The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 529, January 14, 1832

W.H.H.

CURIOUS MANORIAL RIGHT

(For the Mirror.)

At Ripley Castle, in Yorkshire, the seat of Sir William Ingilby, there is in the great staircase an elegant Venetian window, in the divisions of which, on stain-glass, are a series of escutcheons, displaying the principal quarterings and intermarriages of the Ingilby family since their settling at Ripley, during a course of 430 years.

In one of the chambers of the tower is the following sentence, carved on the frieze of the wainscot:—"In the yeire of owre Ld. MDLV. was this howse buyldyd, by Sir Wyllyam Ingilby, Knight, Philip and Marie reigning that time."

John Pallisser, of Bristhwaite, formerly held his lands of the manor of Ripley, by the payment of a red rose at Midsummer, and by carrying the boar's head to the lord's table all the twelve days of Christmas.

W.G.C.

NOTES OF A READER

EUGENE ARAM

We intend to quote a few scenes and snatches from Mr. Bulwer's extraordinary novel of this name. At present, however, we can only introduce the ill-fated hero.

(Two young ladies, daughters of the lord of the Manor, approach Aram's house:—)

"Madeline would even now fain have detained her sister's hand from the bell that hung without the porch half embedded in ivy; but Ellinor, out of patience—as she well might be—with her sister's unseasonable prudence, refused any longer delay. So singularly still and solitary was the plain around the house, that the sound of the bell breaking the silence had in it something startling, and appeared, in its sudden and shrill voice, a profanation to the deep tranquillity of the spot. They did not wait long—a step was heard within—the door was slowly unbarred, and the Student himself stood before them."

"He was a man who might, perhaps, have numbered some five and thirty years; but at a hasty glance, he would have seemed considerably younger. He was above the ordinary stature; though a gentle, and not ungraceful bend in the neck rather than the shoulders, somewhat curtailed his proper advantages of height. His frame was thin and slender, but well knit and fair proportioned. Nature had originally cast his form in an athletic mould, but sedentary habits and the wear of mind seemed somewhat to have impaired her gifts. His cheek was pale and delicate; yet it was rather the delicacy of thought than of weak health. His hair, which was long, and of a rich and deep brown, was worn back from his face and temples, and left a broad high majestic forehead utterly unrelieved and bare; and on the brow there was not a single wrinkle—it was as smooth as it might have been some fifteen years ago. There was a singular calmness, and, so to speak, profundity of thought, eloquent upon its clear expanse, which suggested the idea of one who had passed his life rather in contemplation than emotion. It was a face that a physiognomist would have loved to look upon, so much did it speak both of the refinement and the dignity of intellect."

"Such was the person—if pictures convey a faithful resemblance—of a man, certainly the most eminent in his day for various and profound learning, and a genius wholly self-taught, yet never contented to repose upon the wonderful stores it had laboriously accumulated."

(Aram thus describes his own character:—)

"Ah!" said Aram, gently shaking his head, "it is a hard life we bookmen lead. Not for us is the bright face of noon-day or the smile of woman, the gay unbending of the heart, the neighing steed and the shrill trump; the pride, pomp, and circumstance of life. Our enjoyments are few and calm; our labour constant; but that is it not, Sir?—that is it not? the body avenges its own neglect. We grow old before our time; we wither up; the sap of our youth shrinks from our veins; there is no bound in our step. We look about us with dimmed eyes, and our breath grows short and thick, and pains, and coughs, and shooting aches come upon us at night; it is a bitter life—a bitter life—joyless life. I would I had never commenced it. And yet the harsh world scowls upon us: our nerves are broken, and they wonder we are querulous; our blood curdles, and they ask why we are not gay; our brain grows dizzy and indistinct (as with me just now), and, shrugging their shoulders, they whisper their neighbours that we are mad. I wish I had worked at the plough, and known sleep, and loved mirth—and—and not been what I am."

"As the Student tittered the last sentence, he bowed down his head, and a few tears stole silently down his cheek. Walter was greatly affected—it took him by surprise: nothing in Aram's ordinary demeanour betrayed any facility to emotion; and he conveyed to all the idea of a man, if not proud, at least cold."

OLD JESTS

Persons who gloat over dust and black-letter need scarcely be told that the best of "modern" jests are almost literally from the antique: in short, that what we employ to "set the table on a roar" were employed by the wise men of old to enliven their cups, deep and strong;—that to jest was a part of the Platonic philosophy, and that the excellent fancies, the flashes of merriment, of our forefathers, are nightly, nay hourly, re-echoed for our amusement. Yet such is the whole art of pleasing: what has pleased will, with certain modifications, continue to please again and again, until the end of time.

But we may displease; and, as Hamlet says, "We must speak by the card." The Athenaeum a fortnight since drew forth a batch of these jests with antique humour richly dight, and here they are. The reader will recognise many old acquaintances, but he need not touch his hat, lest, his politeness weary him. These old stories are but "pick'd to be new vann'd."

Hierocles' Facetiae.

1. An irritable man went to visit a sick friend, and asked him concerning his health. The patient was so ill that he could not reply; whereupon the other in a rage said, "I hope that I may soon fall sick, and then I will not answer you when you visit me."

2. A speculative gentleman, wishing to teach his horse to do without food, starved him to death. "I had a great loss," said he; "for, just as he learned to live without eating, he died."

3. A curious inquirer, desirous to know how he looked when asleep, sat with closed eyes before a mirror.

4. A young man told his friend that he dreamed that he had struck his foot against a sharp nail. "Why then do you sleep without your shoes?" was the reply.

5. A robustious countryman, meeting a physician, ran to hide behind a wall; being asked the cause, he replied, "It is so long since I have been sick, that I am ashamed to look a physician in the face."

6. A gentleman had a cask of Aminean wine, from which his servant stole a large quantity. When the master perceived the deficiency, he diligently inspected the top of the cask but could find no traces of an opening. "Look if there be not a hole in the bottom," said a bystander. "Blockhead," he replied, "do you not see that the deficiency is at the top, and not at the bottom?"

7. A young man meeting an acquaintance, said, "I heard that you were dead."—"But," says the other, "you see me alive."—"I do not know how that may be," replied he: "you are a notorious liar, but my informant was a person of credit."

8. A man, hearing that a raven would live two hundred years, bought one to try.

9. During a storm, the passengers on board a vessel that appeared in danger seized different implements to aid them in swimming, and one of the number selected for this purpose the anchor.

10. One of twin-brothers died: a fellow meeting the survivor asked, "Which is it, you or your brother, that's dead?"

11. A man whose son was dead, seeing a crowd assembled to witness the funeral, said, "I am ashamed to bring my little child into such a numerous assembly."

12. The son of a fond father, when going to war, promised to bring home the head of one of the enemy. His parent replied, "I should be glad to see you come home without a head, provided you come safe."

13. A man wrote to his friend in Greece begging him to purchase books. From negligence or avarice, he neglected to execute the commission; but fearing that his correspondent might be offended, he exclaimed when next they met, "My dear friend, I never got the letter that you wrote me about the books."

14. A wittol, a barber, and a bald-headed man travelled together. Losing their way, they were forced to sleep in the open air; and, to avert danger, it was agreed to keep watch by turns. The lot first fell on the barber, who, for amusement, shaved the fool's head while he slept; he then woke him, and the fool, raising his hand to scratch his head, exclaimed, "Here's a pretty mistake; rascal! you have waked the bald-headed man instead of me."

15. A citizen, seeing some sparrows in a tree, went beneath and shook it, holding out his hat to catch them as they fell.

16. A foolish fellow, having a house to sell, took a brick from the wall to exhibit as a sample.

17. A man meeting his friend, said, "I spoke to you last night in a dream." "Pardon me," replied the other, "I did not hear you."

18. A man that had nearly been drowned while bathing, declared that he would not again go into the water until he had learned to swim.

(To understand the next, we must premise that a horse with his first teeth was called by the Greeks "a first thrower.")

19. A man selling a horse was asked if it was a first thrower. "By Jove," said he, "he's a second thrower, for he threw both me and my father."

20. A fellow had to cross a river, and entered the boat on horseback; being asked the cause, he replied, "I must ride, because I am in a hurry."

21. A student in want of money sold his books, and wrote home, "Father, rejoice; for I now derive my support from literature."

We thank the wits of the Athenaeum for these piquancies: they are in the right true Attic vein, and are therefore characteristic of that clever Journal.

KNOWLEDGE FOR THE PEOPLE

(From Part xiii.—Botany.)

Why have vegetables the function of transpiration?

Because the sap, on arriving in the leaves, loses and gives out the superabundant quantity of water which it contained.

Why are limpid drops often observed hanging at the points of leaves at sunrise?

Because of the vegetable transpiration condensed by the coldness of the night. It was long thought that they were produced by dew; but Mushenbroëk first proved the above, by conclusive experiments. He intercepted all communication between a poppy and the ambient air, by covering it with a bell; and between it and the earth, by covering the vessel in which it grew with a leaden plate. Next morning the drop appeared upon it as before—Richard.

One of the hydrangea tribe perspires so freely, that the leaves wither and become crisp in a very short space of time, if the plant be not amply supplied with water: it has 160,000 apertures on every inch square of surface, on the under disk of the leaf.

Why is more or less of a gummy, resinous, or saccharine matter found in every tree?

Because it is formed by branches of those returning vessels that deposit the new alburnum.

Why is it inferred that these juices must be prepared in the plant itself, by various secretions, and changes of the fluids which it absorbs?

Because we find, that in the same climate, nay, even in the same spot of ground, rue has its bitter—sorrel its acid—and the lettuce its cooling juices; and that the juices of the various parts of one plant, or even of one fruit, are extremely different. Sir James Smith mentions the peach-tree as a familiar example. "The gum of this tree is mild and mucilaginous. The bark, leaves, and flowers, abound with a bitter secretion, of a purgative and rather dangerous quality, than which nothing can be more distinct from the gum. The fruit is replete, not only with acid, mucilage, and sugar, but with its own peculiar aromatic and highly volatile secretion, elaborated within itself, on which its fine flavour depends."—Introduction to Botany, 6th edit.

Why are these juices readily found in the bark?

Because they appear to be matured, or brought to greater perfection, in layers of wood or bark that have no longer any principal share in the circulation of the sap. Thus, the vessels containing them are often very large, as the turpentine cells of the fir tribe, in all the species of which these secretions abound. The substance from which spruce-beer is made, is an extract of the branches of the Abies Canadensis, or Hemlock Spruce; a similar preparation is obtained from the branches of Dacrydium, in the South Seas.

Why, in the spring, is the herbage under trees generally more luxuriant than it is beyond the spread of their branches?

Because the driving mists and fogs becoming condensed on the branches, cause a frequent drip beneath the tree not experienced in other places; and thus keep up a perpetual irrigation and refreshment of the soil.

Why are certain plants useful or injurious to others that grow in their vicinity?

Because of certain fluids which the roots excrete from their slender extremities; and in this manner the likings and antipathies of certain plants may be accounted for. Thus, it is well known that the creeping thistle is hurtful to oats, erigeron acre to wheat, scabiosa arvensis to flax, &c.

Why are some resins odorous?

Because they contain essential oil; some afford benzoic acid when heated, and these have been termed balsams; such as tolu balsam and benzoin.

Common resin is obtained by distilling the exudation of different species of fir; oil of turpentine passes over, and the resin remains behind.

Why are the varieties of the cashew tribe, called varnish-trees?

Because their large flowers abound in a resinous, sometimes acrid, and highly poisonous juice, which afterwards turns black, and is used for varnishing in India. One kind is the common cashew nut. All these varnishes are extremely dangerous to some constitutions; the skin, if rubbed with them, inflames, and becomes covered with pimples that are difficult to heal; the fumes have also been known to produce painful swelling and inflammation.

Why do these varnishes, at first white, afterwards turn black?

Because the recent juice is an organized substance, consisting of an immense congeries of small parts, which disperse the sun's rays in all directions, like a thin film of unmelted tallow; while the varnish which has been exposed to the air loses its organized structure, becomes homogeneous, and then transmits the sun's rays, of a rich, deep, uniform, red colour.

The leaves of some species of Schinus are so filled with a resinous fluid, that the least degree of unusual repletion of the tissue causes it to be discharged; thus, some of them fill the air with fragrance after rain; and other kinds expel their resin with such violence when immersed in water, as to have the appearance of spontaneous motion, in consequence of the recoil. Another kind is said to cause swellings in those who sleep under its shade.—Brewster's Journal.

Why is the soap-tree so called?

Because its bark, if pulverized, and shaken in water, soon yields a solution, frothing, as if it contained soap. It is a native of Chili; the trunk is straight, and of considerable height; the wood is hard, red, and never splits; and the bark is rugged, fibrous, of ash-grey colour externally, and white within.

Why is a species of myrtle called the wax-tree?

Because the leaves and stem, when bruised, and boiled in water, yield wax, which concretes on cooling. Mr. Brande observes, "the glossy varnish upon the upper surface of many trees is of a similar nature; and though there are shades of difference, these varieties of wax possess the essential properties of that formed by the bee: indeed, it was formerly supposed that bees merely collected the wax already formed by the vegetable: but Huber's experiments show, that the insect has the power of transmuting sugar into wax, and that this is in fact a secretion."

The wax-palm of Humboldt has its trunk covered by a coating of wax, which exudes from the spaces between the insertion of the leaves. It is, according to Vaquelin, a concrete, inflammable substance, consisting of 1/3 wax, and 2/3 resin.

Why are some oils called vegetable butters?

Because they become solid at the ordinary temperatures. Such are cocoa-nut oil, palm oil, and nutmeg oil.

Why are some volatile oils obtained by expression?

Because they are contained in distinct vesicles in the rind of fruits, as in the lemon, orange, and bergamot.

Why is the oil of poppy-seed perfectly wholesome?

Because it is in no degree narcotic; nor has it any of the properties of the poppy itself. This oil is consumed on the Continent in considerable quantity, and employed extensively in adulterating olive oil. Its use was at one time prohibited in France, by decrees issued in compliance with popular clamour; but it is now openly sold, the government and people having grown wiser.

Why is the juice of the poppy called opium?

Because of its derivation from the Persian afioun, and the Arabian aphium. The botanical name of the poppy, papaver, is said to be derived from its being commonly mixed with the pap, papa, given to children in order to ease pain, and procure sleep.

Why does opium produce sleep?

Because it contains an alkaline substance called Morphia. The same drug contains a peculiar acid called the Meconic; and a vegetable alkali named Narcotine, to which unpleasant stimulating properties are attributed by Majendie.

Why is sugar so generally found in plants?

Because it is not only the seasoning of most eatable fruits, but abounds in various roots, as the carrot, beet, parsnip, and in many plants of the grass, or cane kind, besides the famous sugar cane.

Sir James Smith observes that "there is great reason to suppose sugar not so properly an original secretion, as the result of a chemical change in secretions already formed, either of an acid or mucilaginous nature, or possibly a mixture of both. In ripening fruits, this change is most striking, and takes place very speedily, seeming to be greatly promoted by heat and light. By the action of frost, as Dr. Darwin observes, a different change is wrought in the mucilage of the vegetable body, and it becomes starch."

M. Berard considers gum and lignin as the principles in unripe fruits which chiefly tend to the formation of sugar during their ripening, and he has given several analyses of fruits in illustration of these views. Mr. Brande also considers the elements of water as probably concerned in the change.

THE NATURALIST

THE SUGAR CANE

At the island of Tahiti (Otaheite) South Pacific Ocean, there are several varieties of the sugar cane, differing, however, in their qualities. The number of varieties are eight, and are as follow:—

1. Rutu—of good quality.

2. Avae—of indifferent quality.

3. Irimotu—a rich cane, but does not grow to a large size.

4. Patu—a good cane, of a red colour.

5. To-ura—a dark-striped cane, hard and good.

6. Toute—a bad cane, of a red colour.

7. Veu—a good cane.

8. Vaihi—this attains a large size, and is considered of the best quality. It is said by the natives to have been introduced from the Sandwich Islands.

At Manilla (Island of Luconia) the planters mention three cultivated varieties of the sugar cane:—

1. Cana negra—black sugar cane.

2. Cana morada—brown sugar cane.

3. Cana blancha—white sugar cane.

of which the black or cana negra is considered the best, from its strength and the quantity of syrup contained in it.

Mr. G.B.'s MS. Journal, 1829-30.

THE BARN OWL;

and the Benefits it confers on Man. By Charles Waterton, Esq

This pretty aerial wanderer of the night often comes into my room; and after flitting to and fro, on wing so soft and silent that he is scarcely heard, he takes his departure from the same window at which he had entered.

I own I have a great liking for this bird; and I have offered it hospitality and protection on account of its persecutions, and for its many services to me,—I say services, as you will see in the sequel. I wish that any little thing I could write or say might cause it to stand better with the world at large than it has hitherto done: but I have slender hopes on this score; because old and deep-rooted prejudices are seldom overcome; and when I look back into the annals of remote antiquity, I see too clearly that defamation has done its worst to ruin the whole family, in all its branches, of this poor, harmless, useful friend of mine.

Ovid, nearly two thousand years ago, was extremely severe against the owl. In his Metamorphoses he says:—

"Foedaque fit volucris, venturi nuncia luctus,Ignavus bubo, dirum mortalibus omen."5

In his Fasti he openly accuses it of felony:—

"Nocte volant, puerosque petunt nutricis egentes."6

Lucan, too, has hit it hard:—

"Et laetae juranter aves, bubone sinistro:"7

and the Englishman who continued the Pharsalia, says—

"Tristia mille locis Stylus dedit omina bubo."8

Horace tells us that the old witch Canidia used part of the plumage of the owl in her dealings with the devil:—

"Plumamque nocturnae strigis."9

Virgil, in fine, joined in the hue and cry against this injured family:—

"Solaque culminibus ferali carmine buboSaepe queri, et longas in fletum ducere voces."10

In our own times we find that the village maid cannot return home from seeing her dying swain, without a doleful salutation from the owl:—

"Thus homeward as she hopeless went,The churchyard path along,The blast grew cold, the dark owl scream'dHer lover's funeral song."

Amongst the numberless verses which might be quoted against the family of the owl, I think I only know of one little ode which expresses any pity for it. Our nursery maid used to sing it to the tune of the Storm, "Cease rude Boreas, blust'ring railer." I remember the first two stanzas of it:—

"Once I was a monarch's daughter,And sat on a lady's knee;But am now a nightly rover,Banish'd to the ivy tree—Crying, hoo hoo, hoo hoo, hoo hoo,Hoo hoo hoo, my feet are cold!Pity me, for here you see me,Persecuted, poor, and old."

I beg the reader's pardon for this exordium. I have introduced it, in order to show how little chance there has been, from days long passed and gone to the present time, of studying the haunts and economy of the owl, because its unmerited bad name has created it a host of foes, and doomed it to destruction from all quarters. Some few, certainly, from time to time, have been kept in cages and in aviaries. But nature rarely thrives in captivity, and very seldom appears in her true character when she is encumbered with chains, or is to be looked at by the passing crowd through bars of iron. However, the scene is now going to change; and I trust that the reader will contemplate the owl with more friendly feelings, and quite under different circumstances. Here, no rude schoolboy ever approaches its retreat; and those who once dreaded its diabolical doings are now fully satisfied that it no longer meddles with their destinies, or has any thing to do with the repose of their departed friends. Indeed, human wretches in the shape of body-snatchers seem here in England to have usurped the office of the owl in our churchyards; "et vendunt tumulis corpora rapta suis."11

Up to the year 1813, the barn owl had a sad time of it at Walton Hall. Its supposed mournful notes alarmed the aged housekeeper. She knew full well what sorrow it had brought into other houses when she was a young woman; and there was enough of mischief in the midnight wintry blast, without having it increased by the dismal screams of something which people knew very little about, and which every body said was far too busy in the churchyard at nighttime. Nay, it was a well-known fact, that if any person were sick in the neighbourhood, it would be for ever looking in at the window, and holding a conversation outside with somebody, they did not know whom. The gamekeeper agreed with her in every thing she said on this important subject; and he always stood better in her books when he had managed to shoot a bird of this bad and mischievous family. However, in 1813, on my return from the wilds of Guiana, having suffered myself, and learned mercy, I broke in pieces the code of penal laws which the knavery of the gamekeeper and the lamentable ignorance of the other servants had hitherto put in force, far too successfully, to thin the numbers of this poor, harmless, unsuspecting tribe. On the ruin of the old gateway, against which, tradition says, the waves of the lake have dashed for the better part of a thousand years, I made a place with stone and mortar, about 4 ft. square, and fixed a thick oaken stick firmly into it. Huge masses of ivy now quite cover it. In about a month or so after it was finished, a pair of barn owls came and took up their abode in it. I threatened to strangle the keeper if ever, after this, he molested either the old birds or their young ones; and I assured the housekeeper that I would take upon myself the whole responsibility of all the sickness, woe, and sorrow that the new tenants might bring into the Hall. She made a low courtesy; as much as to say, "Sir, I fall into your will and pleasure:" but I saw in her eye that she had made up her mind to have to do with things of fearful and portentous shape, and to hear many a midnight wailing in the surrounding woods. I do not think that up to the day of this old lady's death, which took place in her eighty-fourth year, she ever looked with pleasure or contentment on the barn owl, as it flew round the large sycamore trees which grow near the old ruined gateway.