Produced by Brownfox and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by JSTOR www.jstor.org)

                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

      NUMBER 11.      SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1840.      VOLUME I.

[Illustration: CLONTARF CASTLE, COUNTY OF DUBLIN.]

There are few things that afford us a higher pleasure than to observe
our metropolis and our provincial cities and towns, despite of adverse
circumstances, increasing in the number and splendour of their public
buildings, for they are sure evidences of the advance of civilization,
with its attendant train of arts, amongst us, and that we are progressing
to the rank and dignity of a great nation. Yet we confess we enjoy a
still higher gratification when we see springing up around us great
architectural works of another class--those erected by individuals of
the aristocracy as residences for themselves and those who are to come
after them. Such architectural works are not merely interesting from the
gratifications they afford to the feeling of taste, and the epic dignity
and beauty which they contribute to landscape scenery, but have a higher
interest as pledges to the nation that those who have erected them have a
filial attachment to the soil which gave them birth, and which supplies
them, whether for good or evil, with the means of greatness; and that
they are not disposed to play the part of unwise and ungrateful children.
To us it little matters what the creed or party of such individuals may
be; however they may err in opinions, their feelings are at heart as
they should be. The aristocrat of large means, who is resident not from
necessity but from choice, and who spends a portion of his wealth in
the adornment of his home, is rarely, if ever, a bad landlord. Desiring
to see art and nature combine to produce the sentiment of beauty in
the objects immediately about him, he cannot willingly allow it to be
associated with the unsightly and discordant emblems of penury and
sorrow. To be indifferent about the presence of such accompaniments
would be an anomaly in human character, and only an exception proving
the general rule. It is this class of men that we want--men who seek
happiness in their legitimate homes, and the diffusion of blessings among
those to whom it is their duty to be protectors--lovers of the arts of
refined society, not the gross and generally illiterate pursuers of
field sports, which, by hardening the heart towards the lower animals
of creation, prepares it for reckless indifference to the wants and
sufferings of our fellow men. Had we more of such patriots--more of such
domestic architectural buildings starting into existence, evidencing
as well their refined tastes and habits as the sincerity of the love
they bear their native land, we should soon see the face of our country
changed, and peace and happiness smiling around us. We do not, however,
indulge in any feelings of despondence for the future. Very many
beautiful creations of the architectural art have recently been erected
in Ireland, and we have little apprehension that they will not increase
in number till our island shall rival any other portion of the empire
in the possession of such characteristic features of civilization and
beauty. Cheered by such pleasing anticipations, we shall endeavour to the
best of our ability to make our readers familiar with the architectural
styles of the chief residences of our nobility and gentry, as well as
with the general features of the scenery in which they are situated; and,
as a commencement, we have selected the seat of the Vernons--the recently
re-erected Castle of Clontarf.

The name of this locality, which is situated on the northern shore of
the Bay of Dublin, and about two miles from the city, must at least be
familiar to most of our readers, being memorable in history as the scene
of the most national and best contested battle ever fought in Ireland,
when in 1014 the monarch Brian Boru obtained a decisive victory over
the united forces of the Danish and Norwegian invaders of the British
islands, assisted by the Irish troops of a recreant King of Leinster.
This name signifies in English the lawn or recess of the bull, being
formed from two Celtic words, _cluain_, a lawn or pastoral plain, and
_tarbh_, a bull; the latter appellation expressing its contiguity to one
of the two great sand-banks of the bay, now called the North and South
Bulls, from the similitude of the sounds produced by the breaking of the
sea upon their shores, to the roar of animals of that denomination.

As it is stated that a church or monastery was founded here as early
as the year 550, it is probable that this name is of ecclesiastical
origin, and that the site of that ancient church is still marked by the
present parish one from which it was derived. But, however this may be,
immediately after the settlement of the Anglo-Normans, the lands of
Clontarf and Santry, constituting one knight’s fee, were granted by Hugh
de Lacy, Lord of Meath, to one of his followers, named Adam de Feipo, or
as the name is now written, Phepoe, by whom, as is generally supposed,
the Castle of Clontarf was erected, and its lands created a manor. This
manor, as well as its castle, appears, however, to have passed very soon
after into the possession of the Knights Templars, by whom a commandery
of the Order, dependent upon their splendid establishment at Kilmainham,
was placed here. Upon the suppression of the Templars, their manor of
Clontarf was granted, in 1311, to Richard de Burgo, Earl of Ulster, the
religious edifices upon it remaining in the king’s hands as a royal
house; and in 1326, Roger le Ken had a grant of the premises in Clontarf,
which he had heretofore occupied at will, to hold henceforth to him and
the heirs of his body. Towards the close of the same century, however, in
obedience to the Pope’s decree in reference to the lands of the Templars,
the manor passed into the possession of the Knights Hospitallers of St
John of Jerusalem, on which Clontarf became a preceptory of that Order,
and a chief seat of the Grand Prior of Kilmainham. It seems somewhat
probable, however, that the descendants of Roger le Ken still continued
to hold the manor as lessees of the Hospitallers till the dissolution
of the Order, as, immediately previous to that event, on an inquisition
taken, the Prior of Kilmainham was found seised of the manor, rectory,
tithes, and altarages of Clontarf, subject, however, to a lease made in
the year 1538 to Matthew King (a corrupted form perhaps of the name Ken)
of all the town and lordship, with the appurtenances, and also the pool
of Clontarf, and the island lying to the west side thereof, and all the
said rectory, tithes, &c. to endure for nine years. In this demise it
was provided that the lessee should repair the manor-house and maintain
a sufficient person to administer all sacraments to the parishioners at
their proper charges. On the suppression of the monastic order in the
thirty-second year of Henry the Eighth, Sir John Rawson, the Prior of
Kilmainham--a very distinguished man, who had at various periods held the
office of Treasurer of Ireland--having, with the consent of his Chapter
under their common seal, surrendered the hospital with its dependencies
into the King’s hands, he was created Viscount of Clontarf in 1541, on a
representation made to his majesty by the Lord Deputy, with a pension of
five hundred marks, in right of which dignity he sat in the parliament of
that year.

In the year 1600, the manor, territory, tithes, town, and lordships of
Clontarf, as enjoyed by the Priors of Kilmainham, were granted by Queen
Elizabeth to Sir Geoffry Fenton, who had filled the office of Secretary
of State for Ireland; and on his death in 1608 these premises were
further assured to his son Sir William, who had a confirmation of this
manor in 1637, under the commission for the remedy of defective titles.
Yet it appears that very shortly afterwards, the manor, however acquired,
was again in the possession of a member of the King family; for, on the
breaking out of the rebellion of 1641, the town, manor-house, &c. of
Clontarf, then the property of Mr George King, were burnt by Sir Charles
Coote as a punishment for the supposed participation of that gentleman
in a plunder made of a cargo from a vessel which lay there, by Luke
Netterville and his adherents. King was shortly afterwards attainted, a
reward of £400 offered for his head; and his estates, comprising this
manor, Hollybrook, and the island of Clontarf, containing, as stated,
961 acres statute measure, were bestowed by Cromwell on Captain John
Bakewell, who afterwards sold the estate to John Vernon, a scion of the
noble Norman family of the De Vernons, and from whose brother the present
proprietor descends.

In 1660, Colonel Edward Vernon, the son of John Vernon, passed patent
for this manor in fee, together with all anchorages, fisheries, creeks,
sands and sea-shores, wrecks of the sea, &c.; which right was saved in
subsequent acts of parliament, and still remains to his successors. And
in 1675, the king further enlarged the jurisdictions, tenures, and courts
of this manor, with a grant of royalties (royal mines excepted), power to
empark three hundred acres, with free warren, privilege of holding two
fairs, one on the 10th of April and the other on the 16th of October,
with customs, &c. These fairs have, however, been long discontinued.

We have thus briefly traced the origin, and succession of proprietors of
this castle and manor, as immediately connected with the subject of our
prefixed illustration; but our limits will not allow us to touch on the
general history of the locality on the present occasion.

Of the original castle erected here in the twelfth century, a square
tower, connected with additions of the sixteenth and subsequent
centuries, was preserved as a residence for the proprietors of the manor
till the year 1835, when the present noble structure was commenced from
the designs and under the superintendence of the late William Morrison,
Esq., the most eminent and accomplished architect whom Ireland has
possessed within the present century. With the good feeling as well as
refined taste for which this admirable artist was so distinguished, his
first desire in the re-edification of this castle was to preserve as far
as possible the original buildings; and while he increased their extent
in the necessary additions to them, to preserve and restore them as much
as possible to what might be supposed to have been their original state.
But it was found impracticable to do so. The foundations were found
to have sunk, and a nearly total re-erection was therefore necessary;
yet, in the new edifice, attending to the historical associations
connected with a spot so interesting, he so designed it as to exhibit
with historical accuracy what might be supposed to have been the forms
and features of the ancient buildings, and thus make it a consistent
commentary on and illustration of the past history of its locality.

With these remarks, which were necessary to insure a just appreciation of
the intention of the architect in the diversified character which he has
given to this architectural composition, we may describe it generally as
a structure in its character partly military, partly domestic, and to a
certain extent ecclesiastical. Its grand feature is a tower in the Norman
style of the twelfth century, which ascends to the height of seventy
feet, or with a smaller tower which is placed behind it, eighty feet:
it has turrets at its angles, and its windows as well as its interior
are enriched with decorations in harmony with its architectural style.
Connected with this tower, and placed on its west side, is the principal
portion of the domestic buildings, which present the purest specimen,
perhaps, of Tudor architecture to be found in Ireland. The entrance to
this range is placed beneath a small but lofty tower, beneath which a
vestibule leads into a spacious and lofty hall, fifty-one feet by twenty,
which presents much the appearance of a Gothic church, the walls being
panelled, and painted to imitate dark oak. This hall is floored with
Irish oak polished, and its roof is supported by principals springing
from richly ornamented corbels, or pendants--its beauty being much
increased by gilded bosses with which it is studded, and which, sparkling
among the dark tracery, have a singularly rich effect. The cornice is
also richly ornamented, and presents at intervals similar gilded bosses.
But the imposing feature of this great chamber is a magnificent staircase
of oak, placed at its eastern end, which leads, by two return flights,
to a gallery crossing the hall, and communicating with the principal
bed-chambers, and which would serve for an orchestra on occasions of
festivity. At the other end of the hall are doors leading into the
drawing-room, dancing-room, and library; and in the centre of this end is
placed a beautiful chimney-piece of black marble, surrounded by a canopy
of carved oak, the enrichments of which are in that peculiar style which
characterises the ornaments of Tudor architecture, containing the single
and double rose, stars, and other badges of that period. The hall is
lighted by five stained glass windows of an ecclesiastical character, and
level with the gallery; and on these windows are blazoned the arms of the
families with whom the Vernons have intermarried, comprising some of the
highest of the English and Irish nobility. Of the external architecture
of this portion of the building some correct notion may be formed from
our illustration, which exhibits the style of the gables and oriel or
bay windows which are placed both on its southern and western sides; and
we may justly apply to the whole of this range the description given by
Chaucer in his imaginary palace of “pleasaunt regarde:”

    “The chamberis and parlers of a sorte,
    With bay windows goodlie as may be thought,
    The galleries right wele y wrought,
    As for dauncinge and otherwise disporte.”

Branching from the northern and eastern sides of the great tower,
extensive ranges of building contain the servants’ apartments, and an
extensive suite of inferior bed-rooms, and the tower itself contains
a study, and above it a nursery, over which, again, a leaded platform
with parapets commands most extensive and diversified prospects of the
surrounding country.

The preceding description will, we fear, convey but an imperfect idea
of the plan of this interesting structure, nor will our illustration,
which only gives a representation of its southern front, give more than
a general idea of the architectural character of a building, the great
merit of which, next to the beauty and chronological accuracy of its
details, consists in the number of picturesque points of view which
it affords, from the irregularity of its plan and the variety of its
outlines.

We shall only add a few words in respect to its locality.

The Castle of Clontarf is situated in a district rich in pastoral beauty,
and at the head or northern extremity of the village of the same name,
which consists of a single but wide street composed of houses of a
respectable class, and extending from it in a right line to the sea. It
is surrounded by forest trees of great age and grandeur, through which
by vistas are obtained views of the bay and the mountain scenery of the
southern shore.

Upon the whole, we may truly say of this structure that its beauty is
no less striking than its moderate size and pretension are in happy
proportion to the rank and means of its owner; nor is it a lesser merit,
that--unlike too many of the lordly residences in Ireland--the close
propinquity of its situation to the village of which he is lord, is
characteristically expressive of the confidence and kindly familiarity
which should ever exist between the proprietor and the community holding
under him. Nor is it again a lesser merit, that--unlike most of the
mansion-houses to which we have alluded--it is not enclosed by churlish
and prison-like walls of stone, excluding it from the public eye, and
indicating but too truly the cold and heartless selfishness of their
owners, which would not allow to the many even the passing enjoyment of a
glimpse of the grandeur and beauty which they claim as their own.

                                                                       P.

A WOODEN GLASS GOBLET.--The first night of the “Stratford Jubilee” in
Dublin, Robert Mahon had to sing the song of the “Mulberry Tree,” the
music composed by C. Dibdin senior, the words of which begin with

    “Behold, this fair goblet was carved from the tree
    Which, oh! my sweet Shakespeare, was planted by thee.”

He walked on, and began the song, holding out in his hand a fine
cut-glass rummer. The other performers, who were also on, looked at
him and his fair _glass_ goblet “carved from a tree” with wonder. The
audience took the absurdity, and much mirth and loud hissing followed.
The play over, Mahon had the folly to insist upon it he was right: “’Tis
true,” he said, “the property-man did stand at the wing with a wooden
cup in his hand, which he wanted to thrust into mine; but could I appear
before the audience with such a rascally vulgar wooden mether?--no; I
insisted he should that instant go and fetch me an elegant glass rummer,
and here it is!”--_O’Keefe’s Recollections._

CUTTING OLD FRIENDS.

One of the most difficult things a person has to do, who is getting ahead
of the friends of his earlier and less prosperous years in the race of
fortune, is to rid himself of these friends--to get quit of persons whose
want of success in the world renders them no longer fit associates. The
thing is not easily done, for you have to maintain appearances. You have
to repel them gradually and gently, and in such a manner as to be able
to defy them to lay any particular act of rudeness, any positive act
of repulsion, to your charge. To manage the thing adroitly, therefore,
requires some genius and a good deal of tact.

The difficulty of accomplishing this great manœuvre in a prosperous
career, is much increased by the circumstance that as you advance your
ancient cronies throng the thicker and closer around you. They in fact
cling and cluster about you like so many bees, and with impertinent looks
of glee seek to express their satisfaction with your prosperity.

Now, it is a most desirable thing to get quit of these gentry--to have
them brushed off. But it would be rude to do this with the fly-flap
and the strong hand. You must get rid of them by more tact and
management. And after you have got rid of them, that is, driven them
from personal contact as it were, you have to continue to keep them at
a proper distance. No easy matter this, for somehow or other the obtuse
creatures, your poor former acquaintance, will not see, what you see very
distinctly, that you are now quite a superior sort of person to them, and
that they are no longer fit to be ranked amongst your friends. This the
perverse, dull-witted fellows will not see. And, more provoking still,
no degree of advancement in the world on your part, no acquisition of
wealth, will induce one of them, whatever you yourself may think to the
contrary, to contemplate you with a whit more respect than they did when
you were one of themselves. They insist on considering you merely as
having been more fortunate than themselves--not a bit better or a bit
cleverer.

Let us remark here, that the successful in the world are stout deniers of
the doctrine of chances. They maintain that there is no such a thing as
luck; while the unsuccessful, again, are firm believers in the doctrine,
and insist on it that not only is there such a thing as luck, but that
luck is every thing. The successful man’s vanity prompts him to attribute
his prosperity solely to his talents and merit--the unsuccessful
man’s self-love to deny that the want of these qualities has been his
hindrance. Hence the conflicting opinions of the two on this curious
subject. Then, where lies the truth? We suspect between.

From a good deal of experience in the science of “cutting” under the
circumstances alluded to in this paper--we shall not say whether as
cutters or cuttees--we have flattered ourselves that we could throw out a
few hints that might be found useful to gentlemen who are getting on in
the world, and who are desirous of ridding themselves of their earlier
and poorer friends. Under this supposition we offer the few following
remarks:--

For some time after you have started on the prosperous career on which
you have luckily fallen, continue to smile and bow towards your old
friends as formerly; and when you meet them accidentally (let this
be, however, as seldom as you possibly can), shake hands with them as
cordially as ever. You may even venture to remark, accompanying such
remark with an expression of regret, that they are prodigious strangers
now. But this is not quite safe ground, and we by no means advise its
general adoption. Conducting yourself in this way, your old friends will
never suspect that there is already a change working at your heart--a
secret operation as yet known only to yourself.

By and bye, throw the least, the very least thing of distance into your
greeting: let your smile be _apparently_ as cordial as formerly, but let
there now be a slight expression of the slightest degree possible of
coolness, of an indefinable something or other in your general manner of
a repulsive character: take care, however, that it _be_ indefinable--that
it be of a description that cannot be named.

This new feature in your bearing will probably startle the more shrewd
and observant of your former friends: but never mind that--it is
precisely the impression you desire to make. It is even possible that
some of them may express by _their_ manner towards _you_ a feeling of
irritation at your new mode of treating them. Meet it by an expression
of surprise at _their_ conduct, and by increased coolness. There is
now good ground for a quarrel--not open hostility, of course, but the
warfare of distant looks and haughty salutations. Improve it to the
utmost, and wonder what the fellows mean.

Observe that the whole of this nice process of dissolving former
associations is carried on without one angry or offensive word being
said on either side--without the slightest approach to an overt act
of hostility; you, particularly, being as bland as ever. The whole is
effected by look and manner alone.

To the gentleman who is rising in the world there are few things more
offensive than the familiarity of old acquaintanceship when presented
in the shape of notes and letters. Your old friends, still obstinately
overlooking your advancement in the world, will in all probability
continue to write to you when they have occasion to do so, in the
free-and-easy way of former days. They will even sometimes so far forget
themselves and you as to address you in a jocular strain. This must be
instantly put down. Do it by brief and grave replies; take no notice of
their jokes, and never attempt an approach to one in return. This in time
will cure them: if not, you must have recourse to stronger measures. You
must either not answer at all, or administer some decided dampers.

Should any of your former friends seek your patronage--a very probable
case--take an early opportunity, while doing him some trifling service,
of letting him feel sensibly your relative positions, all the while,
however, exhibiting towards him the most friendly dispositions. But
let him ever and anon feel the bit gently--let him feel that he has
got somebody on his back. Begin as soon as possible to lecture him in
a gentle way--all for his own good of course. Your character of patron
gives you a right to do this; and under this guise you can say the most
cutting things to him without affording him the slightest ground for
complaint. Under this guise you can address the most insulting language
to him, and defy him to take it amiss. If he should, however, you can
without any difficulty prove him to be one of the most ungrateful
monsters that ever lived. You were doing all you could for him, and
when you ventured to _advise_ him--having nothing but his own good at
heart--he chose to take offence at you, and to resent the friendly advice
you gave him. Such an ungrateful dog!

As few men can stand such treatment as that above alluded to long, we can
venture to promise you that by a steady course of proceeding in the way
we have pointed out, you will soon clear your hands of your old friends.

                                                                       C.

THE DIVORCED,[1] A TRANSLATION FROM THE MOLDAVIAN.

“Ah! what a fatal gift from Heaven is a too sensitive heart!”--ROUSSEAU.

    What is that yonder shimmering so?
    Can it be swans? Can it be snow?
    If it were swans they would move, I trow,
    If it were snow it had melted ere now.
    No: it is Ibrahim Aga’s tent--
    There lies the warrior, wounded and spent.
    Mother and sisters tend him there
    Night and morn with busiest care;
    His wife alone--through shame or grief--
    Stays away from the suffering Chief.

    Wherefore, as soon as his illness was gone,
    Wrote he thus to the Sensitive One--
    “Go thy way from my house and hearth,
    And bide with the mother that gave thee birth.”

    Sad was Ayoob at the sudden word!
    It pierced her tender heart like a sword.
    Hark! the sound of a charger’s tramp--
    Ibrahim, then, is come from the camp!
    So she fancies, and, in her despair,
    Thinks she will scale the turret-stair,
    And dash herself down from the castle-wall,
    When, lo! her two little daughters call--
    “It isn’t our father, mother dear!
    This is our uncle, Djaffar-al-Meer.”

    Turning around, the weeping mother
    Flings her arms about her brother--
    “Oh, brother! that this black day should arrive!
    Oh, how can I leave these helpless five?”

    But, cold and wordless, as one who has yet
    To study Compassion, or feel Remorse,
    The brother draws forth, all shiningly set
    In silk and gold, the Brief of Divorce,
    And sternly he states the Law’s command--
    That again she return to her kindred and land,
    Free once more to dispose of her hand.

    The mother’s heart felt breaking, for now
    All hope was buried;--she could not speak--
    She kissed her two little boys on the brow,
    And her two little girls she kissed on the cheek,
    While the babe in the cradle--unconscious child!--
    Held out its diminutive arms, and smiled!

    The iron Djaffar would wait no more--
    His barb was pawing the earth at the door:
    “Up, woman!” he cried--and they galloped away,
    And reached their home by the close of day.

    But there not long she pined alone,
    For, barely a week was over and gone
    When many a suitor came to sue;
    Kapitans, Beys, and Agas too,
    Came to see her and staid to woo.

    And Djaffar saw that the richest of all
    Was the noble Khadi of Nourjahaul.

    Afresh for sorrow were hourly shed
    The bitter tears of the mourner then:
    “I pray thee, brother,” she sadly said,
    “Give me not in marriage agen!
    My broken heart would cease to beat
    Should I and the children chance to meet.”

    But Djaffar was ever the Man of Steel--
    The morrow, he vowed, should see her a wife!
    “Then, hear me, brother!--thy sister’s life
    Hangs upon this her last appeal!
    Write to the Khadi thus, I entreat--
    ‘Health from Ayoob to her lordly lover!
    Send, she prays thee, a veil to cover
    Her sorrowful figure from head to feet,
    Lest, while passing the Aga’s door,
    Her children greet her as heretofore.’”

    The letter was sent, and the veil came home;
    And by noon on the morrow the bride was arrayed;
    And a gorgeous train and cavalcade
    Set out for the Khadi’s palace-dome.
    They journeyed till sunset purpled the sky,
    And now, alas! her trial is nigh--
    Her trial is nigh, her bosom is swelling;
    They come within sight of Ibrahim’s dwelling--
    They near the gates--ah, well-a-day!
    Her children cannot mistake their mother--
    “Mamma! Mamma! ah, don’t go away!”
    They cry, and their voices drown one another.

    That mother groaned in her wretchedness!
    “Live long!” she said, “my Lord and Master!
    Mayest thou ever defy Disaster!
    May thy shadow never be less!
    Bid, I implore thee, the cavalcade wait
    A moment in front of the Aga’s gate,
    While I go into the house, and leave
    Some gifts with my little ones, lest they grieve.”

    Silently then, like a ghost from the tombs,
    She enters once more the remembered rooms,
    Gives to her sons little gold-laced boots,
    Gives to her daughters little kapoots,[2]
    And leaves with the babe in the cradle-bed
    Some toys and a basket of sugar-bread.

    Now, the desolate father was standing apart,
    And he marked that she neither spake nor sighed,
    And Agony wrung his manly heart--
    “Come, come to me, hither, my children!” he cried,
    “For I see that your mother’s bosom is grown
    Colder and harder than marble stone.”

    But, as soon as Ayoob heard Ibrahim speak,
    And saw her children turning away,
    She fell on the floor without a shriek,
    And without a stir on the floor she lay;
    And the funeral-wailers of Islambol
    Were chanting ere night the hymn for her soul.[3]

                                                                       M.

[1] The incidents of this narrative are founded on fact.

[2] Cloaks.

[3] The popular notion that the Mohammedans deny immortality to the souls
of women is altogether a mistake, as will be apparent to any one who
takes the trouble of looking through the Koran.

OROHOO, THE FAIRY MAN, A REMINISCENCE OF CONNAUGHT.

Were we to believe the chronicles of our grandmothers, Ireland at one
period was held in fee-simple by witches, warlocks, white ladies,
fairies, and leprahauns; the earth, the air, and the sky, were peopled by
them; every crumbling and desolate cabin on the sterile moor or common
was tenanted by a witch; while the margins of our beautiful loughs, the
bosoms of our silent and sequestered glens, the recesses of our romantic
mountain valleys, the echoing walls of every mouldering edifice, and the
mystic circle of each rude hill-fort, were the chosen habitations of
unearthly beings.

Nor was this belief held by the uneducated alone; many who moved in
respectable situations in society were infected by it; and otherwise
sensible and well-informed people on this head were deaf to the voice
of reason and the dictates of common sense, and would as soon doubt
the truth of Holy Writ as the existence of supernatural agency; and so
interwoven was the superstition in the social system, that no event could
happen poor mortality from the cradle to the grave, in which the _good
people_ were not implicated for good or evil. Did the head or a member
of a leading family die, the wail of the banshee was sure to be heard in
the twilight. Was a favourite child smitten with disease, the beautiful,
the beloved one was believed to be changed for a squalling, ravenous,
and decrepid starveling. Did your cattle pine, or was your dairy not
productive, your cows were either elf-shot or bewitched. Was the wife of
your bosom snatched away in her bloom, in the most interesting though
dangerous moment of her existence, the fairies were whispered to be the
authors of your misfortune--to have spirited her off, and to have left in
her stead a wooden substitute.

Well do I remember the thrill of fear, mingled with a degree of
pleasurable awe, with which I listened some forty years since to the
narratives of a venerable aunt, who was lingering out the evening of her
existence at my father’s fireside--her only occupation being, rocking
the cradle and keeping the youngsters from mottling their shins. She
was an experienced dame, and withal pious, but would as soon doubt her
own identity as that of witches and fairies, and her memory was well
stored with instances of their interference. These I then believed most
implicitly, particularly as in many of them “the family” was concerned.
She could relate how her grandfather one morning detected a hare in the
act of milking one of his cows, which he fired at and wounded, and on
tracking the blood, discovered it to flow from the thigh of an old crone
who inhabited a neighbouring hovel. She also could tell how an elder
brother had surprised a leprahaun in the act of making shoes for the
gentle people--could describe his dress minutely, and how he had escaped
captivity by making a feint with his awl at my uncle’s eye, and causing
him to wink when in the very act of seizing him, and thereby marred his
fortune. She also knew a child which was taken from its mother’s arms at
night, but luckily was missed before he could be conveyed through the
key-hole, and on the outcry of the bereaved parent, was dropped “with a
whack” on the floor uninjured. It never occurred to her that probably
the child had rolled out of the bed accidentally. There was another tale
often related by her, which it would be worse than heresy to doubt, as
she knew the parties intimately.

An honest man named John M’Kinstrey, who resided near Maheraveely,
in the county Monaghan, was once compelled to leave his warm bed in
“the witching time of night,” on a certain pressing occasion, and ride
post-haste for a worthy dame whose assistance was indispensable. While
returning with the “howdy” safely stowed on an ample pillion behind,
he heard the strokes of an axe reverberating through a neighbouring
wood, and voices in conversation. Curiosity prompted him to draw up and
listen, when he distinctly heard the question asked, “What are you doing
to-night?” and to his dismay the answer was responded, “I’m making a
wife for Jack M’Kinstrey.” “Faith,” said Jack, “you’ll make no wife for
me, my man--I’ll do very well with the one I have;” and giving his good
beast the spur, regardless of the neck, bones, or outcry of his freight,
he never drew rein until he had his better half clasped in his arms,
where he held her in a death’s-grip until the crisis was over, and thus
baulked the fairies.

Thus was the whole system of society pervaded by the idea of supernatural
influence; and the consequence was an undefinable dread and fear, hanging
like the sword of Damocles over the heads of all, and embittering
existence. ’Tis true the evil was only imaginary, but not on that
account the less hurtful; for, being a mental malady, it was the more
difficult to be counteracted or eradicated, and often led to real anxiety
and distress, as in the care of M’Kinstrey, whose ideas being full of
witchcraft and fairy freaks, never reflected that the noise and voices
he had heard might be a practical joke of some of his neighbours, and in
consequence suffered all the suspense and trouble incident to real danger.

But the diffusion of useful knowledge and the dissemination of sound
education among all classes, has latterly effected a mighty change in
the intellectual powers of the people. Such reveries as those referred
to, though sometimes used to “adorn a tale,” are now unheeded; and there
are few indeed who would harbour for a moment in sincerity the absurd
idea of evil agency. There may be, ’tis true, some exceptions--a few old
women may be still haunted by the sprites of other days, and in some
remote districts a belief in witchcraft certainly prevails, ingrafted by
early prejudices, and fostered and kept alive by the practices of knaves,
who profess to avert the effects by counter-charms, and live, like many
others, on the credulity of the public; but, generally speaking, the
thing is defunct--gone to the moles and the bats.

But there is an exception. In several districts in Ireland, in Connaught
especially, an idea is very prevalent that it is in the power of
evil-disposed persons to deprive their neighbours of their milk or
butter. This is said to be done in various ways, the most usual being
the use of a corpse hand, which is kept shrivelled and dried to stir
the milk and gather the butter. Another plan is to follow the cows on a
May morning, and gather the soil which drops from between their cloots.
Another, by collecting the froth which forms on a stream running through
their pasture, and milking your own cow on it. Indeed, the means used are
represented to be so simple, that the very absurdity of the matter is its
own refutation.

Yet it is believed in, and that firmly; and in order to prove that such
is the case, and also expose the trickery and legerdemain by which some
knaves succeed in throwing dust in the eyes of the natives, I will relate
an occurrence in which I was concerned; and to open the matter fully in
all its ramifications, windings, and train of circumstantials, I trust I
will be pardoned if I enter into a rather minute detail, the rather as
I confess I was for a short time myself almost inclined to credit its
existence--in short, believed myself the dupe of a fairy man.

Some time since I resided in the neighbourhood of the “plains of Boyle,”
a celebrated pasture country, and was the possessor of a cow whose milk
and butter were plentiful in quantity and excellent in quality, and
materially contributed to the comforts of my family. She was a beautiful
and a gentle creature; and I flattered myself that in her I possessed the
foundress of a numerous herd, and the germ of a profitable and extensive
dairy.

As before observed, the idea was very prevalent there that it was in the
power of evil-disposed persons to deprive you of your milk and butter,
and I heard many complaints of the kind; the general voice fastened the
imputation on a woman who lived in the vicinity, who was locally termed
“the Hawk,” and certainly the fire of her eye and the sharpness of her
beak justified the appellation: she was a comely middle-aged person, in
rather easy circumstances, her husband being a small farmer; but he lay
under the suspicion of being concerned in a murder some time before. She
was a reputed witch, and the entire family were disliked and avoided.

One morning in the month of January, I was informed that a woman had come
into my kitchen, who occupied herself in watching the motions of the
family, without stating her business. On going down, I found her well
dressed and well looking, but with a very sinister cast of countenance.
On asking if she wanted me, she said she had heard I was in want of
some geese, and that she had a few to dispose of. “How many?” said I.
“A goose and a gander,” she replied. “How much do you want for them?”
“Seven-and-sixpence.” “Seven-and-sixpence!” I exclaimed in surprise, as
the usual price then was from one shilling to one-and-sixpence each.
“Why, how many have you?” as I really thought I had made a mistake in the
number. “A goose and a gander,” said she. “And do you suppose me to be a
goose to give such a price as that?” said I. “Oh!” said she, “they are
good geese, and only I wish to serve you, I would not offer them at all.”
“Indeed! I am much obliged by your good wishes,” said I; “but as I think
you want to impose upon me, you must take your geese to another market,
for I will not have them at any price, and the sooner you take yourself
off the better.” She got highly offended, muttered something about my
being sorry for refusing them, and went away in high dudgeon; and after
she was gone, I found it was “the Hawk” who had favoured me with the
visit.

On the same morning, a gang of strollers, consisting of tinkers,
chimney-sweeps, a brace or two of beggars, and a piper, had pitched their
tent on the road side, a short distance from my residence; the members
of the party had distributed themselves over the surrounding district in
pursuit of their various avocations; it also happened to be churning-day,
and my wife having set her vessels in order, was proceeding with her
lacteal operations favourably--the milk had cracked, the butter was
expected--when the sound of music was heard; the piper attached to the
party had come to give us a specimen of his skill; he favoured us with a
few Connaught planxties, was duly rewarded, and departed. Shortly after
he was gone, two buxom baggages, brown and bare-legged, with cans in
their hands, kerchiefs on their heads, and huge massive rings on their
fingers, came and demanded an alms. They were told there was nothing
then ready, on which one of them asked a drink. “I have nothing to
offer you but water,” said my wife, “until the churning’s done.” “Well,
water itself,” said she; on getting which, she took a sup or two, put
the remainder in her can, and went off; and, strange as it may seem, my
butter went too. And from that day in January until May eve following,
not a morsel had we from our beautiful Brownie.

As I did not put any faith in witchcraft, I was willing to attribute
this to some natural cause affecting the cow, though the milk showed no
perceptible change in either quantity or quality; neither did she exhibit
any symptoms of ailment or disorder, except that she began to cast her
hair. She was well supplied with good fodder, comfortably lodged, and
well attended, and every possible care taken of the milk, but all to no
purpose; the butter was not forthcoming; and for my incredulity I was
laughed at by my neighbours. “Your cow is bewitched,” cried they; “and
you may as well throw chaff against the wind, as think you will get your
butter back, till you get the charm.” Some said “the Hawk” had it, some
that the gipsy took it away in her can, and others that it followed the
piper. Be that as it may, I had to eat my bread butterless, and brood
over my loss, without even the comfort of common condolence.

Various were the counter-charms recommended for my adoption. “Send for
Fraser the Scotchman from beyond the Lough,” said one; “he fears neither
man nor fiend, and he will surely get it.” “Send for ‘the Hawk,’ and clip
a bit off her ear,” said another. “Let them keep their mouths full of
water, and never speak while they are churning,” said a third. In short,
I found there were as many ways of getting it back, as there were of
losing it--all equally simple, and probably as efficacious.

Thus matters continued until the early part of the month of April, when
one morning a man called, who desired to see me. I found him a light,
active, cute-looking fellow, low in stature and spare in habit, but
sinewy, well set and well knit, and regularly smoke-dried. He was pretty
well clad in frieze, cord breeches, and yarn stockings and pumps; his
caubeen on one side, a cutty in his mouth, and a certain jauntiness in
his air, and crafty audacity in his look, which seemed to say, “I’d have
you to know I’m a clever fellow.”

“So,” said he at once without preamble, “so you’ve lost your butter.”

“Yes,” said I, “’tis certainly gone.”

“Well, if you like, I’ll get it for you. My name is OROHOO (O’Hara); I
live at Sliev Bawn--the people call me the Fairy man--I can find things
that’s stole--and I keep the _garvally_.”

“Indeed!” said I: “why, you must be a clever fellow: but can you get my
butter?”

“Not a doubt of it,” said he, “if it is in the country.”

I had heard of the garvally before, which was described as “a crooked
thing like the handle of an umbrella, covered with green baize.” It was
formerly in much repute for swearing on; “and a terrible thing it was,
for if you swore falsely and it round your neck, your mouth would turn
to the back of your head, or you’d get such a throttling as you’d never
get the better of.” It had latterly, however, lost much of its virtue, or
rather of its fame, by an unbelieving vagabond yoking it on and swearing
to a manifest falsehood, without suffering any visible inconvenience. But
to return to Orohoo.

He made no stipulation; but requiring a deep plate, some water and salt,
with a little of the cow’s milk, he commenced by desiring my wife and me
to stand forward. He then asked our names, if I was the owner of the cow,
how long I had had her, if that woman was my wife, when we had lost our
butter, and if we suspected any person for taking it. To these queries I
answered as was necessary; but to the last I replied, I did not believe
in witchcraft.

“Don’t you believe in fairies?” he asked.

“Scarcely,” said I.

“No matter,” said he; “maybe before I’m done you will believe in them.”

He then in a very solemn manner poured some water into the plate at three
several times, thus--“In the name of the Father,” a drop; “in the name
of the Son,” ditto; “in the name of the Holy Ghost,” ditto. He added the
milk in the same manner, and then sprinkled in the salt, using the same
formula. He now stirred round the mixture three times with his finger,
repeating the words as before, and desired us to do the same. To this
I demurred, for I did not wish to evince any faith in the proceeding,
by taking an active part; but he combated my scruples by asking “was
it not done in a good name?” Certainly for so far I saw nothing very
objectionable, and my wife feeling no scruple on the subject, at their
joint persuasion I did as directed.

He next made the sign of the cross over the plate with his hands, and,
waving them over his head, cut several curious figures in the air, at
the same time muttering an unintelligible jargon I could not understand,
but which, as I could catch a sound or syllable, bore a close affinity
to what is called bog Latin. Gradually he became much excited; he raved
like a demon, stamped with his feet, and threatened with his fists: now
his tones were those of supplication or entreaty, anon of abjuration or
command; while his eye seemed fixed upon and to follow the motions of
some to us invisible being, with which he appeared to hold converse.
Suddenly he gave an unearthly scream, as if in an agony of terror and
perturbation, and, holding up his hands as in the act of warding off a
threatened danger, he retreated backwards round the room, pursued, as
it seemed, by an implacable enemy. Gradually he regained the spot he
had left, turned himself to the four cardinal points, making the sign
of the cross at each turn, dipped his fingers in the mixture, devoutly
blessed himself, anointing his forehead, shoulders, and breast, regained
his self-possession, raised his hands and eyes in an attitude of fervent
thankfulness to heaven, wiped the perspiration which profusely streamed
from his brow with the cuff of his coat, gradually recovered his breath,
and from a state of the greatest possible excitement became calm and
collected.

Now, this was all acting, to be sure, but it was inimitably done, and
I confess, even armed as I was with unbelief, it made a very powerful
impression on me. I acknowledge I did not feel at all comfortable. I did
not like the idea of being in the same room with the evil one, who to all
appearance was chasing my friend the conjuror round and round it. I felt
an indescribable sensation of dread creeping over me, and, if I mistake
not, there were a few drops of perspiration on my brow; and my hair, of
which I have not a superabundance, to my apprehension began to get stiff
and wiry. My wife, too, clung closely to my side for protection, and the
agitation of her mind was evident by the audible action of her heart,
which in that case beat only responsive to my own.

Having taken breath, he asked for a ribbon, which he passed over his
forehead and round his head, and, bringing the ends in front, knotted it
over his nose; then twining it round his fingers in the manner children
call a cat’s cradle, he knelt down and peered through it attentively into
the mixture, which I imagined at the moment fermented and sent up a blue
vapour. After gazing a few seconds in this manner,

“Aha!” said he, “she is not far off that has your butter; bring me a
lighted candle,” which on being brought he placed in the plate. “Now,”
said he, “both of you kneel down; do as I do, and say as I say, and
we’ll have her here directly.”

“No,” said I decidedly, “we will not.”

I thought we had gone far enough, and was convinced that if what we
were engaged in was not an unholy act, it was at least a piece of gross
deception, and I would not countenance it by any further participation.

“Why,” exclaimed he, “don’t you want to get your butter?”

“Yes,” said I, “I would like to have my butter, but I don’t choose to
resort to a charm to obtain it.”

“No doubt this is a charm,” said he, “but it is done in a good name; and
I have done it before for as good as ever you were.”

“So much the worse,” I replied; “that holy name should never be profaned
in such a manner, and I am sorry any person would be so wicked or so
foolish as to encourage you in your tricks. I neither like you nor your
proceedings, and the sooner you go about your business the better.”

He started to his feet in a passion, blew out the candle, seized the
plate, and attempted to throw the contents into the fireplace; but my
wife, who did not wish her hearth to be wet, took it from him and laid it
past. He fumed and stormed, said I let him take a great deal of trouble
on my account, and insisted on proceeding; but I was determined, and,
being considerably chafed and annoyed by the transaction, I again ordered
him off, and left him.

In a few moments I heard the noise of a violent altercation and scuffle,
and I was loudly called on. I hastened to the scene of contention, and
found my wife holding Orohoo by the neck, and preventing his departure.
“What’s all this?” I exclaimed. “This fellow,” said she, “when he was
going, took a live coal out of the grate, and told me to take care of my
children.” This he stiffly denied, until confronted by the servant, and I
threatened to give him up to the police as an impostor, when he quailed,
and acknowledged that he had said so, but that he meant no harm by it.
“And sure,” said he, “there’s no harm in bidding you mind them; for if
your cow was hurt, so may your children. You’re not treating me well,”
he continued; “I came at the bidding of a friend to do you a good turn,
and asked nothing for it, and now you’re putting me out; you’ll be glad
to see me yet, though. But take my advice: never throw out your Sunday’s
ashes until Tuesday morning, and always sweep your floor in from the door
to the hearth.” And away he went.

My heart now beat easy, for I thought we had fairly got rid of the
fairy man; but I was to be still further mystified and bewildered. On
examining the plate over which he had performed his incantations, we
found the contents to be thick, yellow, and slimy, with a red sediment
like globules of blood at the bottom. This seemed extraordinary, as I
certainly watched him closely, and did not see him put any thing into the
plate but milk, water, and salt.

The month now drew near a close, and our bread was still butterless. This
often caused the morsel to stick in the throat of my poor dear partner,
who felt none of the scruples of conscience with which I was affected,
and firmly believed, her cow was bewitched. “Here we are day after day
losing, our substance, and might have it only for your squeamishness in
not letting the fairy man finish his job.” Thus she would argue, and
hesitated not to call me a fool, nay, a downright ass; and indeed my
neighbours were much of the same opinion: one of them, a respectable
farmer’s wife, was particularly pertinacious. “My Robin,” said she one
evening, as they were harping on the old string, “my Robin was down
in Sligo, and he heard that if you got the coulter of a plough, and
made it red-hot in the fire, while you were churning the butter would
come back; or if you chose to churn on Sunday morning before the lark
sings, you will surely get it.” “Tempt me no more with your spells or
Sabbath-breaking; I will have none of them,” said I, impatiently; “I will
never barter my peace of mind for a pound of butter, if I should never
eat a morsel.”

But, in truth, my peace of mind was gone, for the continual urging and
yammering I was subjected to made me heartily sick, and I inwardly
resolved to sell the cow the first opportunity, and so end the matter.

On May eve, in the afternoon, I had occasion to leave home for a short
time, and on my return was rather surprised to find all the windows
closed and the door locked against me. I knocked and called for
admittance, but received no answer; and hearing the noise of churning
going on within, “fast and furious,” the truth flashed across my mind;
and lamenting my wife’s credulity, I retired to the garden to await
the result. In a short time she came running out like one demented,
clapping her hands and screaming, “Oh! we’ve got the butter, we’ve got
the butter!” and on going in I found a coulter phizzing and sparkling at
a white heat in the fire, an ass’s shoe (which had been found a few days
previously) under the churn, my worthy neighbour aforesaid standing over
it, panting and blowing from the exertions she had made on my behoof,
and wiping the dew-drops from her really comely countenance, and in the
churn, floating like lumps of gold in a sea of silver, as fine a churning
of butter as ever we were blessed with.

Well, I own I was staggered, and being triumphantly asked, “Now, is there
no witchcraft or virtue in a red-hot coulter?” I could scarcely muster up
courage to utter “No.” In vain I protested the butter came back because
“Brownie” got back to her pasture, in consequence of the change in her
feeding, from dry fodder to the mellow and genial produce of spring, as
the loss at first was owing to the transition from grass to hay. ’Twas
to no purpose to argue thus: all else were positive it was otherwise;
but whether the virtue was in Orohoo’s incantations, the efficacy of
the red-hot coulter, the influence of the ass’s shoe, or the tremendous
pommelling the milk was subjected to on the occasion, no one could
exactly say.

A few days after, I conversed on the subject with an intelligent person,
a herd in charge of an extensive stock farm. After hearing my story to
an end, he indulged in a hearty laugh at my expense. “Faith,” said he,
“I took you for a sensible man, and did not suppose you would credit
such folly.” “I’d as soon believe my mother was a bishop,” said I, “as
put any faith in it some time ago. But how can I get over the chain of
circumstantial evidence?--not a link of it wanting. First, ‘the Hawk’
coming with her seven-and-sixpenny geese, then the gipsies and the piper,
and losing my butter just then.” “’Tis very easy,” said he, “to account
for it. In the first place, you took your cow from grass and fed her on
hay.” “Yes, but she had plenty of winter cabbage, and we gave her boiled
potatoes.” “Just the thing; cabbage is good for plenty of milk, but not
for butter. I’ll engage you gave her the potatoes warm.” “Yes.” “And she
got a scour?” “Indeed she did, and her hair fell off.” “So I thought. And
afterwards she got in good condition?” “Yes.” “Oh! ay, she put her butter
on her ribs. Did you kill a pig at Christmas?” “I did.” “Where did you
put your bacon in press?” “Why, under the shelf in the dairy.” “Now the
murder is out! Never as long as you live put meat, either fresh or salt,
near your milk-vessels; if you do, you will surely spoil your milk and
lose your butter.” “This may account for my loss, but what have you to
say to its coming back?” “Why, what’s to hinder it, when your bacon is
in the chimney and your cow at grass?” “But the red blobs in the plate,
and Orohoo fighting the devil for me, what do you say to that?” Here he
gave way to such a violent fit of laughter that I really thought he would
burst the waistband of his doe-skins. “Orohoo! ha! ha!--Orohoo! ha! ha!
ha!--the greatest villain that ever breathed. He came to me one time that
I had a cow sick, and said she was fairy-smitten, and that he would cure
her. He began with his tricks with the milk and water, just the same
as he did with you; but I watched him closer; and when I saw the smoke
rising out of the plate, I got him by the neck, shook a little bottle
of vitriol out of the cuff of his coat, and took a paper of red earthy
powder out of his waistcoat pocket.” I looked aghast and confounded. Was
I, then, the dupe of the fairy man? The thought was humiliating, and
I even wished that I had remained in ignorance, but on reflection had
reason to congratulate myself that it was only a temporary lapse, and
that I was right in my original opinion, that, except the witchery of a
pair of blue languishers, or the fairy spell of a silver-tongued syren,
there is now no evil of the kind to be apprehended.

                                                                       A.

FASHION IS A POOR VOCATION.--Its creed, that idleness is a privilege, and
work a disgrace, is among the deadliest errors. Without depth of thought,
or earnestness of feeling, or strength of purpose, living an unreal
life, sacrificing substance to show, substituting the fictitious for
the natural, mistaking a crowd for society, finding its chief pleasure
in ridicule, and exhausting its ingenuity in expedients for killing
time, fashion is among the last influences under which a human being who
respects himself, or who comprehends the great end of life, would desire
to be placed.

THE MAGNETIC POLES.

The unwearied spirit of scientific research which so peculiarly marks the
times in which we live, has ascertained the positions of the northern and
southern magnetic poles to a degree of almost mathematical precision.
This discovery will be hailed with pleasure by every person at all
acquainted with the benefits derived to society by the labours of those
gifted individuals who have devoted their thoughts more particularly
to the study of this most abstruse and mysterious branch of physical
knowledge. The position of the northern magnetic pole was determined by
Sir John Ross, in his second northern expedition, fitted out at the sole
expense of a British merchant, to be in 70 degrees 5 minutes 17 seconds
north latitude, and 96 degrees 46 minutes 45 seconds west longitude,
near the western coast of the newly discovered tract named, after the
individual through whose munificence the boundaries of science have been
thus enlarged, Boothia Felix. Its place is now marked on the globes and
maps of the world published since the navigator’s announcement of the
solution of this long-sought-for problem. The day of the discovery was
the 1st of June 1831.

The position of the southern magnetic pole has not yet been ascertained
to so great a degree of precision. Excited by a noble spirit of emulation
caused by the success of the expedition fitted out by Mr Booth and led
by Sir John Ross, three expeditions have been fitted out to complete the
solution of the problem--to fix the position of the southern magnetic
pole, as that of the northern had been already fixed. The parties in
this noble rivalry are Great Britain, France, and the United States.
The British magnetic expedition, under Captain James Ross, sailed on
the 5th of May for Van Diemen’s Land. The only notices as yet received
of its progress are, that soundings were obtained at the depth of 3600
fathoms in the South Atlantic, about 900 miles S.S.W. of St Helena; and
again at the depth of 2680 fathoms, at 450 miles west of the Cape of
Good Hope. A dispatch from Captain Dumont d’Urville, commandant of the
French expedition, to the Minister of the Marine, details all the leading
particulars of his voyage, by which it appears that he has nearly though
not altogether succeeded in solving this part of the problem. On the 1st
of January the expedition sailed from Hobart Town in a southern direction
for 1350 miles, and in the latitude of 60 degrees south met with the
first island of ice, and shortly afterwards discovered land ranging
nearly along the south polar circle, and, as far as the navigator’s
observations went, between 136 degrees and 142 degrees east longitude.
The appearance was that of an ice-bound, barren coast, wholly unfit for
the habitation of man. The snow and ice which covered it gave its surface
an almost level appearance. Farther inward nothing was to be perceived
but ravines, inlets, and projections, without a trace of vegetation.
Whales, large porpoises, fur-seals, albatrosses, and petrels and penguins
of different species, were seen near the shore. The commander gave this
newly discovered coast the name of Terre Adelie. “This name,” he says in
his dispatch, “was intended to perpetuate the remembrance of my profound
gratitude for the devoted companion who has three times consented to
a long and painful separation, to enable me to achieve my projects of
foreign exploration.” On the 1st of February, in 65 degrees 20 minutes
south latitude, and 131 degrees east longitude, the expedition crossed
the meridian of no variation; and the magnetic observations afforded
the means of determining that the position of the magnetic pole must be
in the neighbouring land of Adelie itself, or on the compact ice which
adjoined it. Having so far succeeded in attaining the main object of his
mission, Captain Dumont bade a final adieu to these dreary regions, and
steered for Hobart Town, where he arrived on the 17th of February, after
an absence of forty-six days, having lost sight of the ice altogether in
the parallel of 57 degrees south latitude.

The American expedition, under Captain Wilkes, has been equally
successful in discovering the south polar island or continent, for
its geographical character has not yet been ascertained. The land was
first seen in 64 degrees 50 minutes south latitude, and 154 degrees 18
minutes east longitude, by a singular coincidence precisely on the same
day, 19th January, that it had been observed by the French navigator;
and Wilkes was enabled to run along the shore, for about 1700 miles, as
far as 97 degrees 45 minutes east longitude, so near the land as often
to find soundings with a few fathoms of line, and to be able to carry
away several valuable geological specimens of the rocks and soil. His
description of the appearance of the coast corresponds with that already
given.

Whether any immediate beneficial results, practically applicable to
the improvement of commerce and colonization, will accrue from these
discoveries, may be doubtful, but the experience of the era in which we
live forbids us to reject the prospect of ultimate benefits to society
from any discovery tending to enlarge the bounds of science, though
the means by which they are to be sought for are still out of sight.
The discovery of the extensive line of coast ranging nearly along the
south polar circle, serves in some degree to realize the conjectures
of former geographers, who, observing that by much the greater mass
of known land was in the northern hemisphere, laid down the position
that there must lie a countervailing quantity of land somewhere in the
southern hemisphere; so fully convinced were they of the existence of
this fancied continent, that in the maps constructed by Herman Moll and
other scientific artists of his time, the coast is laid down in a line
nearly corresponding in latitude with that of Terre Adelie, and continued
round the globe, so as to represent the whole of the south frigid zone
as a continent, on which they inscribe the name of Terra Australia
Incognita--the unknown southern region. With those who originated the
supposition, this unknown region was a mere creature of the imagination.
They were in possession of no facts to prove its reality; yet it is
singular that in this, as well as in many other fictions, the ideal
creature of the fancy has been discovered to have some foundation in the
realities of existence.

PAYING DOWN UPON THE NAIL.--The origin of this phrase is thus stated in
the Recollections of O’Keefe the dramatist:--“During the Limerick assizes
I saw a stuffed glove, about four feet long, hanging out from the top
of the Exchange, nearly across the main street; this was the accustomed
token that for a week or a fortnight, whilst the courts were sitting, no
debtor could be arrested. Debtor or creditor, this was a good thing for
the theatres, as during that time the city was thronged. An ample piazza
under the Exchange was a thoroughfare: in the centre stood a pillar about
four feet high, and upon it a circular plate of copper about three feet
in diameter; this was called _the nail_, and on it was paid the earnest
for any commercial bargains made, which was the origin of the saying,
‘Paid down upon the nail.’” Perhaps, however, the custom was common to
other ancient towns.

GENERAL USE OF TEA IN CHINA.--In China an ardent spirit is made from
rice, and called sam-shu, of which punch is made in a coffee-pot, and it
is drunk out of China cups; but the natives are not much addicted to its
use, a simple infusion of tea being the general beverage of all classes.
At all hours of the day the artisan, as he sits at work, has his little
tea-pot and miniature cup beside him, out of which he quaffs a little
at pleasure, or presents a cup to his visitor. The more refined class
make the infusion in cups, in the manner already described. After this
process, as nothing is allowed to go to waste in China, the tea-leaves
are collected, dried, and rolled up again, and sold to the English and
Americans, under the denomination of hyson mun-dun-go; that is, tea
having neither taste nor smell. None of this tea is sold in England under
its proper name, being for the most part mixed with other kinds, and thus
brought into the market. I never saw green tea used in the houses of the
natives, or of the Fanqui merchants, where of course the best kinds were
to be had. The fact is, the consumption of green tea is for the most
part confined to the lower orders and the opium smokers, who require
its stimulating effects to settle the disturbed state of their nervous
system; and with us it is found to correct the effects of an over-dose of
opium--_Dr Fulton’s Travelling Sketches._

PROGRESSION.--He that is good may hope to become better--he that is bad
may fear that he will become worse; for vice, virtue, and time, never
stand still.--_Colton._

“A great lie,” says the poet Crabbe, “is like a great fish on dry land;
it may fret and fling, and make a frightful bother, but it cannot hurt
you. You have only to keep still, and it will die of itself.”

    Printed and Published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at
    the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane,
    College Green, Dublin.--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley,
    Paternoster Row, London; SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street,
    Manchester; C. DAVIES, North John Street, Liverpool; J.
    DRAKE, Birmingham; M. BINGHAM, Broad Street, Bristol; FRASER
    and CRAWFORD, George Street, Edinburgh; and DAVID ROBERTSON,
    Trongate, Glasgow.