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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

         NUMBER 16.     SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1840.    VOLUME I.

[Illustration: THE CASTLE AND LAKE OF INCHIQUIN, COUNTY OF CLARE.]

Connemara itself, now so celebrated for its lakes and mountains, was not
less unknown a few years since than the greater portion of the county
of Clare. Without roads, or houses of entertainment for travellers, its
magnificent coast and other scenery were necessarily unvisited by the
pleasure tourists, and but little appreciated even by their inhabitants
themselves. But Clare can no longer be said to be an unvisited district:
the recent formation of roads has opened to observation many features of
interest previously inaccessible to the traveller, and its singular coast
scenery--the most sublimely magnificent in the British islands, if not in
Europe--has at least been made known to the public by topographical and
scientific explorers--it has become an attractive locality to artists and
pleasure tourists, and will doubtless be visited by increasing numbers of
such persons in each successive year.

There is however as yet in this county too great a deficiency in the
number of respectable houses of entertainment suited to the habits
of pleasure tourists; for though the wealthier and more educated
classes in the British empire are becoming daily a more travelling and
picturesque-hunting genus, they will not be content to live on fine
scenery, but must have food for the body as well as for the mind; and
truly they must be enthusiastic lovers of the picturesque, who, to
gratify their taste, will subject themselves to the vicissitudes of such
an uncertain climate as ours, without the certainty of such consoling
comforts as are afforded in a clean and comfortable inn.

Yet we do not despair of seeing this want soon supplied. Wherever there
is a demand for a commodity it will not be long wanting; and the people
of Clare are too sagacious not to perceive, however slowly, the practical
wisdom of holding out every inducement of this kind to those who might
be disposed to visit them and spend their money among them. The first
step necessary, however, to produce such results in any little frequented
district, is to make its objects of interest known to the public by the
pencil and the pen--the rest will follow in due course; and our best
efforts, such as they are, shall not be unexerted towards effecting such
an important good as well for Clare as for many other as yet little known
localities of our country.

Clare is indeed on many accounts deserving of greater attention than
it has hitherto received. It is a county rich in attractions for the
geologist and naturalist, and interesting in the highest degree to
the lovers of the picturesque. With a surface singularly broken and
diversified, full of mountains, hills, lakes, and rivers, dotted all over
with every class of ancient remains, its scenery is peculiarly Irish, and
though of a somewhat melancholy aspect, it is never wanting in a poetic
and historic interest. Such a district is not indeed exactly suited to
the tastes of the common scenery-hunter, for it possesses but little of
that woody and artificially adorned scenery which he requires, and can
alone enjoy; and hence it has usually been described by tourists and
topographers with a coldness which shows how little its peculiarities had
impressed their feelings, and how incompetent they were to communicate to
others a just estimate of its character. Let us take as an example the
notice given by the writers of Lewis’s Topographical Dictionary, of one
of the Clare beauties of which the natives are most proud--the caverns
called the To-meens or To-mines, near Kiltanan:--

“At Kiltanan is a succession of limestone caverns, through which a
rivulet takes its course: these are much visited in summer; many
petrified shells are found in the limestone, some of which are nearly
perfect, and--_very curious_!”

This it must be confessed is cold enough; but the description of the same
locality given by our friend the author of the Guide through Ireland, is,
as our readers will see, not a whit warmer. It is as follows:--

“A mile from Tulla is Kiltanan, the handsome residence of James Moloney,
Esq.; and in addition to the pleasure of a well-kept residence, in a
naked and sadly neglected country, _some interest_ is excited by the
subterraneous course of the rivulet called the To-meens, which waters
this demesne!”

Now, would any person be induced by such descriptions as those to
visit the said To-meens? We suspect not. But hear with what delight a
native writer of this county actually revels in a description of these
remarkable caves:--

“About a mile N. W. of Tulla lies the river of Kiltanan, and Milltown,
famous for its ever-amazing and elegant subterraneous curiosities,
called the To-mines: they form a part of the river, midway between
Kiltanan House and the Castle of Milltown, extending under ground for a
space, which (from its invisible winding banks and crystal meanders) may
reasonably be computed a quarter of an English mile: they are vaulted,
and sheltered with a solid rock, transmitting a sufficiency of light and
air by intermediate chinks and apertures gradually offering at certain
intervals.

At each side of this Elysian-like river are roomy passages or rather
apartments, freely communicating one with the other, and scarcely
obvious to any inclemency whatsoever: they are likewise decorated with
a sandy beach level along to walk on, whilst the curious spectators are
crowned with garlands of ivy, hanging in triplets from the impending
rocky shades: numbers of the sporting game, the wily fox, the wary hare,
and the multiplying rabbit, &c. merrily parading in view of their own
singular and various absconding haunts and retreats. Ingenious nature
thus entertains her welcome visitants from the entrance to the extremity
of the To-mines. Lo! when parting liberally rewarded, and amply satisfied
with such egregious and wonderful exhibitions, a bridge or arch over
the same river, curiously composed of solid stone, appears to them as a
lively representation of an artificial one.

What can the much boasted of Giants’ Causeway, in the north of this
kingdom, produce but scenes of horror and obscurity? whilst the To-mines
of the barony of Tulla, like unto the artificial beauties of the Latomi
of Syracuse, freely exhibit the most natural and pleasing appearances.

Let the literati and curious, after taking the continental tour of
Europe, praise and even write of the imaginary beauties and natural
curiosities of Italy and Switzerland--pray, let them also, on a cool
reflection, repair to the county of Clare, view and touch upon the truly
subterraneous and really unartificial curiosities of the To-mines: they
will impartially admit that these naturally enchanting rarities may be
freely visited, and generously treated of, by the ingenious and learned
of this and after ages.”--_A Short Tour, or an Impartial and Accurate
Description of the County of Clare, by John Lloyd, Ennis; 1780._

Excellent. Mr Lloyd! Your style is indeed a _little_ peculiar, and
what some would think extravagant and grotesque; but you describe with
feeling, and we shall certainly visit your To-meens next summer. But
in the mean time we must notice another Clare lion, of which you have
given us no account--the lake and castle, which we have drawn as an
embellishment to our present number. This is a locality respecting the
beauty of which there can be no difference of opinion: it has all the
circumstances which give interest to a landscape--wood, water, lake,
mountain, and ancient ruin--and the effect of their combination is
singularly enhanced by the surprise created by the appearance of a scene
so delightful in a district wild, rocky, and unimproved.

The lake of Inchiquin is situated in the parish of Kilnaboy, barony
of Inchiquin, and is about two miles and a half in circumference. It
is bounded on its western side by a range of hills rugged but richly
wooded, and rising abruptly from its margin; and on its southern side,
the domain surrounding the residence of the Burton family, and the
ornamental grounds of Adelphi, the residence of W. and F. Fitzgerald,
Esqrs. contribute to adorn a scene of remarkable natural beauty. One
solitary island alone appears on its surface, unless that be ranked as
one on which the ancient castle is situated, and which may originally
have been insulated, though no longer so. The castle, which is situated
at the northern side of the lake, though greatly dilapidated, is still a
picturesque and interesting ruin, consisting of the remains of a barbican
tower, keep, and old mansion-house attached to it; and its situation on
a rocky island or peninsula standing out in the smooth water, with its
grey walls relieved by the dark masses of the wooded hills behind, is
eminently striking and imposing.

It is from this island or peninsula that the barony takes its name; and
from this also the chief of the O’Briens, the Marquis of Thomond, derives
his more ancient title of Earl of Inchiquin. For a long period it was the
principal residence of the chiefs of this great family, to one of whom it
unquestionably owes its origin; but we have not been able to ascertain
with certainty the name of its founder, or date of its erection. There
is, however, every reason to ascribe its foundation to Tiege O’Brien,
king or lord of Thomond, who died, according to the Annals of the Four
Masters, in 1466, as he is the first of his name on record who made
it his residence, and as its architectural features are most strictly
characteristic of the style of the age in which he flourished.

But though the erection of this castle is properly to be ascribed to the
O’Briens, it is a great error in the writers of Lewis’s Topographical
Dictionary to state that it has been from time immemorial the property
of the O’Brien family. The locality, as its name indicates, and as
history and tradition assure us, was the ancient residence of the
O’Quins, a family of equal antiquity with the O’Briens, and of the same
stock--namely, the Dal Cas or descendants of Cormac Cas, the son of
Ollioll Oluim, who was monarch of Ireland in the beginning of the third
century. The O’Quins were chiefs of the clan called Hy-Ifearnan, and
their possessions were bounded by those of the O’Deas on the east, the
O’Loughlins and O’Conors (Corcomroe) on the west and north-west, the
O’Hynes on the north, and the O’Hehirs on the south. At what period or
from what circumstance the O’Quins lost their ancient patrimony, we have
not been able to discover; but it would appear to have been about the
middle or perhaps close of the fourteenth century, to which time their
genealogy as chiefs is recorded in that invaluable repository of Irish
family history, the Book of Mac Firbis; and it would seem most probable
that they were transplanted by the O’Briens about this period to the
county of Limerick, in which they are subsequently found. Their removal
is indeed differently accounted for in a popular legend still current in
the barony, and which, according to our recollections of it, is to the
following effect:

In the youth of the last O’Quin of Inchiquin, he saw from his residence a
number of swans of singular beauty frequenting the west side of the lake,
and wandering along its shore. Wishing, if possible, to possess himself
of one of them, he was in the habit of concealing himself among the rocks
and woods in its vicinity, hoping that he might take them by surprise,
and he was at length successful: one of them became his captive, and was
secretly carried to his residence, when, to his amazement and delight,
throwing off her downy covering, she assumed the form of a beautiful
woman, and shortly after became his wife. Previous to the marriage,
however, she imposed certain conditions on her lover as the price of
her consent, to which he willingly agreed. These were--first, that
their union should be kept secret; secondly, that he should not receive
any visitors at his mansion, particularly those of the O’Briens; and,
lastly, that he should wholly abstain from gambling. For some years these
conditions were strictly adhered to; they lived in happiness together,
and two children blessed their union. But it happened unfortunately
at length that at the neighbouring races at Cood he fell in with the
O’Briens, by whom he was hospitably treated; and being induced to indulge
in too much wine, he forgot his engagements to his wife, and invited
them to his residence on a certain day to repay their kindness to him.
His wife heard of this invitation with sadness, but proceeded without
remonstrance to prepare the feast for his guests. But she did not grace
it with her presence; and when the company had assembled, and were
engaged in merriment, she withdrew to her own apartment, to which she
called her children, and after embracing them in a paroxysm of grief,
which they could not account for, she took her original feathery covering
from a press in which it had been kept, arrayed herself in it, and
assuming her pristine shape, plunged into the lake, and was never seen
afterwards. On the same night, O’Quin, again forgetful of the promises
he had made her, engaged in play with Tiege-an-Cood O’Brien, the most
distinguished of his guests, and lost the whole of his property.

The reader is at liberty to believe as much or as little of this story
as he pleases: but at all events the legend is valuable in a historical
point of view, as indicating the period when the lands of Inchiquin
passed into the hands of the O’Brien family; nor is it wholly improbable
that under the guise of a wild legend may be concealed some indistinct
tradition of such a real occurrence as that O’Quin made a union long kept
hidden, with a person of inferior station, and that its discovery drew
down upon his head the vengeance of his proud compeers, and led to their
removal to another district of the chiefs of the clan Hy-Ifearnan.

Be this, however, as it may, the ancient family of O’Quin--more fortunate
than most other Irish families of noble origin--has never sunk into
obscurity, or been without a representative of aristocratic rank; and it
can at present boast of a representative among the nobility of the empire
in the person of its justly presumed chief, the noble Earl of Dunraven.

We have thus slightly touched on the history of the O’Quins, not only as
it was connected with that of the locality which we had to illustrate,
but also as necessary to correct a great error into which Burke and other
modern genealogists have fallen in their accounts of the origin of the
name and descent of this family. Thus it is stated by those writers that
“the surname is derived from Con Ceadcaha, or Con of the hundred battles,
monarch of Ireland in the second century, whose grandson was called Cuinn
(rather O’Cuinn), that is, the descendant of Con, when he wielded the
sceptre in 254.” But those writers should not have been ignorant that
Con, which literally signifies the powerful, was a common name in Ireland
both in Christian and Pagan times; and still more, they should not have
been ignorant of the important fact for a genealogist, that the use of
surnames was unknown in Ireland till the close of the tenth century. The
story is altogether a silly fiction; and as the real origin of the family
appears to be now unknown even to themselves, and as their pedigree has
never as yet been printed, we are tempted to give it in an English form,
translated from the original, preserved in the books of Lecan and Duald
Mac Firbis:--

    “Conor O’Quinn,
    the son of Donell,

          ---- Donell,

          ---- Thomas,

          ---- Donell,

          ---- Donogh,

          ---- Giolla Seanain,

          ---- Donogh,

          ---- Morough,

          ---- Corc, who was the tutor of Murtogh O’Brien (the great
                 grandson of Brian Boru),

          ---- Feidhleachair,

          ---- Niall, who was henchman to Morough, the son of Brian
                 Boru, whose fate he shared in the battle of Clontarf,

          ---- Conn, from whom the name is derived.”

The pedigree is carried up from this Con through eighteen generations to
Cormac Cas, the son of Ollioll Oluim, and the common progenitor of all
the tribes of the Dal-Cassians.

In this notice we may add, as an evidence of the ancient rank of the
family, that the Irish annalists at the year 1188 record the death of
Edaoin, the daughter of O’Quin, Queen of Munster, on her pilgrimage at
Derry in that year. She appears to have been the wife of Mortogh O’Brien,
who died without issue in 1168, and was succeeded by his brother Donald
More, the last king of all Munster.

The Castle of Inchiquin is referred to in the Irish Annals as the
residence of the chiefs of the O’Brien family, at the years 1542, 1559,
and 1573; but the notices contain no interest to the general reader.

                                                                       P.




ANCIENT IRISH LITERATURE--No. II.


In a preceding paper under this heading we lately gave a sample from the
lighter class of native Irish poetry of the seventeenth century, namely,
“The Woman of Three Cows.” We have now to present our readers with a
specimen of a more serious character, belonging to the same age--an Elegy
on the death of the Tironian and Tirconnellian princes, who having fled
with others from Ireland in the year 1607, and afterwards dying at Rome,
were there interred on St Peter’s Hill, in one grave.

The poem is the production of O’Donnell’s bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird,
or Ward, who accompanied the family in their flight, and is addressed
to Nuala, O’Donnell’s sister, who was also one of the fugitives. As the
circumstances connected with the flight of the Northern Earls, and which
led to the subsequent confiscation of the six Ulster Counties by James
I., may not be immediately in the recollection of many of our readers, it
may be proper briefly to state, that their departure from this country
was caused by the discovery of a letter directed to Sir William Ussher,
Clerk of the Council, which was dropped in the Council-chamber on the
7th of May, and which accused the Northern chieftains generally of a
conspiracy to overthrow the government. Whether this charge was founded
in truth or not, it is not necessary for us to express any opinion; but
as in some degree necessary to the illustration of the poem, and as
an interesting piece of hitherto unpublished literature in itself, we
shall here, as a preface to the poem, extract the following account of
the flight of the Northern Earls, as recorded in the Annals of the Four
Masters, and translated by Mr O’Donovan:--

“Maguire (Cuconnaught) and Donogh, son of Mahon, who was son of the
Bishop O’Brien, sailed in a ship to Ireland, and put in at the harbour
of Swilly. They then took with them from Ireland the Earl O’Neill (Hugh,
son of Ferdoragh) and the Earl O’Donnell (Rory, son of Hugh, who was son
of Magnus) and many others of the nobles of the province of Ulster. These
are the persons who went with O’Neill, namely, his Countess, Catherina,
daughter of Magennis, and her three sons; Hugh, the Baron, John and
Brian; Art Oge, son of Cormac, who was son of the Baron; Ferdoragh, son
of Con, who was son of O’Neill; Hugh Oge, son of Brian, who was son of
Art O’Neill; and many others of his most intimate friends. These were
they who went with the Earl O’Donnell, namely, Caffer, his brother, with
his sister Nuala; Hugh, the Earl’s child, wanting three weeks of being
one year old; Rose, daughter of O’Doherty and wife of Caffer, with her
son Hugh, aged two years and three months; his (Rory’s) brother son
Donnell Oge, son of Donnell, Naghtan son of Calvach, who was son of
Donogh Cairbreach O’Donnell, and many others of his intimate friends.
They embarked on the Festival of the Holy Cross in Autumn.

This was a distinguished company; and it is certain that the sea has not
borne and the wind has not wafted in modern times a number of persons
in one ship more eminent, illustrious or noble, in point of genealogy,
heroic deeds, valour, feats of arms, and brave achievements, than they.
Would that God had but permitted them to remain in their patrimonial
inheritances until the children should arrive at the age of manhood! Woe
to the heart that meditated, woe to the mind that conceived, woe to the
council that recommended the project of this expedition, without knowing
whether they should, to the end of their lives, be able to return to
their native principalities or patrimonies.”




AN ELEGY ON THE TIRONIAN AND TIRCONNELLIAN PRINCES BURIED AT ROME.

“A bhean fuair faill air an ffeart!”


    O, Woman of the Piercing Wail,
      Who mournest o’er yon mound of clay
            With sigh and groan,
    Would God thou wert among the Gael!
      Thou wouldst not then from day to day
            Weep thus alone.
    ’Twere long before, around a grave
      In green Tirconnell, one could find
            This loneliness;
    Near where Beann-Boirche’s banners wave
      Such grief as thine could ne’er have pined
            Companionless.

    Beside the wave, in Donegall,
      In Antrim’s glens, or fair Dromore,
            Or Killilee,
    Or where the sunny waters fall,
      At Assaroe, near Erna’s shore,
            This could not be.
    On Derry’s plains--in rich Drumclieff--
      Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned
            In olden years,
    No day could pass but Woman’s grief
      Would rain upon the burial-ground
            Fresh floods of tears!

    O, no!--from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
      From high Dunluce’s castle-walls,
            From Lissadill,
    Would flock alike both rich and poor,
      One wail would rise from Cruachan’s halls
            To Tara’s hill;
    And some would come from Barrow-side,
      And many a maid would leave her home
            On Leitrim’s plains,
    And by melodious Banna’s tide,
      And by the Mourne and Erne, to come
            And swell thy strains!

    O, horses’ hoofs would trample down
      The Mount whereon the martyr-saint[1]
            Was crucified.
    From glen and hill, from plain and town,
      One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,
            Would echo wide.
    There would not soon be found, I ween,
      One foot of ground among those bands
            For museful thought,
    So many shriekers of the _keen_[2]
      Would cry aloud, and clap their hands,
            All woe-distraught!

    Two princes of the line of Conn
      Sleep in their cells of clay beside
            O’Donnell Roe:
    Three royal youths, alas! are gone,
      Who lived for Erin’s weal, but died
            For Erin’s woe!
    Ah! could the men of Ireland read
      The names these noteless burial-stones
            Display to view
    Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed.
      Their tears gush forth again, their groans
            Resound anew!

    The youths whose relics moulder here
      Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord
            Of Aileach’s lands;
    Thy noble brothers, justly dear,
      Thy nephew, long to be deplored
            By Ulster’s bands.
    Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time
      Could domicile Decay or house
            Decrepitude!
    They passed from Earth ere Manhood’s prime,
      Ere years had power to dim their brows
            Or chill their blood.

    And who can marvel o’er thy grief,
      Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
            That knows their source?
    O’Donnell, Dunnasava’s chief,
      Cut off amid his vernal years,
            Lies here a corse
    Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
      Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns
            In deep despair--
    For valour, truth, and comely bloom,
      For all that greatens and adorns,
            A peerless pair.

    O, had these twain, and he, the third,
      The Lord of Mourne, O’Niall’s son,
            Their mate in death--
    A prince in look, in deed, and word--
      Had these three heroes yielded on
            The field their breath,
    O, had they fallen on Criffan’s plain,
      There would not be a town or clan
            From shore to sea,
    But would with shrieks bewail the Slain,
      Or chant aloud the exulting _rann_[3]
            Of jubilee!

    When high the shout of battle rose,
      On fields where Freedom’s torch still burned
            Through Erin’s gloom,
    If one, if barely one of those
      Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned
            The hero’s doom!
    If at Athboy, where hosts of brave
      Ulidian horsemen sank beneath
            The shock of spears,
    Young Hugh O’Neill had found a grave,
      Long must the North have wept his death
            With heart-wrung tears!

    If on the day of Ballach-myre
      The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young,
            A warrior’s fate,
    In vain would such as thou desire
      To mourn, alone, the champion sprung
            From Niall the Great!
    No marvel this--for all the Dead,
      Heaped on the field, pile over pile,
            At Mullach-brack,
    Were scarce an _eric_[4] for his head,
      If Death had stayed his footsteps while
            On victory’s track!

    If on the Day of Hostages
      The fruit had from the parent bough
            Been rudely torn
    In sight of Munster’s bands--Mac-Nee’s
      Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,
            Could ill have borne.
    If on the day of Ballach-boy
      Some arm had laid, by foul surprise,
            The chieftain low,
    Even our victorious shout of joy
      Would soon give place to rueful cries
            And groans of woe!

    If on the day the Saxon host
      Were forced to fly--a day so great
            For Ashanee[5]--
    The Chief had been untimely lost,
      Our conquering troops should moderate
            Their mirthful glee.
    There would not lack on Lifford’s day,
      From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,
            From Limerick’s towers,
    A marshalled file, a long array.
      Of mourners to bedew the soil
            With tears in showers!

    If on the day a sterner fate
      Compelled his flight from Athenree,
            His blood had flowed,
    What numbers all disconsolate
      Would come unasked, and share with thee
            Affliction’s load!
    If Derry’s crimson field had seen
      His life-blood offered up, though ’twere
            On Victory’s shrine,
    A thousand cries would swell the _keen_,
      A thousand voices of despair
            Would echo thine!

    O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm
      That bloody night on Fergus’ banks,
            But slain our Chief,
    When rose his camp in wild alarm--
      How would the triumph of his ranks
            Be dashed with grief!
    How would the troops of Murbach mourn
      If on the Curlew Mountains’ day,
            Which England rued,
    Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,
      By shedding there, amid the fray,
            Their prince’s blood!

    Red would have been our warriors’ eyes
      Had Roderick found on Sligo’s field
            A gory grave,
    No Northern Chief would soon arise
      So sage to guide, so strong to shield,
            So swift to save.
    Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept, if Hugh
      Had met the death he oft had dealt
            Among the foe;
    But, had our Roderick fallen too,
      All Erin must, alas! have felt
            The deadly blow!

    What do I say? Ah, woe is me!
      Already we bewail in vain
            Their fatal fall:
    And Erin, once the Great and Free,
      Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,
            And iron thrall!
    Then, daughter of O’Donnell! dry
      Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
            Thy heart aside!
    For Adam’s race is born to die,
      And sternly the sepulchral urn
            Mocks human pride!

    Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,
      Nor place thy trust in arm of clay--
            But on thy knees
    Uplift thy soul to GOD alone,
      For all things go their destined way
            As He decrees.
    Embrace the faithful Crucifix,
      And seek the path of pain and prayer
            Thy Saviour trod;
    Nor let thy spirit intermix
      With earthly hope and worldly care
            Its groans to GOD!

    And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways
      Are far above our feeble minds
            To understand,
    Sustain us in these doleful days,
      And render light the chain that binds
            Our fallen land!
    Look down upon our dreary state,
      And through the ages that may still
            Roll sadly on,
    Watch Thou o’er hapless Erin’s fate,
      And shield at least from darker ill
            The blood of Conn!

    M.

[1] St Peter. This passage is not exactly a blunder, though at first it
may seem one: the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to Ireland,
and he naturally includes in the transference the whole of the immediate
locality around the grave.--TR.

[2] _Caoine._

[3] Song.

[4] A compensation or fine.

[5] Ballyshannon.




BOB PENTLAND, OR THE GAUGER OUTWITTED.

BY WILLIAM CARLETON.


That the Irish are a ready-witted people, is a fact to the truth of which
testimony has been amply borne both by their friends and enemies. Many
causes might be brought forward to account for this questionable gift,
if it were our intention to be philosophical; but as the matter has been
so generally conceded, it would be but a waste of logic to prove to the
world that which the world cares not about, beyond the mere fact that
it is so. On this or any other topic one illustration is worth twenty
arguments, and, accordingly, instead of broaching a theory we shall
relate a story.

Behind the hill or rather mountain of Altnaveenan lies one of those deep
and almost precipitous vallies, on which the practised eye of an illicit
distiller would dwell with delight, as a topography not likely to be
invaded by the unhallowed feet of the gauger and his red-coats. In point
of fact, the spot we speak of was from its peculiarly isolated situation
nearly invisible, unless to such as came very close to it. Being so
completely hemmed in and concealed by the round and angular projections
of the mountain hills, you could never dream of its existence at all,
until you came upon the very verge of the little precipitous gorge which
led into it. This advantage of position was not, however, its only one.
It is true indeed that the moment you had entered it, all possibility of
its being applied to the purposes of distillation at once vanished, and
you consequently could not help exclaiming, “what a pity that so safe
and beautiful a nook should have not a single spot on which to erect a
still-house, or rather on which to raise a sufficient stream of water
to the elevation necessary for the process of distilling.” If a gauger
actually came to the little chasm, and cast his scrutinizing eye over it,
he would immediately perceive that the erection of a private still in
such a place was a piece of folly not generally to be found in the plans
of those who have recourse to such practices.

This absence, however, of the requisite conveniences was only apparent,
not real. To the right, about one hundred yards above the entrance to
it, ran a ledge of rocks, some fifty feet high, or so. Along their lower
brows, near the ground, grew thick matted masses of long heath, which
covered the entrance to a cave about as large and as high as an ordinary
farm-house. Through a series of small fissures in the rocks which formed
its roof, descended a stream of clear soft water, precisely in body and
volume such as was actually required by the distiller; but, unless by
lifting up this mass of heath, no human being could for a moment imagine
that there existed any such grotto, or so unexpected and easy an entrance
to it. Here there was a private still-house made by the hand of nature
herself, such as no art or ingenuity of man could equal.

Now it so happened that about the period we write of, there lived in our
parish two individuals so antithetical to each other in their pursuits of
life, that we question whether throughout all the instinctive antipathies
of nature we could find any two animals more destructive of each other
than the two we mean--to wit, Bob Pentland the gauger, and little George
Steen the illicit distiller. Pentland was an old, stanch, well-trained
fellow, of about fifty years or more, steady and sure, and with all the
characteristic points of the high-bred gauger about him. He was a tallish
man, thin but lathy, with a hooked nose that could scent the tread of a
distiller with the keenness of a slew-hound; his dark eye was deep-set,
circumspect, and roguish in its expression, and his shaggy brow seemed
always to be engaged in calculating whereabouts his inveterate foe,
little George Steen, that eternally blinked him, when almost in his very
fangs, might then be distilling. To be brief, Pentland was proverbial for
his sagacity and adroitness in detecting distillers, and little George
was equally proverbial for having always baffled him, and that, too,
sometimes under circumstances where escape seemed hopeless.

The incidents which we are about to detail occurred at that period of
time when the collective wisdom of our legislators thought it advisable
to impose a fine upon the whole townland in which the still head and
worm might be found; thus opening a door for knavery and fraud, and,
as it proved in most cases, rendering the innocent as liable to suffer
for an offence they never contemplated as the guilty who planned and
perpetrated it. The consequence of such a law was, that still-houses were
always certain to be erected either at the very verge of the neighbouring
districts, or as near them as the circumstances of convenience and
situation would permit. The moment of course that the hue-and-cry of the
gauger and his myrmidons was heard upon the wind, the whole apparatus was
immediately heaved over the _mering_ to the next townland, from which
the fine imposed by parliament was necessarily raised, whilst the crafty
and offending district actually escaped. The state of society generated
by such a blundering and barbarous statute as this, was dreadful. In
the course of a short time, reprisals, law-suits, battles, murders, and
massacres, multiplied to such an extent throughout the whole country,
that the sapient senators who occasioned such commotion were compelled
to repeal their own act as soon as they found how it worked. Necessity,
together with being the mother of invention, is also the cause of many an
accidental discovery. Pentland had been so frequently defeated by little
George, that he vowed never to rest until he had secured him; and George
on the other hand frequently told him--for they were otherwise on the
best terms--that he defied him, or as he himself more quaintly expressed
it, “that he defied the devil, the world, and Bob Pentland.” The latter,
however, was a very sore thorn in his side, and drove him from place to
place, and from one haunt to another, until he began to despair of being
able any longer to outwit him, or to find within the parish any spot at
all suitable for distillation with which Pentland was not acquainted. In
this state stood matters between them, when George fortunately discovered
at the hip of Altnaveenan hill the natural grotto we have just sketched
so briefly. Now, George was a man, as we have already hinted, of great
fertility of resources; but there existed in the same parish another
distiller who outstripped him in that farsighted cunning which is so
necessary in misleading or circumventing such a sharp-scented old hound
as Pentland. This was little Mickey M’Quade, a short-necked squat little
fellow with bow legs, who might be said rather to creep in his motion
than to walk. George and Mickey were intimate friends, independently of
their joint antipathy against the gauger, and, truth to tell, much of
the mortification and many of the defeats which Pentland experienced at
George’s hands, were, _sub rosa_, to be attributed to Mickey. George was
a distiller from none of the motives which generally actuate others of
that class. He was in truth an analytic philosopher--a natural chemist
never out of some new experiment--and we have reason to think might have
been the Kane or Faraday or Dalton of his day, had he only received a
scientific education. Not so honest Mickey, who never troubled his head
about an experiment, but only thought of making a good running, and
defeating the gauger. The first thing of course that George did, was to
consult Mickey, and both accordingly took a walk up to the scene of their
future operations. On examining it, and fully perceiving its advantages,
it might well be said that the look of exultation and triumph which
passed between them was not unworthy of their respective characters.

“This will do,” said George. “Eh--don’t you think we’ll put our finger in
Pentland’s eye yet?” Mickey spat sagaciously over his beard, and after a
second glance gave one grave grin which spoke volumes. “It’ll do,” said
he; “but there’s one point to be got over that maybe you didn’t think of;
an’ you know that half a blink, half a point, is enough for Pentland.”

“What is it?”

“What do you intend to do with the smoke when the fire’s lit? There’ll
be no keepin’ _that_ down. Let but Pentland see as much smoke risin’ as
would come out of an ould woman’s dudeen, an’ he’d have us.”

George started, and it was clear by the vexation and disappointment which
were visible on his brow that unless this untoward circumstance could be
managed, their whole plan was deranged, and the cave of no value.

“What’s to be done?” he inquired of his cooler companion. “If we can’t
get over this, we may bid good bye to it.”

“Never mind,” said Mickey; “I’ll manage it, and _do_ Pentland still.”
“Ay, but how?”

“It’s no matter. Let us not lose a minute in settin’ to work. Lave
the other thing to me; an’ if I don’t account for the smoke without
discoverin’ the entrance to the still, I’ll give you lave to crop the
ears off my head.”

George knew the cool but steady self-confidence for which Mickey was
remarkable, and accordingly, without any further interrogatory, they both
proceeded to follow up their plan of operations.

In those times when distillation might be truly considered as almost
universal, it was customary for farmers to build their out-houses with
secret chambers and other requisite partitions necessary for carrying it
on. Several of them had private stores built between false walls, the
entrance to which was only known to a few, and many of them had what
were called _Malt-steeps_ sunk in hidden recesses and hollow gables, for
the purpose of steeping the barley, and afterwards of turning and airing
it, until it was sufficiently hard to be kiln-dried and ground. From the
mill it was usually conveyed to the still-house upon what were termed
_Slipes_, a kind of car that was made without wheels, in order the more
easily to pass through morasses and bogs which no wheeled vehicle could
encounter.

In the course of a month or so, George and Mickey, aided by their
friends, had all the apparatus of keeve, hogshead, &c., together with
still head and worm, set up and in full work.

“And now, Mickey,” inquired his companion, “how will you manage about
the smoke? for you know that the two worst informers against a private
distiller, barrin’ a _stag_, is a smoke by day an’ a fire by night.”

“I know that,” replied Mickey; “an’ a rousin’ smoke we’ll have, for fraid
a little puff wouldn’t do us. Come, now, an’ I’ll show you.”

They both ascended to the top, where Mickey had closed all the open
fissures of the roof with the exception of that which was directly over
the fire of the still. This was at best not more than six inches in
breadth and about twelve long. Over it he placed a piece of strong plate
iron perforated with holes, and on this he had a fire of turf, beside
which sat a little boy who acted as a vidette. The thing was simple but
effective. Clamps of turf were at every side of them, and the boy was
instructed, if the gauger, whom he well knew, ever appeared, to heap on
fresh fuel, so as to increase the smoke in such a manner as to induce
him to suppose that _all_ he saw of it proceeded merely from the fire
before him. In fact, the smoke from the cave below was so completely
identified with and lost in that which was emitted from the fire above,
that no human being could penetrate the mystery, if not made previously
acquainted with it. The writer of this saw it during the hottest process
of distillation, and failed to make the discovery, although told that
the still-house was within a circle of three hundred yards, the point
he stood on being considered the centre. On more than one occasion has
he absconded from home, and spent a whole night in the place, seized
with that indescribable fascination which such a scene holds forth to
youngsters, as well as from his irrepressible anxiety to hear the old
stories and legends with the recital of which they generally pass the
night.

In this way, well provided against the gauger--indeed much better than
our readers are yet aware of, as they shall understand by and bye--did
George, Mickey, and their friends, proceed for the greater part of a
winter without a single visit from Pentland. Several successful runnings
had come off, which had of course turned out highly profitable, and
they were just now preparing to commence their last, not only for the
season, but the last they should ever work together, as George was
making preparations to go early in the spring to America. Even this
running was going on to their satisfaction, and the singlings had been
thrown again into the still, from the worm of which projected the strong
medicinal _first-shot_ as the doubling commenced--this last term meaning
the spirit in its pure and finished state. On this occasion the two
worthies were more than ordinarily anxious, and certainly doubled their
usual precautions against a surprise, for they knew that Pentland’s
visits resembled the pounces of a hawk or the springs of a tiger more
than any thing else to which they could compare them. In this they were
not disappointed. When the doubling was about half finished, he made
his appearance, attended by a strong party of reluctant soldiers--for
indeed it is due to the military to state that they never took delight
in harassing the country people at the command of a keg-hunter, as they
generally nicknamed the gauger. It had been arranged that the vidette
at the iron plate should whistle a particular tune the moment that
the gauger or a red-coat, or in fact any person whom he did not know,
should appear. Accordingly, about eight o’clock in the morning they
heard the little fellow in his highest key whistling up that well-known
and very significant old Irish air called “Go to the devil an’ shake
yourself”--which in this case was applied to the gauger in any thing but
an allegorical sense.

“Be the pins,” which was George’s usual oath, “be the pins, Mickey, it’s
over with us--Pentland’s here, for there’s the sign.”

Mickey paused for a moment and listened very gravely; then squirting out
a tobacco spittle, “Take it aisy,” said he; “I have half a dozen fires
about the hills, any one as like this as your right hand is to your left.
I didn’t spare trouble, for I knew that if we’d get over this day, we’d
be out of his power.”

“Well, my good lad,” said Pentland, addressing the vidette, “what’s this
fire for?”

“What is it for, is it?”

“Yes; if you don’t let me know instantly, I’ll blow your brains out,
and get you hanged and transported afterwards.” This he said with a
thundering voice, cocking a large horse pistol at the same time.

“Why, sir,” said the boy, “it’s watchin’ a still I am; but be the hole o’
my coat if you tell upon me, it’s broilin’ upon these coals I’ll be soon.”

“Where is the still then? An’ the still-house, where is it?”

“Oh, begorra, as to where the still or still-house is, they wouldn’t tell
_me_ that.”

“Why, sirra, didn’t you say this moment you were watching a still?”

“I meant, sir,” replied the lad with a face that spoke of pure idiocy,
“that it was the gauger I was watchin’, an’ I was to whistle upon my
fingers to let the boy at that fire on the hill there above know that he
was comin’.”

“Who told you to do so?”

“Little George, sir, an’ Mickey M’Quade.”

“Ay, ay, right enough there, my lad--two of the most notorious schemers
unhanged they are both. But now, like a good boy, tell me the truth, an’
I’ll give you the price of a pair of shoes. Do you know where the still
or still-house is? Because if you do, an’ won’t tell me, here are the
soldiers at hand to make a prisoner of you; an’ if they do, all the world
can’t prevent you from being hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

“Oh, bad cess may seize the morsel o’ me knows that; but if you’ll give
me the money, sir, I’ll tell you who can bring you to it, for he tould
me yestherday mornin’ that he knew, an’ offered to bring me there last
night, if I’d steal him a bottle that my mother keeps the holy water in
at home, tal he’d put whisky in it.”

“Well, my lad, who is this boy?”

“Do you know Harry Neil, or Mankind, sir?”

“I do, my good boy.”

“Well, it’s a son of his, sir; an’ look, sir; do you see the smoke
farthest up to the right, sir?”

“To the right? Yes.”

“Well, ’tis there, sir, that Darby Neil is watchin’; and he _says_ he
knows.”

“How long have you been watching here?”

“This is only the third day, sir, for _me_; but the rest, them boys
above, has been here a good while.”

“Have you seen nobody stirring about the hills since you came?”

“Only once, sir, yesterday, I seen two men having an empty sack or two,
runnin’ across the hill there above.”

At this moment the military came up, for he had himself run forward in
advance of them, and he repeated the substance of his conversation with
our friend the vidette. Upon examining the stolidity of his countenance,
in which there certainly was a woful deficiency of meaning, they agreed
among themselves that his appearance justified the truth of the story
which he told the gauger, and upon being still further interrogated, they
were confirmed that none but a stupid lout like himself would entrust to
his keeping any secret worth knowing. They now separated themselves into
as many detached parties as there were fires burning on the hills about
them, the gauger himself resolving to make for that which Darby Neil had
in his keeping, for he could not help thinking that the vidette’s story
was too natural to be false. They were just in the act of separating
themselves to pursue their different routes, when the lad said,

“Look, sir! look, sir! bad scran be from me but there’s a still any way.
Sure I often seen a still; that’s jist like the one that Philip Hogan the
tinker mended in George Steen’s barn.”

“Hollo, boys,” exclaimed Pentland, “stoop! stoop! they are coming this
way, and don’t see us: no, hang them, no! they have discovered us now,
and are off towards Mossfield. By Jove this will be a bitter trick if
they succeed; confound them, they are bent for Ballagh, which is my own
property; and may I be hanged if we do not intercept them; but it is I
myself who will have to pay the fine.”

The pursuit instantly commenced with a speed and vigour equal to the
ingenuity of this singular act of retaliation on the gauger. Pentland
himself being long-winded from much practice in this way, and being
further stimulated by the prospective loss which he dreaded, made as
beautiful a run of it as any man of his years could do. It was all in
vain, however. He merely got far enough to see the still head and worm
heaved across the march ditch into his own property, and to reflect after
seeing it that he was certain to have the double consolation of being
made a standing joke of for life, and of paying heavily for the jest out
of his own pocket. In the mean time, he was bound of course to seize the
still, and report the caption; and as he himself farmed the townland in
question, the fine was levied to the last shilling, upon the very natural
principle that if he had been sufficiently active and vigilant, no man
would have attempted to set up a still so convenient to his own residence
and property.

This manœuvre of keeping in reserve an old or second set of apparatus,
for the purpose of acting the lapwing and misleading the gauger, was
afterwards often practised with success; but the first discoverer of
it was undoubtedly Mickey M’Quade, although the honour of the discovery
is attributed to his friend George Steen. The matter, however, did not
actually end here, for in a few days afterwards some malicious wag--in
other words, George himself--had correct information sent to Pentland
touching the locality of the cavern and the secret of its entrance. On
this occasion the latter brought a larger military party than usual along
with him, but it was only to make him feel that he stood in a position
if possible more ridiculous than the first. He found indeed the marks
of recent distillation in the place, but nothing else. Every vessel and
implement connected with the process had been removed, with the exception
of one bottle of whisky, to which was attached by a bit of twine the
following friendly note:--

    “MR PENTLAND, SIR--Take this bottle home and drink your own
    health. You can’t do less. It was distilled _under your nose_
    the first day you came to look for us, and bottled for you
    while you were speaking to the little boy that made a hare of
    you. Being distilled then under your nose, let it be drunk in
    the same place, and don’t forget while doing so to drink the
    health of

                                                           G. S.”

The incident went abroad like wildfire, and was known everywhere. Indeed
for a long time it was the standing topic of the parish; and so sharply
was it felt by Pentland that he could never keep his temper if asked, “Mr
Pentland, when did you see little George Steen?”--a question to which he
was never known to give a civil reply.




THE GLOBE OF THE EARTH.


We were surprised very much some time ago at considering how much of
the surface of the globe is covered by the waters of the lakes and
oceans, and took the opportunity then of adverting to the importance
of water in the general economy of nature. When, however, we pass to
the consideration of the magnitude of the earth itself, the relative
proportion of water appears to be much less considerable.

Although there are many places in the great Atlantic and Pacific Oceans
where the depth of water is very great, yet it has been deduced from
principles that are not liable to much error, that the general or average
depth does not exceed three miles. It may appear very strange that we
can assert any thing positive about the depth of water in those seas,
that are to the lines used for sounding quite unfathomable; but it is
effected very simply. Every person has seen a wave advancing along the
level surface of a canal, and by observing with a watch, it could easily
be found to move more quickly at some times than at others. The deeper
any part of the canal is, the more rapidly does the wave move along; and
partly by experiment, and partly by reasoning, the connection between the
depth of the water and velocity of the wave has been discovered. Now,
the tide which comes to Dublin every twelve hours is produced by the
influence of the sun and moon on the vast body of water in the Southern
Pacific Ocean; and the great wave there formed turns round Cape Horn,
and passes up the Atlantic Ocean, to arrive at the coasts of Europe and
North America. The time occupied by this great wave in passing from one
end to the other of the Atlantic can thus be known, and, precisely as in
a canal, the depth of water thus calculated.

The circumference of the earth at its widest part is about 25,000, and
its diameter 8000 miles. Hence the sheet of water which constitutes
the ocean forms but 3-4000ths of its thickness, or nearly the same
proportion as if we took an eighteen inch globe, and having spilled
water on its surface, allowed all the excess of water to drain off. The
remaining wetness would represent pretty nearly the condition of the
waters of the ocean on the surface of the earth. By this means we can
form, though obscurely, to our minds, an idea of the great magnitude of
the earth itself. This magnitude renders also very inconsiderable those
inequalities on the surface of the earth which constitute our highest
ridges of mountains. A true model of Mont Blanc, the highest of European
mountains, if constructed on the eighteen inch globe before referred to,
would be unfelt by a finger drawn along its surface, and it would be
only some of the highest peaks of the Andes and Himalayah that could be
distinctly felt. Where man also employs his most gigantic energies and
greatest efforts of skill to penetrate below the surface, forming mines
by which the supplies of coal, of iron, of copper, and other minerals,
have been obtained from the earliest times, the cavities that he makes
can only be compared with the trace given by the point of a pin that had
lightly touched the globe, and which would require a favourable incidence
of light to see.

The earth is therefore almost perfectly a smooth and solid ball. It is,
however, almost certain that it was not always solid. It is, on the
contrary, almost certain that at a period far exceeding in remoteness
any time of which mere human indications can be found, the globe of the
earth was one mass of liquid matter, heated to a degree exceeding our
most intense fires, and wherein were melted all together the various
elements which have since arranged themselves into their present forms.
From having been thus liquid, the earth, which, revolving on its axis,
produces by the side it turns to the sun the alternating day and night,
has bulged out where the rotation of the surface is most rapid, at the
equator, and has become flattened at the extremities of its axis, at the
poles, just as a thin hoop which we spin round becomes compressed. The
amount of this flattening is however very small. The equatorial diameter
of the earth being accurately 7925, and the polar diameter being 7898,
the compression is 27 miles.

To account for the existence of this compression, the earth must have
been originally liquid, for otherwise the rotation on its axis could not
have generated this regular form. If it had been solid when it began to
revolve, it should either have retained its original form, or it should
have broken in pieces; but certainly unless it had been liquid, it could
not have arrived at the exact degree of flattening which its velocity of
rotation should have produced in a liquid mass.

The intensely heated and liquid earth, revolving in the cold and empty
spaces of the planetary system, gradually must have lost its excess
of heat. Cooling most rapidly at the surface, it there solidified,
and generated the first rocks. The loss of heat still going on, the
solidification proceeded to a greater and greater depth, and should
ultimately have reduced the earth to the same temperature as the empty
space among the stars. The temperature of space has been calculated
to be almost the same as that in the winter at Melville Island, in
northernmost America, that is, 56 deg. below zero, or as far below the
freezing point of water as the temperature of the hottest water that the
hand can bear is above it. The earth is, however, not allowed to cool to
that degree. It receives from the sun by radiation a quantity of heat
which counteracts its tendency to cool, and hence the mean temperature
of the surface of the earth has remained the same from the earliest
historical epochs. In fact, at the surface we can find no trace of that
original and internal great heat, the temperature of the surface of the
earth being regulated altogether by the effect of the sun’s rays; but
if we dig down to a moderate depth, about 45 feet, the influence of the
sun becomes insensible. Within that space also we can detect a very
curious and important arrangement of the heat. It is not that the whole
surface becomes warmed in summer and cold in winter, but the heat which
is received from the sun in one summer travels by conduction beneath the
surface, and is succeeded by the heat of the next summer, an intervening
and cooler layer corresponding to the winter time, so that at a depth of
20 feet we may detect the heat which had fallen upon the surface four or
five years before, this space of 45 feet being formed of numerous layers
like the coatings of an onion, one for each year, until becoming less and
less distinct, according as the depth increases, they join together in
forming the layer of invariable temperature in which all the effect of
the sun’s heat is lost.

If we dig down still farther, the earth, though having lost the heating
power of the sun, becomes sensibly warmer. The greater the depth to
which we descend, the higher is the temperature found to be. Thus, where
deep sinkings have been made for mines or wells, the air or water at the
bottom is found to be much higher in temperature than at the invariable
layer which gives the mean temperature of the place. This observation was
first made in the case of the deep mines in Cornwall, and, although for
some time ascribed to the presence of the workmen and the burning lamps,
has since been verified by observations in all parts of Europe, and such
agreement found, that the law connecting the temperature with the depth
has been at least approximately determined.

It is found, counting from the invariable layer, that the temperature
increases about one degree of Fahrenheit’s scale for every fifty feet in
depth. Thus, a well having been sunk at Rudersdorff to a depth of 630
feet, the water at the bottom was found to be 67 degrees, while the mean
temperature was 50 degrees. In a coal mine at Newcastle, which reaches
to a depth of 1584 feet, the mean temperature of the surface being 48
degrees, the thermometer was found to stand at 73 degrees in the lowest
part of the mine, and hence the elevation of temperature was 25 degrees.
Observations elsewhere vary between these limits; but the general result
is, that the rise is one degree for about every fifty feet, as above
stated.

When we consider the great magnitude of the earth, and observe the
rapidity with which the increase of temperature occurs, it will strike
every person that we in reality inhabit a mere pellicle or skin, which
has formed by cooling upon the surface, whilst all the internal mass of
our globe may still be in the same state of igneous fusion and tumultuous
action of elements, from which its present mineral constitution on the
surface has resulted. For although it has cooled so far that at the
surface all traces of its central fires have disappeared, yet at a mile
and a half below the surface the temperature is such as should boil
water: at a depth of five miles, lead would melt. Thirty miles below the
surface, cast iron, and all those rocks which are generally the product
of volcanoes in action, as trap and basalt, would fuse; and hence we may
consider those terrific phenomena which have so frequently desolated some
of the most beautiful districts of the earth, as being minute apertures
or cracks in the thin coating of our planet, and giving vent from time to
time to some small portions of the internal fires which work beneath.

Additional evidence of the existence of this central heat may be derived
from the peculiarity of springs. Those springs which carry off and are
supplied with water from the surface, change their temperature with the
season, being in winter cold, but in summer warm. Others, deriving their
waters from a deeper layer of soil, as from the stratum of constant heat,
are always the same, and, possessing the mean temperature of the place,
feel warm in winter and cold in summer. Such springs exist in every
country, and are very useful in ascertaining the mean temperature, for
in place of watching a thermometer for a year, and taking averages, it
is only necessary to select with proper caution such a deeply supplied
spring, and by observing the temperature of its waters, the mean
temperature of the place is found.

A certain quantity of the water which is absorbed by the ground after
rain must penetrate to a great depth, must descend, in fact, until at 1½
miles it is boiled and driven up again to find some outlet as a spring.
In rising up, however, it is for the most part cooled; but having charged
itself with various saline and metallic bodies, under the most favourable
circumstances of high temperature and pressure, it issues as a hot
mineral spring or spa. On getting into the air, it generally abandons a
great part of what it had dissolved, and forms in many cases enormous
depositions of solid rock.

A company in Paris have formed the idea of using the water thus heated by
the powers below, for the purposes of public baths. The neighbourhood of
Paris is peculiarly fitted for what are termed Artesian wells, in which
the water often rises considerably above the surface of the ground. Under
the auspices of this company, a well has been sunk already to the depth
of 1600 feet, and water obtained at 77 degrees; but to obtain natural
hot water at a temperature of 100 degrees, which would be required for
bathing purposes, an additional depth of probably as much more will be
required. It is said the projectors are not now sanguine of its pecuniary
success.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SECRET OF SUCCESS IN LIFE.--In no department of life do men rise
to eminence who have not undergone a long and diligent preparation;
for whatever be the difference in the mental power of individuals, it
is the cultivation of the mind alone that leads to distinction. John
Hunter was as remarkable for his industry as for his talents, of which
his museum alone forms a most extraordinary proof; and if we look around
and contemplate the history of those men whose talents and acquirements
we must esteem, we find that their superiority of knowledge has been
the result of great labour and diligence. It is an ill-founded notion
to say that merit in the long-run is neglected. It is sometimes joined
to circumstances that may have a little influence in counteracting it,
as an unfortunate manner and temper; but generally it meets with its
due reward. The world are not fools--every person of merit has the best
chance of success; and who would be ambitious of public approbation, if
it had not the power of discriminating?--_Physic and Physicians._

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