BERTHA’S VISIT. (continued 3)

I will mention, however, a curious circumstance that my uncle told me as we were passing among the monstrous pillars of the nave: an attempt was made not very long ago to reduce them in size, or to chisel them into cluster columns; but they were found to be only hollow cases of masonry filled with loose stones. I could not help feeling glad that it had failed, for the contrast of their heavy, solid appearance, with the light elegance of the cloisters, I think improves each other. The choir is beautiful; and often as my aunt and uncle had seen them, they could not help stopping to admire the carved work and tracery of the stalls.

This fine cathedral was begun in the eleventh century, the cloisters were added in the fourteenth, and the west front was not completed till the fifteenth. My uncle took the opportunity of shewing me the different styles of Gothic architecture belonging to those periods; and on our road home, he explained the principal distinctions between the Saxon, Norman, and English styles, and the gradual alteration of the circular, sharp pointed, and flat arches. The subject was entirely new to me, but I felt so much interest in it that he has promised hereafter to go through a little course of architecture with me, from the Egyptian and Grecian to the Roman and Gothic.

25th.—We were talking to-day about the impressions of plants perceptible in coal, and I asked my uncle to tell me what plants they were; he referred me to Miss Perceval, who says that it appears from the researches of several German botanists, and particularly from those of Dr. Martius, that some of the Brazilian plants, which are so familiar to us, dear mamma, seem to have such a resemblance to those impressions, that there can be scarcely a doubt of their identity.

“The tree ferns,” she said, “exhibit several characters in common with those ancient plants; one species in particular, the stem of which having a remarkable tessellated or chequered appearance, exactly represents some of the petrified forms found in the German coal mines. Dr. Martius describes ten different kinds of fern found in coal, each distinctly marked by some of those peculiarities which distinguish the living plants.

“As very numerous examples of the arborescent as well as the herbaceous ferns occur in the coal formation, it can scarcely be doubted that this order of plants was formerly much more numerous than it is now; and that the forests of the primitive world were abundantly stocked with them.”

“That is the more probable,” said my uncle, “as there is reason to suppose that ferns were among the first plants that spread over the surface of the globe, and that they were the basis of a more general vegetation, by preparing the ground for others. Their large fronds probably deriving as much nourishment from the atmosphere as from the earth; while their annual decay rapidly increases or improves the productive soil.”

“I do not mean, however,” said Miss Perceval, “that the antediluvian woods consisted entirely of ferns; for the remains of many other plants, and of some large trees, are found mixed with those of fern—just as the living woods of the equinoctial regions, though very rich in ferns, consist of a great variety of plants of all sizes. Several specimens of palms, and of bambusæ, have been discovered; and the cactus is another tribe which appears very abundantly amongst these petrifactions.”

“And I believe,” said my uncle, “that the remark I made respecting ferns may be repeated of those tribes,—that they are furnished with a singular structure of organs adapted for respiration, and thereby for inhaling nutritious juices from the atmosphere.”

“Yes,” said Miss P., “Saussure found that a single leaf of the cactus opuntia inhaled four cubic inches of oxygen in the course of a night from the atmospheric air in a glass vessel, in which he inclosed it; and we may, therefore, consider those tribes, and the yuccæ, and lychnophoræ, which flourish in a dry sandy soil, as the pioneers of vegetation, and intended by Nature to inhabit the rude wastes of a new world.”

After some further conversation on this subject my uncle said, “As the delicate parts of any vegetable substances would be entirely destroyed if transported to a great distance by floods, it is evident, that those plants, whose remains are found well preserved in a fossil state, must have been inhabitants of the countries where the strata were formed. This consideration has given rise to many interesting speculations on the former climate of Europe, and its apparent changes; but if mammoths and elephants were clothed with fur to enable them to endure a Siberian winter, why may we not suppose that there were also species of palms and tree ferns suited to our temperate regions? Another curious inference may be drawn from the examination of vegetable remains: those found in what the German mineralogists call brown coal, exhibit in their wood, in their fruit, and their leaves, sufficient proofs of their belonging to indigenous, or, at least, to modern races of plants; while those which occur in what is termed black coal are all unknown or exotic: there can be no doubt, therefore, that those two coal formations belong to two very different ages of the globe.”

26th.—I still find a great deal of amusement in watching my little family of swallows. They are unwearied in collecting food for their young; skimming through the air from morning till night, and darting on their prey with the most sudden turns. They catch gnats and flies, and consume an astonishing number of mischievous grubs; and I am told they often accompany people on horseback, through the fields, in order to pick up the flies which are roused from the turf by the horses’ feet.

They never touch seeds; insects are their only object, and according to the weather, or the degree of warmth, they sometimes skim along the surface of the ground, and sometimes fly at a great height. When there is a scarcity of insects they have been known to snatch the flies imprisoned in a spider’s web, and sometimes even the spider itself.

Another species arrived soon after the chimney swallow, which I believe I have already described to you. It is called the house martin, or window swallow; but there is no end to the number of names given to this bird. It is very like the chimney swallow, but it has no spots on the tail, and its feet are differently formed, for it has the power of turning the hind toe forwards, in order to cling to a wall. This species are chilly little creatures; when there is a cold wind or rain, they press close to one another, and are sometimes so benumbed as to be caught by the hand.

It is said that after they arrive here in April, they play about for nearly a month before they begin their nests. Sometimes they build in the cliffs and rocks that hang over water; sometimes against a perpendicular wall, without having any support underneath the nest; and they show great sagacity in their mode of carrying on their work. While laying the foundations, they not only hold on by their claws, but they fix their tail against some little projecting roughness in the wall to serve as a kind of prop; and then with their bill they carefully cram mud and bits of straw into the smallest chinks in the face of the brick or stone; and to give those materials time to harden preparatory to a fresh layer, the prudent little mason only labours early in the morning, so that his work dries sufficiently in the course of the day. I have got up several times at day-break to see how neatly he uses his bill as a little trowel, while he carries the mortar or clay in one of his feet. About half an inch is laid every morning; and in ten or twelve days, a hemispherical nest is thus formed with an aperture at the top. The shell or crust is covered with rough knobs of earth; the middle is strengthened by the intermixture of straw; and the inside is nicely lined with grass and feathers; or sometimes with moss and wool. If by any accident the nest should be destroyed, it is rebuilt in a short time by the active help of many individuals who unite to assist their distressed companion. For several mornings they persisted in rebuilding a nest at the passage-room window, which had been purposely torn down each day; but, at last, after a hard struggle they gave it up.

I understand that the cliff swallows of America—who place their nests close up to the jutting ledge of a rock, or to the eave of a house—most ingeniously arch the top, and make the entrance project out and turn downwards. Frederick, who mentioned that circumstance at dinner, very philosophically remarked that, while the population of Europe was steadily extending itself from the eastern shores of America to the western side of the Mississippi, those cliff-swallows were as resolutely advancing in a contrary direction. “It appears,” said he, “from C. Buonaparte’s ‘Ornithology,’ that in ten years they had gradually established themselves in Kentucky and Ohio; in 1817 a single bird was seen skimming round a tavern, near Lake Champlain—the next year, seven were observed there—the third year, twenty-eight—and in 1822, no less than seventy had arrived in April, which is the usual time of return from their migratory travels.”

The common sparrow sometimes seizes on a swallow’s nest, before it is completed; and having driven away its owner, adapts it to his own use; but such invasions are often repelled after a spirited contest. This act of piracy has been frequently seen; but my aunt is inclined to doubt the truth of another story, though related by Linnæus, of a sparrow who took possession of a martin’s nest, and obstinately resisted the united efforts of a group of these birds which had come to the aid of the owner; but, at length, they immured the intruder by building up the entrance with the same kind of mortar of which the nest was composed.

I can see the little swallows sitting all day with their heads out of the nest near my window, gaping for their parent, who comes frequently to them with food, and clings to the edge while they gobble it up; and I understand, that after they begin to fly they are fed by their parents on the wing. I have watched for this, but could not perceive it, they are so quick in every movement. As soon as the first family are able to provide for themselves they quit their home, and while they are sporting about, and clustering and hovering round every building in the neighbourhood, the mother repairs the nest for a second brood.

27th.—The spring is now rapidly changing to summer, and the opening buds and unfolding leaves have been succeeded by a profusion of young branches, and flowers. It is, indeed, very different from the rich luxuriant spring of your Brazilian climate, but on the other hand, we have not here the perpetual rain, and the oppressive closeness of that season. The freshness of the air, the fragrance of the flowers, and the sweet song of the birds are all delightful; and every day I see some new and pretty insects. Though these insects are not quite in such numbers as, Humboldt says, appeared by turns, each at their different hours, on the Amazon river, still one may say—

Just as we were looking at an uncommon butterfly to-day, Mr. Maude paid us a visit, and seeing how we were occupied, he told us that when travelling in Switzerland last June, he witnessed a very curious circumstance, in the Canton de Vaud; an emigration of butterflies. He happened to perceive something flying past the windows, and on looking out he discovered an immense flight of butterflies crossing the garden. He immediately went out, and found that they belonged to the species called, in French, La belle Dame; they were all going in the same direction, exactly from South to North, turning neither to the right nor left; people moving about the garden did not frighten them; nor were they even tempted by the numerous flowers there to alight. Their flight was low and steady, but extremely swift; and it continued in a column of several feet broad for more than two hours. As Mr. M. afterwards learned that these butterflies had been remarkably abundant near Turin, in April and May, he supposes that they had emigrated from Italy; but, he says, naturalists have been greatly puzzled to account for their having done so in a body, because they do not belong to those species that live in societies.

He mentioned another singular circumstance: when he was on Mount Etna, he saw, to his great astonishment, an immense number of insects hovering over the dry lava of one of the old craters; there was no appearance of vegetation, or of any thing that could supply them with food; but there they were in a thick mass, flitting about in the sulphurous vapour, which still rose from the crevices. The insect was a species of bug, or cimex.

Frederick took me this evening to a sunny sand-bank, to shew me a great novelty, which he had discovered there; the nest of the mason wasp. It is not common in England, and has never been found in this part of the country before. The nest is a round cavity, from two to three inches deep; which the insect bores through a hard sandy soil; and instead of throwing away the sand, as it is dug out, the little mason, by means of a glutinous fluid, forms it into oblong pellets, and arranges them round the entrance of the hole, so as to form a sort of cylindrical tunnel; which sometimes, Frederick says, is about two inches long. These little pellets are so nicely attached to each other, with regular spaces at the corners, that they have quite the appearance of filligree work. It is said that the use of the tunnel is to prevent the incursions of ichneumons, and other artful insects, who are always on the watch to intrude their own young, and who are perhaps deterred by the artificial look of this entrance. One egg only is placed in the nest; and along with it are stored, as food for the future young, several fat grubs. But these are always full grown, because, as they are just about to pass into the pupa state, they require no food for themselves.

Frederick opened the nest; and we examined it without fear, because the mason wasp having deposited its egg, and supplied it with food, does not remain to guard it. We found twelve grubs closely packed; each of them being coiled above the other in a succession of rings, and the earth so pressed on them as to prevent their movements from injuring the egg. The remainder of the hole was filled up with some of the pellets that I have already mentioned.

28th, Sunday.—This morning my uncle proceeded to explain the Levitical dispensation. He began by reminding us of the gross corruptions, which had again crept into the Patriarchal dispensation, notwithstanding the awful warning of the flood.

“But,” said he, “even in those corruptions the main principle of that dispensation was preserved; that principle which marked the fallen state of man, and to which every hope of future pardon was necessarily attached. Instead of rejecting that doctrine of the atonement and the hope of the promised Deliverer, the apostates of that age made those points the very basis of their heresy. Their creed was built upon the necessity of expiatory sacrifices; and, though they impiously divided and multiplied their hero-gods at pleasure, still each remotely signified the predicted seed of the woman supposed to be corporeally manifested in this, or in that illustrious human character. The Almighty, however, had declared that there should not ‘any more be a flood to destroy the earth.’ In his merciful councils other means were adopted for counteracting the evil, and for reclaiming mankind from a depraved polytheism, in which the true belief would be altogether lost; and with it the only means of ultimate reconciliation. The Patriarchal dispensation was no longer suited to this altered state of the world, nor sufficient for this gracious purpose; it was, therefore, to be superseded by a new and intermediate dispensation, which should strongly inculcate the doctrine of the Divine Unity, and perpetuate and confirm with unceasing light, from time to time, the true original doctrine of redemption. Such was the object of the Levitical dispensation.

“The dispersion of the people at Babel had spread the corruptions of which they had been guilty, over the face of the earth; and it pleased God to separate from them one family who were to be the depositaries of that peculiar principle which was to give efficacy to all religious duties. For this purpose Abraham was selected from amongst the idolaters of Babylonia, to be the father of a nation to which the new dispensation was to be committed. They were to preserve the true principles of religion for the rest of the world; and from them that Messiah was to proceed whom they never ceased to desire, though they so strangely misconceived his real character, and debased the sublime object of his mission.

“The Patriarchal religion had been originally conferred on all mankind; its principle was universality: but that being now changed, and a single people being chosen out of the corrupt mass, in order to preserve the truth, we may say that the chief distinction between the two dispensations was, that the first was universal, the second particular.

“The law as delivered by Moses, and called the Levitical dispensation, because its ordinances were confided to the tribe of Levi, was not sent to do away the original religion, nor was it intended to supply new motives, or new sanctions. The law did not reveal the doctrines of the Divine Unity; or of redemption through a promised Deliverer; or of a state of future reward and punishment—for they had been already established; but to those great doctrines the law ‘was added, because of transgressions[8].’ It was added, in part to preserve the knowledge of the Divine Unity in the midst of surrounding superstitions; in part to preserve the doctrine of redemption amidst the idolatrous Gentiles; and also, by imposing on the Israelites numerous observances and restrictions, to preserve them separately from the world, a peculiar people; as Balaam said, ‘Lo, the people shall dwell alone, and shall not be reckoned among the nations.’

“But as the time drew near when the sun of righteousness was to rise, the characteristic of particularity began to be withdrawn from the Levitical church. The light of the gospel was preceded by a faint knowledge of the truth which began to spread into other parts of the world. The Babylonish captivity left some traces of it in the East; the emigration of numerous Jews into Egypt carried it there likewise; and the translation of the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek opened the eyes of many pagans, so that several proselytes to the worship of Jehovah were received into the Levitical church.

“Such were the preparatory steps to the abolition of paganism, and to the introduction of the last, and most important, of the three dispensations; that which was to do away with all other codes and rituals—which was to put an end to all emblematic sacrifices—and which was to collect into one fold, under one shepherd, all the nations of the earth.”

29th.—This evening I was talking away at a great rate to Caroline—probably a great deal of nonsense—and having frequently used the expressions, I conceive, I imagine, my uncle at last asked me if I could explain the distinction between those two words.

I considered for a little while, and then said, that though I had been using them very negligently, yet I thought I could point out the principal difference.—Conception is the calling up an absent but distinct idea of something we have already perceived or felt—a complete picture in the mind of some former sensation. But by imagination we take a bit of one of these pictures and a bit of another—we select different circumstances from a variety of things that we have seen—and by combining them together according to some particular view, we form a new creation, and obtain the idea of something that we have not seen.

“Very well, my little Bertha,” said my uncle smiling, “I like to see you exert your mind: but I would alter one part of your definition—I would not confine the imagination to objects of sight only; for though the mind dwells with greater facility on those that have been supplied by that sense, yet it is equally certain that our other perceptive faculties contribute their share also. The least imaginative person must recollect the many pleasing images which have been excited by the fragrance of distant fields, and the melody of unseen birds; and if you will accustom yourself to examine the process of your own imagination, you will find that an ample proportion of the subjects which pass through it are derived from all your senses.”

“But, uncle, do you think that I have such a metaphysical head as to be able to discover what is going on in my imagination? A thought comes, and though it is easy to perceive the immediate circumstance that suggested it, I am sure my giddy mind could not trace it further back than the first step.”

“Whatever be the character of your mind,” he replied, “and whether you choose to observe them or not, those complex operations are habitually going on there; imagination rapidly selects from the materials presented to it by memory, and by its own creative power forms new trains of thoughts to pursue. The fine arts furnish innumerable instances of this process.—But imagination is not a simple effort of the mind:—tell me then, Bertha, if you can, what other intellectual faculties are engaged with it, besides conception, which you have rightly said, only exhibits the simple objects of our former perceptions, and from which we are to make a fresh selection?”

“I believe, uncle, there is first that power which enables us to separate from our conceptions those circumstances which are not wanted for our purpose—the name is——”

“Abstraction. It is one of the most important of our faculties, and is not less necessary to our general conduct in life, than for the most refined intellectual pursuits. It helps us to remove the glare which often dazzles and deceives our moral perceptions; it reduces our complicated ideas to their constituent parts; and it presents us with the means of considering certain qualities of an object apart from the rest; and, therefore, of classing them with others: in short, it is equally subservient to the power of reasoning and to that of imagination. But go on, my dear—what next?”

There was something so encouraging in my uncle’s manner of questioning me, that instead of frightening, it helped me to think. “Perhaps it is that which guides us in putting together the materials which we have been selecting;—or rather of arranging and suiting them to each other;—taste, I think.”

“Right, Bertha; taste adapts and redisposes them in the best manner; and the more or less successfully as the judgment is more or less consulted. Without taste and judgment, the imagination would jumble them all together at random, and would produce nothing but confusion and deformity. Paintings and poems may contain many beauties, and yet may totally fail in giving satisfaction; simply from the parts being ill-assorted—or, in other words, from a deficiency of judgment in their combination.”

“But is there not another quality which is essential in a poet?—I mean, uncle, the power of catching the resemblance of ideas;—that which produces those beautiful allusions that form the ornament of poetry.”

“You mean fancy—the power of quickly perceiving those delicate links, which connect the most remote objects; and which, however slight, are sufficient for poetical analogies. The more sober analogies, which suit the province of science, may be elicited by laborious reflection, or plodding perseverance; but fancy flashes them across the mind of the true poet, and, by a sort of inspiration, furnishes him with an exuberance of materials. But here again, Bertha, he must have recourse to taste and judgment, if he would make an agreeable impression on the minds of others. The ornaments of poetry, you say, are the allusions; but in order to please, the points of similitude must, on the one hand, be so obvious as to excite the immediate sympathy of the reader; and yet, on the other, they must be so disconnected as to display ingenuity by their comparison or contrast, and to surprise with their novelty.

“I think the conditions I laid down are both completely satisfied in these beautiful lines from one of Home’s tragedies. But if poetical allusions were merely employed for ornament, they would cloy the taste and encumber the sense—they must therefore help to illustrate and give force to those ideas that would otherwise be obscure, or which would be too rapidly passed over by the reader. For this reason they are generally taken from material objects with which our senses are most conversant, and are applied by the fancy to those parts of intellectual or moral subjects which require illustration, and on which the mind is invited to pause.”

Caroline concluded the conversation by repeating Warton’s lines on Fancy.

30th.—It is curious, that it has never been ascertained what becomes of swallows when they disappear in autumn. Some naturalists have supposed that they retire to hollow trees, old buildings, or caves, where they remain in a torpid state during the winter; while others affirm that they lie at the bottom of lakes and ponds. This last, my uncle says, is a most extravagant idea, for nothing can be more certain than that they would decay there in a short time; besides it is well known that they moult or change their feathers early in the year, and no one can imagine that this can be accomplished while they are torpid and under water.

Facts, however, have not been wanting, to support both these opinions; numbers certainly have been found in old dry walls, and cliffs, and several were taken out of the shaft of an abandoned lead mine in Flintshire, clinging to the timbers, and apparently asleep. They were startled by a little sand being thrown on them, but they did not attempt to fly or change their place; this happened about Christmas.

For the watery system, Kalm, the traveller, is a decided advocate: my uncle shewed me a part of his travels in America, in which there is a good deal on this subject; but I must say it does not clear up my doubts. From Spain, Italy, and France, Kalm admits that they remove to warmer climates; but in England and Germany, he says they retire into clefts and holes of rocks, and in cold countries immerse themselves in the sea, or in lakes. He gives several instances of their having been found in this state in Prussia; but even by his own account it does not appear that they could have been to any depth in the water—for all those which he mentions were caught with a net among the reeds and rushes growing on the borders.

“Besides,” said my uncle, “as they are lighter than water, they could not sink even if they tried to do so; and as the lungs of birds differ very little in their structure from those of quadrupeds, it is quite incredible that they could live for several months or for several minutes under water. Even diving birds come up exhausted, and would be drowned like any other animal, if retained under water beyond a certain time. Swallows and martins indeed sprinkle and splash themselves as they glide along the surface, but they never dip completely into the water for a single moment. At the season when they disappear there is no want of their insect food in the air; nor have any of those cold blasts come, which at a later period would benumb them; what, then, could induce them, particularly the young birds who have just begun to enjoy the use of their wings, to take a dreary plunge into a pond? Cold and scarcity may drive some animals to hibernate, like your little dormouse, Bertha, but I am satisfied that the whole tribe of swallows fly off, like other birds of passage, to distant countries.”

“To what countries?” I asked him.

“It is probable,” he replied, “that there is some general temperature that suits them best, or that is most productive of those insects on which they prey; and as the seasons change, that temperature can only be obtained by approaching the equator, or perhaps by passing into a corresponding latitude of the southern hemisphere. A circumstance mentioned by our friend Colonel Travers, made a strong impression on me:—when he was going up the Mediterranean, I think in the latter end of April, a great number of swallows settled on the yards and rigging of the ship; they began to alight there about sun-set, and before nine o’clock some thousands had collected; but in such an exhausted state that they immediately went to sleep, and allowed themselves to be handled without making any attempt to escape. At daylight next morning they rose, as if by a single impulse, and flew away to the northward; and several prodigious flights of the same bird were observed, at a great height in the air, pursuing the same course towards Europe.

“Poor creatures,” said Frederick, “they must have come all the way from the north coast of Africa. Can you tell me, father, in what part of the Mediterranean this happened, that I may measure on the map the distance they had flown?”

“I do not recollect,” said my uncle; “but if I am right in my ideas of their swiftness, the widest part of that sea would be the affair of a few hours. It has been estimated that a swallow usually flies a mile in a minute; and sixteen or seventeen hours daylight will give about a thousand miles for a single day’s journey at that velocity. Now when you recollect that here we see those birds continue on the wing the whole day without the least appearance of being tired, we can only account for the extraordinary fatigue of those which perched on the Colonel’s ship, by supposing their flight to have continued for several days; and thus three or four days’ exertion might have brought them from a country bordering on the southern tropic.”

I reminded my uncle of the account we had lately read in Dr. Brewster’s Journal of Science, about the rapid flight of the wild pigeons that cross America in search of food.

“Yes,” said he, “and there is a curious fact recorded in that paper, which satisfactorily demonstrates, that the sustained velocity with which some birds remove from one district to another, in search of food, is not confined to the instinctive energy which belongs to the time of annual migration, but that it is their habitual and daily practice. The circumstance to which I allude is this: pigeons have been killed in New York, whose craws were still filled with fresh rice, which must have been collected in Carolina; and, therefore, as the pigeon digests its food very quickly, they could have been but a few hours performing a journey of three hundred miles. But we need not go so far off for examples of the ease and rapidity with which pigeons go to great distances in quest of some favourite food; for it is well known that in the vetch season in Norfolk, the Dutch pigeons come over in the morning, and return to Holland in the evening.”

Mary shewed us a passage in the voyage of La Pérouse, which proves that swallows do go a long way to the southward. “A swallow of the common species, undoubtedly lately come from Europe, followed us for some time without alighting on the vessel, but soon directed its flight towards the African coast, where it was sure of finding the insects on which it feeds. We were in 28° N. lat., and 22° W. long.” Adanson also asserts that he witnessed the arrival on the coast of Senegal, on the 6th of October, in the evening, of real European swallows; and he ascertained that they are never seen there but in autumn and winter.

My aunt has often observed them collected in large companies on trees, and on the roofs of houses, previous to their flight in September; and the direction they take at that season is to the southward.

My uncle then told us, that his old and highly respected friend Dr. Jenner, who, you know, lived just on the other side of the Severn, used to remark, that if swallows really did creep into holes and crevices to hibernate, they would surely appear in a languid state when they came out again—in the same way that all those quadrupeds who pass the winter in a state of torpor, are very much emaciated when they revive. The hedgehog, for instance, at the approach of winter, retires to its nest covered with fat, which is entirely absorbed when it awakens on the return of spring; whereas when the swallows appear in April, they are plump and strong upon the wing.

Mary added, that swallows have two broods during the summer, and that she had somewhere read, that it was only the strong early brood that took flight to warmer regions; but that the young birds hatched late in the year, being incapable of distant migration, seek shelter in holes and hollow trees, and wherever they can lurk in safety in the winter.

Mary afterwards shewed me a passage about swallows in Latrobe’s Journal, a book which I have more than once mentioned to you. He writes from the settlement of Groenkloof, to the north of Cape Town.

“Every morning I am greeted by the pleasant chirping of two swallows which have a nest in the corner of my room, under the ceiling. There is hardly a room, kitchen, or outhouse, in the country, without these inmates, and it would be thought next to murder to kill them. They build their nests of clay in the shape of a bottle; they line them with the softest down, and, though they leave the country during the winter, the same birds always return to the same nests after their emigration. As the room doors usually stand open in the day, they go in and out whenever they please; but if the door is shut, they give notice of their wish to go abroad, by a gentle piping and flying about the room; and no one thinks it troublesome to let them out: indeed, I have often left my bed to open the door for them.”

I forgot to mention that my uncle told us there was no country in the world which was not visited by these little swift-winged creatures. They were seen, for a short time, even in the frozen regions of Baffin’s Bay and Melville Island; and Captain Franklin says, they made their first appearance at Great Bear Lake the middle of May, to feast on the mosquitoes and other insects that abound on the northern shores of America. Wentworth says, they may be literally called cosmopolites.

31st.—After dinner yesterday, the conversation turned on the importance of the palm tribe in their native countries to the inhabitants. Sago, cocoa-nuts, dates, oil, and various other articles of excellent food which they produce, were all discussed; and each of us mentioned some of the many uses to which the stems, the leaves, and the fibrous parts were applied. Miss Perceval afterwards endeavoured to explain the botanic distinctions between palms and tree-ferns, which have so many points of resemblance in their mode of growth: but my aunt suggested, that her description would be much more interesting if we were looking at the plants; and she kindly proposed another expedition to those magnificent stoves of Lord S. that we had seen with so much pleasure last autumn.

Miss P. approved of this arrangement, and she has been exceedingly gratified to-day with all she saw; but none seemed to be more delighted with our visit than the old gardener. He perceived how well she could appreciate his difficulties and his success; and he listened with the greatest attention to all her remarks. Miss P., however, did not forget the circumstance that led to our visit, and she shewed us in several different palms, that the scales of the foot-stalks completely sheath the stem; and that after the decay of the leaf they form an entire ring, which has a very different appearance from the separate marks or cicatrices left by the fronds of the fern.

She had never seen so fine a collection of palms in this country; and she told us many circumstances of their history and habits. She made us observe, that in the leaves the fibres run parallel to the edges. There are two grand forms to which the leaves may all be referred; pinnated, as in the cocoa and date; and fan-shaped, as in the dwarf and fan-palms. In the dwarf which we examined, the breadth of the leaf is considerable, but from the direction of the fibres, and the manner in which it is folded, previous to developement, it may rather be regarded as composed of several leaves.

The flowers of palms are even more numerous than I thought, though I remember, at Rio, trying in vain to count those of the alfonsia amygdalina—it would have been a hopeless work, for Miss P. says one spathe sometimes contains sixty thousand.

Some palms are gregarious, forming large woods, and naturally spreading over whole districts; as the dwarf palm does in the South of Europe. She says, that the different species are never much intermixed; though their districts are small, they are generally distinct from each other. It is remarkable, that no palm of the old world is found in America, except the cocoa-nut and the oil-palm of the coast of Guinea; and that there is but one species common to Asia and Africa. The palms of New Holland, also, are peculiar to that country; and I believe that she said, those of the Mauritius only occur in those islands. The cocoa, the date, and the sago palms, are the most widely distributed; but the true home of the palms is the torrid zone; for, of 110 well known species, only twelve are found outside the tropics.

I asked Miss P. whether the leaves which are found lining the tea-chests, belong to a palm. Certainly not, she said, nor to any of the cane families, as is evident from the want of a mid-rib; it is generally believed that they belong to some of the grass tribes, and indeed very closely resemble the broad-leaved pharus.

My uncle pointed out to her several large and flourishing plants of the ficus elastica, or caoutchouc tree. They have succeeded so well for the last two years in a stove kept at a very low temperature, that some of them are now removed to the green-house, and even one or two are put out of doors. As we drove home, I asked my uncle at what time caoutchouc, or Indian rubber, was brought to this country.

“It appears,” said he, “to have been first introduced into Europe, about the middle of the last century; and is, I am sure you know, procured from two other South American plants, as well as from the ficus; I mean the hævea and the jatropha. The juice, which is obtained by an incision in the bark, is made to spread itself in successive layers, over clay moulded into the form of a bottle, and when sufficiently thick, it is hung over the smoke of burning wood, which hardens, and gives it a dark colour: the clay is afterwards crumbled and thrown out. It is fabricated, by the inhabitants of its native country, into vessels to contain water and other liquids; and it is in some places used by the fishermen for torches.

“Caoutchouc is also procured from a climbing plant, urceola, a native of Sumatra. If one of its thick old stems be cut, a white juice, like cream, oozes out; by exposure to the air, a decomposition takes place, and while part of it concretes, a thin whitish juice is separated. Cloth well covered with this juice, becomes impervious to water; and the pieces so prepared are easily joined together by applying fresh juice to the edges.”

I asked my uncle, on our road home, if it was by means of that juice that the water-proof cloth, which he had seen in London, was prepared.

He answered, that he had seen some of the juice at the Royal Institution, where it had been brought from Mexico to be analysed; but that, in general, caoutchouc was imported in a solid state. “A cheap method,” he continued, “of dissolving it was discovered by Mr. Mackintosh; and his mode of applying it to cloth, linen, silk, or any materials of that kind, was equally ingenious and useful. When reduced to a fluid state, a sufficient coat of it is laid upon the cloth, and another piece being then spread over it and pressed together, they become permanently united as well as water-proof; but as the outside and the inside need not be similar, you may have the one of cloth, and the other of velvet; or a camlet cloak lined with silk, or any other combination you please.

“There are many other purposes to which this contrivance has been applied. Hoses for conveying the water from fire-engines, when made of canvas and caoutchouc, and without seam, are much stronger, more durable, and more flexible than those made of leather. I have been told by a naval officer that a hose of this sort affords an excellent mode of filling the casks in a boat, from a well or stream near the shore, when a heavy surf prevents their being landed; for it is obvious that such a hose may pass through the sea, without the possibility of the fresh water it conducts being tainted by the salt. It is also well adapted to tilts for waggons and hayricks; it would make admirable military tents; and you may imagine what a comfort water-proof bags must have been in Captain Franklin’s expedition to the Polar Sea, in keeping the men’s clothes dry, notwithstanding the dismal weather to which they were so often exposed.

“There is only one more use which I will now mention. Any substance that is carefully coated with this gum is as impervious to air as to water: bags therefore made in the shape of cushions or pillows, which can be folded up and carried in the pocket, may be in a few moments inflated with the breath, by means of a small pipe; and even beds, which when empty would occupy but little room in a portmanteau, would often preserve the health, and greatly add to the comfort of travellers in certain countries, where a dry, clean, and soft bed is an unattainable luxury.”

Miss Perceval told us that in some of the forests of Guiana, a substance, called dapicho by the Indians, is found in large masses under ground; and which, having all the properties of the recent gum, was long known by the name of fossil caoutchouc. But the indefatigable Humboldt, having at last succeeded in finding some of it undisturbed in the ground, at once perceived that it had oozed out of the roots of caoutchouc trees which were so old that the interior had begun to decay. It is white and brittle, till exposed to a strong heat; and when sufficiently beaten with a heavy club it acquires great elasticity. The Indians make their famous tennis balls of it; it is also cut into corks, which are very superior to those made of the cork tree; and it is worked up into enormous drum-sticks—the drum being merely a hollow cylinder of wood about two feet long.

“There is, however,” my uncle observed, “a species of fossil caoutchouc. It is, in fact, a bitumen, but flexible and elastic; and, as it has the property of cleaning off pencil-marks in the same manner as Indian rubber, it has been named mineral caoutchouc.”

I asked him if it might not be some of the dapicho, which had lain buried in the ground, long since the trees, from which it oozed, had perished?

“I have but two reasons, Bertha, to oppose to your theory. It is only found near Castletown in Derbyshire, and you know the English climate is not very well suited to those trees—and secondly, it is in the deep recesses of a lead mine, surrounded by spar and limestone.”

June 1st.—You may remember, mamma, how much I was interested, last year, by my uncle’s illustrations of the Mirage and the Fata Morgana. The subject was often afterwards alluded to in conversation; and my aunt having incidentally mentioned it to her charming correspondent in Upper Canada, I was this afternoon agreeably surprised by her reading aloud the following passage in a letter which she had just opened:—

“Your young friend Bertha will be pleased to hear that last June I witnessed something very like that curious phenomenon which you say interested her so much. One morning I awoke just at the break of day, and accidentally directing my eyes to the window, which has a southern aspect, I was astonished to see—instead of the black monotonous forest by which we are surrounded—a wide, magnificent sheet of water, connected with a spacious river winding to a great distance, and confined by gentle slopes and grassy banks; and all this so distinct that the bright fresh green of the young leaves was beautifully contrasted with the dark foliage of the pine woods.

“I rubbed my eyes, and looked again—for it appeared to be exactly our lake near Peterborough, with the Otanabee River winding towards Rice Lake, except that the whole view was reversed. I wondered how all this could be seen over our lofty trees, and I went to the window and leaned out to look for objects which I knew—but nothing was to be seen except my beautiful and inexplicable landscape. I lay down—and still saw it from my pillow;—but my eyes gradually closed—and, when I again wakened, heavy mists had risen with the sun—and my fairy prospect had vanished.

“I now recollected the description I had long ago read of the Fata Morgana, and I was satisfied that this was no vision of my fancy, but the reflection of real scenery upon some peculiar vapour which only appears at that early hour of the morning.”

2nd.—I spent a great part of this morning in examining the ingenious leaf-nests of some little caterpillars, which Mary says are the larvæ of the tinea moths. She explained to me their construction. The caterpillar fixes a number of fine silken cords from one edge to the other of the leaf, and by pulling at them with its many strong feet, the sides are gradually forced to approach each other till they meet, when it fastens them together with short threads. Sometimes the large nerves of the leaf are too strong to yield to these efforts, and the clever little creature immediately weakens them by gnawing them half through, in different places. I could distinctly perceive those places in several of the leaves which we opened. Some species cut out a long triangular portion from the edge of the leaf, and form it into a conical roll, like a paper of comfits: in one spot, however, they let it remain attached to the leaf, by way of a base; and then, by fastening little cords to the point of the cone, it is actually pulled upright on the remainder of the leaf, where it stands like a tent. But there are other tineæ which shew still more dexterity in constructing their habitations. Some of them we found on the under sides of the leaves of the rose-tree, apple, elm, and oak; and Mary made me observe how nicely they form an oblong cavity in the interior of the leaf, by eating the pulpy substance between the two membranes composing its upper and under sides. The detached pieces are then joined with silk, so as to make a case or horn, which is cylindrical in the middle, with an orifice at each end, the one being circular and the other triangular; and the seam is so artfully made, as to be scarcely perceptible even with a glass. Were this case all circular, it would be more simple, but the different shape of the two ends renders it necessary that each side should be cut into a different curve.

But I should fill my whole journal, were I to tell you all the beautiful contrivances of these insects, and the instinct, or, I might say, the reason which appears in all their contrivances.

3rd.—My uncle mentioned yesterday, that in returning a few years ago from Berwick upon Tweed, he was much surprised, as night came on, at seeing two immense fires near Newcastle. Upon inquiring, he found that they were the small coal which does not readily sell, and is therefore separated by screens from the larger blocks. Prodigious heaps are thus formed at the mouths of the pits; and from the decomposition of the pyrites, they take fire, and continue to burn for years. One of these huge mounds was but a few miles from the road; it was said to cover twelve acres of ground, and to have been burning for eight years.

As all that small coal might be made use of to produce coal gas, he says the legislature should interfere to prevent such a shameful waste, for not less than one hundred thousand chaldrons are thus annually destroyed on the banks of the River Tyne; and nearly the same quantity on the Wear. Beneath these burning heaps, he found a bed of blackish scoria, which resembles basalt, and which is used for mending the roads.

To the west of Dudley, in the great Staffordshire coal district, my uncle says that some of the collieries took fire spontaneously many years ago. The subterraneous conflagration spread to a great extent, and produced some singular effects; smoke and steam were seen to rise from the earth, the vegetation appeared to be hastened by the heat, and even the ponds were warm. What was still more remarkable, where the ignited part of the coal came near the surface, the argillaceous strata (or potter’s-clay) covering it have been converted, by the intense heat, into a species of porcelain jasper, which is sometimes beautifully striped; this last circumstance being caused by the various degrees of oxidation of the iron that is contained in the clay.

4th, Sunday.—This morning—perhaps the last Sunday that we shall spend at Fernhurst for many months—my uncle finished explaining to us the three dispensations; and it made the more impression on me, as I fear that, on our journey, we shall not have any of those regular Sunday conversations, which have been so instructing and satisfactory.

“The object of the Christian Dispensation,” said he, “was to ratify the promises of redemption and of eternal life, through the merits of a divine mediator. What the former dispensations announced as to come, this concluding dispensation has exhibited in actual accomplishment. The long-expected Redeemer has been manifested; he has made the promised atonement for the sins of mankind; he has shewn himself as the mediator of the new covenant, and the doubts of ages have vanished before the light of the Gospel.”

I ventured to interrupt my uncle, to ask why it is called the new covenant, as if it was of a different nature from the two former ones.

“It is so styled,” he answered, “not as being new in its nature, or different from those which preceded it; but merely as being new, or last, in order, and therefore superseding all others. The typical sacrifices of the two former were, you know, the symbols of the real victim who consummated the Christian covenant. In each of them provision was made for the reconciliation of fallen man; and the object of each being the same, the terms were the same: Jehovah graciously promising on his part to accept the meritorious death of the Messiah, as a full acquittal and satisfaction of all sin; but, on the two-fold condition, of faith, and of obedience on our part.

“The doctrine of atonement through the sufferings of the Mediator, forms the basis of each of the covenants, and is justly considered by all those who take their religion from Scripture as the corner-stone of the Christian dispensation. The proofs of this essential tenet are as numerous as they are clear and explicit; and in the last discourse which our Saviour held with his disciples, and which is fully recorded by St. John, you will find it very distinctly stated.

“A being of that transcendent dignity who could say, ‘All power is given to me in heaven and in earth,’ would scarcely have been sent for the mere purpose of communicating a clearer knowledge to mankind of their duty, or of setting before them an example of practical holiness. These, no doubt, were among the objects for which the Son of God became man; but they were only collateral objects. In order to appreciate the importance of his mission, we must compare it with the modes adopted on former occasions. When the corruption of mankind drew down the dreadful chastisement of the deluge; and when, after that catastrophe, the patriarchal covenant was renewed, and fresh blessings and privileges were offered to the posterity of the second father of mankind, the only communication of these signal events was announced through Noah. When God vouchsafed the second covenant, and established the Jewish religion by direct revelation, a mere human agent, Moses, was employed. And when the idolatries and wickedness of the Israelites induced the merciful Governor of the universe to interfere, Elijah and other mere prophets were sent to reclaim them.

“If therefore, when Christianity was revealed, the only intention had been to prescribe a purer mode of worship, and to withdraw mankind from their vicious career, why should not that mission have been entrusted to another prophet, instead of requiring the special interference of the Son of God?—Still more, if no other purpose was to have been accomplished by the coming of Christ, why was it ordained that he should suffer death, in attestation of his doctrines? Noah died a natural death; so did Moses, full of years and honour; and Elijah was distinguished by the privilege of not dying at all. From this comparison alone we might safely infer, that the sufferings of our Saviour were connected with some other momentous object—and in all parts of the Scriptures we find that object declared in the most express terms. I will point out to you a few passages which cannot be mistaken or perverted.

“‘He was wounded for our transgressions; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.’ ‘He was made an offering for sin.’ ‘He taketh away the sins of the world.’ ‘If any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ.’ ‘Christ, our passover, is sacrificed for us.’ ‘We have redemption through his blood.’ ‘The Son of man came to give his life a ransom for many, a ransom for all.’

“These passages solve that great enigma, and explain in the most distinct language the sublime and merciful object of the Christian dispensation. And now let me ask you all, what are the impressions with which this view of it should fill our hearts? Should we not be overwhelmed with the magnitude of the mercy; and eager to exclaim with the Psalmist, ‘Lord, what is man, that thou so regardest him!’

“But in thus summing up the proof of this mysterious plan of redemption, it is highly necessary to remind you that it is conditional; that salvation is offered to you, not forced upon you; and that it is offered solely on the terms of implicit submission to the commands of our Redeemer. If you reject the Gospel; or if, persuading yourselves that you believe in its truth, you allow your actions to be in contradiction to its precepts; or if, in cowardly subservience to the fashions of the world, you seem ashamed of your Mediator and Substitute, then you can claim no share in his ransom. My dear children, the alternative is fairly set before you, and you must make your own choice.”

Mary asked her father whether this third dispensation did not materially differ from the Levitical, in its again embracing all mankind in its offered benefits.

“Yes,” said he, “like the Patriarchal dispensation, it is universal in its object. Christianity is, in fact, but the completion of Patriarchism; the law having been a connecting chain between them. Under the Patriarchal dispensation all men were taught to look forward to the promised Deliverer; under Christianity all men are taught to rejoice in the actual appearance of that promised Deliverer, who has done and suffered everything that was predicted of him.

“Christianity has not yet become universal; but the purpose of the Almighty is still powerfully though silently working. In the appointed time, ‘the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord,’ and the Messiah will be universally acknowledged by Gentiles, Jews, and all nations. ‘Thus from first to last, under the Three Successive Dispensations,’ has God carried on one consistent and harmonious scheme of grace and mercy for the salvation of his fallen creatures.”

5th.—This evening, in talking of the variety of representations that different historians give of the same facts, my uncle was lamenting the loss of the many ancient works which are alluded to in contemporary authors, but which appear to have perished; and he particularly regretted the 105 books of Livy’s Roman History, which originally consisted of 142.—“But,” he added, “there are some hopes that they may yet be recovered.”

Mary asked him if there was any chance of their being found among the Herculaneum manuscripts?

“Very little indeed,” he replied. “When those famous rolls of papyrus were disinterred nearly eighty years ago, great expectations were formed, of the literary riches they might contain. Their original number was 1700, but by far the greater part were found, on closer inspection, to be so mangled that there was not the least probability of recovering any portion of their contents. Of those that were in a better condition, many were destroyed by the first awkward attempts to unrol them; and, unfortunately, the remainder have suffered great additional injury from long exposure to the air.”

“I should have thought,” said Wentworth, “that having been partly charred by fire, they would be proof against air and damp; as we find old stumps of charred gate posts in the ground, which seem to have remained there an immense time, perfectly unchanged.”

“Your reasoning,” replied my uncle, “would not apply to this case, even if the papyri had undergone the action of fire, because it is since their exposure to the atmosphere that they have suffered. They have, indeed, all the appearance of charcoal, even the sticks on which they are rolled; and it was therefore very naturally supposed that this effect had been produced by the heat of the lava which overflowed that devoted city; but Sir Humphry Davy has proved, that they were protected from the heat by a thick bed of sand and ashes, and, in his opinion, their charred appearance has been the result of a gradual process of decomposition.”

“What means, uncle, could be taken to unfold and read manuscripts that were in such a state? Surely all the characters must have been effaced.”

“No, not quite: the characters are seen black and shining upon the black but not shining surface; just in the same way that a letter sometimes appears after we have burnt it, the traces of writing being still visible on the gauzy substance, while it flickers about in the smoke, at the back of the grate. To unrol them, many ingenious contrivances were invented; that which I saw, when at Portici, and which, I believe, has been generally adopted, is to glue some thin flexible material to the back of the papyrus, and then to raise it gently by a number of threads, while the folds are at the same time carefully opened by a pin. In this way a few of the most perfect have actually been restored, and published; but, to the great disappointment of the world, they are works of no value. One is a treatise on the inutility of music, in Greek; a few pages of a Latin poem, and some other fragments, but all equally uninteresting. One of the chief difficulties arose from the adhesion of the folds, as if they had been gummed together; and to conquer this Sir Humphry applied the resources of his profound chemical knowledge. He exposed some of the fragments to the action of chlorine, and to the vapour of iodine, and succeeded to a considerable extent in loosening and detaching the folds; but the jealousy of the Neapolitans prevented his further progress, and he left them to pursue their own plans. Unfortunately, the best specimens were operated on long ago, and those that now remain are in too mutilated a state to afford much hope for the future.”

“But,” said Caroline, “as they are rapidly unburying Pompeii, perhaps some manuscripts may be found there—and in a much more perfect state; for Pompeii was covered with mud and ashes, and not with burning lava like Herculaneum.”

“Several rolls of papyrus,” my uncle replied, “have been already found in the houses of Pompeii, but all in a far worse condition than those of Herculaneum,—having nearly the appearance of the white ashes produced by burning common paper.”

“Then, uncle,” said I, “to what quarter do you look for the lost books of Livy?”

“To the vast collections of vellum manuscripts,” he answered, “which have for centuries been accumulating in public and private libraries. It has been discovered, that many of these have been twice written upon, and some even three times. In the middle ages the art of reading and writing was almost entirely confined to the monks; and all true taste for literature being suspended, it was natural that they should consider the finest effusions of the ancient poets, or the most important records of profane history, as of little value, in comparison with the statutes of their own order, or the histories of their general councils. It appears, therefore, to have been a common practice of those times, to expunge the writing on the parchment manuscripts in their possession, in order to substitute copies of those works which they estimated so much more highly; and in some instances the former characters have been discovered, and successfully traced.”

“But, papa, if the original writing was expunged, how is it now legible?” Frederick asked.

“The ink,” said my uncle, “in general use among the ancients, was merely a mixture of lamp-black and gum; and, as that did not sink into the parchment, a wet cloth in the hands of a monk did the business as effectually and finally as your sponge, Frederick, annihilates your most elaborate calculations from a slate. But the injury to which writing, with such materials, was liable from damp and other accidents, had been long known, and various expedients were adopted to provide a remedy. Pliny says it was difficult to efface ink which had been made with vinegar; and it appears, that at a later period, some preparation of iron was added for the same purpose, as both of these ingredients sink into the parchment. In either of those cases, the lamp-black, or colouring matter, could be only partially removed by washing; so that it was necessary to scrape the surface, in order to obliterate the characters, or to rub it with pumice stone, in the same manner that it had been originally prepared for writing on; and to such a parchment or manuscript the name of palimpsest was given, from a Greek word signifying twice scraped. But though the process that I have described apparently removed the writing, it could not draw out the infusion of iron which had been absorbed by the parchment; and as you all know that ink is nothing but a combination of iron with a solution of galls, it will readily occur to you, that by applying that solution with a light brush, to any of the palimpsest manuscripts, the original writing would be revived,—provided there had been any iron in the composition of the ink.”

“What a beautiful discovery!” exclaimed Caroline. “And when generally known, how zealously will all our antiquaries attack the hordes of manuscripts now dormant in the public libraries!”

“Yet,” said my uncle, “it is not a new discovery; the celebrated Montfaucon endeavoured to draw the attention of the learned world to these palimpsest parchments just a century ago; but antiquaries are not put into zealous activity quite so easily as you imagine. In that long interval, nothing very material seems to have been effected till the present accomplished librarian of the Vatican devoted himself to the subject; and the success with which his efforts have been already crowned, more than justify the sanguine hopes which I expressed. Other industrious labourers are also in the field, and what has been already achieved is only a pledge of the rich harvest that will distinguish this age.”

6th.—In conversing about our approaching journey, and the fine mountainous tracks that we are to see in Wales, Wentworth asked the meaning of the word pen, which is prefixed to some of the Welsh names, as Pen-man-mawr, for instance.

“It is an old British word,” my uncle told him, “signifying head or summit; and it is joined to the names of several of those hills, amongst the inhabitants of which much of that ancient dialect is still to be found.

“It is singular that this term appears to have been used in the same way among the Romans; for we find that the crest of the Alps near Mount St. Bernard was anciently called Alpes Penninæ; and that the very same name was also applied by them to the central chain of mountains which extends from the borders of Scotland to the middle of Derbyshire. This Penine chain traverses the great northern coal district; and many of its hills retain the old British term pen, as, Penygent, Pendle hill, &c.”

“There are several wild and very picturesque views,” said my aunt, “in that Penine chain; and its caverns, precipices, and torrents, have all a singular character, particularly the sublime and curious scenery of The Peak. I am sure, Caroline, you recollect a beautiful description of the banks of the Greta in Yorkshire, in your favourite poem of Rokeby.”

Caroline immediately repeated these lines—

“I have lately read two facts,” Mary said, “which shew the depth of those remarkably abrupt ravines that intersect these craggy mountains in the moorlands of Staffordshire. In Narrowdale, the sun is never seen by the inhabitants for the three winter months; and even when it is visible, it does not rise to them till one o’clock in the afternoon. The other circumstance is this—at Leck, the sun at a certain time of the year, seems to set twice in the same evening: for, after it sinks beneath the top of a high intervening mountain, it again breaks out from behind the steep northern side before it reaches the horizon.”

7th.—My uncle shewed me to-day a hard black substance of very close grain. I did not know what it could be, for it evidently was not coal, nor flint. He told me, that the soil which covers the great northern coal-field appears to be alluvial, and that it contains masses of all the different rocks that compose the whole district; and among them, portions of this hard black basalt are found every where in abundance.

“I shew you this,” he said, “because the ancient inhabitants of Britain formed the heads of their battle-axes, which are commonly called celts, from this stone. They resemble in shape the tomahawks of the South Sea islands. Barbed arrow-heads, neatly finished, and made of pale coloured flint, are also frequently picked up on the moors, and are called elf-bolts.”

I asked, if those things were often found in other parts of England, as they must be very interesting in tracing the history of our early ancestors.

“Yes,” said he, “in all parts of Great Britain; and not only weapons, but various utensils; besides other articles, of which the uses have not been ascertained. For instance, at Kimmeridge, on the coast of Dorsetshire, where there are beds of a kind of stony coal, there has been found on the tops of the cliff’s, what the country people call ‘coal money.’ The pieces are round, and about two inches and a half in diameter, by a quarter of an inch in thickness; one side is convex, with mouldings, and the other is flat and plain, but with two, or sometimes with four small round holes in the surface. They are, in general, two or three feet below the surface, inclosed between two stones, set edgeways, and covered by a third; and the bones of some animal are always found along with them. A little deposit of this coal-money was also discovered in a shallow bowl of the same material.”

“And was coal ever really used as money, uncle? It would make rather a bulky currency.”

“Some people imagine that they were amulets; others, that they were connected with the ancient Druidical rites; and many suppose them to have been coin. Perhaps the cant, or vulgar expression, ‘down with your coal,’ which means ‘pay your money,’ may assist you in choosing which of these hypotheses you like best.”

8th.—The back gate of the garden is not often unlocked, and to-day when the gardener was going to open it, the key-hole appeared to be so stopped up, that he took off the lock, and finding a little nest in the inside, he brought it to my uncle.

It proved to be the nest of a species of bee, called apis manicata. The cells are formed of two or three layers of a silky membrane, which seems to be composed of a kind of glue secreted by the insect; it resembles gold-beater’s-leaf, but so thin and transparent, that you can distinguish through it the colour of the smallest object. As soon as each cell is completed, I am told that the bee deposits an egg in it, and then nearly fills it with a mixture of pollen and honey; and so proceeds till all the cells are finished and filled. As the situation is rather cold for the grubs, we found the cells plastered over with the same composition, and even a warm outer coating of wool was stuck to this paste to preserve them from any change of temperature. The wool appeared to be the down of some plant; and my uncle says, they have been observed to scrape the down from the leaves of the woolly hedge-nettle, and the common rose campion, with their mandibles; while with their fore legs they roll it into a little ball and carry it to the nest.

I have been excessively busy putting my garden in order before we set out. Indeed, I have become so wonderfully active, that you would scarcely know your little indolent girl; and I am often inclined to sing the old nursery song to myself, “Sure this is none of I.” Among other things, I have performed a grand operation in my hyacinth beds. Lady Binning, you know, is a great florist; I heard her speak of the manner in which her gardener manages the hyacinths, for which her garden is remarkable; and I determined to try it. As soon as the leaves become all yellow, he takes up the bulbs, removes the loose skins and offsets and all the fibres that are decayed, and immediately replants them in a bed of fresh compost. Her ladyship told us, that when treated in this manner, they equal the Dutch hyacinths in strength.

All this was duly executed yesterday. I had been watching the leaves for some time, as I wanted them to be quite yellow; and I now flatter myself with having a very grand display next year.

I had also many cuttings to make, and seedlings to plant out, as well as layers of pinks and carnations, and various plants to trim and tie up; besides the daily occupations of weeding, watering, pruning, and earthing.

9th.—I have just found the most curious miniature cocoons of yellow cotton, sticking on a chrysalis of the cabbage caterpillar. Some time ago I put up two of these caterpillars in paper boxes; they were regularly fed, and made quite comfortable; and now though one is a perfectly sound chrysalis, the other is only an empty skin. In the little book which I have so often mentioned, Mary shewed me the cause of this in the dialogue between Lucy and her mother on ichneumons; it was from their eggs, which were deposited in the body of the caterpillar, that the maggots proceeded who destroyed it, and then spun those pretty little yellow cocoons. It is a great pleasure, mamma, to have traced a curious fact of this kind for myself, and actually to have seen one chrysalis dwelling in another. These ichneumons must be very useful in thus destroying other mischievous insects: Reaumur found, that out of thirty common cabbage caterpillars which he put into a glass to feed, twenty-five were killed by an ichneumon; and my aunt says, that if the myriads of caterpillars which prey on our vegetables, are compared with the small number of butterflies that they usually produce, it will appear that they are destroyed in a still larger proportion. This is one of the innumerable instances of the goodness of Providence, which balances the necessary evils of one tribe of animals by the instinctive efforts of another.

My aunt told me, that in St. Domingo the cassada and indigo plantations are materially injured by a large caterpillar. When it changes to its last robe of sea-green, its tortures begin; a swarm of ichneumon flies fasten themselves all over the poor victim, drive their stings into the skin, and then deposit their eggs in the wounds they have made. The caterpillar swells and becomes of a deeper green, and in a fortnight, when the eggs are hatched, it appears covered with little worms, which start out of every pore. The existence of these worms is but short; after raising themselves on one end, shaking their heads, and swinging themselves in every direction, each of them begins to form its cocoon; and in two hours the caterpillar is completely clothed in a white robe. In eight days the ichneumon flies are hatched, and the little cocoons they leave behind are composed of a very fine silky cotton of the most dazzling whiteness, which may be used without any preparation, as soon as the flies have quitted them.

The quantity of this glossy substance, produced by the millions of those little parasites, is so great, that it is said a single person has collected a bushel in two hours. But the chief importance of their services is, the keeping within bounds the mischievous cassada caterpillars; and as these caterpillars are destroyed by heavy rain, it has even been proposed to collect and put them under cover as soon as the ichneumon’s eggs are deposited, in order to multiply these useful insects.

10th.—June is really a most lovely month here;—the trees are clothed in foliage of the freshest green, and flowers are scattered everywhere in profusion. Mowing is just beginning, and everybody looks busy, active, and cheerful.

I was very happy yesterday; we went to see the sheep-shearing at Farmer Moreland’s; it seemed to be almost a festival, and was conducted with a degree of regularity and ceremony that was quite amusing. Caroline delights in these rural employments; and we were all allowed to go there early in the morning. We found the sheep enclosed in a fold under the shade of an ash-grove, and the shearers seated on the knotted roots of some of the old trees. Dame Moreland gave us some brown bread and new milk; and before the day grew very hot we returned home. In the evening, however, having dined early, we returned to the pretty grove and the poor bleating sheep, whom I could not help pitying when thrown down to be shorn; though they looked a great deal more comfortable as soon as they were relieved from their thick hot clothing.

I saw some of them washed a day or two before the shearing began; their fleeces were well rubbed and rinced in the stream, and then the poor creatures ran to a sunny bank,

My uncle told me that England has been always famous for its sheep and their rich fleeces, the various qualities of which are so well suited to the different branches of our woollen manufactures; but it is the Downs of Dorsetshire, and all the southern and western counties, which supply those sheep whose fleeces are employed in making the finest broad cloth.

We stayed till the men ceased working, and till we had seen the shearers and all their assistants sitting down to a comfortable supper, with abundance of cider; we then left them, and came home by a long winding path. We were quite in the dark for some of the last part of the walk, which gave me an opportunity of seeing the English glow-worm on the dry banks at the edge of the forest.

My uncle told me that Dr. Macartney, who has investigated the subject of luminous insects with great ability, has ascertained, that in the glow-worm, part of the light proceeds from a yellow substance lying underneath a transparent part of the skin. Besides this, he observed in the last segment of the body, two minute oval sacks, formed of an elastic fibre, wound spirally, and containing a yellow substance also, but of a closer texture, and giving a more permanent light. This light seemed less under the control of the insect than the other, which it has the power of voluntarily extinguishing, and which ceases to shine when extracted from living glow-worms; but the two sacks, when taken out, continue to give light for some hours.

11th, Sunday.—“I think, father,” said Mary, “that in reflecting on the three dispensations, it appears, that neither the Jews, nor the religious people of the patriarchal ages had that clear and distinct knowledge of the doctrine of future rewards and punishments which we Christians possess; nor that full conviction of the immortality of the soul which now cheers mankind.”

“True,” said my uncle, “those awful truths had indeed been early opened to them, and they were gradually unfolded with increasing clearness by the later prophets; but at the best they were obscurely understood, or, in the language of St. Paul, they were seen as ‘through a glass, darkly.’ It was reserved for our Saviour to throw such a clear and steady light upon the doctrine of immortality, that ‘we might have a strong consolation, who have fled for refuge to lay hold upon the hope set before us: which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and stedfast[9].’

“This beautiful simile,” continued my uncle, “which compares hope to an anchor, was first used by St. Paul. The ancient poets described Hope as a nymph, decorated with smiles and flowers, and soothing the labours of man with the idea of distant pleasures; but St. Paul represents hope as the stay and anchor of the soul; and so striking is the figure, that it has been since adopted into every language. He does not allude to the vain wishes arising from a heated imagination, but to the stedfast hope which springs from faith: as the vessel is kept firm at her anchor, in defiance of storms and currents, so the Christian is ‘not moved away from the hope of the Gospel,’ by adversities and temptations.

“You are all acquainted with the ancient fable of Pandora’s box; at the bottom of which it is said that, as the only means of supporting the human race under the multiplied evils that were about to issue from it, Jupiter placed the last and best blessing of Hope. It is not improbable that this fable was founded on a tradition of the original promise of the future seed; the hope of which could alone have sustained the virtuous part of mankind amidst the general corruption that followed the transgression of Adam.

“But an unsettled kind of hope will be of little avail; to be useful it must be grounded on faith; on that entire faith which not only believes in the authenticity of our Saviour’s sacrifice, and in the importance of the doctrines he taught, but which fully and gratefully confides in the sufficiency of his atonement. Then hope indeed helps us to anticipate the glorious future; we view him as risen triumphantly to heaven; and we feel that we shall partake in the happiness of the hereafter, which He has promised.

“That the hopes of a future state are natural to the mind may be inferred from the craving and dissatisfied feeling which accompanies our very enjoyments, and which always more or less clouds them with fresh wishes and indefinite hopes. These hopes, it is true, in the worldly man, are set upon pleasures, business, or ambition; or on some of those bustling objects of life, which, from their vicinity to the human eye, assume a false magnitude. But the true Christian learns that heavenly objects, which from their distance appear comparatively faint, swell upon the sight of those who earnestly study them; while the others fade away, and elude the grasp. Religion assists him in correcting those illusions of vision; faith helps him in assigning the proper direction to his hopes; and he makes it his continual care to preserve the enlightened views, which, through the divine mercy, he has obtained. This awful truth has sunk deeply into his mind, ‘The things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal;’ and a just impression of their relative value enables him to maintain a happy composure in all the vicissitudes of life.”

Before my uncle dismissed us, he said, “This, my dear little friends, is the last quiet home Sunday that we shall have for some time. Before we return, many unforeseen changes may occur; we are going, as it were, to launch into the world; we may be separated; and our regular habits must be unavoidably interrupted. But in every situation we can cultivate and strengthen in our hearts the Christian hope; and though we may perhaps no longer give each other mutual aid, we can, at least, each of us watch over our own hearts. Let me then intreat your attention to a few practical hints.

“Never allow yourselves to consider religion as a painful restraint, but rather as the performance of a grateful duty. Whenever that duty has the least appearance of being irksome, search and you will find that some incompatible but favourite pursuit entices away your thoughts: throw it then aside, however blameless it may otherwise be, or however innocent may be its pleasures. Remember with whom St. Paul classes those who are ‘lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God.’

“Frequently examine the state of your moral and religious feelings, and when you perceive a deficiency in any point, beware of lowering the standard of virtue to meet your practice; instead of endeavouring to rise to the level of your duty.

“Watch vigilantly your small faults. You will find the unhesitating sacrifice of any one of them productive of the purest satisfaction; and each victory will make the next struggle more easy. But, in doing this, be careful to resist that most seductive propensity of all minds, the looking back with too much complacency at the faults we have conquered, or at the virtues we possess, instead of fixing our eyes on the sins we have yet to overcome, and the improvement we have yet to achieve.

“And, lastly, arm yourselves with a determined resolution not to rate human estimation beyond its true value. No one should affect a needless singularity; but to aim at things which in their nature are inconsistent, to seek to please both God and the world, where their commands are really at variance, is the way neither to be respectable, nor good, nor happy.”

Fernhurst, for the last time.

12th.—The corn fields are coming into ear, the hay harvest is going on, new flowers are springing up; and all the walks, and gardens, and shrubberies, are in the highest beauty, and yet we are going to leave this dear place! To-morrow we are to quit Fernhurst and all its happiness! But that is a silly feeling, for we all go together, and surely we may make ourselves happy any where, even in Ireland. A year ago I was just leaving my dear mamma, and the happy home to which I had been so long accustomed, to place myself among strangers;—and now I am going among still greater strangers—among the Irish. But my uncle says they are a warm-hearted, hospitable people, and that the country is so full of objects of interest, that I shall not have to regret the employments of Fernhurst, nor even my favourite gardening experiments.

I am happy to tell you, that most of these experiments have succeeded very well as yet: particularly one I have been trying on my dahlias, by budding them on the roots. They have already produced some very flourishing plants, and as the bearing buds were employed, they will blossom this year. I must make you acquainted also with a little bower, which we have all assisted in making in a charming spot; it is canopied with woodbine, and lined with moss; and you might say of it—

As we were taking our last walk late this evening, we saw the goat-sucker, which is nearly allied to the swallow in its form and habits; though generally larger in size. Frederick, who is my chief preceptor in everything relating to the feathered race, tells me, that, except on very dark, gloomy days, these birds are seldom seen till twilight. That is the time the insects come out which form their principal food; and, he says, it is probable that the extreme sensibility of eyes calculated for that period of the day, could not bear the dazzling light of the sun. Their mode of perching is singular, as they place themselves lengthways on a branch, and not in a cross direction like most other birds. The mouth is uncommonly large, fringed with bristles, and moistened by a glutinous fluid, to which the smaller insects adhere; and you may therefore conceive the destructive powers of this bird, for it flies through their swarms with its voracious jaws wide open, darts in every direction at its larger prey, and swallows all, without ever closing its bill. It is in this last circumstance that it chiefly differs from the martin, the swift, and the rest of the swallow tribes; for they never open their bills, in flying, but to snap at their prey, and they shut them with a sharp peculiar noise, which every one must have observed.

There is no end to the variety of names which this bird has acquired in different parts of England—goat-sucker—goat-owl—fern-owl—churn-owl—wheel-bird—dor-hawk—night-jar, &c. In most of these names there is some allusion to its peculiar habits, its haunts, its motions, or its noises, except in the first, which is the commonest and the most absurd of all, as if a goat would allow itself to be sucked by a bird! And yet, however ridiculous, my uncle shewed Frederick, in Aristotle and Pliny, that the ancients gave it a similar name.

I understand that it is not a very common bird here; but we saw it for a considerable time rapidly wheeling round and round a large oak tree, and hawking among the branches in pursuit of the fern-chafer, its favourite food. The hawking of this bird reminds me of an amusing passage in the Persian Sketches:—

“At Shiraz, the Elchee (envoy) received a present of a royal falcon. Before going out, we had been amused at seeing our head falconer put upon this bird a pair of leathers, which he fitted to its thighs with as much care as if he had been the tailor of a fashionable horseman. I inquired the reason of so unusual a proceeding. ‘You will learn that,’ said the consequential master of hawks, ‘when you see our sport.’

“The first hare seized by the falcon was very strong, and the ground rough. While the bird kept the claws of one foot fastened in the back of its prey, the other was dragged along the ground till it had an opportunity to lay hold of a tuft of grass, by which it was enabled to stop the course of the hare, whose efforts to escape would have torn the hawk asunder, if it had not been provided with the leather defences which I have mentioned.

“The next time the falcon was flown gave us a proof of that extraordinary courage which its whole appearance, particularly the eye, denoted. It had stopped and quite disabled a hare by the first pounce, when two greyhounds, which had been slipped by mistake, came up, and endeavoured to seize its prize. They were, however, quickly repulsed by the falcon, and with a boldness that excited our admiration and astonishment.”

And now, dear mamma, I must go and pack up my pretty writing-box which my uncle has given me; it holds paper, and pens, and ink, and pencils, my journal and account-book, and every thing one can want; even a nice little red leather case for colours, which Caroline made for me; and yet it is not above two inches deep. It is quite flat—but I can make a desk of the lid, and as it is to lie in the bottom of the carriage, under our feet, I have put it in a green cloth cover. I was afraid it might be troublesome; but my uncle and aunt know how to make every one comfortable without inconvenience to others.

This is my last line from dear, happy Fernhurst!

13th June, Worcester.

This morning, at seven o’clock, we set out on our journey. Everything had been arranged and packed the day before, so there were no delays in the morning; all were punctual, and I assure you, mamma, that I was ready, and my work-box and travelling-book in my hands, before my uncle gave the first summons for assembling. We have several books in the carriage, but no loose parcels; and within-side it does not look as if it was prepared for a long journey.

Poor little Grace has been left with the Maudes, in whom my uncle and aunt have the most perfect confidence.

We have seen the fine old cathedral in this city, and the porcelain manufactory, both of which I had intended to describe to you; but my aunt recommends us to go to bed, as we are to be up very early to-morrow morning, in order that there may be full time for seeing the carpet manufactory at Kidderminster, on our way to Shrewsbury, where we are to sleep. So, good-night, though it is scarcely yet dark. What charming long days there are in this country compared with those of Rio.

14th June, Shrewsbury.

Everything was in that state when we set out early this morning from Worcester; it reminded me of all my uncle had told me about dew, and I took the opportunity of asking him if dew is formed in the morning—“it continues to form in shaded places, after sun-rise,” said he; “but there is a shorter interval between sun-rise and its ceasing to form, than between its first appearance in the afternoon and sun-set; though Dr. Wells thinks, that if the weather be favourable, more dew forms a little before and a little after sun-rise, in shaded places, than at any other time.”

My aunt remarked, that a few years ago, while in constant attendance on a sick child from July to September, she rose every morning at day-break; and had an opportunity of observing, that about an hour before sun-rise the dew was particularly abundant. The window was frequently kept a little open at night, when the room was close, and the weather still; but the air became so chilly just as this heavy dew came on, that she was always obliged to shut it; yet during the night the chill was never perceived; which corroborates what Dr. Wells says, “that the cold of the atmosphere is greater in the latter than the prior part of the night.”