The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 19, November 7, 1840

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Title: The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 19, November 7, 1840

Author: Various

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL, VOL. 1 NO. 19, NOVEMBER 7, 1840 ***

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

NUMBER 19.

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1840.

VOLUME I.

GARRY CASTLE, KING’S COUNTY.

Among the many singular characters who figured in Ireland during the last century, by no means the least remarkable was Thomas Coghlan, or Mac Coghlan, the last descendant of a long and ancient family, the ruins of whose fortalice are the subject of the sketch at the head of this article, at least as they appeared some five or six years ago. This extraordinary personage may justly be regarded as the last of the Irish tanistry, as well from his pertinacious adherence to the habits and maxims of that defunct institution, as from his being until his death possessed of the princely domains of his race, almost unimpaired by the many confiscations and revolutions which have swept away so many proud names from the records of Ireland, thus uniting in himself the influence of traditional rank, of such magical weight here, with the influence of territorial possessions, of such magical weight every where. Although for many years a member of the Irish Parliament, as representative for the King’s County, the laws which he assisted in making were not at all the laws which he administered. At home every thing was on the patriarchal system, in all respects conformable to the laws and regulations of the Brehons—himself the grand centre of all authority, his will the fountain of all justice, and his own hand in most cases the administrator of his judgments. Such being the Mac Coghlan, or “the Maw,” as he was more generally and rather whimsically designated, it is little wonder that he should live in the fondest remembrance of a people so deeply attached to old names and old ways as the Irish all over the King’s County generally, but particularly in that district of it anciently known as the Mac Coghlan’s country, now the barony of Garry Castle, so called from the castle before alluded to, the ruins of which stand beside the road leading from Birr to Banagher, and about half a mile from the latter town.

These interesting remains consist of the tall square keep seen in the accompanying view, and the mouldering walls of some outer buildings, the entire enclosed in a considerable area, with round towers at the corners, and entered by a fortified gateway. They seem to be of some antiquity, this having been the site, at all events, of the house of the Mac Coghlans from the earliest periods, until the more peaceful circumstances of the nation permitted them to abandon their narrow and gloomy security for the beautiful residence of Kilcolgan, an erection of the seventeenth century, the naked ruins of which now form the chief feature in the landscape to the traveller by the Grand Canal before he reaches Gillen. I am not aware that any records exist to furnish a clue to the history of Garry Castle, nor have I been able to meet any one able to give me any information about it, beyond the usual tirade about Oliver Cromwell, who seems doomed to bear on his back the weight of all the old walls in Ireland. One very old man, who in his youth had been, I believe, a servant of the Maw, was the only person in fact who seemed to know more about it than that it was “an ould castle, an’ a great place in the ould times.” From him I gathered a good many anecdotes of his former master, of which the following partly bears upon the present subject, and gives rather a good illustration of a class of persons not unfrequently met with, who occasionally support most extraordinary pretensions by methods still more extraordinary, claiming to be proficients in all the forgotten lore of past ages, and even in their rags hinting at powers, the possession of which would be rather enviable. The story is an odd one, but I tell it exactly as I heard it.

“I had business into Banagher one day when I was a gossoon, and just as I came to the bill over Garry Castle, I saw a great crowd moving up the road forninst me. ‘Lord rest the sowl that’s gone,’ says I, crossin’ myself, for by course I thought it was a corpse goin’ to All Saints’ churchyard; but when it came nearer, and I saw the Maw in the front with a whole crowd of gentlemen, some that I knew and more that I didn’t, and ne’er a corpse at all with them, I made bould to ax Father Madden what might be the matther.

‘Why, my boy,’ says he, ‘there’s some gentlemen come all the ways from Dublin to consther what’s written on the big stone over the hall chimley in the ould castle beyant, and the rest of us are going to have the laugh at their ignorance.’

‘’Deed, your riv’rince,’ says I, ‘an’ it’s the fine laugh we’ll have in airnest, for sure the smallest gossoon in the country could tell them ’twas written by the Danes long ago, and that it’s an enchantment.’

‘Hould your tongue,’ says he in return; ‘whatever it is, I’ll be bound it’ll puzzle them, for by the book I’m not able to read it myself.’

‘Troth, thin,’ says I, ‘if that be the case, it’s little sense the likes of them will make out of it.’

By this time, sir, we got inside the ould gateway, and as the Maw’s groom was a cousin of my aunt Peg’s, he let me into the hall with the rest of the quality. There was the stone, sure enough: a long narrow stone, all the length of the room, with four lines of writing cut on it, over the chimley. It was in the part of the ould castle that’s down now. Well, sir, one ould gentleman—they said he belonged to that college off there in Dublin—takes his spectacles out of his pocket, an’ he puts them on his nose, quite grand like, and he looks at the writing. ‘It’s not English,’ says he, ‘nor is it French,’ says he after a little, ‘nor Jarman;’ and then he takes another look. ‘It’s not Latin,’ says he, and the rest of the quality shook their heads very wisely; ‘it’s not Greek,’ says he, and they shook their heads again; ‘it’s not Hebrew,’ says he, ‘nor Chaldee, nor—pursuin’ to me if I know what it is.’

‘Baidershin!’ says Father Madden quietly: an’ with that, sir, you’d think the vault above our heads ’ud split with the roars of laughing. But the great scholar didn’t join in it at all, but pulls the spectacles off his nose, and crams them into his pocket, and looking very big at the priest, ‘I’m thinking it’s Baulderdash, gentlemen,’ says he.

Well, sir, one after another they all tried their skill on it, and one after another they all had to acknowledge their ignorance.

‘By the powers,’ says the priest, ‘by yer talk one ’ud think the hiryglyphics themselves were a Readin’-med-aisy to ye, an’ here a plain bit of writin’ puzzles ye.’

‘Maybe, Father Madden,’ says the Maw, ‘you’d favour us by consthering it yerself.’

‘No, sir,’ says the priest; ‘my vow won’t let me read magic; but if you’d wish me to thransport the stone anywhere for you, or do any other little miracle that way, I’d be most happy to obleedge you.’

‘Oh, no,’ says the Maw, ‘we’ll not put you to that trouble; but perhaps you would come down with us as far as the inn, and have a bit of lunch.’

‘With all the pleasure in life, sir,’ says the priest, ‘the rather that I’d like to be discoorsing these larned gentlemen here;’ but indeed the larned gentlemen didn’t seem a bit too glad of his company, and small blame to them sure, for may the heavens be his bed, there wasn’t a funnier man in the nine counties, or one fonder of followin’ up a joke, an’ well they knew he wasn’t goin’ to let them down aisy.

It wasn’t long until we were on the road again, makin’ for the town; an’ as we were goin’ along, who did we meet but a spalpeen from the county Galway, that came over as soon as he met us to beg among the quality; an’ sure enough he was as poor-lookin’ a crathur as ever axed a charity. His legs were bare, and all blue and brackit with could an’ hardship, an’ the sorra a skreed of dacint clothin’ he had on him but an ould tattered breeches an’ a blanket thrown over his shoulders and fastened at the throat with a big skiver; he had a bag on his back, an’ a mether in one fist, an’ a boolteen in the other; an’ if he had any more wealth about him, sure enough it was hid safely. By the discoorse we had one with another, he soon larned about the big stone, and how it puzzled all the scholars in the parish, not to say them from Dublin, an’ how the priest refused to read it because it was magic; and betther nor all, how the Maw offered five goold guineas to any poor scholar, or the like, that could explain it.

‘I’d like to see that stone,’ says the spalpeen. ‘Poor-lookin’ as I am,’ says he, ‘maybe I could insinse ye into the maining of it.’

Well, sir, the words were scarce out of his mouth when Mac Coghlan was tould of them. ‘What’s that you say, honest man,’ says he; ‘can you decypher the writing?’

‘I’d like to try anyhow, yer honour,’ says the spalpeen, ‘worse than fail I can’t.’

‘Bedad,’ says Father Madden, ‘it ’ud be a pity not to let you; sure if you say you know nothin’ about it, wiser men nor you had to confess that same; an’ as for us, why, our time will be as well spent listening to one dunce as to another.’

‘Oh, by all manes,’ says the Maw, ‘we’ll go back and hear what he makes of it.’ So we all turned back with the spalpeen.

When he came to the stone, it’s a different kind of look he gave it entirely from what the quality scholars did; you’d know by the way he fixed his eye on it at the very first, that it was no saycret to him, an’ he walked up an’ down from one end of the lines to the other, until he had them all read.

‘Now, my man,’ says the Mac Coghlan, ‘if you read it, the reward is yours,’ an’ he took the five goold guineas out of his purse an’ showed them to him.

‘I can read it, yer honour,’ says the spalpeen; ‘but what it says might be displeasin’ to some of this company, an’ I had betther hould my tongue.’

‘By my word,’ says Mac Coghlan, ‘let who will be offended by it, no part of the blame shall rest on your shoulders, so speak out, an’ speak true.’

‘Well, yer honour,’ says the spalpeen, takin’ courage, ‘what it says is this, that this castle was built on such a time, an’ that it will stand whole an’ sound for three hundred years an’ no more; an’ that it’s to be held by eleven Mac Coghlan heirs, and the eleventh will be the last of his race.’

‘Bad news for the twelfth,’ says Father Madden, ‘to have an ould stone barrin’ him out of the world that way;’ and with that they all laughed, all but the Maw, an’ he was as pale as death an’ stupid-like, for the three hundred years were just run out, an’ he was the eleventh heir; but in a minute or two he recovered himself and joined in the laugh as well as the rest.

‘Well, my man,’ says he at last, ‘you have done what all the learned men in the land couldn’t do, an’ though the news isn’t the pleasantest, you must have your reward. Now listen to me: give up your wandering life and settle here; I’ll give you a house an’ five acres free of rent for ever: this money will set you up, an’ I promise you that you shall never want in my time, short as it is to be. Will you take my offer?’

‘Why, thin,’ says the spalpeen, ‘many thanks by coorse to yer honour for makin’ it; but for all the land yer honour has, or one of your name ever had, I wouldn’t live other than I do: though I’m here now, ’tis many a mile from where I slept last night, or maybe from where I’ll sleep to-night. Goold or silver avails me little, or if they did, maybe I could tell where to find what ’ud buy Galway ten times over.’

‘Bedad, honest man,’ says Father Madden, ‘if you know so much as all that, it ’ud be a great charity entirely for you to stop awhile an’ open school here; I’ll be bound you’ll have a fine lot of scholars, an’ I don’t say but myself ’ud be among the number.’

‘Troth there’s many a man ’ud like to have my knowledge, I have no doubt,’ says the spalpeen; ‘but I’m thinkin’ there’s few here or elsewhere ’ud like to learn in the school where I got it.’

‘Lord save us!’ says the priest; ‘you didn’t sell yourself to the ould boy for it, did you, you nasty brute?’

‘I bought it with the past an’ not with the future,’ says the spalpeen; ‘an’ what ye saw of it is nothing to what I could show if I had a mind: the blessin’ of the poor be with your honour, if it be any use to you, an’ it’s wishin’ I am that I had a luckier story to tell you,’ and he turned to go away.

‘Well, my good fellow,’ says the Maw, ‘any how you’re not goin’ to quit so soon. Neither gentle nor simple passes this road without eating with the Mac Coghlan, an’ you must follow the rule as well as another: stay as long as you like, an’ go when you like; an’ I give you my word you shall have the best of tratement, an’ no one shall bother you with any questions you don’t like.’

‘Yer honour,’ says the spalpeen, ‘I’m not a young man, an’ yet my head was never this many a night twice on the same pillow, an’ you’d be a long day findin’ out the spot that in that time I hav’n’t visited.’

‘Maybe you’re the Wanderin’ Jew,’ exclaimed Father Madden.

‘Jew or Gentile,’ says the spalpeen, ‘a wanderer I am, an’ a wanderer I must be; an’ now good bye to ye all, an’ God bless ye;’ and with that away he walked, an’ the never a sight of him did any one in Banagher lay his eyes on since. Some said he was this and some said he was that, and more said he was a sperrit; but what do ye think but the great scholars from Dublin, to hide their ignorance, gave out that he was somebody that Father Madden tuthored for the purpose to make little of thim an’ their larnin’, and have the laugh against thim.’

Next morning when all the counthry went out of curiosity to see the big stone, they found it torn down an’ carried off, for Mac Coghlan got it taken down in the night an’ buried somewhere; but, any how, it tould nothin’ but the truth, for in a few years afther, the castle fell with the frost, an’ not long afther that Mac Coghlan died; an’ sure you know yourself that he was the last of his name.”

A. M’C.

We should be grateful to any of our correspondents who would favour us with a biographical sketch of the last Mac Coghlan, of whom so many stories are still related by the peasantry of the King’s County, and of whom the following sketch is given in Mr Brewer’s Beauties of Ireland: it is from the pen of the late Chevalier Colonel de Montmorency.

P.

“Thomas Coghlan, Esq.—or, in attention to local phraseology, ‘the Maw’ [that is, Mac], for he was not known or addressed in his own domain by any other appellation—was a remarkably handsome man; gallant, eccentric; proud, satirical; hospitable in the extreme, and of expensive habits. In disdain of modern times he adhered to the national customs of Ireland, and the modes of living practised by his ancestors. His house was ever open to strangers. His tenants held their lands at will, and paid their rents, according to the ancient fashion, partly in kind, and the remainder in money. ‘The Maw’ levied the fines of mortmain when a vassal died. He became heir to the defunct farmer; and no law was admissible, or practised, within the precincts of Mac Coghlan’s domain, but such as savoured of the Brehon code. It must be observed, however, that, most commonly, ‘the Maw’s’ commands, enforced by the impressive application of his horse-whip, instantly decided a litigated point! From this brief outline it might be supposed that we were talking of Ireland early in the seventeenth century, but Mr Coghlan died not longer back than about the year 1790. With him perished the rude grandeur of his long-drawn line. He died without issue, and destitute of any legitimate male representative to inherit his name, although most of his followers were of the sept of the Coghlans, none of whom, however, were strictly qualified, or were suffered by ‘the Maw,’ to use the Mac, or to claim any relationship with himself. His great estate passed at his decease to the son of his sister, the late Right Hon. Denis Bowes Daly, of Daly’s-town, county of Galway, who likewise had no children, and who, shortly before his death in 1821, sold the Mac Coghlan estate to divers persons, the chief purchaser being Thomas Bernard, Esq. M. P., in whom the larger proportion of the property is now vested.”

THE ROYAL FAMILY OF STATEN-ISLAND.

It has long been the general belief that the gipsy race, which is found every where else, has never yet penetrated into America; but the opinion is erroneous. There is a family on Staten-Island whose history and habits prove their Zingaro descent, despite the counter evidence of their white skins, patches of which may be seen through the rents of their tatters, like intervals of blue sky in a clouded empyrean.

The patriarch of the horde was in his lifetime reputed an Englishman, although upon this point no intelligence exists in any parish register or book of heraldry—a matter the less to be regretted that his birth is not likely to be disputed by rival nations or cities. All that is certainly known of him is, that he made his appearance on the island about forty years ago, an incarnation of laziness and pauperism, accompanied by a biped of the feminine gender, whom, as God made her, we are content to call a woman: they evinced no desire to hold fellowship with their kind, but immediately plunged into the woods, where they pertinaciously hid whatever talents and merits they possessed. Probably the world used them ill, and like Timon they had left it in disgust. They built themselves a hut of brushwood, and lived, unknowing and unknown, upon the wild products of the soil and the sea-shore, the world forgetting and the world forgot. No one was favoured with any notice of their former history; they wrought not for hire, nor did they seek to render themselves in the slightest degree useful to their fellow-creatures. They were satisfied with a bare, mysterious existence, the objects of wonder and pity; and only proved themselves human by increasing the population of Staten-Land with ten sons and daughters.

In time the he-patriarch died, and his fame died with him; but not till he had so indoctrinated his hopeful family, that they have ever since followed his praiseworthy example. A short time since we paid these Children of the Mist a visit at their residence, profiting by one of a thousand changes of abode which brought them within an easy walk of the Quarantine-Ground. Others may seek objects of interest abroad; we are content with what may be found near home; and in this singular family we found a happy practical illustration of the Golden Age, which poets so much regret, and agrarian politicians so devoutly hope and expect to restore. By the margin of a stagnant swamp, rife with malaria and intermittent fever, embosomed in thick woods, stood a pen of rough boards, obtained heaven knows how, about ten feet square, into which about fifty specimens of animal life, human and canine, were crowded. The den was roofed over, and refused entrance to the sun, but was by no means so inhospitable to the rain. The four winds of heaven sought and found free ingress and egress through the chinks; the floor was not; and altogether we have seen much better appointed pig-styes. We first discovered our proximity to this Temple of the Winds by the greeting of a herd of sorry curs, who made a great noise, but retreated snarling, and with averted tails, at the first exhibition of a stone or a stick, as the dogs of the aborigines are wont to do. A shrill, cracked, but clear voice from within, uplifted in energetic objurgation, stilled the clamour, and we entered upon a scene that beggars and defies description. We had seen poverty before, but had never an adequate conception of its extreme until now.

A bundle of rags, endowed with suspicious and alarming powers of locomotion, advanced to do the honours of the mansion. An unearthly squeak, that would have driven a parrot of any ear distracted, proclaimed that the thing was human; and after close inspection we made out a set of features which we could only have supposed to belong to Calvin Edson or the Witch of Endor. The head surmounted a withered atomy, from which every muscular fibre seemed to have dried away. There was nothing left for Decay to prey upon: a particle more of waste, and the fabric must have evaporated, or been scattered with the first puff, like a pinch of snuff. This was the worthy mother of the brood. Age could not make her head whiter. She must have been more than a century old, and yet hearing, vision, speech, every faculty, was unimpaired, and she was as brisk as any of the horde. According to all appearances, Time had lost all power over her, and she may yet live longer than the everlasting pyramids. Fancy a mummy stalking from its case, and you have some idea of this spectral apparition.

Around the den were arranged without arrangement four rude bedsteads, guiltless then and for ever of beds, or any succedaneum therefor; those being unnecessary and enervating luxuries, in the opinion of the inmates. Not one of these was born in a bed, or had ever pressed one, and why should they not do as they had ever done? The only purpose of the frames seemed to be to keep them from dying on the bare earth. The whole score and a half of humanities might have possessed some four or five threadbare and tattered blankets, such a stock of clothing as might have furnished forth one respectable scarecrow, and perhaps half a shirt among them; but of the latter item we are somewhat uncertain, as we considered any particular scrutiny especially indelicate. The hut was literally full of trumpery, the use of most of which it were difficult even to guess. The following, as nearly as memory serves us, is a correct inventory:—

An old worn-out saddle; three steel-traps; fifteen dogs, bitches, and puppies; about a crate full of damaged crockery and pottery; an iron pot, without a bale or cover, and two legs off; a tin kettle, with three holes in the bottom; a fish-spear, an axe, a dozen fishing-rods and tackle; as many rags as would set up a paper mill; about a peck of clams, a damaged bucket, and a great variety of other things nameless ans indescribable.

These true philosophers all appeared to enjoy the most robust health, with one exception, who was shaking with a paroxysm of ague on one of the frames before mentioned. The men were stout, hearty fellows, who might do their country good service at the tail of a plough or the end of a musket; but their ambition does not soar so high. They literally take no thought for to-morrow, though they very well know what a day must bring forth. They justly consider themselves

——“out of Fortune’s power;

He that is down can fall no lower.”

Once in a great while they may be persuaded to perform a day’s labour, but these are rare and painful occasions, always followed by regret and repentance; and when their immediate wants are supplied, they return to the luxurious and indolent repose, which is their second nature, and which they enjoy in a perfection only appreciable by the Neapolitan lazzaroni. When they have thus been compelled to pass a night under a roof, it has been remarked that no human logic can persuade one of them to submit to the abhorred contact of soap and water, or to sleep in a bed, suppose any person could be found willing so to accommodate them. They own no boats, and they neither hire nor borrow them. Such property requires care and trouble, and rowing is laborious. A cow was once the apex of their ambition; but hunger knocks often at their door, and was fatal to poor Brindle. They are not rich enough to buy a gun. The conies, partridges, snapping-tortoises, frogs, squirrels, and such small deer, are their flocks and herds, and the earth produces wild artichokes and other esculent roots. As for their religion, they believe in beef and bread, and go to church, like parasitical insects, as often as they are carried. They believe that the earth is flat, and that the city of New York and the Narrows are its limits. To be hung up in a cage in the sunshine, with licence to scratch themselves, and to be well fed, constitutes their notion of heaven; and the county alms-house, where able-bodied people are constrained to work, is the purgatory of their imagination, or something worse. They think it is better to sleep than to be awake, to lie than to sit, to sit than to stand, to stand than to walk, and to walk than to run. Dancing is to them an incomprehensible abomination. They own no lord, they heed no law. They have nothing, and they want nothing. To cold, heat, rain, &c., they are perfectly indifferent, and their only known evil is pain, which comes to them only in the shape of hunger and intermittent fever. Nerves and delicacy they never heard of. Thus have they ever lived, and thus they will die.

The women at the time of our visit differed from the men only in attire, a superior volubility, a natural, rough-hewn coquetry, and the possession of certain brass trinkets, faded ribbons, and other fantastic fineries. None of them were either young or handsome enough to mark them as the victims of man’s villany. The smaller fry about their wretched cabin attest that they have not in the least neglected the first command of God to man, though no priest or preacher can say that he has received a wedding fee on account of either of them. Their usual employment is to loll upon fences and gather berries, and they are also said to be skilful in roots and herbs. Some of them sometimes go to service for a time; but they soon return to their lair, like a sow to her wallowing in the mire. The alms-house has also afforded them an asylum in cases of emergency, but they invariably escape from it as soon as there is any work to be done. They toil not, neither do they spin; and assuredly Solomon, with all his wisdom, never dreamed of such a thing as one of these!

Many have asked, as we did, and many more will ask, “How do these people live?” Ask Him who feeds the ravens, for no one else can answer. That they do not work, is certain; that they neither beg nor steal, is to be inferred from the fact that their fellow Staten-landers have never accused them, and that they have never undergone the rebuke of the law. They are as harmless and inoffensive as they are useless. They are proverbially good-natured and honest; they do not get drunk, or abuse tobacco; for although some of them have a relish for these luxuries, it would cost too much trouble to earn the price of them. Otherwise, they are the very Yahoos of Gulliver.

Some philosophers have taught that content is the grand desideratum, the greatest good of earthly felicity. The contentment of savages and of negro slaves is brought to support their position. It is true that these are happy under their painful and degrading yoke; but what of that? Simon Stylites was no doubt happy on his pillow of torment: an ox, on the same principle, and for the same reason, is happier still, and the life of an oyster is bliss superlative. “The royal family of Staten-Island” are an example before our eyes to show how closely contentment may be allied with the extremes of degradation.—From the Knickerbocker.

THE BLIND BOY.

Oh, mother, is it spring once more—

The same bright laughing spring

That used to come in days of yore

With glad and welcome wing?

And is the infant primrose born,

And peerless daisy child

Beneath the bowed and budding thorn,

All beautiful and wild?

And does the sky break out as blue

Between the April show’rs,

And smilingly impart its hue

To her young vi’let flow’rs?

And is the sun, the blessed sun,

As dazzling in his might,

As glorious now to look upon,

As when I loved his light?

As when, with clear and happy eye,

Beneath that light I strayed,

Or in the noonday brilliancy

Sought out some cooling shade?

And when the spring flow’rs drop away,

Will summer days come fast,

All rich with bloom—oh, mother, say!—

As when I saw them last?

Will merry children gambol o’er

The meads, or by the brooks—

Seek out the wild bee’s honey store

In some deep grassy nook?

Or where the sparkling waters flow

Go wand’ring far away,

To cull the tallest reeds that grow,

And weave them all the day?

And will they climb the tall old trees,

And at the topmost height

Find birds of beauty, such as these

That charm my long, long night?

Or ranging o’er the wild morass

Pluck the fair bog-down’s head?

Or o’er the long and slender grass

String berries ripe and red?

They will!—but I shall not be there:

For me, oh! never more

Shall spring put forth her blossoms fair,

Or summer shed her store!

Yet think not, mother, if I weep,

’Tis for the seasons’ gleam;

Or if I gladden in my sleep,

’Tis of such things I dream.

No, mother, no?—’tis that thy cheek,

Thy smile of tender joy,

Thine eye of light, that used to speak

Such fondness to thy boy—

It is the thought that that dear face—

Oh, bitter, bitter pain!—

Is blotted out through time and space

For ever from my brain!

My mother, darling, lay my head

Upon thy own lov’d breast,

And let thy voice low music shed

To lull thy child to rest;

And press thy soft and dewy kiss

Upon his beating brow,

And let him feel, or fancy bliss—

’Tis all that’s left him now.

What though the noonday’s sunny prime

Can yield unnumbered charms,

Give me the silent midnight time

That lays me in thy arms.

For there I dream of joy and light,

The things I once could prize,

Ere darkness threw its dreary blight

Upon my glad young eyes.

And in the same bright dreamy thought,

I gaze upon once more

My mother’s face, with feeling fraught

E’en deeper than of yore.

Yet do not weep, my mother dear,

Thy love is more than light—

Thy soothing hand, thy tender tear,

More blessed e’en than sight!

And while that hand is clasped in mine,

My fault’ring steps to guide,

I will not murmur or repine,

Or grieve for aught beside.

But, mother, when I soar away,

From life’s drear darkness free,

Oh! shall I not through heaven’s long day

Live gazing upon thee!

W. C. L.

THE REAL “TEMPERANCE CORDIAL.”

BY MRS S. C. HALL.

“Well,” said Andrew Furlong to James Lacey, “well! that ginger cordial, of all the things I ever tasted, is the nicest and warmest. It’s beautiful stuff; and so cheap.”

“What good does it do ye, Andrew? and what want have you of it?” inquired James Lacey.

“What good does it do me!” repeated Andrew, rubbing his forehead in a manner that showed he was perplexed by the question; “why, no great good, to be sure; and I can’t say I’ve any want of it; for since I became a member of the ‘Total Abstinence Society,’ I’ve lost the megrim in my head and the weakness I used to have about my heart. I’m as strong and hearty in myself as any one can be, God be praised! And sure, James, neither of us could turn out in such a coat as this, this time twelvemonth.”

“And that’s true,” replied James; “but we must remember that if leaving off whisky enables us to show a good habit, taking to ‘ginger cordial,’ or any thing of that kind, will soon wear a hole in it.”

“You are always fond of your fun.” replied Andrew. “How can you prove that?”

“Easy enough,” said James. “Intoxication was the worst part of a whisky-drinking habit; but it was not the only bad part. It spent TIME, and it spent what well-managed time always gives, MONEY. Now, though they do say—mind, I’m not quite sure about it, for they may put things in it they don’t own to, and your eyes look brighter, and your cheek more flushed than if you had been drinking nothing stronger than milk or water—but they do say that ginger cordials, and all kinds of cordials, do not intoxicate. I will grant this; but you cannot deny that they waste both time and money.”

“Oh, bother!” exclaimed Andrew. “I only went with two or three other boys to have a glass, and I don’t think we spent more than half an hour—not three quarters, certainly; and there’s no great harm in laying out a penny or twopence that way, now and again.”

“Half an hour even, breaks a day,” said James, “and what is worse, it unsettles the mind for work; and we ought to be very careful of any return to the old habit, that has destroyed many of us, body and soul, and made the name of an Irishman a by-word and a reproach, instead of a glory and an honour. A penny, Andrew, breaks the silver shilling into coppers; and twopence will buy half a stone of potatoes—that’s a consideration. If we don’t manage to keep things comfortable at home, the women won’t have the heart to mend the coat. Not,” added James with a sly smile, “that I can deny having taken to TEMPERANCE CORDIALS myself.”

“You!” shouted Andrew, “you, and a pretty fellow you are to be blaming me, and then forced to confess you have taken to them yourself. But I suppose they’ll wear no hole in your coat? Oh, to be sure not, you are such a good manager!”

“Indeed,” answered James, “I was anything but a good manager eighteen months ago: as you well know, I was in rags, never at my work of a Monday, and seldom on Tuesday. My poor wife, my gentle patient Mary, often bore hard words; and though she will not own it, I fear still harder blows, when I had driven away my senses. My children were pale, half-starved, naked creatures, disputing a potato with the pig my wife tried to keep to pay the rent, well knowing I would never do it. Now——”

“But the cordial, my boy!” interrupted Andrew, “the cordial!—sure I believe every word of what you’ve been telling me is as true as gospel; ain’t there hundreds, ay, thousands, at this moment on Ireland’s blessed ground, that can tell the same story. But the cordial! and to think of your never owning it before: is it ginger, or anniseed, or peppermint?”

“None of these—and yet it’s the rale thing, my boy.”

“Well, then,” persisted Andrew, “let’s have a drop of it; you’re not going, I’m sure, to drink by yerself—and as I’ve broke the afternoon”——

A very heavy shadow passed over James’s face, for he saw that there must have been something hotter than even ginger in the “temperance cordial,” as it is falsely called, that Andrew had taken, or else he would have endeavoured to redeem lost time, not to waste more; and he thought how much better the REAL temperance cordial was, that, instead of exciting the brain, only warms the heart.

“No,” he replied after a pause, “I must go and finish what I was about; but this evening at seven o’clock meet me at the end of our lane, and then I’ll be very happy of your company.”

Andrew was sorely puzzled to discover what James’s cordial could be, and was forced to confess to himself that he hoped it would be different from what he had taken that afternoon, which certainly had made him feel confused and inactive.

At the appointed hour the friends met in the lane.

“Which way do we go?” inquired Andrew.

“Home,” was James’s brief reply.

“Oh, you take it at home?” said Andrew.

“I make it at home,” answered James.

“Well,” observed Andrew, “that’s very good of the woman that owns ye. Now, mine takes on so about a drop of any thing, that she’s as hard almost on the cordials as she used to be on the whisky.”

“My Mary helps to make mine,” observed James.

“And do you bottle it or keep it on draught?” inquired Andrew, very much interested in the “cordial” question.

James laughed very heartily at this, and answered,

“Oh, I keep mine on draught—always on draught; there’s nothing like having plenty of a good thing, so I keep mine always on draught;” and then James laughed again, and so heartily, that Andrew thought surely his real temperance cordial must contain something quite as strong as what he had blamed him for taking.

James’s cottage door was open, and as they approached it they saw a good deal of what was going forward within. A square table, placed in the centre of the little kitchen, was covered by a clean white cloth—knives, forks, and plates for the whole family, were ranged upon it in excellent order; the hearth had been swept, the house was clean, the children rosy, well dressed, and all doing something. “Mary,” whom her husband had characterised as “the patient,” was busy and bustling, in the very act of adding to the coffee, which was steaming on the table, the substantial accompaniments of fried eggs and bacon, with a large dish of potatoes. When the children saw their father, they ran to meet him with a great shout, and clung around to tell him all they had done that day. The eldest girl declared she had achieved the heel of a stocking; one boy wanted his father to come and see how straight he had planted the cabbages; while another avowed his proficiency in addition, and volunteered to do a sum instanter upon a slate which he had just cleaned. Happiness in a cottage seems always more real than it does in a gorgeous palace. It is not wasted in large rooms—it is concentrated—a great deal of love in a small space—a great, great deal of joy and hope within narrow walls, and compressed, as it were, by a low roof. Is it not a blessed thing that the most moderate means become enlarged by the affections?—that the love of a peasant within his sphere, is as deep, as fervent, as true, as lasting, as sweet, as the love of a prince?—that all our best and purest affections will grow and expand in the poorest worldly soil?—and that we need not be rich to be happy? James felt all this and more when he entered his cottage, and was thankful to God who had opened his eyes, and taught him what a number of this world’s gifts, that were within even his humble reach, might be enjoyed without sin. He stood—a poor but happy father within the sacred temple of his home; and Andrew had the warm heart of an Irishman beating in his bosom, and consequently shared his joy.

“I told you,” said James, “I had the true temperance cordial at home—do you not see it in the simple prosperity by which, owing to the blessings of temperance, I am surrounded?—do you not see it in the rosy cheeks of my children, in the smiling eyes of my wife—did I not tell truly that she helped to make it? Is not this a true cordial,” he continued, while his own eyes glistened with manly tears, “is not the prosperity of this cottage a true temperance cordial?—and is it not always on draught, flowing from an ever-filling fountain? Am I not right, Andrew; and will you not forthwith take my receipt, and make it for yourself? You will never wish for any other: it is warmer than ginger, and sweeter than anniseed. I am sure you will agree with me that a loving wife, in the enjoyment of the humble comforts which an industrious sober husband can bestow, smiling, healthy, well-clad children, and a clean cabin, where the fear of God banishes all other fears, make

THE TRUE TEMPERANCE CORDIAL!”

THE SAP IN VEGETABLES.

FIRST ARTICLE.

Botanists describe two kinds of vegetable sap; the one is called the ascending or unelaborated sap, the other the descending or elaborated sap. If a young branch be cut across in the spring season, the newly exposed surfaces will be found rapidly to cover themselves with a dew, especially that portion which is continuous with the trunk—this moisture is the ascending sap: while if during the summer or autumn a piece of twine be tightly drawn and knotted round a young branch of lilac, the part above this ligature will shortly become swollen, and will bulge out on every side, in consequence of an impediment having been thus presented to the downward flow of the descending sap, which will be therefore forced to accumulate in the situation described. The reader may perceive that the origin from whence these two kinds of sap are derived, their chemical composition, the part of the vegetable through which they pass, the causes which produce the ascent of one and the descent of the other, together with the uses of both in the vegetable economy, are questions of great interest, as well to the farmer as the horticulturist.

The source from whence the ascending sap is derived is the aliment absorbed by the roots from the soil. This aliment consists essentially of two substances; one of these being sufficiently familiar, namely, water; and the other commonly existing in the atmosphere under the form of gas or air, but likewise capable of solution in water, namely, carbonic acid; this substance is known to every one as the cause, by its escape, of the boiling appearance seen in freshly uncorked soda water. Those two substances constitute the necessary aliment of vegetables: at the same time it is notorious that various matters, such as manures, earths, &c., greatly facilitate the growth of plants; but these matters produce this effect either by supplying a greater quantity of carbonic acid, or by acting in a manner similar to condiments; for in the same way as spices taken into the stomach along with food invigorate the digestive power, so do many minerals, when absorbed by the roots, operate in promoting the nutrition of vegetables.

The chemical composition of the ascending sap is chiefly a solution of sugar and gum in water. In the northern states of America, sugar in large quantities is obtained from some species of maple, principally the sugar maple and swamp maple of Canada, by boring the stem, collecting the ascending sap which flows from the wound, and evaporating away its watery portions. It is an interesting question, from whence proceed the sugar and gum contained in this ascending sap? The only satisfactory reply to this question is, that these substances become formed out of the water and carbonic acid absorbed from the soil; but this is a transformation which cannot be effected by the most expert chemist, so that we find in this, as in many other instances, a living body is a laboratory in which Nature executes changes far transcending the loftiest efforts of man’s ingenuity.

The part of the vegetable through which the sap ascends can be easily shown in any of the ordinary trees of this country. If a branch from a currant shrub be placed with its inferior and newly cut surface immersed at first in a solution of green vitriol and afterwards in an infusion of nutgalls, the course through which these fluids ascend may be traced by the black colour produced by their mixture; for every one knows that a mixture of green vitriol and nutgalls produces ink, and in the experiment just described, the solutions of these substances following each other in their ascent, inscribe in a manner on the interior of the branch the path which they successively pursued. This course will be found to exist between the bark and the pith, these parts being quite unchanged, while the intermediate portion of wood will be deeply coloured.

The causes which produce the ascent of the sap are of a very powerful nature. The celebrated Hales ascertained that a vine branch, in a few days, sucked up water with a force equal to the weight of sixteen pounds on the square inch: this was a power greater than atmospheric pressure; and when it is recollected that the pressure of the atmosphere is capable of lifting thirty-three or thirty-four feet of water in a common pump, some estimate may be formed of the force with which the sap ascends. This ascent appears to be produced by the influence of two causes: the one, a quality peculiar to living beings, by which the buds in common with all growing organs are capable of attracting or sucking towards them the juices necessary for their nutrition; and in agreement with this, the sap is found to ascend in the first instance near the buds: the other, a general property of all matter which has been but lately discovered. This latter property, which has been called endosmose, is found to operate when two fluids of different densities are separated by a membrane. Under these circumstances, and in obedience to an attraction for each other, both fluids pass through the membrane, and mix together; but the denser and thicker fluid finding a greater difficulty to penetrate the membrane than the lighter and thinner, consequently passes through in less quantity. To illustrate this, let us suppose a bladder containing a little syrup, and placed in a vessel of water, and we will have the conditions necessary for endosmose: the syrup and water will both pass through the bladder in opposite directions, but a greater quantity of water will pass into the syrup, than of the latter into the water. It will be evident to the reader that this excess of thin liquid passing into the denser will constitute a force or power which will require an equal force to neutralise it; and it has been ascertained that the tendency of water to penetrate a membrane for the purpose of mixing with a syrup of once and a third its own specific weight, required a force equal to sixty-three pounds on the square inch to overcome it. Now, a plant growing in the ground is similarly circumstanced to the bladder in this experiment: its roots furnished with extremities of spongy membrane are interposed between thin water and carbonic acid externally, and a syrupy solution of sugar and gum internally. Now, under those circumstances we need not be surprised if an endosmose should operate, abundantly sufficient to elevate the sap with a force even greater than that determined by Hales.

The use of the ascending sap in the vegetable economy is the last subject which we shall consider in this article. On a future occasion we shall endeavour to show that it is out of the ascending sap that the descending or elaborated sap is chiefly formed; but besides this utility of the ascending sap, as the source of the descending sap, the former has special functions of its own to perform. If we inquire what period of the year is the ascending sap in greatest quantity, we shall find it to be during the spring season. Now, this is the time when the buds become pushed out into branches, and the young leaves peep forth: the roots also during this season increase in thickness. Another means which we possess of ascertaining the uses of this sap, is by protecting plants from the influence of light: in total darkness no elaborated sap is ever formed; therefore, whatever vegetation may then take place, must be solely at the expense of the ascending sap. Under such circumstances the plant becomes very succulent, its stems grow to a great length, no vegetable fibre can be detected in its substance, its colour is blanched, it possesses no bitter or aromatic properties, and it does not develope flowers. Potatoes growing in a dark cellar, or celery protected from the light, by earth heaped around its foot-stalks, will afford familiar examples. These considerations lead us to the belief that out of the ascending sap is formed the fleshy part of vegetables, which, by its production, increases the length of the stem, and the thickness of the roots. In our next article we will describe the most remarkable properties of the ascending sap.

T. A.

MEN OF GENIUS.

Have any of our friends any persons of this description amongst the young men of their acquaintance? We think they must, for they are very plentiful: they are to be found every where. We ourselves know somewhere about half a dozen of one kind or other; and it is of these different kinds we purpose here to speak.

Before doing this, however, let us remark, that the sort of geniuses to whom we allude are to be found amongst young men only: for, generally speaking, it is only while men are young that they are subject to the delusion of supposing themselves geniuses. As they advance in life, they begin to suspect that there has been some mistake in the matter. A few years more, and they become convinced of it; when, wisely dropping all pretensions to the character, they step quietly back into the ranks amongst their fellows.

It is true that some old fools, especially amongst the poetical tribe, continue to cling to the unhappy belief of their being gifted, and go on writing maudlin rhymes to the end of the chapter. But most men become in time alive to the real state of the case, and, willingly resigning the gift of genius, are thankful to find that they have common sense.

While under the hallucination alluded to, however, the sort of geniuses of whom we speak are rather amusing subjects of study. We have known a great many of them in our day, and have found that they resolve themselves into distinct classes, such classes being formed by certain differing characteristics and pretensions: the individuals of each class, however, presenting in their peculiarities a striking resemblance to each other.

First comes, at any rate in such order shall we take them, the Poetical Genius. This is a poor, bleached-faced thing, with a simpering, self-satisfied countenance, an effeminate air and manner, and of insufferable conceit. It is an insolent creature too, for it treats you and everybody with the most profound contempt. Its calm, confident smirk, and lack-a-daisical look, are amongst the most provoking things in nature, and always inspire you with a violent desire to kick it out of your presence.

The poetical genius is by far the most useless of the whole tribe of geniuses. Wrapt up in his misty, maudlin dreams of cerulean heavens, and daisied meads, and purling rills, he is totally unfitted for the ordinary business of ordinary life. He is besides not unfrequently a little deranged in his upper works. Having heard, or having of himself imbibed a notion, that madness and genius are allied, he, although of perfectly sane mind originally, takes to raving, to staring wildly about him, and to practising various of the other extravagances of insanity, till he becomes actually half cracked: some of them indeed get stark staring mad.

The poetical genius is addicted to tea parties, and to writing in albums. He also much affects the society of tabbies: for of all his admirers he finds them the most liberal and indiscriminate in their praise. These good creatures drench him with weak tea, and he in return doses them with still weaker poetry. This is the class that supplies the newspapers with the article just named, at least so named by courtesy, figuring therein as J. F.’s and P. D.’s, &c.

The next class of geniuses which we propose to consider, is the Oratorical Genius. This person labours under the delusion of supposing himself a second Demosthenes. He is a great frequenter of debating societies, and other similar associations, where he makes long, prosy, unintelligible speeches—speeches full of mist and moonshine, in which no human being can discover the slightest trace of drift or purpose. These frothy, bubble-and-squeak orations the young gentleman prepares at home, fitting himself and them for public exhibition by raving and ranting them over in his own room, to the great annoyance of his neighbours.

These speeches, when they do not produce nausea, which they are very apt to do, or at least a disagreeable feeling of squeamishness, are powerful soporifics, and, possessing this quality, would be rather grateful than otherwise, if one were in bed when within hearing of them; but unhappily this pleasant effect is neutralised by the roaring and stamping that accompanies their delivery: so that this sort of orator is in reality a positive nuisance.

The oratorical genius is nearly, if not every bit, as conceited as the poetical genius. He has the same provoking, self-satisfied simper, and is in other respects a still greater bore, for his forensic habits and practices, without furnishing him with a single additional idea, have given him an unhappy fluency of speech, which he himself mistakes for eloquence, and with which he mercilessly inundates every one whom he can get beneath the spout of his oratorical pump. Every thing he says to you is said in set phrase—in the stiff, formal, affected language of the debating society. His remarks on the most ordinary subjects are all regular built speeches—dull, long-winded, prosy things, smelling strong of the forum.

We know a speculative or debating society man the moment he opens his mouth. We know him by his studied, prolix phraseology, and much, much do we dread him, for of all earthly bores he is the most intolerable. To be obliged to listen to his maudlin philosophy and misty metaphysics—for they are all to a man philosophers or metaphysicians—is about one of the most distressing inflictions we know.

The next genius on our list is the Universal Genius, perhaps the most amusing of the whole fraternity. This gentleman, although perfectly satisfied that he is a genius, and a very great genius too, does not know himself precisely in what he excels. He has no definite ideas on the subject, and in this respect is rather at a loss. But he enjoys a delightful consciousness of a capacity that would enable him to surpass in anything to which he might choose to devote himself, and that in fact he does surpass in everything. His pretensions therefore rest on a very broad basis, and embrace all human attainments. He is in short a universal genius. This gentleman is very apt to assume peculiarities in dress and exterior appearance, to wear odd things in an odd way, and to sport a few eccentricities because he has heard or imagines that all geniuses are eccentric. These are common and favourite expedients with the would-be genius, who moreover frequently adds dissipation to his distinguishing characteristics, it being a pretty general notion that genius is drunken, and of a wild and irregular life.

To make out this character, then, the universal genius takes to breaking the public lamps, wrenching off bell-handles, kicking up rows in taverns with the waiters and others, and on the streets with the police; gets his head broken and his eyes blackened; keeps late hours, and goes home drunk every night; and thus becomes a genius of the first order. This sort of genius, we have observed, is much addicted to wearing odd sorts of head-dresses, fantastic caps all befurred and betasselled, and moreover greatly affects the bare throat, or wearing only an apology for a neckcloth, with shirt-collar turned down—in this aiming at a fine wild brigandish sort of look and appearance, much coveted by geniuses of a certain order.

Nature, however, does not always favour those ambitious attempts at the bold and romantic, for we often find them associated with snub noses, lantern jaws, and the most stupid and unmeaning countenances, that express anything but a consonance of character with pretension. We have known geniuses of this kind—the bare-necked and turned-down-collared—set up for romantic desperadoes on the strength of a hairy throat and a pair of bushy whiskers.

The great class of universal geniuses now under consideration may, on close inspection, be found to subdivide itself into several minor classes, including the Sublime Genius, the Solemn Genius, and another tribe which has hitherto been, we rather think, without a name, but which we shall take the liberty of calling the Dirty Genius. This is a curious species of the race. The dirty genius delights in unkempt locks, which he not only allows but encourages to hang about his face and behind on his coat collar, in large tangled filthy looking masses. He delighteth also in an unwashed face, in dirty linen, and in a general slovenliness and shabbiness of apparel. The pretensions of this genius are very high; for he affects to be superior to all the common observances of civilised life; its courtesies and amenities he holds in the most sovereign contempt; despises soap and water, and rises proudly above white stockings and clean shirts.

There are several other descriptions of geniuses, on each of which we could say an edifying word or two, but reserve them for another occasion.

C.

ANECDOTE OF THE LATE MR BRADBURY, THE CELEBRATED CLOWN.—In the year 1814, when Mr Bradbury was in the heyday of his popularity, he lodged in Portsmouth, in the well-known and elegant establishment called the Crown Hotel, then kept by a Mr Hanna, where a number of the fashionable and gay daily resorted. It happened at a dinner party where a considerable number were present, Mr Bradbury introduced a most splendid gold snuff-box which had been shortly before presented to him by the members of a convivial club to which he belonged, in token of their estimation of him as a convivial friend and of his talents in his line of acting, which qualities he was known to possess in a very high degree. This box he highly prized, and it was sent round the table and admired by all. After some time, however, it was found not to be forthcoming. Every one stared—no one had it—all had seen it the moment before, but could not tell what could possibly have become of it. In vain the owner entreated every gentleman to search his pocket, as some one might have taken it inadvertently. All tried without success. After remaining an hour in the greatest anxiety, in which the company seemed to participate, they separated. Mr Bradbury consulted some of his friends on this very unpleasant business, who advised him to send for a Bow Street officer, who might from his habits be able to suggest some means of detection. This advice was instantly followed, and Rivett, the well-known peace-officer, was sent for. The same company met next day at dinner, and the most anxious inquiries were made by all for the box, but still no account of it. Amongst the company was a Captain C——, who was aide-de-camp to General Leake, who was then going out to India, and waiting for the first fair wind. This gentleman was the first to quit the room after dinner, and by a preconcerted arrangement was followed into his bedroom by Rivett, who was waiting outside. Mr Bradbury also followed; and it was immediately communicated to Captain C—— that he must submit to a search, a warrant for that purpose having been obtained against every gentleman in the room. This was instantly submitted to in the most cheerful manner by Captain C——, who invited them to make it, and expressed great satisfaction at such a course as the only means of detection; but he could not bring himself to believe that any gentleman could be guilty of so infamous an act except through inadvertence. After his trunk and dressing-case had been searched, he hoped they were perfectly satisfied of his integrity in the business. Rivett, however, observed that as far the search was made, he was satisfied that all was correct, and nothing now remained but to search his person. These words were scarcely uttered when he was observed to change colour and stagger; a smothered groan escaped him, and he fell back in a chair; and in a state scarcely conscious of existence, the box was taken from his pocket. He remained in this state of stupor for a few moments, whilst Bradbury and the peace-officer stood looking at each other, scarcely believing the evidence of their senses; and recovering himself a little, he stood up, gazed wildly at one and then at the other, and gasping with the intensity of his feelings, he rushed to his dressing-table, and like lightning drew a razor across his throat. Surgical assistance being on the spot, the wound was first pronounced not to be mortal. The effect of the scene—the look of the man—his maniac look, and the act or desperation accompanying it—his rank in life, and every circumstance connected with it, had such an effect on poor Bradbury that he lost his reason, and did not recover it for a year afterwards. The matter could not be kept a secret. The truly unfortunate and miserable Captain C—— of course lost his commission, and it is not known what afterwards became of him. There was, however, no prosecution. The punishment was sufficient.

W. E.

ELEVATION OF THE MIND.—Lofty elevation of mind does not make one indifferent to the wants and sufferings of those who are below him: on the contrary, as the rarified air of mountains makes distant objects seem nearer, so are all his fellow-beings brought nearer to the heart of him who looks upon them from the height of his wisdom.

NAPOLEON AFTER DEATH.—Death had marvellously improved the appearance of Napoleon, and every one exclaimed, when the face was exposed, “How very beautiful!” for all present acknowledged that they had never seen a finer or more regular and placid countenance. The beauty of the delicate Italian features was of the highest kind; whilst the exquisite serenity of their expression was in the most striking contrast with the recollections of his great actions, impetuous character, and turbulent life. As during his eventful career there was much of the mysterious and inscrutable about him, even after death Napoleon’s inanimate remains continued a puzzle and a mystery: for, notwithstanding his great sufferings and the usual emaciating effects of the malady that destroyed him, the body was found enormously fat. The frame was as unsusceptible of material disintegration as the spirit was indomitable. Over the sternum, or breast bone, which is generally only thinly covered, there was a coat of fat an inch and a half thick; and on the abdomen two inches, whilst the omentum, kidneys, and heart, were loaded with fat. The last organ was remarkably small, and the muscle flabby, in contradiction to our ideal associations, and in proof of the seeming paradox, that it is possible to be a very great man with a very little heart. Much anxiety was felt at the time to ascertain the disease of which Bonaparte died. Mr O’Meara had represented the liver as the faulty organ, and this has been echoed by Antommarchi; though, as we have said before, the illustrious sufferer himself, with better judgment, referred the mischief to the stomach, as its seat and source; and he was perfectly right, as the event proved. This organ was found most extensively disorganised: in fact, it was ulcerated all over like a honeycomb. The focus of the disease was exactly the spot pointed out by Napoleon—the pylorus, or lower end where the intestines begin. At this place I put my finger into a hole, made by an ulcer, that had eaten through the stomach, but which was stopped by a slight adhesion to the adjacent liver. After all, the liver was free from disease, and every organ sound except the stomach. Several peculiarities were noticed about the body. He appeared at some time to have had an issue open in the arm, and there was a slight mark, like a wound, in the leg, but which might have been caused by a suppurating boil. The chest was not ample, and there was something of feminine delicacy in the roundness of the arms and the smallness of the hands and feet. The head was large in proportion to the body, with a fine, massy, capacious forehead. In other respects there were no remarkable developements for the gratification of phrenologists. The diseased state of the stomach was palpably and demonstrably the cause of death; and how Napoleon could have existed for any time with such an organ, was wonderful, for there was not an inch of it sound.—Biography of a Surgeon.

THE MARCH OF MAGNILOQUENCE—Is “onward” like the prosperity of your two-and-sixpenny republic in Central America. We [the Americans] are becoming so great, that it is very much to be feared we shall lose all our standards of commerce. Having nothing little, we don’t see how the deuce we shall be able to express a diminutive. Our miniature will all become magnitude, and it is difficult for us to see our way clearly in the world. Our insects will grow into elephants, and for aught we see we shall have to speak of the gnat as a large monster, and the honey-bee have to be described as a beast of prey. “I does business in this store,” was the remark made the other day by a dealer in crab apples, as he crawled out of a refuse molasses-hogshead with his peck basket of merchandise. The skippers of the Long Island clam-boats all call each other captains; and we lately heard a city scavenger complaining to another gentleman in the same line of business, that his town house had been endangered during a recent conflagration: a mischievous cracker-boy had thrown one of his flaming missiles into the segment of a cellar occupied by the complainant and his family. Mr Mark Anthony Potts told us the other day that he had made arrangements for extending his business. He has taken the superintendence of two coal carts, having heretofore shovelled for but one. Nobody thinks nowadays of calling the conductor of a mud cart on the railroad by any less dignified title than an agent. The vender of apple-jack on a dilapidated cellar-door upon the North river, is a merchant; and the fourth-rate victualler along the wharves, who manages to rent half of a broken-down cobbler’s stall, keeps a public house!

Printed and published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin; and sold by all Booksellers.

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Table of Contents

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

GARRY CASTLE, KING’S COUNTY.

THE ROYAL FAMILY OF STATEN-ISLAND.

THE BLIND BOY.

THE REAL “TEMPERANCE CORDIAL.” BY MRS S. C. HALL.

THE SAP IN VEGETABLES.

FIRST ARTICLE.

MEN OF GENIUS.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE