The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 282, November 10, 1827

Vinegar made from Black Ants

It is singular enough, that a discovery of modern chemistry should long have been practically employed in some parts of Norway, for the purpose of making vinegar from a large species of black ant. The method employed in Norlanden is simply this: they first collect a sufficient quantity of these little animals, by plunging a bottle partly filled with water up to the neck in one of the large ant-hills; into which they naturally creep, and are drowned. The contents are then boiled together, and the acid thus produced is made use of by the inhabitants as vinegar, being strong and good.

Soil for Fruit Trees

Low grounds that form the banks of rivers are, of all others, the best adapted for the growth of fruit trees; the alluvial soil of which they are composed, being an intermixture of the richest and most soluble parts of the neighbouring lands, with a portion of animal and vegetable matter, affording an inexhaustible store of nourishment—Trans. Horticultural Society.

Watch Alarum

A patent has recently been procured for a most useful appendage to a watch, for giving alarm at any hour during the night. Instead of encumbering a watch designed to be worn in the pocket with the striking apparatus, (by which it would be increased to double the ordinary thickness), this ingenious invention has the alarum or striking part detached, and forming a bed on which the watch is to be laid; a communication being made by a lever, projecting through the watch case, to connect the works. This appendage is described to be applicable to any watch of the usual construction, and is by no means expensive.

THE MONTHS

NOVEMBER

November is associated with gloom, inasmuch as its days and nights are, for the most part, sullen and sad. But the transition to this gloom is slow, gradual, and almost imperceptible. The mornings of the month are generally foggy, and are thus described by a modern poet:—

"Not pleasureless the morn, when dismal fogRolls o'er the dewy plain, or thin mist drives;When the lone timber's saturated branchDrips freely."

In the progress of day,

"Shorn of his glory through the dim profound,With melancholy aspect looks the orbOf stifled day, and while he strives to pierceAnd dissipate the slow reluctant gloom,Seems but a rayless globe, an autumn moon,That gilds opaque the purple zone of eve,And yet distributes of her thrifty beam.Lo! now he conquers; now, subdued awhile,Awhile subduing, the departed mistYields in a brighter beam, or darker cloudsHis crimson disk obscure."

The country has now exchanged its refreshing varieties of greens for the hues of saffron, russet, and dark brown. "The trees," says an amusing observer of nature, "generally lose their leaves in the following succession:—walnut, mulberry, horse-chestnut, sycamore, lime, ash, then, after an interval, elm:

"–'To him who walksNow in the sheltered mead, loud roars above,Among the naked branches of the elm,Still freshening as the hurried cloud departs,The strong Atlantic gale.'

"Then beech and oak, then apple and peach trees, sometimes not till the end of November; and lastly, pollard-oaks and young beeches, which retain their withered leaves till pushed off by the new ones in spring."

The rural economy of the month is thus described by the same writer:—"The farmer endeavours to finish his ploughing this month, and then lays up his instruments for the spring. Cattle are kept in the yard or stable, sheep turned into the turnip-field, or in bad weather fed with hay, bees moved under shelter, and pigeons fed in the dove-house."

The gardens, for the most part, begin to show the wear of desolation, and but little of their floral pride remains without doors. Meanwhile, a mimic garden is displayed within, and the hyacinth, narcissus, &c. are assembled there to gladden us with anticipations of the coming spring.

Though sombre and drear, a November day is a carnival for the reflective observer; the very falling of the leaves, intercepted in their descent by a little whirl or hurricane, is to him a feast of meditation, and "the soul, dissolving, as it were, into a spirit of melancholy enthusiasm, acknowledges that silent pathos, which governs without subduing the heart."—"This season, so sacred to the enthusiast, has been, in all ages, selected by the poet and the moralist, as a theme for poetic description and moral reflection;" and we may add that amidst such scenes, Newton drew the most glorious problem of his philosophy, and Bishop Horne his simple but pathetic lines on the "Fall of the Leaf,"—lessons of nature which will still find their way to the hearts of mankind, when the more subtle workings of speculative philosophy shall be forgotten with their promoters.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

THE ROBBER SPATOLINO

The history of Spatolino exhibits rather the character of a man bred where men are in a state of nature, than of one born in the midst of an old European state. This extraordinary character, furiously irritated against the French, who had invaded Italy, desperately bent himself upon revenge, and directed his attacks unceasingly upon their battalions. He might perhaps have become a great general, had he entered the military profession: had he received a competent education, he might have been a virtuous and eminent citizen. His first crime was an act of vengeance, and all his following delinquencies flowed from the same source. An enthusiastic feeling placed the blade in his hand against the invaders of the Roman States, and a superior sagacity aided his terrible energies. He died stigmatised with the titles of brigand and assassin; but the French, on whom he had exercised the most striking acts of revenge, were his judges, his accusers, and executioners. In all his acts the man of courage could be distinguished, finding resources, in whatever dangers, in his own genius. He never was a traitor himself, although often betrayed by his most intimate friends. His vindictive exploits were prompt and terrible. The French greatly dreaded him. His life presents traits truly romantic; sometimes they may appear exaggerated; but his history is from an authentic source, and from his voluntary confession.

The reader may wish to know something of the person of Spatolino. He was of low stature, long visage, fair skin, but his face of an olive pale hue; his eyes of a light blue, and full of animation; his aspect fierce; hair light; long whiskers; lips pale; broad back; swift of foot; and particularly animated in his action. He wore a jerkin lined with red, a dark yellow waistcoat, blue breeches, a breast-pouch with fifty cartridges, four pistols, and a small hanger by his side. In his breeches-pocket he kept a small stiletto. He also bore a long gun. On his head he wore continually a net, and upon that his hat. His wife followed him in all his excursions, and he greatly esteemed and loved her. He remained some time in the mountains near Rome, and with his associates laid in a store of whatever was necessary for their new avocation. He then resolved upon proceeding to Sonnino, the common rendezvous of the greater part of the banditti in the papal states. In Sonnino he found some followers, who, going deeply into his notions, did not scruple to join him. They swore to entertain an eternal friendship for each other, implacable hatred against the French, and laid it down as a duty to rob and kill them. Spatolino, before commencing his career as brigand, repaired to the curate of Sonnino, and requested absolution for all the crimes he had or might commit; the curate, surprised at this request, observed to him, that absolution was only given after sins were committed. Spatolino very soon quieted the scruples of the curate, by making him a present of a very handsome watch; upon which he immediately raised his hands and gave him the desired absolution. Sonnino may be compared with Pontus, where Ovid was in exile, and which is thus described by that celebrated author:—"The men I meet with are not even worthy of the name; they are more fierce than wolves; have no laws, as with them armed force constitutes justice, and injury rights. They live by rapine, but seek it not without peril, and sword in hand. Every other way of purveying for their necessities they view as base and ignominious. It is enough for them to be seen to be hated and dreaded. The sound of their voice is ferocious; their physiognomy horrible, and their complexion cadaverous." Just such are the inhabitants of Sonnino and its vicinity at present, and among such Spatolino came to complete his band, which, when formed in Rome, consisted of seven only.

Before proceeding on his expedition, and to attach his wife more closely to his person by proving his strong affection, he left his band and proceeded to Civita Vecchia, and seeking a sailor who had seduced her, he expressed a wish to speak with him a little distance from the town. The sailor, conceiving it might be something to his advantage, followed immediately. Spatolino conducted him a little beyond the gate of Civita Vecchia, and giving him two thrusts of his stiletto in his heart, cut off his ears and nose, to carry them as a present to his wife, and then departed immediately for Sonnino. On his arrival, he proceeded to seek Mary and his band. After the usual salutations, he took out of his pocket the small bundle containing the nose and ears of the sailor, and, presenting them to his wife, said, "From this you may judge my affection. I was desirous of avenging your wrongs, and have done so by killing your seducer. Here are the pledges of it, which you should keep, in order to remind you of the betrayer, and as a guard against future temptation. You cannot mistrust me, when I promise ever to afford you proofs of true attachment, and I hope you will be faithful to me!" After this they embraced affectionately, and swore to each other eternal fidelity. Nor is it possible for any man to have kept his word more scrupulously towards his wife. The following day Spatolino departed at the head of his band, which was composed of eighteen persons, himself and wife included, and proceeded to the vicinity of Portatta, near the main road leading from Rome to Naples, which at that time was much frequented by the French of every rank and condition, who proceeded under orders between these two places. Towards night, Spatolino placed himself and comrades in ambush on the high road, intending to take advantage of a military body of which he had information. Ere long a sound of horses was heard; they were immediately on the alert, and succeeded in arresting a French escort of seven soldiers on foot, and the same number on horseback, conducting the baggage-wagon of a French colonel of the line. It contained all his effects, and money to a large amount. Upon the first fire of Spatolino's band, five of the soldiers were killed, and three desperately wounded; he then threw himself amongst the others, who were placed on the defence, and who had expended their fire without hurting a single individual of the band. Spatolino, with his pistols, killed two, and a few moments saw him and his band masters of the field. Spatolino ordered his men to strip the dead, and placing every thing in the wagon, after digging a pit for the bodies, they retired to a cave in a wood near the road, where the booty was equally divided. He took himself two of the best horses, and armed and equipped his band in a superior manner. He also presented to his wife a part of the spoil, she having been armed in the action, performing the duty of a sentinel on the highway in advance about half a mile off, to give notice, in case of an overwhelming force appearing. Spatolino, having made a fair division of the spoil to raise the courage of his companions, sent all his own money to his parents, informing them at the same time, that for the future they should be released from misery, as he would ever bear in mind the beings who gave him birth.—New Monthly Magazine.

AN UNINSURABLE RISK

A bookseller opened a shop on the coast,(I'd rather not mention the spot,)Where gentlemen lounged o'er the Herald and Post,And ladies read Byron and Scott.Much personal memoir, too, shone on the shelves,Which boasted a whimsical olio;Decorum sang small, in octavoes and twelves,And scandal in quarto and folio.The bookseller, prudently aiming to setTh' ignipotent god at defiance,To open a policy vainly essay'dAt the Albion, the Hope, and Alliance."My friend, your abortive attempt prithee stop,"Quoth Jekyll, intent on a joke,"How can you expect to insure, while your shopIs rolling out volumes of smoke?"

Ibid.

LONDON NEWSPAPERS

On few subjects are the public under more misapprehension than on the absolute and relative circulation of several portions of the London daily press. The greater part of the people would startle were they told that The Times circulates probably under 7,000 a day on an average; the paper is seen, as one may say, in every pot-house in London, and all over the country; and yet this is all its number.

The property of a paper is a matter of which most people have a very vague and imperfect knowledge. I believe I am very near the truth when I state the gross proceeds of The Times at 45,000l., a year. The present proprietor of The Morning Chronicle gave for it, I believe, 40,000l. The absolute property of The Courier, according to the current rate of its shares, is between 90,000l. and 100,000l. Estimating the value of The Globe on the same scale, the absolute property of it is probably somewhere about 35,000l. The profits of a paper arise almost entirely out of its advertisements, and hence the difference in value between the two last, notwithstanding their circulation is so nearly equal. A newspaper gets its advertisements by degrees, and, as it is supposed by the public, its numbers increase; but it retains them long after the cause by which they were acquired has vanished. It is thus that The Courier, which got its advertisements when it basked in all the sunshine of ministerial patronage, retains these when its numbers are reduced by one-half, and the countenance of government is no longer held out to it.

These, however, it must be admitted, are the prizes in the lottery of newspaper speculation: and in this, as in every other lottery, there are more blanks than prizes. Mr. Murray, after having expended upwards of 10,000l. on his Representative, sold it to the proprietors of The New Times for about 600l.: and The British Press, after having ruined I know not how many capitalists, was sold to the same concern for, I believe, a considerably smaller sum.—London Magazine.

MADEMOISELLE CUVIER

Mademoiselle Cuvier, daughter of the celebrated naturalist, died a short time since at Paris. There has seldom been any instance where the strongest benevolence was so closely united to the charms of intellect. She possessed a rare mixture of elevation of mind and firmness of character—of strength and equanimity—sweetness and simplicity. It was truly gratifying to witness her worship, or rather superstition, for truth, and to watch the avidity with which she used to seize and illustrate whatever she thought likely to remove ignorance, or promote the cause of virtue and freedom. The circumstances which attended the death of this amiable creature, have, if possible, greatly augmented the grief of her family and friends. The day of her nuptials was fixed, and she was to be united to a man of her own choice, and everything was prepared for the ceremony. Being suddenly afflicted by rapid symptoms of consumption, all hopes of her recovery soon vanished. Notwithstanding, the ball dresses, veils, and shawls, continued to be sent home to the unhappy parents, who dared not refuse them, lest they should themselves be accused of giving way to despair. This mixture of preparations for rejoicing, and the certainty of death, formed a picture the most melancholy and pathetic. When the fatal moment arrived, her family and many friends surrounded the dying couch in mournful silence. The funeral was attended by all that is distinguished for rank and fortune at Paris; a clergyman of the Protestant church read the service for the dead, and a funeral sermon. A number of young females whom she had formed for succouring the poor, were ranged round the bier, dressed in white, and followed to the Cemetery of Père la Chaise, where M. Salvandy, one of her friends, undertook to deliver the final eulogy, which it is usual in France to pronounce on departed worth.—Monthly Magazine.—Letter from Paris.

HOW TO LOSE TIME

Few men need complain of the want of time, if they are not conscious of a want of power, or of desire to ennoble and enjoy it. Perhaps you are a man of genius yourself, gentle reader, and though not absolutely, like Sir Walter, a witch, warlock, or wizard, still a poet—a maker—a creator. Think, then, how many hours on hours you have lost, lying asleep so profoundly,

"That the cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more could rouse you from your lazy bed."

How many more have you, not absolutely lost, but to a certain extent abused, at breakfast—sip, sipping away at unnecessary cups of sirupy tea, or gob, gobbling away at jam-buttered rolls, for which nature never called—or "to party giving up what was meant for mankind"—forgetting the loss of Time in the Times, and, after a long, blank, brown, and blue study, leaving behind you a most miserable chronicle indeed! Then think—O think—on all your aimless forenoon saunterings—round and round about the premises—up and down the avenue—then into the garden on tiptoe—in and out among the neat squares of onion-beds—now humming a tune by the brink of abysses of mould, like trenches dug for the slain in the field of battle, where the tender celery is laid—now down to the river-side to try a little angling, though you well know there is nothing to be had but Pars—now into a field of turnips, without your double-barreled Joe Manton, (at Mr. Wilkinson's to be repaired,) to see Ponto point a place where once a partridge had pruned himself—now home again, at the waving of John's red sleeve, to receive a coach-full of country cousins, come in the capacity of forenoon callers—endless talkers all—sharp and blunt noses alike—and grinning voraciously in hopes of a lunch—now away to dress for dinner, which will not be for two long, long hours to come—now dozing, or daized on the drawing-room sofa, wondering if the bell is ever to be rung—now grimly gazing on a bit of bloody beef which your impatience has forced the blaspheming cook to draw from the spit ere the outer folds of fat were well melted at the fire—now, after a disappointed dinner, discovering that the old port is corked, and the filberts all pluffing with bitter snuff, except such as enclose a worm—now an unwholesome sleep of interrupted snores, your bobbing head ever and anon smiting your breast-bone—now burnt-beans palmed off on the family for Turkish coffee—now a game at cards, with a dead partner, and the ace of spades missing—now no supper—you have no appetite for supper—and now into bed tumbles the son of Genius, complaining to the moon of the shortness of human life, and the fleetness of time!

Blackwood's Magazine.

SLEEPING AFTER DINNER

Mr. Fox at St. Ann's Hill was, for the last years of his life, in the habit (never interfered with by his friends) of dosing for a few minutes after dinner; and it was on this occasion, unconsciously yielding to the influence of custom, I perceived that Mr. Garrow, who was the chief talker (Parr was in his smoking orgasm,) began to feel embarrassed at Mr. Fox's non-attention; and I, therefore, made signs to Mr. Fox, by wiping my fingers to my eyes, and looking expressively at Garrow. Mr. Fox, the most truly polite man in the world, immediately endeavoured to rouse himself—but in vain; Nature would have her way. Garrow soon saw the struggle, and adroitly feigned sleep himself. Mr. Fox was regenerated in ten minutes—apologized—and made the evening delightful—Senatorial Reminiscenses.—The Inspector.

THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE

The Two Drovers.

(Concluded from page 289.)

[Our readers must have missed, and probably with some regret, the conclusion of the above story, as promised for insertion in our last Number; and unaccustomed as we are to an intentional discrepancy of this sort, (for such was the above,) we shall consider ourselves justified in briefly stating some of the circumstances which led to the irregularity. We are not disposed to enter into the tilts of rival journalists, some of whom, in taking time by the forelock, may have perhaps been rather more enterprising than the subject warranted.17 Nevertheless, in the attempt to please the public, as in other races, the youngest are often the fleetest. In the present case, the appetite of the public had been whetted with "reiterated advertisement:" and one of our contemporaries, with more playfulness than truth, had compared his priority to that of Fine-ear in the fairy tale. But his talisman failed, and a young rival outstripped him; and from this quarter we were induced to copy the first portion of the tale of The Two Drovers, upon the editor's assurance of his own honesty in obtaining the precedence, and which assurance We are still unwilling to question: although, were we to do so, ours would not he a solitary specimen of such ingratitude.18 On the day of our publishing the first portion, we received a notice to desist from its continuance,—full of the causticity of our friends on the other side of the Tweed, and with whom, for the credit of the south, we hope the measure originated. We next resolved to suspend the conclusion; since the brutum fulmen became louder and louder still, in an advertisement actively inserted in the London newspapers. To make short of what is and ought to be but a trifling affair, we have abridged the whole story, and accordingly now present the conclusion to our readers, though certainly not in the promised state; how far we have exculpated ourselves, is for our patrons to determine.—A few words at parting, on the policy of the above conduct. We need not enlarge upon the advantages which publishers (and, to some extent, authors) derive from portions of their works appearing in periodical journals. The benefit is not reciprocal, but largely on their side, if they consider how many columns of advertisement duty they thereby avoid. It is well known that the first edition of any work by such a master-spirit as Sir Walter Scott is consumed in a few days by the circulating libraries and reading societies of the kingdom; but how many thousands would neither have seen nor heard of his most successful works, had not the gusto been previously created by the caducei of these literary Mercuries. Again, sift any one of them, with higher pretensions to originality than our economical sheet will admit of, and you shall find it, in quantity, at least, to resemble Gratiano's three grains. But we are not inclined to quarrel with the scheme, for with Johnson we say, "Quotation, sir (Walter), is a good thing," in the hope of hearing our readers reply, "This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons peas."—ED.]

Some words passed after the departure, of Robin Oig, between the bailiff, and Harry Wakefield, who was now not indisposed to defend Robin Oig's reputation. But Dame Heskett prevented this second quarrel by her peremptory interference. The conversation turned on the expected markets, and the prices from different parts of Scotland and England, and Harry Wakefield found a chap for a part of his drove, and at a considerable profit; an event more than sufficient to blot out all remembrances of the past scuffle. But there remained one from whose mind that recollection could not have been wiped by possession of every head of cattle betwixt Esk and Eden.

This was Robin Oig M'Combich.—"That I should have had no weapon," he said, "and for the first time in my life!—Blighted be the tongue that bids the Highlander part with the dirk—the dirk—ha! the English blood!—My muhme's word—when did her word fall to the ground?"