THE PENNY MAGAZINE

[Restored View of Pompeii.]

It is certainly surprising, that this most interesting city should have remained undiscovered until so late a period, and that antiquaries and learned men should have so long and materially erred about its situation. In many places masses of ruins, portions of the buried theatres, temples, and houses were not two feet below the surface of the soil; the country people were continually digging up pieces of worked marble, and other antique objects; in several spots they had even laid open the outer walls of the town; and yet men did not find out what it was, that peculiar, isolated mound of cinders and ashes, earth and pumice-stone, covered. There is another circumstance which increases the wonder of Pompeii remaining so long concealed. A subterranean canal, cut from the river Sarno, traverses the city, and is seen darkly and silently gliding on under the temple of Isis. This is said to have been cut towards the middle of the fifteenth century, to supply the contiguous town of the Torre dell’ Annunziata with fresh water; it probably ran anciently in the same channel. But, cutting it, or clearing it, workmen must have crossed under Pompeii from one side to the other.

As you walk round the walls of the city, and see how the volcanic matter is piled upon it in one heap, it looks as though the hand of man had purposely buried it, by carrying and throwing over it the volcanic matter. This matter does not spread in any direction beyond the town, over the fine plain which gently declines towards the bay of Naples. The volcanic eruption was so confined in its course or its fall, as to bury Pompeii, and only Pompeii: for the shower of ashes and pumice-stone which descended in the immediate neighbourhood certainly made but a slight difference in the elevation of the plain.

Where a town has been buried by lava, like Herculaneum, the process is easily traced. You can follow the black, hardened lava from the cone of the mountain to the sea, whose waters it invaded for “many a rood,” and those who have seen the lava in its liquid state, when it flows on like a river of molten iron, can conceive at once how it would bury every thing it found in its way. There is often a confusion of ideas, among those who have not had the advantages of visiting these interesting places, as to the matter which covers Pompeii and Herculaneum: they fancy they were both buried by lava. Herculaneum was so, and the work of excavating there, was like digging in a quarry of very hard stone. The descent into the places cleared is like the descent into a quarry or mine, and you are always under ground, lighted by torches.

But Pompeii was covered by loose mud, pumice-stone, and ashes, over which, in the course of centuries, there collected vegetable soil. Beneath this shallow soil, the whole is very crumbly and easy to dig, in few spots more difficult than one of our common gravel-pits. The matter excavated is carried off in carts, and thrown outside of the town; and in times when the labour is carried on with activity, as cart after cart withdraws with the earth that covered them, you see houses entire, except their roofs, which have nearly always fallen in, make their appearance, and, by degrees, a whole street opens to the sun-shine or the shower, just like the streets of any inhabited neighbouring town. It is curious to observe, as the volcanic matter is removed, that the houses are principally built of lava, the more ancient product of the same Vesuvius, whose later results buried and concealed Pompeii for so many ages.

[Implements of building found at Pompeii.]

In the autumn of 1822 I saw Pompeii under very interesting circumstances. It was a few days after an eruption of Vesuvius, which I had witnessed, and which was considered by far the grandest eruption of recent times. From Portici, our road was coated with lapilla or pumice-stone, and a fine impalpable powder, of a palish grey hue, that had been discharged from the mountain, round whose base we were winding. In many places this coating was more than a foot deep, but it was pretty equally spread, not accumulating in any particular spot. As we drove into Pompeii our carriage wheels crushed this matter, which contained the principal components of what had buried the city: it was lodged on the edges of the houses’ walls, and on their roofs, (where the Neapolitan government had furnished them with any); it lay inches thick on the tops of the pillars and truncated columns of the ancient temples; it covered all the floors or the houses that had no roofs, and concealed the mosaics. In the amphitheatre, where we sat down to refresh ourselves, we were obliged to make the guides clear it away with shovels—it was everywhere. Looking from the upper walls of the amphitheatre, we saw the whole country covered with it—trees and all were coated with the pale-grey plaster, nor did it disappear for many months after.

Some ignorant fellows at Naples pretended the fine ashes, or powder, contained gold! Neapolitans began 10to collect it. They found no gold, but it turned out to be an excellent thing for cleaning and polishing plate.

This dust continued to be blown from the mountain many days after the eruption had ceased. It once made a pretty figure of me! I was riding up the Posilippo road when it came on to rain; the rain brought down and gave consistency to the dust, which adhered to my black coat and pantaloons, until I looked as if I had been rolled in plaster of Paris.

But it travelled farther than Posilippo, for a friend of mine, an officer in the navy, assured me it had fallen with rain on the deck of his ship, when between three and four hundred miles from Naples and Mount Vesuvius. There is an old story, that during one of the great eruptions of this mountain, or Etna, cinders were thrown as far as Constantinople: by substituting the fine powder I have alluded to, for cinders, the story becomes not improbable.

The island of Van Diemen’s Land lies immediately to the south of the vast continent of New Holland, from which it is separated by the narrow channel called Bass’s Strait. If New Holland be regarded as a great full bag or sack, Bass’s Strait will represent the neck, where it is drawn together and tied close, and Van Diemen’s Land the small bunch or gathering made beyond the string by the mere lip of the sack. While New Holland is rather more than half as large as all Europe, the extent of Van Diemen’s Land is only about twenty-three thousand square miles, which is not much more than two-thirds of the size of Ireland, or a fourth part of that of the island of Great Britain. The one, in fact, is about eighty times as large as the other.

One of the papers in the Van Diemen’s Land Almanac presents us with a very full geographical description of the island. It was divided soon after its settlement into two great counties, Buckinghamshire, embracing the southern, and Cornwall, the northern portion of it. But the division which is now chiefly recognised, is that made in 1827 into eight Police districts, each under the charge of a paid magistrate. In the first of these, occupying the south-west corner of the island, stands Hobart Town, the capital, on the river Derwent, and about twenty miles from its mouth. The river, however, is, even at this distance from the sea, of considerable width, and the water is quite salt. The town stands upon a gently rising ground, and covers rather more than a square mile. Its streets are wide, and intersect each other at right angles. It contains several government buildings, a parish church, and other places of worship; a government school for the poor, and several Sunday schools; two public banks; and several libraries. Among its manufactories Hobart Town possesses a distillery, several breweries and tanneries, two timber mills, several flour mills worked by steam and water, and two or three soap and candle works. The population of the town and suburbs, including the convicts and the military, is above seven thousand. This, we believe, is about half the amount of the whole population of the island.

The other towns already founded in Van Diemen’s Land, are, Launceston, on the river Tamar, about a hundred and twenty miles north from the capital, containing about a thousand inhabitants; New Norfolk, or Elizabeth Town, a place of considerable traffic, and also the centre of a rich agricultural district, standing on the Derwent, about twenty-two miles higher up than Hobart Town; Richmond, fourteen miles from the capital; Sorell Town, or Pitt Water, and Brighton, two other townships in the same vicinity; Bothwell, Oatlands, Campbell Town, Ross, Perth, and George Town, all considerably advanced settlements. Many other stations, however, have been marked out for towns, although scarcely yet begun to be built upon. Numerous farm-houses, also, and other detached residences, many of them standing in the midst of enclosed fields, gardens, and orchards, have been built in all directions. A single agricultural association, called the Van Diemen’s Land Company, possess a continuous tract of above three hundred thousand acres, in the north-west part of the island. About four hundred and fifty persons reside on this property. There are two government settlements for persons convicted of crimes in the colony, Macquarie Harbour on the west coast, and Maria Island on the east.

The face of the country, though extremely diversified, is mountainous on the whole, and, especially as seen from the south, presents a prospect of singular sublimity; hills covered to the ridge with trees, occasionally intermingled with a bare rocky eminence, appearing to rise behind each other in endless succession. Some of the mountains on the south coast are five thousand feet in height, and during a great part of the year are covered with snow. Mount Wellington, or the Table Mountain, a few miles to the west of Hobart Town, rises to the height of four thousand feet above the level of the sea. The interior, however, contains many extensive plains quite unencumbered with wood. Even the western coast, where the scenery in general is bold and desolate, presents many protected and fertile spots. The bays and harbours around the coast are numerous and excellent. In this respect Hobart Town especially is most favourably situated. The principal rivers are the Derwent, the Huon, and the Tamar, all navigable. The Derwent, even at New Norfolk, above forty miles from the sea, is as wide as the Thames at Battersea. The scenery on both sides of this noble stream is described as being of the richest beauty. The second-rate and inferior rivers are numerous, fertilizing every part of the country, and falling into the sea along the whole extent of the coast. In the heart of the island are several lakes, from which many of the rivers take their rise.

Much of the native timber of Van Diemen’s Land is excellent for all building purposes; and others of the woods are esteemed for ornamental cabinet-work. All the trees are evergreens. The shrubs are of great variety and beauty; but present as yet an almost unexamined field to the botanist. As to fruits, none of any value have been found native to this island; but on the other hand, every sort of fruit, herb, or vegetable, that grows in England, grows still better here.

In respect of climate, Van Diemen’s Land enjoys the happiest medium between the extremes of heat and cold, the thermometer rarely falling below 40 degrees in winter, or rising above 70 degrees in summer. During the winter months of June, July, and August, the frosts are sometimes severe, and occasionally a good deal of snow falls; but it is seldom that snow lies on the ground a whole day.

Coal has been found in various places; iron-stone is believed to be abundant; lime-stone also exists in great plenty; and it is highly probable that the earth is enriched with various other mineral treasures. Of the native animals, the most formidable is the hyena, by which many of the sheep are destroyed. Wild dogs and cats of different species are also found in the woods. The kangaroo is now fast disappearing, having, although a perfectly harmless animal, been much hunted by the settlers for sport, or for the sake of its flesh and skin. There are numerous species of birds, many of them of beautiful plumage. Various descriptions of fish also abound in the bays and creeks; but, except eels, the lakes and rivers supply very few that are valuable as food. Of the reptiles found in the island, the principal are snakes, some of which are extremely venomous.

Such is an abstract of what is most important in the paper before us, which is followed by a more minute description of the parts of the island that have been brought into cultivation, in the form of an itinerary. We will now add a very few facts, selected from another paper, on the agriculture and horticulture of the colony.

11The first cattle were brought to Van Diemen’s Land in 1807. They were “a coarse buffalo sort of animal:” but, about nine or ten years ago, superior breeds began to be imported from England, and the colony now possesses pure Devons, Herefords, Durhams, Holdernesses, Fifeshires, &c. Horses were at first brought from New Holland; but, “in the same manner as with neat cattle,” says this account, “they have since had the benefit of very superior crosses of English importations, and the colony can now boast as fine horses as even England itself. It has every sort, perhaps, that is known in the mother-country, from the heavy dray-horse to the diminutive pony, and including, what should by no means be passed in silence, blood and bone upon which thousands have been depending at Newmarket and other English race-courses.” Sheep, for which both the climate and natural herbage of the country are well adapted, are now numerous and rapidly improving in quality. Pigs and poultry, of every description, thrive admirably. Most sorts of grain that are common in England, grow at least as well here. The wheat is of excellent quality, seldom weighing less than from sixty-two to sixty-four pounds per bushel. Barley and oats produce well upon good land; but will not answer on inferior soils. The average return yielded by the potato is not equal to what it yields in England; but the cultivation of this root is yet in its infancy. Turnips and mangel-wurzel are both found to do extremely well. The same may be said of English grasses and pulses of all sorts.

The export trade from this colony has, as yet, been confined to the more useful articles. Corn is sent to New South Wales, and to Swan River. Wool is already exported in considerable quantities, and is likely to become every year more and more the staple production of the island. Whale-fishing and the manufacture of oil are rapidly becoming trades of considerable importance. A good deal of mimosa bark, for tanning, is also sent to England; and salt meats, hides, and dairy produce will probably soon be added to the list of exported commodities.

The regulations at present in force for the disposal of land, by grant or sale, were issued in 1828. The main principle upon which they are grounded is, that “settlers should not receive a greater extent of land than they are capable of improving, and that grants should not be made to persons who are desirous only of disposing of them.” Lands are accordingly granted in square miles, in the proportion of one square mile, or 640 acres, for every £500 sterling of capital which the applicant can immediately command. Of this capital, however, a portion may consist of live stock and instruments of husbandry. Upon the land thus granted a quit-rent is imposed at the rate of £5 per cent. on the estimated value of the land, the payment to commence at the expiration of seven years from the date of the grant, when the settler will also receive his title-deeds. The smallest quantity of land granted in this way to an individual is 320 acres, and the largest, 2560 acres, or four square miles. Lands may also be obtained by purchase, being advertised for that purpose, and sold to the person making the highest tender.

We will, in conclusion, mention a few of the more interesting particulars, supplied by the various lists in the little volume before us; these are indicative of the rapid progress of civilization. In addition to the three banks in Hobart Town we find a fourth, called the Cornwall bank, established at Launceston. There is at Hobart Town a Mechanics’ Institute, of which the Governor is patron, and the Chief Justice, president. Among the religious and philanthropic institutions of this capital are, a Bible Society, of which the Governor is president; a Presbyterian Missionary Society; a Wesleyan Missionary Society; a Benevolent and Strangers’ Friend Society; and a Sunday School Union, having four schools in its connexion, containing in all about 250 children. Besides the Government Gazette, there are three other weekly newspapers published in Hobart Town, and a fourth at Launceston. The Almanac closes with a Directory for Hobart Town; in which, besides merchants, general dealers, official, clerical, and other professional characters, we find the names of civil engineers, livery-stable keepers, watchmakers, midwives, shoemakers, bricklayers, milliners, portrait painters, and engravers, chemists and druggists, pastry-cooks, confectioners, glaziers, plumbers, house and sign painters, hatters, upholsterers, cabinet-makers and undertakers, coopers, boat-builders, auctioneers, goldsmiths, and working-jewellers, music teachers, tailors, butchers, brewers, hosiers and glovers, ironmongers, brass and iron founders, tinmen and blacksmiths, printers, saddlers, bakers, hair-dressers. It would be curious to compare this list with the population of an English town of seven thousand people three centuries ago!

A dervise was journeying alone in the desert, when two merchants suddenly met him: “You have lost a camel,” said he to the merchants. “Indeed we have,” they replied. “Was he not blind in his right eye, and lame in his left leg?” said the dervise. “He was,” replied the merchants. “Had he lost a front tooth?” said the dervise. “He had,” rejoined the merchants. “And was he not loaded with honey on one side, and wheat on the other?” “Most certainly he was,” they replied; “and as you have seen him so lately, and marked him so particularly, you can, in all probability, conduct us unto him.” “My friends,” said the dervise, “I have never seen your camel, nor ever heard of him, but from you.” “A pretty story, truly!” said the merchants, “but where are the jewels, which formed a part of his cargo?” “I have neither seen your camel nor your jewels,” repeated the dervise. On this, they seized his person, and forthwith hurried him before the Cadi, where, on the strictest search, nothing could be found upon him, nor could any evidence whatever be adduced to convict him, either of falsehood or of theft. They were then about to proceed against him as a sorcerer, when the dervise, with great calmness, thus addressed the Court: “I have been much amused with your surprise, and own that there has been some ground for your suspicions; but I have lived long, and alone; and I can find ample scope for observation, even in a desert. I knew that I had crossed the track of a camel that had strayed from its owner, because I saw no mark of any human footstep on the same route; I knew that the animal was blind in one eye, because it had cropped the herbage only on one side of its path; and I perceived that it was lame in one leg, from the faint impression which that particular foot had produced upon the sand; I concluded that the animal had lost one tooth, because wherever it had grazed, a small tuft of herbage was left uninjured in the centre of its bite. As to that which formed the burden of the beast, the busy ants informed me that it was corn on the one side, and the clustering flies that it was honey on the other.”

Science preceding Art.—When the principles of any science are become common to all the world, these principles lead to inventions, nearly, if not altogether similar, by different persons having no communication with each other. A remarkable instance of this is given by Judge Story, in his address to the Boston Mechanics’ Institute:—

“A beautiful improvement had been made in the double-speeder of the cotton-spinning machine by one of our ingenious countrymen. The originality of the invention was established by the most satisfactory evidence. The defendant, however, called an Englishman as a witness, who had been but a short time in the country, and who testified most explicitly to the existence of a like invention in the improved machinery in England. Against such positive proof there was much difficulty in proceeding. The testimony, though doubted, could not be discredited; and the trial was postponed to another term, for the purpose of procuring evidence to rebut it. An agent was despatched to England for this and other objects; and, upon his return, the plaintiff was content to become nonsuited. There was no doubt that the invention here was without any suspicion of its existence elsewhere; but the genius of each country, almost at the same moment, accomplished, independently, the same achievement.”

The little dormouse has now awakened from his fitful sleep. When the winds of March sweep away the lingering fogs of winter,—when the tender buds are first seen on the trees, and the primrose first shows its head in the green banks—before the swallow comes to our shores, or the rook has finished her nest—the dormouse rouses up from the bed where he has slept for several months. His sleep, however, is not constant through the cold season, like that of some other animals; for he wakes, at times, to eat of the store of nuts and beech-mast which he has provided for his sustenance in the autumn. The marmot, a quadruped inhabiting some mountainous parts of Europe, makes no provision of this kind in his subterranean galleries. He sleeps completely.

M. Mangili, an Italian naturalist, made some curious experiments upon the dormouse and other animals which sleep during the cold weather. He kept the dormouse in a cupboard in his study. On the 24th December, when the thermometer was about 40°, that is 8° above the freezing point, the dormouse curled himself up amongst a heap of papers and went to sleep. On the 27th December, when the thermometer was several degrees lower, M. Mangili ascertained that the animal breathed, and suspended his respiration at regular intervals;—that is, that after four minutes of perfect repose, in which he appeared as if dead, he breathed about twenty-four times in the space of a minute and a half, and that then his breathing was again completely suspended, and again renewed. As the thermometer became higher, that is, as the weather became less cold, the intervals of repose were reduced to three minutes. On the contrary, when the thermometer fell nearly to the freezing point, the intervals were then six minutes. Within ten days from its beginning to sleep (the weather then being very cold), the dormouse woke and ate a little. He then went to sleep again; and continued to sleep for some days, and then to awaken, throughout the winter; but as the season advanced, the intervals of perfect repose, when no breathing could be perceived, were much longer, sometimes more than twenty minutes. The effects of confinement upon this individual animal caused him to sleep much longer than in a state of nature.

When a dormouse is discovered asleep, in his natural retreat, he is cold to the touch, his eyes are shut, and his respiration is slow and interrupted, as just described. Torpid animals, in general, when thus found, may be shaken, or rolled, or even struck, without a possibility of arousing them. But as the fine weather advances, the heat of their bodies increases, as it decreases at the approaches of winter; till at length they shake off their drowsiness, and are again the busy and happy inhabitants of the fields and gardens, active in the search of food to gratify their appetite, which is now as keen as it was dull in the cold months. These movements of course depend upon the states of the atmosphere, and are different in individuals of the same species.

The swallow, and other birds of passage—that is, birds who fly from one country to another, as the weather becomes unsuited to their natures—now begin to return to us. The swallow is a general favourite. He comes to us when nature is putting on her most smiling aspect, and he stays with us through the months of sunshine and gladness. “The swallow,” says Sir H. Davy, “is one of my favourite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he glads my sense of seeing, as much as the other does my sense of hearing. He is the joyous prophet of the year, the harbinger of the best season, he lives a life of enjoyment amongst the loveliest forms of nature; winter is unknown to him, and he leaves the green meadows of England in autumn, for the myrtle and orange groves of Italy, and for the palms of Africa.”

Mr. White, a clergyman of Hampshire, who delighted to observe all the works of the creation around him, has thus accurately described the window swallow’s or martin’s mode of building:—

“About the middle of May, if the weather be fine, the martin begins to think in earnest of providing a mansion for its family. The crust or shell of this nest seems to be formed of such dirt or loam as comes most readily to hand, and is tempered and wrought together with little bits of broken straws to render it tough and tenacious. As this bird often builds against a perpendicular wall without any projecting ledge under, it requires its utmost efforts to get the first foundation firmly fixed, so that it may safely carry the superstructure. On this occasion, the bird not only clings with its claws, but partly supports itself by strongly inclining its tail against the wall, making that a fulcrum; and thus steadied, it works and plasters the materials into the face of the brick or stone. But then, that this work may not, while it is soft and green, pull itself down by its own weight, the provident architect has prudence and forbearance enough not to advance her work too fast; but by building only in the morning, and by dedicating the rest of the day to food and amusement, gives it sufficient time to dry and harden. About half an inch seems to be a sufficient layer for a day. Thus careful workmen, when they build mud-walls (informed at first perhaps by this little bird), raise but a moderate layer at a time and then desist, lest the work should become top-heavy, and so be ruined by its own weight. By this method, in about ten or twelve days, is formed a hemispheric nest with a small aperture towards the top, strong, compact, and warm, and perfectly fitted for all the purposes for which it was intended.

“The shell or crust of the nest is a sort of rustic-work, full of knobs and protuberances on the outside: nor is the inside of those that I have examined smoothed with any exactness at all; but is rendered soft and warm, and fit for incubation, by a lining of small straws, grasses and feathers, and sometimes by a bedding of moss interwoven with wool. They are often capricious in fixing on a nesting-place, beginning many edifices and leaving them unfinished; but when once a nest is completed in a sheltered place, after so much labour is bestowed in erecting a mansion, as nature seldom works in vain, the same nest serves for several seasons. Those which breed in a ready finished house, get the start in hatching of those that build new by ten days or a fortnight. These industrious artificers are at their labours in the long days before four in the morning; when they 13fix their materials, they plaster them on with their chins, moving their heads with a quick, rotatory motion.”

April 7.—The day of the birth, and also that of the death, of Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, whom the universal voice of posterity has recognized as the Prince of modern Painters, and designated by the enthusiastic appellation of “the divine Raphael.” No rival, at least, has ever been placed beside Raphael except Michael Angelo. Of the two illustrious contemporaries the former may perhaps be appropriately styled the Shakspeare, the latter the Milton of Painting. Dignity and imposing grandeur of design are the reigning characteristics of Michael Angelo; the highest dramatic power which has ever been displayed by the pencil, and the representation of passion with all the force of life, are the qualities that chiefly give their wonderful fascination to the works of Raphael. Raphael was born at Urbino in 1483. By the time he had reached the age of twenty-five he had so greatly distinguished himself that he was invited by Pope Julius II. to paint in fresco the chambers of the Vatican. From this time till his death, in 1520, at the early age of thirty-seven, he was employed in the execution of a succession of great works, chiefly for that pontiff and his successor, Leo X. His most famous performances are, his picture of the School of Athens in the Vatican, the Transfiguration, and his Cartoons on subjects taken from the Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles, which were brought to this country by Charles I., and are now to be seen at Hampton Court, upon the payment of a shilling for each party. Like Michael Angelo, Raphael was an architect as well as a painter, and, among other buildings, superintended the erection of part of the cathedral of St. Peter’s. But his untimely death interrupted his prosecution of this and other great works on which he was engaged; leaving him, however, although with a glory gathered in comparative youth, with no living superior, and followed by no equal in succeeding times.

April 10.—This is the birth-day of the celebrated Dutch writer, Hugh de Groot, better known by his Latin name of Grotius, who was born at Delfft in 1583. Grotius was a prodigy of youthful talent and acquirement. When only fourteen he prepared an edition of a Latin author, Martianus Capella, in which he showed extensive classical and historical erudition. At the age of sixteen, having already made a journey to France, and been presented to Henry IV., who honoured him with the gift of his picture and a gold chain, he entered upon the profession of an advocate at Delfft. From this time he continued till his death to take an active part in political transactions; but still found leisure to write a vast number of books, most of them distinguished for their learning and ability. The book by which he is now principally known is his famous treatise on the law of nations, entitled, ‘On the right of Peace and War.’ It was first published at Paris in 1625. Another of his productions, which is still very popular, is his treatise ‘On the Truth of the Christian Religion,’ written, like the former, in Latin, but which has been translated into every language of Europe. Grotius wrote a great part of this work while confined by a rival political faction in the castle of Louvestein, from which, however, after nearly two years’ detention, his wife contrived to get him conveyed away in a chest, which she pretended was full of books. Grotius died in his sixty-third year, on the 28th of August, 1645.

April 11.—The birth-day of the late Right Honourable George Canning, who was born in London, in the year 1771. His father, an Irish gentleman of good family, died the same year in which his son was born. At the usual age young Canning was sent to Eton, where he soon distinguished himself by the brilliancy of his talents. While there he made the first public trial of his literary powers in ‘The Microcosm,’ a very clever periodical work, which he carried on in conjunction with some of his schoolfellows, and of which he was the projector and the editor. In 1787 he removed to Christ Church, Oxford, intending to adopt the profession of the law. But while yet at the University, his reputation for ability obtained for him the notice of Mr. Pitt, who brought him into Parliament in 1793. Mr. Canning’s official career belongs to the history of his country, and especially that period of it during which he was Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. The system of foreign policy with which his name is associated has caused his memory to be held in honour; and although he opposed Parliamentary Reform, as well as other popular measures, yet his steadfast support of Catholic Emancipation for a long series of years, and the protection he afforded to the cause of freedom on the Continent, and in South America, are proofs of his attachment to his celebrated toast of “Civil and Religious Liberty all over the World!” In April, 1827, he was appointed Prime Minister by George the Fourth, and continued to hold the offices of First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer till his death, on the 8th of August in the same year, at the Duke of Devonshire’s villa at Chiswick, after a short illness. His death at so early a period after his accession to power called forth a deep feeling of grief in his own country, and, perhaps, a still stronger and more general feeling on the Continent, where medals were struck in memory of the British Minister.

“The characteristic of the English populace,—perhaps we ought to say people, for it extends to the middle classes,—is their propensity to mischief. The people of most other countries may safely be admitted into parks, gardens, public buildings, and galleries of pictures and statues; but in England it is necessary to exclude them, as much as possible, from all such places.”

This is a sentence from the last published number of the ‘Quarterly Review.’ Severe as it is, there is much truth in it. The fault is not entirely on the side of the people (we will not use the offensive term populace); but still they are in fault. The writer adds, speaking of this love of mischief, which he calls “a disgraceful part of the English character,” that “anything tends to correct it that contributes to give the people a taste for intellectual pleasures,—anything that contributes to their innocent enjoyment,—anything that excites them to wholesome and pleasurable activity of 14body and mind.” This is quite true. We hope to do something, speaking generally, to excite and gratify a taste for intellectual pleasure; but we wish to do more in this particular case. We wish to point out many unexpensive pleasures, of the very highest order, which all those who reside in London have within their reach; and how the education of themselves and of their children may be advanced by using their opportunities of enjoying some of the purest gratifications which an instructed mind is capable of receiving. Having learnt to enjoy them, they will naturally feel an honest pride in the possession, by the Nation, of many of the most valuable treasures of Art and of Science; and they will hold that person a baby in mind—a spoiled, wilful, mischievous baby—who dares to attempt the slightest injury to the public property, which has been collected together, at an immense expense, for the public advantage.

Well, then, that we may waste no time in general discussion, let us begin with the British Museum. We will suppose ourselves addressing an artisan or tradesman, who can sometimes afford to take a holiday, and who knows there are better modes of spending a working day, which he some half-dozen times a year devotes to pleasure, than amidst the smoke of a taproom, or the din of a skittle-ground. He is a family man; he enjoys a pleasure doubly if it is shared by his wife and children. Well, then, in Great Russell-street, Bloomsbury, is the British Museum; and here, from ten o’clock till four, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he may see many of the choicest productions of ancient art—Egyptian, Grecian, and Roman monuments; and what will probably please the young people most, in the first instance, a splendid collection of natural history—quadrupeds, birds, insects, shells—all classed and beautifully disposed in an immense gallery, lately built by the Government for the more convenient exhibition of these curiosities. “But hold,” says the working man, “I have passed by the British Museum: there are two sentinels at the gateway, and the large gates are always closed. Will they let me in? Is there nothing to pay?” That is a very natural question about the payment; for there is too much of paying in England by the people for admission to what they ought to see for nothing. But here there is nothing to pay. Knock boldly at the gate; the porter will open it. You are in a large square court-yard, with an old-fashioned house occupying three sides. A flight of steps leads up to the principal entrance. Go on. Do not fear any surly looks or impertinent glances from any person in attendance. You are upon safe ground here. You are come to see your own property. You have as much right to see it, and you are as welcome therefore to see it, as the highest in the land. There is no favour in showing it you. You assist in paying for the purchase, and the maintenance of it; and one of the very best effects that could result from that expense would be to teach every Englishman to set a proper value upon the enjoyments which such public property is capable of affording. Go boldly forward, then. The officers of the Museum, who are obliging to all strangers, will be glad to see you. Your garb is homely, you think, as you see gaily-dressed persons going in and out. No matter; you and your wife, and your children, are clean, if not smart. By the way, it will be well to mention that very young children (those under eight years old) are not admitted; and that for a very sufficient reason: in most cases they would disturb the other visitors.

You are now in the great Hall—a lofty room, with a fine staircase. In an adjoining room a book is presented to you, in which one of a party has to write his name and address, with the number of persons accompanying him. That is the only form you have to go through; and it is a necessary form, if it were only to preserve a record of the number of persons admitted. In each year this number amounts to about seventy thousand: so you see that the British Museum has afforded pleasure and improvement to a great many people. We hope the number of visitors will be doubled and trebled; for exhibitions such as these do a very great deal for the advance of a people in knowledge and virtue. What reasonable man would abandon himself to low gratifications—to drinking or gambling—when he may, whenever he pleases, and as often as he pleases at no cost but that of his time, enjoy the sight of some of the most curious and valuable things in the world, with as much ease as a prince walking about in his own private gallery. But that he may enjoy these treasures, and that every body else may enjoy them at the same time, it will be necessary to observe a few simple rules.

1st. Touch nothing. The statues, and other curious things, which are in the Museum, are to be seen, not to be handled. If visitors were to be allowed to touch them, to try whether they were hard or soft, to scratch them, to write upon them with their pencils, they would be soon worth very little. You will see some mutilated remains of two or three of the finest figures that ever were executed in the world: they form part of the collection called the Elgin Marbles, and were brought from the Temple of Minerva, at Athens, which city at the time of the sculpture of these statues, about two thousand three hundred years ago, was one of the cities of Greece most renowned for art and learning. Time has, of course, greatly worn these statues: but it is said that the Turkish soldiers, who kept the modern Greeks under subjection, used to take a brutal pleasure in the injury of these remains of ancient art; as if they were glad to destroy what their ignorance made them incapable of valuing. Is it not as great ignorance for a stupid fellow of our own day slily to write his own paltry name upon one of these glorious monuments? Is not such an act the most severe reproach upon the writer? Is it not, as if the scribbler should say, “Here am I, in the presence of some of the great masterpieces of art, whose antiquity ought to produce reverence, if I cannot comprehend their beauty; and I derive a pleasure from putting my own obscure, perishable name upon works whose fame will endure for ever.” What a satire upon such vanity. Doubtless, these fellows, who are so pleased with their own weak selves, as to poke their names into every face, are nothing but grown babies, and want a fool’s cap most exceedingly.

2dly. Do not talk loud. Talk, of course, you must; or you would lose much of the enjoyment we wish you to have—for pleasure is only half pleasure, unless it be shared with those we love. But do not disturb others with your talk. Do not call loudly from one end of a long gallery to the other, or you will distract the attention of those who derive great enjoyment from an undisturbed contemplation of the wonders in these rooms. You will excuse this hint.

3rdly. Be not obtrusive. You will see many things in the Museum that you do not understand. It will be well to make a memorandum of these, to be inquired into at your leisure; and in these inquiries we shall endeavour to assist you from time to time. But do not trouble other visitors with your questions; and, above all, do not trouble the young artists, some of whom you will see making drawings for their improvement. Their time is precious to them; and it is a real inconvenience to be obliged to give their attention to anything but their work, or to have their attention disturbed by an over-curious person peeping at what they are doing. If you want to make any inquiry, go to one of the attendants, who walks about in each room. He will answer you as far as he knows. You must not expect to understand what you see all at once: you must go again and again if you wish to obtain real knowledge, beyond the gratification of passing curiosity.

In future numbers we shall briefly mention what is most worthy your attention in this National Collection.

George Wither, the author of the above lines, was several times subjected to long and severe imprisonment for his political opinions. While in the Marshalsea prison in 1613, he wrote his ‘Shepherd’s Hunting,’ a pastoral poem, from which this is an extract. The verses are not only beautiful in themselves, but they point out how a vigorous mind will secure happiness under the most unfavourable circumstances. The imagination of Wither was delighted to repose upon the most common natural objects;—and in the same way, the man who possesses the least of the outward gifts of fortune, if his faculties be awake to the beauties which nature has so plenteously scattered around his path, may possess in himself a source of pleasure of the purest kind. The rapture which Wither expresses for ‘Poesie,’ may to some appear overstrained; but let it not be thought that the poet attributed this power of imparting delight to his faculty alone of making verses. The exercise of his fancy, by which he could “raise pleasure to her height,” consisted in presenting to his “mind’s eye” the infinite beauties of the creation. The “daisy,” whose remembrance gladdened even his prison-walls, brought to him images of the quiet and purity of the “flowery fields.” Such images every body may enjoy, and may gradually learn to associate the commonest appearances of nature with a high moral feeling. We have many instances of this power of association in our finest poets; let us take as an example the following lines by a writer of our own day:—

It seems, on the first view, somewhat odd to talk about choice of dwelling to a labouring man. It may occur to such a person, that as he has seldom more than two or three shillings per week to allow for rent, he must be contented with the humble accommodations that can be afforded for that sum. This is, to a certain extent, true; but it is not therefore to be concluded that the exercise of a little prudence may not put him in possession of some advantages with his two or three shillings, which the want of that quality would exclude him from. There are some dwellings so badly situated, in such ill repair, and altogether so miserable, that a man exposes himself and his family to disease and every other inconvenience by inhabiting them. Such hovels are usually tenanted by people who are behind-hand in paying their rent, and so cannot leave them; or who, being “steeped to the very lips in poverty,” are indifferent to cleanliness and all other comforts. It is possible that an industrious and careful family may, for some time, be obliged to live in a wretched house; but it is their own fault if they continue in it. In this country the poor are better lodged than in any other in Europe; and within the last twenty years the increase of population and of productive labour has caused a demand for cottages, which has covered every parish, and particularly the neighbourhood of large towns, with an amazing number of snug little houses, in which provision is generally made for the comfort of those who inhabit them. Now while there is such a choice of dwellings, it is very much a labouring man’s fault if he does not have a commodious one; and if he continue to be the tenant of a damp, or ruinous, or badly ventilated hut, while the snug brick and tiled tenement remains vacant, we should say that he is a blind and stupid observer of an old proverb (which, however, has much sense in it) that “three removes are as bad as a fire.”

We wish to offer a few plain hints to assist our readers in the choice of a dwelling. And, first, of situation.

Whoever rambles through our villages must often see a pretty little cottage, that realizes all that benevolence could wish for a labouring man’s dwelling. We have seen many such; and the remembrance often occurs to us, when we observe rich men unhappy, in large mansions, and amongst splendid furniture. We then think of the contrast which the simplicity and content of the “peasant’s nest” offers. Who has not looked upon the whitened walls, half covered with roses and jessamine, and the neat garden, where ornament is blended with utility,

16But an agreeable dwelling is not always to be commanded; nor is the best situation always to be found. If a cottager have a house with a northern aspect, he must pay a little more attention to his gooseberry and apple trees, to make them bear as plentifully as those which are trained in a southern sun. We are only desirous to caution him against a house that is truly uncomfortable, and that cannot be easily rendered otherwise.

We would first say, avoid, if it be possible, a low and marshy situation. There are many dangerous fevers which are produced by the vicinity of stagnant waters: and houses which from their site are constantly damp expose those who inhabit them to rheumatism, croup, ague, and other painful disorders. The same effects are produced by dwelling-houses which are subject to occasional inundations of rivers. To be driven in cold weather from the accustomed fire-side to shiver in bedrooms which have probably no grate; to have two or three feet of water running through the lower part of the house, destroying many things and injuring more; and at last, when the inundations cease, to find the whole dwelling damp and miserable for several weeks: this is a visitation which no one would willingly seek. If a cottager has therefore the choice of being on a hill-side, or by the bank of a river, we think, if he were a sensible man, he would prefer the elevated situation.

On the construction of a dwelling, we have not much to observe. The great requisite is the free admission of light and air. Dark rooms are an inconvenience to the industrious housewife which we need not describe; and rooms not properly ventilated are more injurious to health than may readily be conceived. Every sleeping-room should have a chimney. In England, no sitting-room is, we apprehend, without one. But in Ireland, the peasantry have neither window nor chimney to their wretched hovels. The smoke of the turf which burns upon their hearth forces its way out by the door; and the family sit and sleep in this dark and dirty condition. This would be intolerable amongst the more cleanly and richer peasantry of this country.

Of the appendages to a house, a good supply of water is one of the most necessary conveniences. If the pitcher is to be carried a dozen times a day to a spring or a well a quarter of a mile off, it is almost the labour of one person to procure this supply; and that labour would contribute as much to the family earnings as, in twelve months, would dig a well. No cottager should be without a garden. A rood of land, properly cultivated, will half maintain a careful family.

Of the fixtures of a house we cannot be expected to say much. A copper and an oven will enable the female to labour most profitably for the general good. A cottager that can grow his own potatoes, keep his pig, brew his beer, and bake his bread, has not many necessaries to purchase of the shopkeeper, and is therefore, to a certain extent, independent in the best sense of the word.

As to furniture, we would say, avoid furnished lodgings. The bed and table, and two or three chairs, of these places, seldom cost more than 5l., the interest of which is only 5s. a year. The money annually paid for the use of such things is almost as much as their prime cost. There is a satisfaction, too, in knowing that what is about us is our own. It is better to sit upon an old box or a block of wood than to pay enormously for the hire of a chair; and we may sleep as soundly upon a straw mattress as upon an expensive feather-bed. One secret, to be happy in every situation of life, is this,—not to sacrifice real comfort and solid independence to make a show. When the cottager has got ten pounds in the Savings Bank, he may afford his wife a mahogany tea-table. An American writer has given some judicious remarks upon this subject, which apply to all classes:—

“If you are about to furnish a house, do not spend all your money, be it much or little. Do not let the beauty of this thing, and the cheapness of that, tempt you to buy unnecessary articles. Doctor Franklin’s maxim was a wise one, ‘Nothing is cheap that we do not want.’ Buy merely enough to get along with at first. It is only by experience that you can tell what will be the wants of your family. If you spend all your money, you will find you have purchased many things you do not want, and have no means left to get many things which you do want. If you have enough, and more than enough, to get every thing suitable to your situation, do not think you must spend it all, merely because you happen to have it. Begin humbly. As riches increase, it is easy and pleasant to increase in comforts; but it is always painful and inconvenient to decrease. After all, these things are viewed in their proper light by the truly judicious and respectable. Neatness, tastefulness, and good sense may be shown in the management of a small household, and the arrangement of a little furniture, as well as upon a larger scale; and these qualities are always praised, and always treated with respect and attention. The consideration which many purchase by living beyond their income, and of course living upon others, is not worth the trouble it costs. The glare there is about this false and wicked parade is deceptive; it does not in fact procure a man valuable friends, or extensive influence.”

However small may be a man’s income, there is one very certain way of increasing it—that is Frugality. A frugal expenditure will enable almost every body to save something; and as there are now established throughout this country Banks, where the industrious may safely deposit their savings, however little they may be, and receive the same sort of advantage which the rich derive from their money, that is, interest, there is every inducement to make an effort to save. Dr. Franklin observes, in his usual forcible way, that “six pounds a-year is but a groat a-day. For this little sum which may be daily wasted, either in time or expense, unperceived, a man of credit may, on his own security, have the constant possession and use of a hundred and twenty pounds.” Many humble men in England have risen to wealth by such small beginnings; but many more continue to expend the groat a-day unnecessarily, and never cease to be poor.

A certain pope, who had been raised from an obscure situation to the apostolic chair, was immediately waited upon by a deputation sent from a small district, in which he had formerly officiated as cure: it seems that he had promised the inhabitants that he would do something for them, if it should ever be in his power; and some of them now appeared before him, to remind him of his promise, and also to request that he would fulfil it, by granting them two harvests in every year! He acceded to their modest request, on condition that they should go home immediately, and so adjust the Almanac of their own particular district, as to make every year of their Register consist of twenty-four calendar months.

Sir George Staunton visited a man in India who had committed a murder, and, in order not only to save his life, but what was of much more consequence, his caste, he submitted to the penalty imposed; this was, that he should sleep for seven years on a bedstead, without any mattress, the whole surface of which was studded with points of iron, resembling nails, but not so sharp as to penetrate the flesh. Sir George saw him in the fifth year of his probation, and his skin was then like the hide of a rhinoceros, but more callous; at that time, however, he could sleep comfortably on his “bed of thorns,” and remarked, that at the expiration of the term of his sentence, he should most probably continue that system from choice, which he had been obliged to adopt from necessity.