,
White steed, most joy to thee;

Who still, with the first young glance of spring,

From under that glorious lake dost bring

My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch’d, thy long mane curls,
Fair steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake’s deep bowers,
Glide o’er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be,
Which under the next May evening’s light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I’ll die for thee.

But we have been attracted by this phantom chief too long from our immediate subject, and we must now return to it. From the historical notices of Ross Castle, as collected by the historian of Kerry, it will be seen that it was of old a place of some strength and importance, and that its possession was not to be acquired without expense and trouble. In his description of Ross island, published in 1756, Dr Smith states that “on it stands an ancient castle, formerly the seat of O’Donoghoe Ross, which hath a new barrack adjoining to it. This place hath been for some years past a military garrison, having a governor appointed for it upon the establishment. Before the castle are a few dismounted iron guns, which give it something the air of a fortification. The castle had been flanked with round turrets, which together with its situation rendered it a place of some strength. In the wars of 1641, it surrendered to Ludlow, who was attended in the expedition by Lord Broughil and Sir Hardress Waller, and was the last place that held out in Munster against the English parliament.”

This surrender followed the decisive battle of Knockinclashy, in the county of Cork, in 1652, fought by the Lord Broughil on the English side, and the Lord Muskerry on that of the Irish, after which the latter retreated into Ross Castle, and was followed thither by Ludlow, who, with 4000 foot and 200 horse, laid siege to the castle. The subsequent proceedings are thus described by Ludlow himself:—

“In this expedition I was accompanied by the Lord Broughil, and Sir Hardress Waller, major-general of the foot. Being arrived at this place, I was informed that the enemy received continual supplies from those parts that lay on the other side, and were covered with woods and mountains; whereupon I sent a party of two thousand foot to clear those woods, and to find out some convenient place for erecting a fort, if there should be occasion. These forces met with some opposition, but at last they routed the enemy, killing some, and taking others prisoners: the rest saved themselves by their good footmanship. Whilst this was doing, I employed that part of the army which was with me in fortifying a neck of land, where I designed to leave a party to keep in the Irish on this side, that I might be at liberty, with the greater part of the horse and foot, to look after the enemy abroad, and to receive and convoy such boats and other things necessary as the commissioners sent us by sea. When we had received our boats, each of which was capable of containing one hundred and twenty men, I ordered one of them to be rowed about the water, in order to find out the most convenient place for landing upon the enemy; which they perceiving, thought fit, by a timely submission, to prevent the danger that threatened them; and having expressed their desires to that purpose, commissioners were appointed on both sides to treat.”

After a fortnight’s debate, says Ludlow, articles were agreed upon and ratified on both sides; and the son of the Lord Muskerry and Sir Daniel O’Brien were delivered up as hostages for the performance of the treaty; in consequence of which, about 5000 Irish, horse and foot, laid down their arms and delivered up their horses, and thus terminated the hostilities in Munster.

Smith, in his History of Kerry, tells us that “a man whose name was Hopkins, and who a few years ago was sexton of Swords, near Dublin, was present at the taking and surrender of this place, and assisted in drawing the above-mentioned vessel into the lake. The Irish,” he adds, “had a kind of prophecy among them, that Ross Castle could not be taken until a ship should swim upon the lake; and the appearance of this vessel contributed not a little to intimidate the garrison, and to hasten the capitulation. The said Hopkins lived to the age of one hundred and fifteen years, and died at Swords.”

We have already stated that a barrack was erected in connection with the castle in the commencement of the last century, and a small garrison was kept here till a few years ago. These hideous barracks, as Sir R. C. Hoare called them, were a dreadful eye-sore to all the lovers of the picturesque who visited the Killarney lakes; but Ireland seems no longer to require such structures, and the barrack of Ross Castle has been some time dismantled, and its ivied walls now contribute to the picturesqueness of the parent fortress.

P.

EDUCATION OF YOUTH.

Action of both mind and body ought to be so continued as to serve as relaxation to each other. The mind of a man, still more of a child, is incapable of long perseverance in mental exertion. This is a generally acknowledged truth, to which I shall add one more to the same purpose, which is less known. Young men, and those who are not advanced in years, if healthy and of warm constitutions, are never very greatly inclined to mental exertion till their bodies are to a certain degree fatigued, I do not say wholly exhausted. Till this fatigue is produced, their body has a preponderance over the mind, and in this case it is a truly natural want, which cannot easily be silenced. Each muscle requires exertion, and the whole machine strives to employ its powers; this is vulgarly called to have no sit-still flesh. If the fatigue be once brought on, the call for bodily exertion is stilled; the mind is no longer disturbed by it, and all its labours are facilitated. Our common mode of education pays no regard to this: youths appear in school to be strengthened by sleep and food, and too frequently, alas! thrown into an unnatural heat and commotion. How is it possible to fix the attention under such circumstances? The body requires action; if this be not allowed, it will obtain it in silence; it will act upon the passions, and, above all, the fiery temperament of youth will influence the imagination. Thus attention slumbers. We are barbarous when we attempt to awaken it with the rod; we require from innocent children what is unnatural; we inflict pain on the body to prevent its action; yet activity was bestowed on it by its creator; yet nature renovates this activity every night; the mind is soon carried away by the whirlwind of corporal energies, and lost in the realm of chimeras. To facilitate the contemplation of them, I shall just repeat the desirable parallel between the qualities of the body and mind:—Health of body—serenity of mind—hardiness—manliness of sentiment—strength and address—presence of mind and courage—activity of body—activity of mind—excellence of form—mental beauty—acuteness of the senses—strength of understanding.

Medicus.

Ancient Music.—The Egyptian flute was only a cow’s horn with three or four holes in it, and their harp or lyre had only three strings; the Grecian lyre had only seven strings, and was very small, being held in one hand; the Jewish trumpets, that made the walls of Jericho fall down, were only rams’ horns. Their flute was the same as the Egyptian; they had no other instrumental music but by percussion, of which the greatest boast was the psaltery, a small triangular harp or lyre with wire strings, and struck with an iron needle or stick; their sacbut was something like a bagpipe; the timbrel was a tambourine, and the dulcimer was a horizontal harp, with wire strings, and struck with a stick like the psaltery. They had no written music; had scarcely a vowel in their language, and yet, according to Josephus, had two hundred thousand musicians playing at the dedication of the Temple of Solomon. Mozart would have died in such a concert in the greatest agonies.—Dr Burney’s History of Music.

POETICAL LECTURE ON ANATOMY.

The following is the purport of a lecture on anatomy. The lecturer is represented as taking up the human skull, containing the brain and its appendages, with the nervous cords exposed to observation, and with “apostrophic eye” proceeding:—

This is the tenement of thought,
The mansion of the mind,
Whose empire, as the universe,
Is boundless undefined!
’Tis vaulted, like the evening sky
In star-wrought grace unfurl’d,
And like that very firmament,
Hangs o’er a breathing world—
A world of thought, a world of sense,
A world of passion, pride,
Reason, perception, hope, love, light,
In glory side by side!
Here gather, too, in crowded thrall
Of agile grace and hue,
Imagination’s thousand forms
Fast thronging on the view.
Here reason reigns, here genius dwells,
And here ambition lives!
And brightest ’mid that mighty throng,
The soul immortal thrives.
Here, too, imperial will resides
In regal state enshrined,
In stern dominion over all,
With majesty combined!
Mark this! it is his messenger,
That, like electric fire,
Swift-wing’d, the mandate beareth forth
Of reason or desire.
This filament, this very thread,
Hath power to shake the frame;
That, whispering to the heart’s warm core,
To light love’s genial flame.
And THIS, or THIS, to sense inclined,
Hath magic in its spell,
To waken pleasure, pain, or hope,
And rapture’s story tell.
And this small cord sent to the eye,
Can comprehend the whole—
The limitless, the vast profound,
Where worlds unnumbered roll!
That, to the tongue can captivate,
This, epicures enslave,
That, to the same makes slander rife,
And THIS perchance a knave.
That, to the ear, oft makes the soul
Quake ’neath the thunder’s peal,
Or to the heart, with genius warm’d,
A dream’s low tones reveal.
Concenter’d in one mass, this brain,
These make man what he is,
The offspring of yon world of light,
The life and soul of this.

—From an American work.

The River St John, in New Brunswick.—In this river there are several falls, not downwards, as in the ordinary course of rivers, but upwards against the current. The River St John is of the size of the Rhine. It drains a large portion of the province of New Brunswick. The mass of water it discharges into the Bay of Fundy is prodigious, especially during the spring floods, when the tides rise to the height of 35, 50, and sometimes even 60 feet, above the ordinary level. The remarkable fall of the water backwards is produced by the enormous volume of water, occupying a channel in some places ten miles in breadth, being confined near St John’s into a breadth of 300 yards, which occasions it to roll back impetuously in the form of a magnificent cascade.

Children of the Poor.—Charles Lamb has truly and touchingly remarked, that common people’s children “are dragged up, not brought up.” There is a precocity—not, indeed, of intellect, but of prudence and worldly wisdom—in them, that is truly painful. Care has usurped the empire of carelessness, that legitimate monarch of a child’s being; and like all usurpers, has in the vehemence of his achievements anticipated the slow march of Time. Life itself, which among the children of the rich is an exuberant overflowing, that, lavish it as they may, still seems inexhaustible, among those of the poor is a lean phantom, grasped at with pain and maintained with a struggle; in short, they know nothing of youth but its feebleness and its wailing; its bloom and its buoyancy being, like every other luxury, beyond their reach. To me the most painful sight in this world is a poor, that is, a destitute child. Whatever misery a grown-up person may be plunged into, a thousand suppositions are left for its palliation: they may once have been well off, or they may have been the artificers of their own ruin, and they may live to see better days: but children—they can have done nothing to deserve that the one blessing unmortgaged at the Fall, the carelessness of youth, should be taken from them.—Lady Bulwer.

THE DECAYED OLD GENTLEMAN,
A SKETCH.

There is something very touching about this character—something in his mild tone of speech, in his polite and gentle demeanour, that at once engages our sympathies. We have the poor old gentleman distinctly before our mind’s eye at this moment. Let us endeavour to sketch him.

He is of middle height, well proportioned, and of rather slender make. His clothes, though a good deal the worse for wear, are carefully brushed, and put on with scrupulous neatness. His linens are clean and bright, and his neck-cloth, equally faultless, is adjusted with nice precision; for, old as he is, he has not lost, nor ever will lose, that sense of propriety which dictates a decent attention to external appearance.

Some sixty and odd summers have passed over the head of him who is the subject of our sketch, and they have left their usual traces behind. His hair is thin and scanty, and of the silvery hue of eild. His countenance is expressive at once of a gentle and benevolent nature, of a cultivated mind and refined taste. He has seen much, read much, and thought more. A certain air of mild, subdued dignity—for the old man, poor though he be, never for a moment forgets that he is a gentleman—adds a grace to all he says and does. When in society, or when accosted by a friend, a pleasant smile, speaking a sincere affability, plays on his cheerful countenance. But when alone, when there is no one present to demand the exercise of his politeness, the expression of that countenance subsides into a gentle melancholy. His look is then grave and thoughtful; somewhat sad, but not morose. There has been disappointment in his life, high hopes laid low, and noble aspirations foiled in their aim.

Delightful it is to see the old gentleman enter a room in which some friends are assembled—his bow is so graceful—his smile so cheerful—his words of greeting so pleasant to the ear. All rise, smiling, to receive him—all hail his presence, with a quiet but heartfelt joy. Welcome, thrice welcome is he to all. His gentle manners, his exhaustless store of anecdote, all so well selected, all so neatly told. His intelligence and extensive information render him one of the most delightful of companions. A welcome visitor is he at all times—a welcome addition to the family circle into which it is his delight to drop, just in time to share in the sober, social cup of tea, his favourite beverage.

The old gentleman is unmarried—he is a bachelor. There is some vague unconnected story of an early attachment and of disappointed love, but nobody knows any of the particulars—no one knows who the lady was, nor what were the circumstances of the case; and our old friend never alludes to them in the most distant manner. The history of this passage in his life is a secret pent up within his own breast; one that will go with him to the grave, and with him be buried within its silent precincts. But it is one over which he often broods in the solitude of his solitary chamber, and during those sleepless nights, and they are many, when reminiscences of the past forbid the approach of forgetfulness.

Being a bachelor, and his circumstances narrow—a small annuity being now his only dependence—our old friend has no house of his own. He lives in hired lodgings—humble, but cleanly, comfortable and respectable. His landlady is a “decent widow,” and he has been her lodger for fifteen years. Little as he has, he has always paid her punctually, and to the last farthing; and much does she esteem and respect her kind and gentlemanly inmate. Regular and temperate in all his habits, and moderate in his desires, he gives her little trouble, and even that little he is at all times anxious to abridge. His cup of tea or coffee morning and evening is nearly all in the way of cookery that he requires at her hands. Quietly he comes in and quietly he goes out, and he never does either without saying something kind or civil as he passes. In all things easily pleased, he expresses thanks for every little attention shown him, and never raises his voice in anger, never even in querulousness or impatience. To every one around him, without distinction of rank or worldly circumstances, he is all politeness, all gentleness, and all kindness.

Who can but love and respect the decayed old gentleman!

C.

THE ITALIAN ORGAN BOY.

PART FIRST.

The streets of a great city, whether swept by the tumultuous tide of life by day, or echoing only to the dull and solitary tread of the patrol by night, are never devoid of material for interesting remark or rumination to such as are so disposed. He must, indeed, be a man of sluggish sensibilities and slender fancy who could traverse any of our great thoroughfares without finding them occasionally touched by some of the thousand little tales of anxiety or satisfaction, mourning or merriment, legible in brief upon the faces of the motley and many-featured throng around him, or at least, by the supplemental aid of a little imagination, plausibly constructed from the elements thereby supplied. There is perhaps no period so well fitted for these studies of life, as it is in its private and more important aspect, as the close of one of our short and busy winter days, when the pressure of diurnal toil is removed from men’s minds, whether its effect has been to sway them from the contemplation of joy or wretchedness, and unbiassed they are left to imprint their character on the countenance of each. When does cheerfulness appear so undiluted as when a long winter evening’s recreation spreads out before it, whether spent within the mellowed glow of a happy domestic hearth, with all its easy, pure, and unsuspicious pleasures, or in the social reunion with its friendly, careless, and unclouded gaiety? and when does wretchedness feel so blank and dismal as when a weary length of dim and rayless hours gives space for all its melancholy broodings, undiverted by occupation, unmitigated by that spirit of hope which more or less mingles with the temperament of all by day, as if a constituent of the glad light of heaven in which we then live and move? A cursory reading of the countenance of each passer by will at this hour give the poorest physiognomist no inaccurate notion of the complexion of his domestic lot; and, selecting an individual from the homeward-wending crowd, I often form my speculation as to the scene that awaits him, follow him in the freedom of all-privileged and all-pervading thought across the threshold of his abode, conjure up the circumstances of his reception, glance through the perspective of his evening arrangements, and, as I find them agreeable or the reverse, extend or curtail my domiciliary inspection.

During a recent winter, on one of its most cheerless evenings, I was thus exercising my discernment and my fancy in a long homeward walk through the centre of the city, and mentally apportioning to each that attracted my eye the share of satisfaction or discomfort that lay before him—my own mind subject to the lights and shadows, the glow and chill, which in various degrees were suggested as the lot of each. It was precisely the evening to lend the keenest zest to the happiness of the light-hearted, and a more poignant bitterness to the misery of the unfortunate. A cold icy wind whistled shrilly through every narrow street and entry as I passed it, and swept more boldly down the wider spaces, bearing, occasionally, slanting showers of sleet, which a glance at the dun and overcharged canopy of snow-clouds and of smoke above showed to be but premonitory intimations of a heavy and continuous fall. For the most part, all below was impatient motion and occupied expectation, because almost all had a goal in view to which they hastened, the fierce inclemency of the weather impelling alike the mirthful and the melancholy onward. The well-fed, well-defended passenger, with muffled neck and arms thrust to the elbow in the pockets of his dreadnought, rubbed shoulders with the half-paralyzed and shivering wretch that shuffled amid the hurrying throng, often apparently without other object than that of joining in the stream of fellow-creatures, whom he could resemble in no other way. Carriage after carriage rolled past, the children of affluence for their tenants, interchanging careless comments, or looking with languid and heedless gaze upon the squalid, the impoverished, the abandoned, the degraded, that, alas! met the eye so often as to account for, and almost justify, the indifference displayed.

“What a collocation, not merely of the extremes of human condition, but of almost every interposed gradation!” thought I, as, sated with the multiform instances presented in the concourse, and half bewildered with the medley of sights and sounds—the glittering ostentation of the glaring shops, the hum and tramp of the jostling crowd, the din and rattle of ceaseless vehicles, from the lumbering dray to the elastic carriage, the oft-mingled appeal of importunate mendicants, and, not least confounding, the sleet-laden and staggering blasts that met me with wild caprice at almost every corner—I gladly turned aside into a more sheltered and less frequented street, to pursue a route of greater ease, though at the expense of a greater circuit. But misery in the aggregate can generally be encountered with less disturbance than when submitted to in the case of solitary sufferers; and before I had proceeded half the length of a private and comparatively deserted street, I had more effective calls upon my charity—there was at that time no legal provision for the necessitous—than when passing among the abounding instances of destitution I had just witnessed. My stock of small change, and I must add, co-equally therewith, that of my patience too, was nearly exhausted, when my eye fell upon the figure of a young lad, who stood indifferently sheltered from the wind under the projected doorway of an uninhabited house. I had made up my mind to the customary solicitation: but he seemed so abstracted as not to notice my approach, and, pitying the forlorn looking youth, and wondering at his forbearance, I walked slowly past, to give him an opportunity. I found him to be an organ-player, for the instrument, unslung from his shoulders, rested upon the flag at his feet, and a brief notice of his collapsed but characteristic features showed him to be an Italian. A shivering marmoset, partly covered by his jacket, was lodged on the hollow of one arm, while the other, resting on his raised knee, supported his head, as, unconscious of my proximity and observation, he gazed fixedly upon the ground. The sight of mute personal privation and friendless loneliness would at such a crisis have been influential enough to stir up whatever humanity one had, but when witnessed in a stranger from a far land, in one, too, nurtured under the sapphire skies and blissful clime of Italy, and withering now by a dismal change beneath such dense and murky clouds, and such a pitiless and scourging breeze, the demand on one’s kindly offices was irresistible, and, drawing near to the desolate lad, I accompanied a small gift with a few words in his own most musical and thrilling tongue. He started from his musing posture as the electric syllables struck upon his ear, and, as he gazed with keen enthusiasm upon me, the blood mantled vividly upon his chilled and weather-wrinkled cheek, while with grateful but melancholy earnestness he poured out his thanks. There was something to me unusually touching in the aspect of the friendless young foreigner, as well as in the circumstances in which I found him. He had a cast of thought and maturity in his face which hardship, isolation, and self-dependence, seemed to have anticipated years in producing; for his slender and stripling figure, and the unshaven down upon his lip, bespoke him still in an early stage of youth. After a word or two of compassion, I passed on. But his dashed and disappointed look at separation followed me: my conscience chid me for resting in a cold gratuity to one so dejected, yet so sensitive to relief—a spring of gladness for whom my acquaintance with his native language, it appeared, could so easily unseal.

He was a stranger, weary, friendless, cheerless, and necessitous—unsusceptible of those mitigations of suffering which even the poorest experience among their own people and their own kindred. I was hastening to my unshared, ’tis true, but far, therefore, from joyless lodgings, an abundant board, a radiant fire, a storm and snow proof apartment, furnished with all the appliances of comfort which winter covets; and would they be diminished by the admission of this homeless, and, from his countenance, I dare certify, guileless wanderer, to share for a time their influence? No. I have it in my power to interpose one bright spot in his life of hardship and privation, to suspend for a while the yearnings with which doubtless, at this hour of dreariness and suffering, he turns in thought to the scenes of his but recent childhood in his own lovely land, to the sunny azure skies the joyous vine-clad hills, the playmates that even now, perhaps, at the close of a bright and genial day, are clustering in merry meeting for the evening song and dance, his father’s cottage, his mother’s caress. “Yes, I will turn back,” exclaimed I, “and enable him, if ever he rejoin the social circle in his own ardent home, to tell his eager listeners a trait of kindness and sympathy shared in the far off frigid country of the north.” As I concluded, I again stood before him, as with a shiver and a sigh the poor lad was about raising his organ upon his shoulder again; and, telling him that I had been in and loved the land from which he came, that I was fond of its people, and of their music too, and wished to talk with and hear him play at leisure and in comfort by my own fireside, asked him to accompany me to it. A smile of gladness lighted up his pale expressive face as he gratefully declared his readiness; and a car passing at the moment, I hailed it, and in a few seconds, young Carlo Girardi—for that he told me was his name—his chattering and half perished marmoset, his muffled music mill, and my enlivened and approving self, were rattling rapidly to my lodgings. I found him a fine, intelligent, unhacknied lad, to whose fervid heart my partial knowledge of his native tongue secured me ready access; and, after cold and hunger had given way to fire and food, I experienced no difficulty in drawing from him an ingenuous and vivid narration of his personal story—one so singular and romantic in its character, and so illustrative of the purest impulses of the human heart, as to merit a repetition better than many a more highly wrought and complex tale. Cleared of the circumlocution caused by his indifferent stock of English, and converted into a dialect more uniform and familiar to our ears, it ran substantially thus:—

“I come from the neighbourhood of the little village of Montanio, at the foot of the great Appennines. My father was, and I pray is still, a small vine-grower and gardener, supplying the market of Telese, and other towns within reach, with fruits, flowers, and vegetables. We were a family of five—my father, my dear mother, my elder and only brother Ludovico, my beautiful and gentle sister Bianca, and myself;” and his tone grew touchingly tremulous, as, in connection with his cottage home, he went over the old, familiar, household names. “Oh, that I was ever called upon to leave them to wander, unfriended and unknown, among rough and careless strangers, to forsake all pleasant things, the gay and glad green fields, the sunny hills, the sparkling mountain streams, the flowered and fruited gardens, and the ever bright and beautiful sky which stretched its unclouded azure overhead, for this cold and shivering, this dim and misty land! But yet I would do as much again, if such a call again were made upon me—dark shame upon me if I hesitated!—and when I return to them once more—and oh, may heaven grant that now I shortly may!—I will look with the greater rapture upon all I left, upon beauties and on blessings I then too little, far too little, cared for. My father was ever kind to us when we were in the way of obedience to his wishes and ideas of duty, but rigid and severe to resent every error we might commit. I have heard the elder neighbours say that in his own young days he had been wild and perverse, and entangled thereby in many troubles, and that, therefore, in affection and providence for us, he was the more exact in our care and education. I was too young to be much in the way of following my own bent, and so had little opportunity of offending him; but my brother Ludovico, who was hot, daring, and adventurous, was often led to look for wild and irregular excitement with the roving hunters and rude shepherds from the mountains above, and his mingling in their lawless society always raised my father’s resentment, and, despite my mother’s exerted influence, often brought disquiet and disunion among us. But though reckless and unsettled, Ludovico was ever frank, winsome, and honest-hearted, which, however, could not save him from sharing in the evil fame of his companions; and though his handsome figure, open temper, and ready offices for all who sought them, made him a favourite with the young, yet the elder looked grave and severe upon him, as one already committed in the road to ruin. Our sister Bianca, who, not in our eyes only, was the sweetest and prettiest maiden within the circle of a league, drew to herself, as she grew up, the admiring looks of all; and at our gay village festivals, at the sowing, vintage, and noted holidays, he was a happy and envied youth who could oftenest engage her hand for the tarantula, or follow her voice upon the mandoline. But the one who paid his court with most success was Francesco, the only son of Marcolini the wealthy miller, who was by far the richest man in our community. But when his son’s courtship became known to him, he forthwith fell into a rage at the notion of so imprudent a match, for he was a purse-proud man, who valued his gold above most other things, above the beauty and innocence of our Bianca, and the pledged affection of Francesco, for whom he looked far above us humble people for a more equally dowered bride. Resolute to extinguish his folly as he called it, at once, he solemnly vowed to cut him off with a carlino, if he pursued his thriftless project; and, not assured that even this would deter him, he determined to engage, likewise, the authority of my father, whose strict and unswerving character was well known to him, and accordingly besought him to lay his prohibition upon Bianca. My father, who would have scorned to force a thus forbidden union, hurried to comply with his wishes; and in Bianca’s obedience there was found a surer safeguard than in Francesco’s fear of poverty, as, even in defiance of his father’s menace, he vehemently urged my sister to become his, and trust to the labour of his hands for their maintenance. But my father’s injunctions were habitually paramount; and poor Francesco, finding her hesitation not to be overcome, soon fell into despair and declining health. He became melancholy, faint-hearted, and neglectful of all his old occupations; and his strange and moody habits, quenched spirits, and fast failing strength, so wrought upon his father’s fear and affection, that he began to think it better to make some compromise, and forego a little of his ambition rather than endanger Francesco’s life. In consequence, he intimated to my father that on reflection he was disposed to forward the marriage, provided a certain sum, which he named, was settled upon Bianca, as it was scarcely to be expected, he urged, that he would give his son and the heir of all his money to a portionless bride. My father acknowledged his request to be but natural, but professed at once the insufficiency of his means to satisfy it without impoverishing the rest of his family; an act which, however devoted to the happiness of his daughter, conscience would not allow him to commit.

Old Martolini, finding him intractable upon the point, proposed then, that as Bianca and Francesco were still very young, their marriage should be postponed for at least three years, at the end of which time, if he were prepared to give her a certain portion—making a large abatement from his first demand—it might with his consent take place. But, exasperated at his disappointment and forced concession, he added a passionate oath, that on no other terms would he hear of the connection, even though his son Francesco were such a fool as to pine till it brought him to his death-bed. My father, balanced between his anxiety to close an arrangement so beneficial to Bianca, and his sense of the hardships and extreme frugality it would necessarily impose upon us all during the interval, desired a short time to make his decision. The same evening he called all of us, except my sister, to him—declared the proposal of Francesco’s father—asked our opinion separately upon it—and when with one voice we all professed our readiness, our eagerness, to undergo any and every additional labour and privation that might take a tear from our gentle Bianca’s eye, or add a blush or a smile to her now pallid cheek and lips, he answered, “It is just spoken as I would have you speak, my dear wife and children: but saying is easy, doing difficult. Three years will give you many opportunities of proving this, for there must be much denial, frugality, and toil, brief nights and long and busy days, to enable us to accumulate within the time a sum so ill proportioned to our means.” Bianca was then informed of the arrangement, and smiles of rekindled hope and rapture mingled with tears of grateful love and sensibility; and her rapidly returning bloom and gaiety gilded every thing around with its own gladness, and rendered our ruder and scantier fare and more lengthened labour pleasanter at times than the merry meeting and the music, which we could now of course but rarely join. The impulse of affection for dear Bianca was strong in every heart, and this, with the prospect of a happy completion of our undertaking, almost changed every sacrifice into a delight. But, young though I be, I have now lived long enough to know, that as the brightest morning sky is often overcast before the close of day, so are our most shining hopes subject to many a cloud and chill before, if ever, they attain to their fulfilment.” (Here poor Carlo paused for a moment in his narrative; and with your leave, gentle reader, I too shall rest, till I have the pleasure of meeting you again in next week’s Journal.)

J. J. M.

ON STIMULANTS.

TOBACCO.

Repose is the remedy which nature points out to tired mortals when exhausted either by mental or bodily fatigue. This is her prescription for refreshing man’s animal spirits, and enabling him to resume his labours. Stimulants are by no means congenial with her methods or her processes. They are like whip and spur to the weary steed; they may force him on indeed, but it is at the expense of his constitution and his powers. In medical science, the great art, as the doctors say, is to assist nature; and with this view, the skilful practitioner will sometimes order stimulants, and find them doubtless highly useful to his patient; but their habitual use is no maxim of the healing art, but much rather that of the destroying or disabling one, if I may use the expression. By the way, we are sadly prone to habits, and therefore it “stands us upon,” in a most serious degree, to consider well the nature and probable results of any custom before we adopt it. In this astute and intellectual age of ours it has been discovered that it is much easier to abstain altogether from a dangerous indulgence than to adhere strictly to moderation, and temperance has been superseded by teetotalism; and I would just add to this, by way of corollary, that it is much easier to slide into a bad habit than to get rid of it again. But to return to our theme. The effects produced by stimulants are all agreeable for the moment. Wine and opium raise men above earth and all its cares; and so long as the stimulant lasts, they sit as it were at the supper of the gods. Anacreon is then the only ballad-monger, and with him each is ready to sing,

Strew me a breathing bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury’s dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this delicious hour of joy,
Young Love shall be my goblet-boy,
Folding his little golden vest,
With cinctures, round his snowy breast;
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!

But when the influence of the spell is over, immediately they sink down as much below the level of ordinary mortals, as they were before raised above it. For a delightful exhilaration of body and mind, they now experience a sad reverse, in which they find much more pleasing music in the prudent advice of the apothecary, than in all the Odes of Anacreon. The cry is not then,

Let us drain the nectar’d bowl,

Let us raise the song of soul—&c.

But,

Let us drain the saline dose,

Let’s expel these humours gross.

Now, though poets have favoured us with many a canto on the raptures inspired by flowing bowls and sparkling goblets, they have rarely condescended to give us one line, if it were only by way of note, on the “state of the stomach” on the morning after one of those “nights and suppers of the gods.” Such a detail indeed was never intended for the divine art of poesy. It is a job not at all calculated for the lover of agreeable fiction, and hence the world hears little on the subject. Those after-reckonings are nevertheless serious, though unpalatable things. Pleasure here acts much like a tavern host, who remembers most accurately all the good things he provides, though his guests are both apt and willing to forget them. Every item is carefully put down, and must be paid for. I shall only say, that fortunate is he who takes warning in time. I might moralise on this theme in good set phrase, but the ground has been so well and so frequently beaten by others, that I forbear. With respect to such articles as opium and spirits, the “spirit of the age,” as I have already intimated, runs quite in an opposite direction to that of indulgence; and it is wisely considered that as those who can be temperate in the use of such ticklish commodities must owe a great deal to a happy temperament of constitution, and be few in number, whilst the greater part of mankind are not so felicitously moulded, the rule of teetotalism, viz., entire abstinence, is on the whole the safest and best. But there is one article in our pharmacopœia of stimulants, upon which there seems to be some difference of opinion, and with regard to which I should wish to record my humble opinion. I allude to the nicotian leaf-tobacco.

Now, I regret to say that a long and attentive study of the subject compels me to pronounce an unfavourable sentence on this article. Whatever value it may possess as a medicine—and that, in the present state of our knowledge, is not much—I must say that, as an instrument of luxury in ordinary use, it is unwholesome and injurious. To the physician it may be satisfactory to ascertain in what way, precisely, the injurious effect is produced; but it may suffice others to learn from experience and observation what is the actual result. It is obvious that tobacco causes an excitement of the nervous system, and thus disturbs the course of nature; but nature never is, and never can be, disturbed with impunity. To apply a stimulus to the system for which there is no natural demand, is to cause a waste of nervous energy, of which nature has need for her own legitimate purposes, and therefore to inflict an injury upon her, greater or less according to the amount of that uncalled for expenditure. To keep such an unnatural stimulus in constant action, is tantamount to the creation of a constitutional derangement of the functions, or the introduction of an actual disease into the body; and nobody will pretend to say that this is not injurious. To my simple apprehension, it is anti-hygeian practice with a vengeance. I am no physician, but I believe this to be the true theory of our subject, regarded in a physiological point of view, and it is decisive against the nicotian habit, however small the quantity of the article used may be. People are rather indisposed to believe that an “agreeable” sensation can be an “unwholesome” one; but unfortunately for poor humanity, and the popularity of us sages, nothing in nature is more certain than the possibility of such a conjuncture. It is not only certain, but, alas, commonly known by experience, that an agreeable thing may be unwholesome, and a pleasant sensation anything at all but a symptom of healthful action.

Again, people are apt to suppose that no injury is done to their health, because they are not sensible of the wound at the moment; but this also is a notion which we must class among vulgar errors. It is a matter of demonstration, not merely of hypothesis, that we may sustain most grievous injury of which we are not instantly sensible; nay, that so long a time may elapse after the impression has been imparted, that we become unable to trace the effect to its cause; and yet the relation of cause and effect stands sure, however ignorant or unconscious we may be of it. As an illustration of this position, I shall mention a case which came under my own observation. I was once acquainted with a gentleman, who at eighty years of age was what would be called a stout, healthy old fellow. He was certainly of a most robust constitution, and had never addicted himself to any habit “calculated to shorten life,” as they say at the Insurance Offices, saving and excepting that of taking snuff. Well, it has been said to me, “See how your anti-nicotian theory is set at defiance by this hearty old fellow. If tobacco be a slow poison, it must be, as was said of tea, very slow indeed, or how should we have such an exemplary octogenarian as this, ‘o’er all its ills victorious?’ He has been taking snuff all his life, and yet, you perceive, is nothing the worse for it.” Now, I did not perceive any such thing, but was well aware that the contrary was the case. I was of opinion, and am now fully convinced of the fact, that he suffered extremely, nay, intensely, from the habit, without himself or others being at all aware of it. I do not speak of a nose and face perpetually begrimed with snuff—of a waistcoat and inexpressibles embrowned and powdered all over with it—of the expenditure of pocket-handkerchiefs, and waste of time in nose-blowing—everlasting sneezing and coughing, &c.: such matters are mere trifles in the estimate of your professed snuff-takers; but I do speak of an habitual depression of spirits, and frequently an access of the most miserable melancholy, to which this gentleman was subject, and which I attribute to his inveterate habit of snuff-taking, and to no other cause. He would complain bitterly of his wretchedness on those occasions, and ascribe it to the skyey influences—the humidity of our climate, the fogs, and I know not what besides; but it was nothing but “the snuff.” Such intelligence would have doubtless been very unwelcome; for this very snuff—this actual fons et origo malorum, ay, “more snuff”—was his most favourite remedy and consolation under these distressing visitations! So much for our ignorance of causes.

The late Doctor Adam Clarke was a great enemy to the tobacco leaf, and published a strong paper in condemnation of it. He takes high ground upon the subject.

“That it is sinful to use it, as most do,” he says, “I have no doubt—if destroying the constitution, and vilely squandering away the time and money which God has given for other purposes, may be termed sinful. I have observed some whole families, and very poor ones too, who have used tobacco in all possible ways, and some of them for more than half a century. Now, suppose the whole family, consisting of four, five, or six, to have used but 1s. 6d. worth a-week, then, in the mere article of tobacco, nearly £200 sterling is totally and irrecoverably lost in the course of fifty years. Were all the attending expenses, such as appropriate implements, neglect of business, and other concomitants, taken into account, probably four times the sum would be too small an estimate.”

Captain Scott, in his interesting work “Rambles in Egypt and Candia,” says—

“All the Arab race are addicted to the use of the pipe, and to this pernicious habit may be traced the origin of most of their vices, and a great proportion of their misery.” And again, in a note, he observes—“Nothing tends so much as the pernicious and universal habit of smoking to retard all improvement amongst the natives of the East, producing habitual indolence, and occasioning an irreparable loss of time.” He calls it elsewhere the “predominant vice of Mahomedanism.” Now, with such warning and such examples before me, I own that I cannot contemplate the possibility of my countrymen becoming a nation of smokers, without the utmost pain. I would wish to put all parties, but especially the young, on their guard against the insidious and seductive approaches of the habit. The elegant pipe, the splendid snuff-box, and all the curious conveniences of tube, light, tobacco-pouch, and so on, are so many lures to the unwary; and many, by simply nibbling at these captivating baits, have been gradually led on, and at last turned into confirmed consumers. There is a temptation in the furniture of our fashionable snuff and cigar shops—“divans,” as they are called, which it is hard to resist. It would seem almost worth while to “consume,” for the sake of encompassing oneself with such beautiful toys; but I class all such resorts in the same category with the gin-palaces of London. Look to the end—observe what a confirmed habit of snuffing or smoking is—how wasteful, how enervating, how every way pernicious! The tyranny of it is dreadful. No man knows it thoroughly but he who has once been its slave. The craving of the nose once accustomed to be fed, for snuff—of the throat and fauces once seasoned to the use, for smoke—and of the teeth and gums once used to be drawn, for the reiterate chew—oh, it is dreadful!—and I say there is no remedy against the evil but teetotalism.

I have said nothing on those popular stimulants, tea and coffee, for, as generally used, I think they are both innocent, as they are certainly agreeable beverages. Let not my fair countrywomen, however, when they indulge in the “cup that cheers but not inebriates”—I mean the Howqua, or any other tea-mixture—aim at celebrity for preparing it over strong; for in this state, like other stimulants that we have been considering, I have no doubt that it is bad for weak nerves.

F.

People with one Idea.—There are people who have but one idea: at least if they have more, they keep it a secret, for they never talk but of one subject. There is Major C——; he has but one idea, or subject of discourse, Parliamentary Reform. Now, Parliamentary Reform is (as far as I know) a very good thing, a very good idea, and a very good subject to talk about; but why should it be the only one? To hear the worthy and gallant Major resume his favourite topic is like law-business, or a person who has a suit in Chancery going on. Nothing can be attended to, nothing can be talked of but that. Now it is getting on, now again it is standing still; at one time the Master has promised to pass judgment by a certain day, at another he has put it off again, and called for more papers; and both are equally reasons for speaking of it. Like the piece of pack-thread in the barrister’s hands, he turns and twists it all ways, and cannot proceed a step without it. Some schoolboys cannot read but in their own book; and the man of one idea cannot converse out of his own subject. Conversation it is not, but a sort of recital of the preamble of a bill, or a collection of grave arguments for a man’s being of opinion with himself. It would be well if there was any thing of character, any thing of eccentricity in all this; but that is not the case. It is a political homily personified, a walking common-place we have to encounter and listen to. It is just as if a man was to insist on your hearing him go through the fifth chapter of the Book of Judges every time you meet, or like the story of the Cosmogony in the Vicar of Wakefield. It is a tune played on a barrel-organ. It is a common vehicle of discourse into which people get and are set down when they please, without any pains or trouble to themselves. Neither is it professional pedantry or trading quackery: it has no excuse. The man has no more to do with the question which he saddles on all his hearers than you have. This is what makes the matter hopeless. If a farmer talks to you about his pigs or his poultry, or a physician about his patients, or a lawyer about his briefs, or a merchant about stock, or an author about himself, you know how to account for this; it is a common infirmity; you have a laugh at his expense, and there is no more to be said. But here is a man who goes out of his way to be absurd, and is troublesome by a romantic effort of generosity. You cannot say to him, “All this may be interesting to you, but I have no concern in it;” you cannot put him off in that way. He has got possession of a subject which is of universal and paramount interest, and on that plea may hold you by the button as long as he chooses. His delight is to harangue on what nowise regards himself; how then can you refuse to listen to what as little amuses you? The business admits of no delay. The question stands first on the order of the day—takes precedence in its own right of every other question. Any other topic, grave or gay, is looked upon in the light of impertinence, and sent to Coventry. Business is an interruption to it, pleasure a digression from it. As Cicero says of study, it follows the man into the country, it stays with him at home; it sits with him at breakfast, and goes out with him to dinner. It is like a part of his dress, of the costume of his person, without which he would be at a loss what to do. If he meets you in the street, he accosts you with it as a form of salutation; if you see him at his own house, it is supposed you come upon that. If you happen to remark, “it is a fine day,” or “the town is full,” it is considered as a temporary compromise of the question; you are suspected of not going the whole length of the principle. Is not this a species of sober madness more provoking than the real? Has not the theoretical enthusiast his mind as much warped, as much enslaved by one idea, as the acknowledged lunatic, only that the former has no lucid intervals? If you see a visionary of this class going along the street, you can tell as well what he is thinking of and will say next as the man that fancies himself a tea-pot or the Czar of Muscovy. The one is as inaccessible to reason as the other: if the one raves, the other dotes!—Hazlitt’s Table-Talk.

Comfortable Circumstances favour Foresight.—It is a most remarkable fact, totally at variance with what might a priori be expected, but confirmed by the universal experience of mankind, that the dominion of reason over the passions, the habit of foresight, and the power of forming a systematic plan for the conduct of life, are just in proportion to the degree in which the danger of immediate or the pressure of actual suffering has been removed from mankind. The savage who has no stock whatever for his support—who is in danger of immediate starvation, if his wonted supplies from the chase or his herds were to fail—is totally regardless of the future in every part of the world; while the rich man, whose subsistence and affluence are almost beyond the reach of chance, is incessantly in disquietude about the manner in which his subsequent life is to be spent. The certain prospect of instant death to himself and all that are dear to him, from the occurrence of a probable event, is unable to draw the attention of the one from the enjoyments of the moment; while the slight and improbable chance of a diminution in the smallest articles of future comfort, renders the other indifferent to the means of present enjoyment which are within his reach.—Alison’s Principles of Population.

Appreciation.—After all, it is appreciation rather than praise that is delightful. An artist, for instance, how tired he must be of hearing his pictures called “beautiful, exquisite!”—of being told for the one hundredth time that he has surpassed himself; but let any one point out to him one of his own thoughts on the canvass, which he supposed likely to escape the general eye, and how grateful it is!

Printed and published every Saturday by Gunn and Cameron, at the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin.—Agents:—R. Groombridge, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row, London; Simms and Dinham, Exchange Street, Manchester; C. Davies, North John Street, Liverpool; Slocombe & Simms, Leeds; Fraser and Crawford, George Street, Edinburgh; and David Robertson, Trongate, Glasgow.

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Table of Contents

- THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

- ROSS CASTLE, KILLARNEY.

- EDUCATION OF YOUTH.

- POETICAL LECTURE ON ANATOMY.

- THE DECAYED OLD GENTLEMAN, A SKETCH.

- THE ITALIAN ORGAN BOY.

- PART FIRST.

- ON STIMULANTS.

- TOBACCO.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE