THE PENNY MAGAZINE

OF THE

Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.

[September 29, 1832

31.]

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY.

BRITISH MUSEUM.—No. 6.

[The Portland or Barberini Vase.]

One of the proudest ornaments of the Museum is the beautiful and celebrated Portland, or, as it used to be called, Barberini Vase. It stands on a table in the middle of the small ante-room at the head of the stairs leading to the gallery of antiquities. This vase is in every respect among the most exquisite productions of art. It is undoubtedly a work of Grecian genius, and is fortunately still as perfect as when it left the hands of its fabricator. Its dimensions are small, its height being only about ten, and its diameter at the broadest part only six inches. But its shape is very elegant, the swell of the lower and central portion diminishing gradually to a narrow neck, and that again gracefully opening towards the lip, like an unfolding flower. It is supported by two handles, inserted at the concave or narrow part. The material is a dark but transparent blue substance, undoubtedly a sort of vitrified paste, of glass, although long supposed to be some species of stone. Upon this the figures, formed of a delicate opaque white substance, are laid in bas-relief; and so firmly are they united to the ground upon which they are thus fixed, that they seem rather to have grown out of it, and to be a part of itself, than to be fastened on by art. It is difficult, indeed, to conceive by what process the union between the two substances was effected. They must of course have been first brought into contact when both were in a soft state, and then apparently they were run together by heat. If the action of fire, however, was employed for this purpose, it has not injured the finest line in any of the figures. Every stroke is as sharp and unbroken as in the most finished delineations that were ever drawn by the pencil, or cut by the graver, or struck from the die. Of the scene represented no satisfactory explanation has yet been given, and therefore any description of the figures would be little better than a catalogue of unconnected particulars. But we may say in general that they are fashioned with admirable grace and animation, and are full of expression in every look and attitude. It is impossible not to feel that there is great dramatic force and pathos in the sketch, even without being able to interpret it completely. The Portland vase was discovered about the middle of the sixteenth century, enclosed in a sarcophagus, within the monument of the Emperor Alexander Severus and his mother Julia Mamæa, commonly called the Monte del Grano, about two miles and a half from Rome, on the Frescati road. The sarcophagus itself, which is a very noble work of art, is still in Rome, and the vase also remained for more than two centuries in the palace of the Barberini family in the same city, of which it was considered to form one of the chief ornaments. At last it fell into the hands of Sir William Hamilton, from whom it was purchased nearly forty years ago by the Duke of Portland. A mould of the Barberini vase was taken at Rome before it came into the possession of Sir William Hamilton, by the gem-engraver Pechler; and from this the late Mr. Tassie, the celebrated modeller, took sixty casts in plaster of Paris, and then broke the mould. Some very beautiful imitations of it have also been fabricated by the Wedgewoods, in which not only the shape, but the colour of the original has been attempted to be preserved. Modern art, however, cannot imitate the vitrified appearance of the material in the ancient vase.

ON THE QUADRATURE OF THE CIRCLE.

We have undertaken this article, because we have reason to know, that there are still some persons who, from ignorance of the real question, are turning their attention to this useless and exploded problem, and deceiving themselves and their neighbours into the belief that they have succeeded in doing that which has been repeatedly shown to be impossible. By the rectification of a circle is meant the finding of a straight line which shall be equal in length to the circumference of a given circle, or the two ends of which when bent round it should exactly meet; by the quadrature of a circle is meant the finding a square which shall be equal in surface to a given circle, that is, to the whole space contained inside its circumference. There is no difficulty in doing these problems in a manner more than sufficiently correct for all useful purposes. If, for example, we take a circle as large as the earth’s orbit, and an atom as small as the smallest insect which a microscope ever showed in a drop of water, nothing would be more easy than to find the circumference of this circle so nearly, that the error committed should be less than the length of that atom. The problem which has puzzled so many generations, is the finding what is called a geometrical quadrature of the circle. What this is we proceed to explain. It is the object of geometry to find out, by reasoning, all truths which relate to the various figures which a draughtsman can construct. Not that these figures are precisely the objects of geometrical reasoning; for a geometrical line has no breadth or thickness, but only length, while the line we draw with a pencil has a small degree both of breadth and thickness. It is agreed by geometers to take as little for granted as possible, and to make all their propositions arise out of the smallest number of simple truths. It is also agreed to imagine the existence of as few figures as possible. It was therefore the practice of the ancient geometers to assume no problems except the following:—1. A straight line can be drawn from one point to another. 2. A straight line, when finished, can afterwards be made longer. 3. A circle can be drawn with any point as a centre, and any line as a radius. All lines, except the straight line and circle, and afterwards the conic sections, were called mechanical, as distinguished from geometrical lines; and if any problem arose, the first attempt was always to solve it geometrically, and only when that failed, were mechanical means resorted to, or were other curves constructed, the construction of which once granted, solved the problem. The names geometrical and mechanical, as applied to distinguish one sort of solution from another, may be improper; but that is not the question. When a man asserts that he has found a geometrical quadrature of the circle, he either does or does not use the word in the sense of the ancient geometers. If he does, and his solution is correct, he has certainly solved the problem; but that no one has yet done this is universally admitted. If he does not use the word geometrical in the ancient signification, his solution has nothing to do with the problem which has hitherto remained unsolved. Many ways have been discovered of finding the area of a circle, which take something more for granted than the use of the ruler and compasses only, and any person, with a reasonable knowledge of mathematics, might add a dozen to the number in a couple of hours. So much for the geometrical solution of the problem.

It was proved long before the Christian era, that the circumferences of two different circles are to one another as the radii, that is, whatever number of times one circumference contains its radius, the other circumference contains its radius as many times, or whatever fraction one radius is of its circumference, the same fraction is the other radius of its circumference. From this it follows, that if any number of circles were taken, having for radii a foot, a yard, a mile, &c., whatever number of feet and parts of feet would go round the first, the same number of miles and similar parts of miles would go round the third, and so on. Hence it became a question of importance to discover what was the number of units and parts of units contained in the circumference of a circle whose radius was the unit. Again, it was proved that the number of square feet and parts of square feet in a circle of one foot radius, was the same as the number of square miles and similar parts of square miles contained in the circle of one mile radius. Archimedes showed that a circle of one foot in radius contained nearly 3 square feet and ⅐ of a square foot, which does not differ from the truth by so much as ⅕ of a square inch, and gives the circle too great by about its three-thousandth part. An ancient measure of the Hindoos makes it 3 square feet and 177 parts out of 1250 of a square foot. This is much nearer to the truth, differing from it by about one-thousandth part of a square inch, but still a little too much. Metius, who flourished in the beginning of the seventeenth century, found that if a square foot be divided into 113 parts, the circle of one foot radius contains about 355 of these parts; a result of surprising accuracy when the simplicity of the numbers is considered; it is too great by about the fifty-thousandth part of a square inch. These numbers may be very easily recollected, since, when put together, they give the first three odd numbers, each repeated twice; thus, 113355.

The following simple rules will enable every one of our readers to find the circumference of a circle. If any one of them would go direct round the world, he would by means of them, if the earth were a perfect sphere, be able to tell the length of his journey within less than four yards. From them the word inch may be taken out, and any other unit substituted.

To find the length of the circumference of a circle, multiply the number of inches in the diameter (or twice the radius) by 355, and divide the product by 113. The result is the number of inches in the circumference.

To find the area, or surface of a circle, multiply the number of inches in the radius by itself, and that product by 355; divide the result by 113, the quotient of which is the number of square inches in the area.

We might go on to describe still more accurate methods; it will be sufficient to say, that the latest of them gives the area of a circle true to 127 decimal places, as it is called; that is, if the radius be 1000, &c. feet, the ciphers being 127 in number, the area of the circle will be obtained without an error of a square foot.

Still this is only an approximation, and however nearly the circumference of a circle has been obtained, it has never been obtained exactly. Numberless attempts have been made to find the exact ratio of the circumference to the diameter, but without success; the reason being, as was afterwards proved, that the thing is impossible. We can now demonstrate that the ratio of the circumference to the diameter cannot be accurately expressed in numbers; all we can do with numbers is, to express it as nearly as we please. Thus, using decimals, we may say that the circumference of a circle whose diameter is 1 is greater than 3 and less than 4; greater than 3·1 and less than 3·2; greater than 3·14 and less than 3·15, and so on, assigning nearer and nearer fractions, between which it must lie, but never coming to an exact result. Almost every projector who imagines he can solve this problem, is sure to produce some number or fraction as the exact ratio of the circumference to the diameter; and it is observable that the less his knowledge of geometry, the more easily does he overcome the difficulty, and the more obstinately does he believe himself in the right. Some have been found hardy enough to deny the common propositions of geometry, in order to establish their own conclusion on this point. Others, totally ignorant of geometry, hearing that a circle could not be exactly measured, have imagined that the word exact was used in the sense in which a carpenter would take it, who, very properly for his purpose, considers two rods to be of exactly the same length, when they do not differ to the naked eye. These usually cut a circle out in wood, measure it with a bit of string, pronounce their result to be perfectly accurate, and are very much surprised that an ungrateful world does not perceive their claim to one of the first places in the ranks of science. We shall give some anecdotes connected with this subject, principally extracted from Montucla’s History of the Mathematics.

In 1585, a Spanish friar published his quadrature of the circle. His preface is a dialogue between himself and the circle, who thanks him in most affectionate terms for having solved the problem. The circle, however, did not in this case attend to the maxim, “Know thyself,” any more than some of its squares have since done, for the pretended quadrature was utterly wrong. The author of it was a modest man, and ascribed all the honour to the Virgin Mary. Another Knight of the Round Shield found out by his method that the first book of Euclid was all a mistake. About the same time a merchant of Rochelle discovered not only the quadrature of the circle, but with it, and depending upon it, a method of converting Jews, Pagans, and Mahometans to Christianity. In 1671, an anonymous writer published a treatise with the following title: ‘Demonstration of the Divine Theorem of the quadrature of the circle, of the bisection of the angle, and of the perpetual motion, and the connexion of this theorem with the Vision of Ezekiel and the Revelation of St. John.’ A certain Cluver found out that this problem depended upon another, which he expressed thus: “Construere mundum divinæ menti analogum.” The literal translation of this (the sense is unknown) is, “To build a world resembling the divine mind.” But the most singular person was one Richard White, an English Jesuit, who, having once undertaken to square the circle, was afterwards convinced by argument that he was in the wrong which never happened to any other of this class of speculators, except perhaps to one Mathulon, a Frenchman of Lyons. This man offered to give a thousand crowns to any one who would detect an error in his solution. It was done to his satisfaction, but he refused to pay the money, and a court of justice decided that it should be given to the poor. So late as 1750 an Englishman, Henry Sullamar, found out the area of the circle by means of the number 666 mentioned in the Revelations. But in 1753, a Captain in the French Guards, did more for in squaring the circle, which he did with a piece of turf, he hit upon what he thought was a most obvious connexion between this and the doctrines of original sin and the Trinity. He offered to bet three hundred thousand francs that he was right, and actually deposited ten thousand of them. A young lady, and several other persons easily won the wager, and brought actions for the money; but the courts declared that the bet was void.

Such are a few of the most remarkable aberrations of the human mind on this problem. They show, in the most convincing manner, that presumption is rarely confined to one subject in the same mind, and that a man who, without studying a science, conceives himself to be more knowing than those who have passed their lives in the pursuit of it, must previously have brought himself to believe that he is almost a God, and is but one step removed from taking the government of the universe out of the hands of its Creator, and arranging it according to his own improved notions.

With regard to a geometrical solution, and the possibility or impossibility of it, we shall now say a few words. We have already observed that an arithmetical solution is certainly impossible, that is, there is no number or fraction which exactly represents the circumference of the circle where the radius is a unit. In 1668, James Gregory, a well-known name in geometry, asserted that a geometrical quadrature was impossible, that is, no use of the ruler and compasses could give a square of exactly the same dimensions as a given circle. Of this he published his demonstration, which was attacked by Huyghens, another geometer of the same time. The dispute has interested mathematicians so little for the last century and a half, that few of them seem to have cared which was right. The historians of mathematics have, of course, been obliged to give an opinion, and yet Montucla and Dr. Hutton both forbear to decide the question, each being apparently somewhat inclined to believe that J. Gregory was right. The demonstration of the latter appears to us to render it extremely probable that the geometrical quadrature is impossible; but we will not venture a positive opinion where such respectable authorities have declined to give one. But we would recommend any one who imagines he can give this solution, to learn geometry, to examine the demonstration of J. Gregory, which he will find in the library of the British Museum, and find out the error; and it deserves some attention, since neither Montucla nor Hutton, both very well informed mathematicians, would positively say it was false.

We would not have entered upon this subject at such length, if it were not that there appear, from time to time, pretended solutions of this problem. To any one who is ignorant of geometry, we would recommend to be sure of two things before he undertakes it; first, that he has an imagination which will set common sense at defiance, for without this he will never out-herod Herod so far as to produce any thing worthy of notice, after the instances which we have mentioned; secondly, that he has his own good opinion to a very great degree, for otherwise his peace of mind will be disturbed, either by the neglect or ridicule which it will be his fate to meet with. To one who understands geometry, and who imagines himself to be the person destined by Providence to work this wonder, we have not a word to say; if the study of Euclid has not been sufficient to teach him more sense, or at least to induce him to wait until he knows more, we should almost rival him in absurdity, if we thought him a proper subject for the language of common sense.

THE BANANA, OR PLANTAIN.

[The Banana, or Plantain Tree, with Cocoa-Nut Trees in the back-ground.]

The banana, or plantain, forms a principal article of food to a great portion of mankind within and near the tropics, offering its produce indifferently to the inhabitants of equinoctial Asia and America, of tropical Africa, and of the islands of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Wherever the mean heat of the year exceeds 75° of Fahrenheit, the banana is one of the most important and interesting objects for the cultivation of man. All hot countries appear equally to favour the growth of its fruit; and it has even been cultivated in Cuba, in situations where the thermometer descends to 45° of Fahrenheit.

The tree which bears this useful fruit is of considerable size: it rises with an herbaceous stalk, about five or six inches in diameter at the surface of the ground, but tapering upwards to the height of fifteen or twenty feet. The leaves are in a cluster at the top; they are very large, being about six feet long and two feet broad: the middle rib is strong, but the rest of the leaf is tender, and apt to be torn by the wind. The leaves grow with great rapidity after the stalk has attained its proper height. The spike of flowers rises from the centre of the leaves to the height of about four feet. At first the flowers are inclosed in a sheath, but, as they come to maturity, that drops off. The fruit is about an inch in diameter, eight or nine inches long, and bent a little on one side. As it ripens it turns yellow; and when ripe, it is filled with a pulp of a luscious sweet taste.

The banana is not known in an uncultivated state. The wildest tribes of South America, who depend upon this fruit for their subsistence, propagate the plant by suckers. Eight or nine months after the sucker has been planted, the banana begins to form its clusters; and the fruit may be collected in the tenth and eleventh months. When the stalk is cut, the fruit of which has ripened, a sprout is put forth, which again bears fruit in three months. The whole labour of cultivation which is required for a plantation of bananas is to cut the stalks laden with ripe fruit, and to give the plants a slight nourishment, once or twice a year, by digging round the roots. A spot of a little more than a thousand square feet will contain from thirty to forty banana plants. A cluster of bananas, produced on a single plant, often contains from one hundred and sixty to one hundred and eighty fruits, and weighs from seventy to eighty pounds. But reckoning the weight of a cluster only at forty pounds, such a plantation would produce more than four thousand pounds of nutritive substance. M. Humboldt calculates that as thirty-three pounds of wheat and ninety-nine pounds of potatoes require the same space as that in which four thousand pounds of bananas are grown, the produce of bananas is consequently to that of wheat as 133:1, and to that of potatoes as 44:1.

The facility with which the banana can be cultivated has doubtless contributed to arrest the progress of improvement in tropical regions. In the new continent civilization first commenced on the mountains, in a soil of inferior fertility. Necessity awakens industry, and industry calls forth the intellectual powers of the human race. When these are developed, man does not sit in a cabin, gathering the fruits of his little patch of bananas, asking no greater luxuries, and proposing no higher ends of life than to eat and to sleep. He subdues to his use all the treasures of the earth by his labour and his skill; and he carries his industry forward to its utmost limits, by the consideration that he has active duties to perform. The idleness of the poor Indian keeps him, where he has been for ages, little elevated above the inferior animal;—the industry of the European, under his colder skies, and with a less fertile soil, has surrounded him with all the blessings of society—its comforts, its affections, its virtues, and its intellectual riches.

FALLS OF THE CLYDE.

[View of Corra Linn.]

The river Clyde in the neighbourhood of the town of Lanark presents, according to the testimony of all travellers, some of the most romantic and picturesque scenery in the world. We shall confine ourselves at present to a short notice of the Linns or falls which have been so much celebrated. The word Linn, we may remark, is the Gaelic Leum, and signifies merely a fall or leap.[1] Its application to a cataract, or fall of water, is general throughout Scotland. Burns has introduced the word with very happy effect in his humorous and well-known song of Duncan Grey, where, in describing the perplexity and despair of the rejected suitor, he says—

“Duncan sighed baith out and in,

  Grat his een baith bleer’d and blin’,

  Spak o’ loupin’ owre a linn;

  Ha, ha, the wooin’ o’t.”

“Spak o’ loupin’ owre a linn,” writes one of his correspondents, the Honourable A. Erskine, to the poet, “is a line of itself that should make you immortal.” But to return to the linns on the Clyde. The first precipice over which the river rushes, on its way from the hills, is situated about two miles above Lanark—and is known by the name of Bonnington Linn. It is a perpendicular rock of about twenty, or, as some authorities state, thirty feet in height, over which the water after having approached its brink in a broad sheet, smooth as a mirror, and reflecting the forests that clothe its margin, tumbles impetuously into a deep hollow or basin, where it is instantly ground into froth. A dense mist continually hovers over this boiling cauldron. From this point downwards the channel of the river assumes a chaotic appearance; instead of the quiet and outspread waters above the fall, we have now a confined and angry torrent forcing its way with the noise of thunder between steep and meeting rocks, and over incessant impediments. The scenery on both sides, however, is exquisitely rich and beautiful. A walk of about half a mile, which may be said almost to overhang the river, leads to the second and most famous of the falls, that called Corra Linn, from the castle of Corra, now in ruins, which stands in its neighbourhood. “The tremendous rocks around,” says the report on the parish of Lanark, published in Sir John Sinclair’s Statistical Account of Scotland, “the old castle upon the opposite bank, a corn-mill on the rock below, the furious and impatient stream foaming over the rock, the horrid chasm and abyss underneath your feet, heightened by the hollow murmur of the water, and the screams of wild birds, form a spectacle at once tremendous and pleasing. A summer-house or pavilion, is situated on a high rocky bank, that overlooks the linn, built by Sir James Carmichael, of Bonnington, in 1708. From its uppermost room it affords a very striking prospect of the fall; for, all at once, on throwing your eyes towards a mirror, on the opposite side of the room from the fall, you see the whole tremendous cataract pouring as it were upon your head. The Corra Linn, by measurement, is eighty-four feet in height. The river does not rush over it in one uniform sheet like Bonnington Linn, but in three different, though almost imperceptible, precipitate leaps. On the southern bank, and when the sun shines, a rainbow is perpetually seen forming itself upon the mist and fogs, arising from the violent dashing of the waters,”—as Byron has beautifully sung of the Cataract of Velino, in Italy:—

⸻“On the verge,

From side to side beneath the glittering morn,

An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,

Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn

Its steady dyes, while all around is torn

By the distracted waters, bears serene

Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn;

Resembling, ’mid the torture of the scene,

Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.”

A short distance below Corra Linn is another fall called Dundaff Linn, the appearance of which is also very beautiful, though it is only about three feet and a half high. About three miles farther down, and a considerable way past the town of Lanark, is the last of the falls, that called Stonebyres Linn. It is a precipice, or rather a succession of three precipices, making together a height of sixty-four feet. The same general features of rugged rocks, here appearing in all their dreary bareness, there concealed by trees and shrubs, of wild birds winging their flight over the bounding cataract and mingling their screams with its roar, and of cultivated nature in its most luxuriant beauty contending all around with the sublimity of the untamed torrent, which belong to Corra Linn, mark that of Stonebyres also, though with some diminution of the romantic effect. A peculiar phenomenon which is to be seen here, is that of the incessant endeavours of the salmon, in the spawning season, to mount the lofty barrier by which they now find their migration from the sea for the first time opposed. Their efforts, it is almost needless to say, are quite unavailing. It is also stated that the horse muscle, the pearl oyster, and some other species of fish, which are found in great numbers below this fall, are never seen above it. Trouts, however, have been observed to spring up the small ascent of Dundaff Linn apparently without difficulty.

1. The word has also been derived from the Welsh Linn, signifying “a lake” or “water.” This root is likewise found in the Greek language, and its proper signification seems to be, “water.”

COWPER’S LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER’S PICTURE.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine,—thine own sweet smile I see

The same that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,

“Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!”

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

(Blest be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!

Who bidst me honour with an artless song,

Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:

And, while that face renews my filial grief,

Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hover’d thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,

Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun?

Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unfelt, a kiss;

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss,

Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

And, turning from my nursery window, drew

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such? It was.—Where thou art gone,

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown,

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting word shall pass my lips no more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;

What ardently I wished, I long believed,

And disappointed still, was still deceived.

By expectation every day beguiled,

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,

Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learned, at last, submission to my lot,

But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot.

Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day,

Drew me to school along the public way,

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,

’Tis now become a history little known,

That once we called the pastoral house our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair,

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced

A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed,

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks

That humour interposed too often makes;

All this, still legible in memory’s page,

And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay

Such honours to thee as my numbers may;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere;

Not scorn’d in heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,

When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)

Could those few pleasant hours again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart,—the dear delight

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.

But no, what here we call our life is such,

So little to be loved, and thou so much,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain

Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast,

The storms all weathered, and the ocean crossed,

Shoots into port at some well favoured isle,

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show

Her beauteous form reflected clear below,

While airs impregnated with incense play

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,

“Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar;”

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide

Of life, long since has anchored by thy side.

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,

Always from port withheld, always distressed—

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,

Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,

And day by day some current’s thwarting force

Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.

Yet O! the thought, that thou art safe, and he!

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.

My boast is not that I deduce my birth

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;

But higher far my proud pretensions rise—

The son of parents passed into the skies.

And now farewell—Time unrevoked has run

His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.

By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain,

I seem to have lived my childhood o’er again;

To have renewed the joys that once were mine,

Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,

And I can view this mimic show of thee,

Time has but half succeeded in his theft—

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

THE WEEK.

September 29.—This day, popularly called Michaelmas, has been observed in the Christian Church, at least since towards the close of the fifth century, as the “Feast of St. Michael and All Angels.” St. Michael has always enjoyed the reputation of preeminence over all the other angels and archangels—and some theologians, indeed, have held that he is the only archangel. The reverence paid to this name was equally great under the Jewish dispensation as it has been since the introduction of Christianity. The churches dedicated to St. Michael, in conformity to this notion of his superior dignity, have been usually erected upon elevated ground; that of St. Michael’s Mount, in Cornwall, is quoted as an instance in this country. Michaelmas is now observed in England principally as one of the four regular quarter days on which rents are paid: but both here and in other parts of Christendom the day was anciently, among all classes, one of distinguished hospitality and festive enjoyment. Our custom of dining on goose at Michaelmas has given occasion to the expenditure of a great deal of antiquarian ingenuity in the attempt to trace its origin: but it seems to have arisen merely from the circumstance of the bird being naturally in season at this time of the year. Evidence has been produced of its existence so far back as about the middle of the fifteenth century, and it may possibly be much older. The old poet Gascoigne, in the work called his ‘Posies,’ published in 1575, thus alludes to this and other similar customs, which appear to have originated in the same way:—

“And when the tenants come

  To pay their quarter’s rent,

  They bring some fowl at Midsummer,

  A dish of fish in Lent;

  At Christmas a capon,

  At Michaelmas a goose,

  And somewhat else at New-year’s tide,

  For fear their lease fly loose.”

September 29.—The anniversary of the birth of Nelson. Horatio Nelson was born in 1758, at the parsonage-house of Burnham-Thorpe, in Norfolk, of which parish his father was rector. He went to sea at the age of twelve, as a midshipman. In 1777 he was made a lieutenant, and in 1779 a post-captain. He now went out to the West Indies in command of the Hinchinbroke, and distinguished himself by several gallant exploits on that station. While here he married Mrs. Nesbit, the widow of a physician, by whom however he had no family. But the most splendid part of Nelson’s career commenced with the war of 1793. It would be altogether impossible for us here to present even the most rapid recital of the numerous actions in which he bore a part from this date till his death. Among many bright names which illuminate this part of the naval history of England, his shines the brightest of all. Wherever the cannon thundered on the deep, it might be said, there was Nelson. When early in 1798 he presented his claim for a pension, in consequence of the recent loss of his right arm in an attack on Teneriffe, he stated in his memorial that he had been present in more than a hundred engagements. On occasion of his receiving that wound, which nearly proved fatal, he came home for a short time to England; and Mr. Southey, by whom the story of the hero’s life has been told with singular fascination, relates the following anecdote in illustration of the popular feeling with which he was regarded, which we transcribe as equally honourable to all the parties concerned:—

“His sufferings from the lost limb were long and painful. A nerve had been taken up in one of the ligatures at the time of the operation; and the ligature, according to the practice of the French surgeons, was of silk instead of waxed thread: this produced a constant irritation and discharge; and the ends of the ligature being pulled every day, in hopes of bringing it away, occasioned fresh agony. He had scarcely any intermission of pain, day or night, for three months after his return to England. Lady Nelson, at his earnest request, attended the dressing his arm, till she had acquired sufficient resolution and skill to dress it herself. One night, during this state of suffering, after a day of constant pain, Nelson retired early to bed; in hope of enjoying some respite by means of laudanum. He was at that time lodging in Bond Street; and the family was soon disturbed by a mob knocking loudly and violently at the door. The news of Duncan’s victory had been made public, and the house was not illuminated. But when the mob were told that Admiral Nelson lay there in bed, badly wounded, the foremost of them made answer, ‘You shall hear no more from us to-night:’ and, in fact, the feeling of respect and sympathy was communicated from one to another with such effect, that, under the confusion of such a night, the house was not molested again.”

Nelson’s two greatest victories, as all our readers know, were those of the Nile and of Trafalgar. The first was gained on the 1st of August, 1798, and effected the complete destruction of the enemy’s force, all their ships, except two, being either captured or sunk. For this brilliant achievement he was elevated to the peerage by the title of Baron Nelson of the Nile. The battle of Trafalgar was fought on the 21st of October, 1805; and there this renowned captain fell amidst the blaze of the most splendid triumph ever gained upon the seas. In reference to Nelson’s character as an officer, Mr. Southey says, “Never was any commander more beloved. He governed men by their reason and their affections: they knew that he was incapable of caprice or tyranny; and they obeyed him with alacrity and joy; because he possessed their confidence as well as their love. ‘Our Nel,’ they used to say, ‘is as brave as a lion, and as gentle as a lamb.’ Severe discipline he detested, though he had been bred in a severe school; he never inflicted corporal punishment, if it were possible to avoid it; and when compelled to enforce it, he who was familiar with wounds and death suffered like a woman. In his whole life Nelson was never known to act unkindly towards an officer. If he was asked to prosecute one for ill-behaviour, he used to answer: ‘That there was no occasion for him to ruin a poor devil, who was sufficiently his own enemy to ruin himself.’ … To his midshipmen he ever showed the most winning kindness, encouraging the diffident, tempering the hasty, counselling and befriending both.”

It is to be lamented that the private character of this gallant officer was in his later years, deeply stained by an infatuated attachment, which not only separated him from his wife, who ill deserved this desertion, but also hurried him on one occasion, in order to gratify the profligate and heartless woman who had obtained so unfortunate an ascendancy over him, into the perpetration of an act, as foreign, we may safely say, to his real nature, as it was opposed to humanity and to justice.

[Horatio Lord Nelson.]

October 3.—The birth-day of Dr. John Tillotson, one of the most eminent of the English prelates. He was the son of Robert Tillotson, a clothier of Sowerby, near Halifax, in Yorkshire, and here he was born in 1630. His father, who was a rigid presbyterian, educated him in his own principles. After having studied for some years at Clare Hall in the University of Cambridge, young Tillotson became tutor in the family of Prideaux, Cromwell’s Attorney-General. He had also taken orders as a preacher among the Presbyterians; but, on the passing of the Act of Uniformity soon after the King’s return, he submitted, and was presented to the rectory of Cheshunt in Hertfordshire. Although, however, he had thus conformed to the Established Church, he attached himself to that party in it which was most favourably disposed to the communion he had left; not perhaps the most common course with those who pass over from one denomination, whether religious or political, to another. In 1664 he married Miss French, daughter of Dr. French, Canon of Christ Church, and of Robina, the sister of Oliver Cromwell. He had already obtained great distinction as a pulpit-orator, and had been chosen to the honourable office of preacher to the society of Lincoln’s Inn, from which so many eminent men have stepped to the highest preferments in the church. Soon after he was also made Dean of Canterbury and one of the Prebendaries of St. Paul’s. It was while he was residing at his deanery in 1677 that the incident occurred which first introduced him to the Prince of Orange. About the end of that year the Prince arrived in Canterbury from London, accompanied by his wife the Princess Mary, to whom he had just been united, and whom he was conducting to Holland. They had been hurried from London (in order to withdraw them from the entertainments and other marks of respect which the public enthusiasm was eager to bestow upon them) in such haste, that when they reached Canterbury they found themselves so scantily supplied with money that they were obliged to apply for a loan to the corporation. After deliberating upon the matter, however, that body declined advancing the required sum. In this emergency, Dr. Tillotson hastily collected all the plate as well as cash which he possessed or could borrow from his friends, and making his way with it to the Prince’s attendant, Mr. Bentinck, (afterwards Duke of Portland,) requested that he would accept of it for the service of his master. The Prince was extremely gratified by this proof of attachment, and Dr. Tillotson was immediately introduced to their Highnesses. On the Revolution, King William appointed him his Clerk of the Closet, and soon after allowed him to exchange the deanery of Canterbury for that of St. Paul’s. On the deposition of Archbishop Sancroft in 1691 for refusing to take the oaths of allegiance to the new sovereign, Tillotson was reluctantly prevailed upon to accept the See of Canterbury. His elevation, in the peculiar circumstances in which it took place, exposed him to a great deal of bitter obloquy from the high-church party, the virulence of whose animosity was not diminished by the liberality and toleration of his demeanour in his high office, and the desire he manifested rather to conciliate the adversaries of the establishment by the removal of all unnecessary barriers of separation, than to retain what occasioned their conscientious opposition for the mere sake of abiding by whatever had once been adopted, and attempting to preserve a formal and useless consistency. He was carried off by an attack of paralysis after an illness of five days, on the 24th of November, 1694, having held the primacy only about three years, during which short space, however, he had become completely wearied and disgusted with its cares and troubles. Archbishop Tillotson’s Sermons, commonly printed in three volumes folio, or in ten volumes octavo, are still perhaps more popular and more generally read than those of any other of our old theological writers, except perhaps Dr. South, &c. They are written rather in an easy than in a very polished style, and have no pretensions to eloquence of the highest sort; but they are marked by a manly character both of expression and of thought, and by very considerable powers of argument and persuasion. The author, as has been already noticed, was one of the most favourite preachers of his day.

⁂ By the accidental substitution of one cut for another, we gave, in No. 28, a view described as the “Remains of the Parthenon,” which is really a representation of the Temple of Apollo Epicurius, near Phygalia, and which was intended to accompany an account of the Phygalian Marbles in the British Museum. We shall add a view of the Parthenon to the next article on the Elgin Marbles.

⁂ The Office of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge is at 59, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

LONDON:—CHARLES KNIGHT, PALL-MALL EAST.

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Transcriber’s Notes

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain. Itemized changes from the original text:

p. 256: Added period after picture caption “Horatio Lord Nelson.”