Title: The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 31, January 30, 1841
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 31, January 30, 1841" ***


images generously made available by JSTOR www.jstor.org)



                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

       NUMBER 31.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1841.      VOLUME I.

[Illustration: DUN-GARBRY CASTLE, COUNTY OF LEITRIM.]

The Castle of Dun-garbry, or properly Dun-cairbré, signifying the Dun or
Fort of Cairbre, is situated on a hill, on the south side, and not far
from the mouth, of the Drowis, or _Drobhaois_--a river very celebrated
in Irish history--and the estuary of the beautiful Lough Melvin, in the
lower part of the county of Leitrim, bordering on the county of Sligo.
Though marked on the maps made in the reign of Elizabeth as an important
fortress, its ruins are now but inconsiderable, and consist only of a
side wall perforated by an arched doorway. But trivial as these vestiges
are, they impart some historic interest to scenery of the most delightful
character by which it is surrounded, and are valuable as a memorial of
an ancient Irish family, once of great rank in the county, though now
reduced to utter decay, at least in their original locality.

Dun-garbry Castle was erected by the chief of the Mac-Clanchys, or
correctly _Mac-Fhlannchadha_, a sept or clan who possessed the ancient
district called Dartree, the present barony of Rossclogher, and of
which the Castle of Rossclogher, situated on an island in Lough Melvin,
was their chief residence. The name of its founder and the date of its
erection are not preserved; but the latter may with probability be
referred to a period anterior to the reign of Henry VIII., as the Annals
of the Four Masters record at the year 1538, that “Cahir (the son of
Feradach, the son of William), the son of Mac Clanchy, heir-apparent to
the chieftainship of Dartree, died in that year in Dun-cairbre.”

It may be proper to state that there are in Ireland two perfectly
distinct families of the name Mac Clanchy, or, as it is now more usually
written, Clancey; first, the family of Thomond or Clare, some of whom
were hereditary Brehons or judges to the O’Briens, and who were a branch
of the Macnamaras; and, secondly, the family of Dartree, who were
hereditary chiefs of that district from a very remote period.

The notices of the chiefs of this family, as preserved in the Irish
Annals from the twelfth till the seventeenth century, will serve to
convey a very vivid impression of the insecurity of life resulting from
the unsettled state of society, and its retrogression towards absolute
barbarism during this unhappy period of our history, and will teach
us also to appreciate the blessings we derive from the progress which
civilization has made within the last century.

1241. Donnell Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, died.

1274. Cathal Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, died.

1278. Gillchreest Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was slain_.

1301. William (the son of Cathal) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was
slain_.

1303. Murtogh Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was slain_.

1337. Teige (the son of William) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was
slain_ by O’Conor.

1349. Hugh Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, and Gillchreest Mac Clanchy,
_were slain_.

1366. Cathal (the son of Teige) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, _was
slain_.

1418. Teige (the son of Cathal) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, died in a
monastery.

1420. Cathal (the son of Teige) Mac Clanchy, chief of Dartree, and Hugh
boy (or the yellow) Mac Clanchy, _were slain_ in their own house, about
the festival of St Bridget, by their own kinsmen Teige, Maurice, and
Henry.

1421. Cathal O’Rourke and his sons made a nocturnal attack on Mac Clanchy
on Iniskeen, an island of Lough Melvin, and the guards of the lake
delivered up the boats of the lake to them. They took young Mac Clanchy
prisoner, and possessed themselves of Lough Melvin and its castle. Five
of the sons of Mac Clanchy, and a great number of the men of Dartree,
were slain by them, and the remainder of the sons of Mac Clanchy went
after that into Carbury.

1532. Turlogh, the son of Mac Clanchy, was slain by his own two brothers
in the doorway of the mansion of Mac Clanchy. In revenge of this murder,
Brien O’Rourke destroyed a great portion of Dartree.

1536. Mac Clanchy (Feradach, the son of William, the son of Teige), chief
of Dartree, died. He was a charitable and humane man.

1578. Mac Clanchy (Cathal Duff, the son of Feradach), chief of Dartree,
died, and his son Cathal Oge assumed his place.

1582. Mac Clanchy (Cathal Oge), chief of Dartree, _was slain_ by his own
kinsman Teige Oge.

It appears from an inquisition taken at the Abbey of Creevelea, on the
24th September 1603, that Cathal Oge Mac Clanchy died on the 3d of
January 1582, seized of the castle and manor of Dun-carbry, and of the
whole country called Mac Clanchy’s country, leaving a son and heir,
Cathal Duff, then aged twenty-eight years.

It appears, however, that in accordance with the Brehon law, the
chieftainship of Dartree passed at his death not to his son, but to the
eldest surviving representative of the name, as an inquisition taken at
Rossclogher on the 3d of October in the same year, finds that the greater
part of the country, including the Castle of Dun-carbry, and the castle
and chief town of Rossclogher, &c., were in the possession of Malaghlin
Mac Clanchy, who died so seized on the 13th of August 1603, leaving a
son and heir, Cahir Mac Clanchy, three years and ten months old at the
time of his father’s death; and it is stated that all these castles,
lands, &c., were held of the king by knights’ service _in capite_, but
the quantity of the service was not ascertained by the inquisitors. By
the will of this Malaghlin Mac Clanchy he bequeathed to his son and heir,
Cahir, all his lands except such as were nominated wife’s jointure;
and to his wife, Katherine Ny Rourke, who was found to have been his
legitimate consort, he bequeathed his Castle of Dun-garbry, as also his
chief town called Rossclogher, in pawn of her marriage goods, until his
heir should redeem it.

The property of the Mac Clanchys was confiscated after the rebellion of
1641, but their name is the prevailing one in the barony of Dartree, or
Rossclogher, to the present day.

                                                                       P.



THE GIG RACE, OR A PULL FOR THE SILVER CUP.


In the prettily situated village of Ring, within the beautiful harbour
of Cove, lived an old man named Jeremiah Sullivan, who was by profession
a boat-builder, and who, being unrivalled in that art, justly regarded
himself as one of the most important personages in the said village, if
not in the county of Cork itself. It was indeed the conviction of Jerry
that the man who, if any such man there were, could surpass him in the
plan, the construction, or the finish of a race-gig, must be a wonder,
and far above the general standard of human excellence. After his divine
art, and the equally divine productions of that art, his daughter Sally
Sullivan was next best loved by the enthusiastic and honest old man.
Sally had the reputation of a snug little fortune and of an infinite deal
of beauty, the latter founded, no doubt, on the possession of a pair of
roguish black eyes, a blooming cheek, and a rosy pair of lips, that half
disclosed two rows of the prettiest and whitest teeth in the world.

Jerry had one favourite apprentice, to whom he had already imparted some
of the most important secrets in his profession, and to whom, at some
distant period, he intended to confide the entire, as a legacy richer
than the hoarded treasures of a miser; nay, more valuable than even
the philosopher’s stone. William Collins (for such was his name) was a
fine-looking young fellow, standing about five feet ten inches in height,
and possessed of a light, active, muscular, and admirably proportioned
figure; indeed, Sally was known to have told her female friend in the
strictest confidence that William had the brightest pair of eyes, and the
handsomest brown curls, that young man could well be vain of. William,
on the other hand, could find no language sufficiently comprehensive to
express his ideas of Sally’s beauty; and as for her good qualities, her
temper, her cheerfulness, her sweet-toned merry laugh--to describe them
was quite an impossibility. The fact was, they were both young, both
amiable, both warm-hearted, and very naturally both lovers! Yet poor old
Jerry never dreamed what the real state of the case was. Wonderful as was
his penetration, deep as was his knowledge, and great as was his skill
in all matters appertaining to the building of a boat, in affairs of the
heart he was blind and stupid as a mole. He, honest simpleton, could
never dream that Sally’s frequent intrusions into the work-yard could
be attributed to aught else than that most natural spirit of curiosity
common to young people who desired to witness the interesting process of
a delightful and important art! Besides, Jerry never wore his spectacles
within doors; and, therefore, it must be presumed he never saw the
eloquent flushing of his daughter’s cheek, or the additional brilliancy
of her dark eye, when he spoke of the young man’s attention to his duty,
and of his surprising advancement in the nicer labours of the profession.

Early in the month of May, a gentleman ordered a race-gig from Sullivan,
and from time to time sent his man Duggin to see after the progress of
the work. This Duggin was held to be the crack oarsman of the harbour,
and consequently prided himself not a little on his reputation. He was
a powerfully made though not a tall man, and his features were rather
good than otherwise, but rendered displeasing from a peculiar expression
of cunning about the eyes, and a perpetual sneer on his lip. Duggin had
heard of Sally Sullivan’s fame as a beauty; and being quite of a gallant
temperament, he conceived the very natural design of rendering himself
agreeable to the old boat-builder’s daughter. The moulds were laid down,
and soon the outline of the future race-gig began to be formed more
distinctly, when Mr Curly Duggin one day entered the work-yard to pass
his opinion on what had been already done, and to offer any suggestions
as to the future, that his scientific judgment might deem necessary.
On his entrance he found the peerless Sally seated on a chair, and
apparently employed at some feminine labour--_apparently_ so, for in
reality her eyes were fixed on every movement of William Collins, who
was busily engaged in the building of this future wonder of the race-gig
class. Sally, observing the stranger enter, and not relishing the
familiar stare of a pair of wicked-looking optics, nor the too evident
admiration they expressed on their master’s part, immediately left the
yard, and retired to the neatly painted cottage of her father. As for
Collins, looking up from his work at that very instant, he saw, with the
quickness of jealousy, the manner of Duggin and the retreat of Sally;
and from that hour he felt an unconquerable aversion to the bold looking
oarsman.

“Come, now, I’m blessed,” said Duggin, “that’s a nate tidy craft, if
I’m a judge in the laste! I say, Mister what’s-your-name, isn’t that
purty girl the ould fellow’s daughter?” “Yes, she is,” replied William,
with a growl; “that young woman is _Miss_ Sullivan.” “Sartinly she is a
beauty without paint! Has she a heap of fine strapping fellows, that’s
sweethearts, following of her--has she, my hearty?” “How the devil should
I know! What have I to do with any one’s business but my own?--and that
gives me enough to mind.” “Why, my fine fellow,” said Duggin, rather
annoyed at the reply, “I tell you what, that same ain’t over partiklar
civil.” “Isn’t it?--then if you don’t like my civility, I can’t help your
liking; so that’s all I care about the matter.”

Duggin made no reply, but marching round and round the half-built boat,
he made several slighting observations signifying his utter contempt for
the plan, as well as its execution. “Why, blow it!” said he, “look at
that. I tell you there’s no living use for that infernally outlandish
keel. You might as well turn a lighter, as such a tub as that, in the
water!”

Poor William’s feelings were almost too great for words, so indignant
was he at this coarse and vulgar attack on the object of his zealous
labours. He, however, merely said, “She’s very unlike a tub, for the
matter of that; and as for the keel, that will give her a sure grip of
the water, and make her hold her way.” “Who’s the out-and-out judge that
said them wise things, I’d like to know?” asked Duggin, with a mocking
sneer on his lip. “Them that’s as fine judges as any in the harbour,”
replied Collins; “there’s Dan Magrath, and Ned Desmond, and Mark Brien,
down at the ferry; and there aren’t better men to be found at handling an
oar.” “Bother!” said Duggin, “little I’d give for a score of ’em; and as
for that fellow Magrath, he’s a regular _lubber_, that isn’t no more fit
in a race than I’m fit to bite a piece out of this anchor at my feet!”
“I know nothing about biting the anchor,” said Collins; “but I tell you
what: the four of us will try you at the regatta for the ten-pound cup!”
“Done! done! my hearty: mind ye don’t go back, and be forgetting yer
promise!” said Duggin, with the air of one already certain of the prize.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” Collins replied; “I never broke my word yet,
and I don’t intend to begin now.” Again did Duggin criticise the boat,
and declare himself dissatisfied with nearly every point about her. The
temper of the young builder was severely tried; but rather than turn
away a customer from his master’s yard, he with difficulty succeeded
in curbing his rising passion. Scarcely had Duggin, however, left the
yard, when a piercing shriek rang from the house, through which lay the
general passage. William heard it, and flinging aside the plane he was
then using, he rushed in to ascertain its cause. What was his amazement
at beholding Sally struggling violently to release herself from the arms
of the gallant Duggin, who was endeavouring in vain to snatch a kiss
from the maiden’s rosy mouth! “Ha! you villain!--there, take that!” said
Collins, as with one fierce spring he gripped him by the throat, and
flung him headlong on the floor.

Duggin was for a moment nearly stunned by the fall, but when in a measure
recovered from its effects, he rose from the ground, and eyeing the pair
with a fiendish expression of malice and revenge, he said, “Collins, mark
my word for it, if I was to go to hell for it, I’ll be into you for that
fall! Mind you keep a look-out, my tidy fellow! Good morning to you,
Sally--good morning, purty Sally! Don’t forget the race, unless you’re
afraid, Collins!” So saying, Duggin left the house; and no sooner had he
gone, than Sally, frightened by his brutal insolence, burst into a flood
of tears; but she at length allowed herself to be consoled by William,
who used the most persuasive and powerful arguments in order to soothe
her ruffled spirits.

As might be anticipated, the gig was disliked, and left on old Sullivan’s
hands. Jerry was a little peevish on the subject, and was continually
regretting his unfortunate attack of the gout, which prevented himself
from superintending the work, and of a consequence rendering it a model
of perfection. But poor William bore up manfully against all, and even
had the audacity to prophesy, for the old man’s comfort, that in two days
after the coming regatta, he would procure for the gig no less a sum than
two-and-twenty guineas! The boat was finished, launched, and christened
“the Darling Sally;” her fair namesake worked with her own pretty fingers
a white silken flag, that was intended to adorn the beautifully-moulded
bow.

It was summer, and the sun was in his meridian glory, pouring a flood of
light and beauty over one of the loveliest combinations of landscape--the
tree-clad hill, the many-coloured rock, and the widely-extended
water--that can by possibility be found within the limits of the British
empire. The month was glorious July, and the scene was the far-famed Cove
of Cork. How beautiful did all appear on the last day of the regatta,
as a fleet of fairy-like yachts, yielding to the light breeze that just
broke the surface of the sea into tiny waves, dashed aside from their
bows the silver spray, and skimmed like sea-birds over the bosom of
the Cove. The sea actually blazed with light, and the islands seemed
like emeralds set in gold. Green were the hills that encircled in their
embrace the beauteous sheet of water, and cloudless was the heaven that
overhung the loveliness of earth. A stately man-of-war rode at anchor
nearly opposite the town of Cove, and gay were the flags and streamers
that enlivened by their hues the dark maze of rigging rising from the
nobly proportioned hull. Several merchantmen were also there, and decked
in like manner as the floating citadel--the seaman’s pride. The marine
picture was finished by myriads of boats of all sizes and shapes, from
the one-oared punt and the light wherry, to the family whaler or the
well-manned race-gig, that were ever gliding to and fro, imparting life
and animation to the beautiful scene.

On the Regatta Quay might be observed hundreds of elegantly dressed
females, with their attentive cavaliers; some of the latter arrayed in
divers fantastic styles of costume, intended to resemble the garb of the
sailor, and resembling it about as much as their affectation and the
swagger of their gait resembled his manner. Naval and military officers
added by their brilliant uniforms to the liveliness of the picture.
On an erected platform was stationed a brass band, that from time to
time played some fine pieces of music and exhilarating airs--a fitting
accompaniment to the soft murmur of the wave, the harmony of nature.

Outside the gate of the privileged yard were ranged tents of every
variety--some few in the form of an oblong square, with a slanting
roof--others like an Indian wigwam--some covered with bleached, and some
with dirty canvass, while in each of them a piper or a fiddler might be
heard discoursing most peculiar music, responded to by the clatter of
some score of feet, whose movements would puzzle the eccentric genius of
Fanny Elsler herself. Outside these temples, erected equally to Bacchus
and the lively Terpsichore, more intellectual food was offered to the
youthful mind in the antics of Punch and Judy; and there was, besides,
a magnificent theatre, the approach to which was by a _ladder_, and on
a platform before which the distinguished company--Turkish warriors and
Christian knights, princesses and Columbine, assassin and clown--were
threading the intricacies of a fashionable dance, to the sound of three
trumpets and a drum. Fun, frolic, and delight, reigned within as well
as without. In fine, it was the last day of the regatta, and “_now or
never_” was the universal motto.

In obedience to the warning gun, the twenty-ton yachts had drawn up in
line near their starting buoys. For a moment their mainsails flapped
idly in the breeze as they wore gracefully round. Another gun, and up
went jibs and gaff-top-sails, as they began to move in one cluster
of snowy canvass. At first they seemed scarcely to stir through the
water that lazily rippled around their bows; but as the breeze began
to be felt, they got under weigh, and the waves were broken into foam
by the dividing stem. Sally was seated in the well-cushioned stern of
her father’s four-oared family gig, which was steered by that worthy
individual himself; she wore a Leghorn bonnet with smart pink ribbons;
and as she sat near her bluff, broad-shouldered, honest old parent,
she looked as handsome a maiden as ever lent willing ear to a lover’s
vows. She was now all anxiety, as the time for William’s race was near
at hand. Duggin’s crew were on the course; and if one might judge from
the perfect appointment of the gig, the lively strokes pulled on her,
and the rapidity with which she was turned, one should seem to run no
risk in betting on her certain success. The Norah Creenah--for such was
her name--was painted on the outside a delicate buff, and on the inside
pink. One of the best and most fortunate cockswains in the harbour
steered her; and as he glanced on the powerful limbs and the muscular
chests of his men, and saw the exquisite regularity with which the blades
were dipped into the wave, his heart swelled with anticipated triumph.
“Sally, my dear,” said old Jerry Sullivan to his daughter, “take the
_ropes_ for a minute, and mind what you’re about, child.” Jerry stood
up in the boat to have a peep at the preparations for the race; but
hardly had he time to satisfy his curiosity, when the bow of the gig
came slap against the side of a large yawl, and he was laid sprawling in
the bottom from the concussion; and to mend the matter, Sally began to
scream most energetically at the mischief she herself had occasioned.
The truth was, she had mechanically obeyed her father’s directions, by
taking the tiller-ropes, but that was all, for her thoughts were far
otherwise engaged. “Back water, ye infarnal ould lubber! Do you want to
stave the side of us in? Where’s yer eyes, ye ould fool?” Such were the
pleasing queries which the parties in the assaulted boat levelled at the
innocent Jerry. “Why don’t you look out yourselves, and be hanged to
ye!” said the choleric builder, as he replied in the true Irish fashion
by putting another question. After plentifully heaping the choicest
epithets on each other, the belligerent parties at last separated, the
victory being equally divided. “Come, boys,” said Jerry to his crew,
“heave ahead, and let us see are they getting all ready for the start.”
In a few moments the boat reached that part of the strand where William
Collins and his companions were busily employed in rubbing black lead on
the bottom of the new gig. “Well, Bill, my hearty, how’re you coming
on? What do you think of her now? don’t she look handsome?” “She does,
sir, look very beautiful,” answered William in reply to his master’s
last remark, as he gazed with admiration on Sally. “Is the paint hard on
her, Bill?” asked Jerry. “Paint! paint on her, sir!” exclaimed William,
still looking at Sally. “Why, what ails you, boy? I said paint; is the
paint dry?” “All right, sir; hard as a bone.” “Very good--now see are
the stretchers the regular length and well lashed down.” But though
he received an affirmative answer, he was not satisfied till he had
convinced himself by examination that all the arrangements had been
attended to by William. “I’m aisy in mind now, any how. I hope she’ll
do; eh, Bill?” “Never fear, sir; we’ll do our best; and if we don’t
come in first, it won’t be our own fault. Did you hear the news, sir?
A gentleman--the same that was in the yard over on Friday--came up to
me and said if the boat won the race, he’d give five-and-twenty guineas
down on the nail.” “Bless my soul!” exclaimed old Sullivan, charmed at
the offer. “But what good is a man offering of such a price when there
isn’t any great chance of her winning?--oh, if I wasn’t laid up in my bed
when she was building! Well, it can’t be helped now; more’s the pity!”
“Well, sir, we must do our best; won’t we, boys?” said William, turning
to his crew. “We’ll try, any how,” was the reply, as they raised the
light gig carefully from off the stones on which she rested, and gently
floated her on the water. “William, here’s the flag,” said Sally. “Ha!
there’s the gun!” “’Tis the gun, sure enough. I’ll bring you the cup,
Sally, I hope. Come, lads,” he continued, “take your places. There--step
gently! Magrath, tread on the kelson, and don’t stand that way on the
ribs!” “Run down a bit,” said Jerry, “and lave me see your trim. Give
the long steady stroke, for the breeze is freshening. Now start away;
and, Bill, my boy, mind you win!” Away they pulled from the strand; and
as they shot quickly out, Jerry could not help exclaiming with delight,
as he noticed how evenly the gig went under the stroke, and how regular
was the time kept with their oars; but his former misgivings returned,
as he remarked the great difficulty with which she was brought round.
Duggin, in the meantime, was dashing about, attracting all eyes by the
beauty of the Norah. “Clear the course!--clear the course--pull out of
the way!” So bawled the racing steward, as by entreaty or by threat he
succeeded in clearing a space sufficient for the rival boats. “Take your
places!” again shouted he. Oh! how Sally’s heart beat as she saw the gigs
drawn up opposite the quay where the fashionables were assembled, and on
which was placed a small signal-battery. She leaned against her father
for support, as she observed the crews gently “backing water” to keep on
a line till the word was given. “Which side will you take?” asked the
cockswain of the Sally. “All the same, my hearty; stay where you are,”
answered Duggin with a voice as if confident of success. “Ready!” shouted
the steward. All oars were thrown forward, as the men bent ready for the
first dash. “Fire!” Scarce had the gun boomed over the water when the
blades were dipped together. “Pull, boys, pull!” cried the cockswain
of the Norah. “Heave away, my lads, heave! now for the start!” cried
the other. After about five strokes the buff shot right ahead, clearing
completely the bow of her sable rival. A sneer of bitter triumph might be
seen on Duggin’s lip as he darted past his hated opponent. In a very few
minutes more, however, the buff ceased to gain, as the black, under the
powerful and steady stroke of her crew, began to more gallantly through
the water. As they came alongside the ruined barracks below the town
of Cove, the Sally had come up to the Norah, and for a short distance
they went stem and stem together. From that point they had to shoot over
towards a large buoy, round which they must turn. The cockswains now
urged on their men, who answered by a cheer, as the wave foamed under
their strokes. Duggin’s crew pulled with desperate vigour in order to
gain the turn, but the black continued the same even regular pull that
was evidently telling well. “Look now, father; is the white flag first?
is it ahead, father?” asked Sally. “No, child; the Norah is---- No! she
is not! Bravo, Bill! there they go for the buoy! That’s it. More power to
you, Bill! Don’t they walk out of the saucy buff!” It was true for Jerry;
the black boat was now fairly six lengths ahead, and was gaining more at
every stroke. They reached the buoy; and now began the difficulty. “Back
water, larboard side; pull--pull on the starboard,” said the cockswain.
“Magrath, heave! Brien, that’s the go!” shouted William, as he backed
with all his might. “Hurra for the honour of Passage! Pull, my lads,
pull!--rattle into ’em. Hurra!” bawled the Norah’s helmsman, with a voice
hoarse from exertion. Before the Sally could be well got under weigh
after the turn, the Norah had darted round the buoy, and was in a moment
three lengths beyond her. “Oh, heavens, they’re beat!” said Jerry, as
he sank back on the cushion in utter despair. “Don’t say that, father!
Look again!” entreated Sally. “There!” cried the old man, as he ventured
another glance, “she’s clane out of her again! Bravo, Bill! Give it to
her! There she clips, the beauty! I always said there wasn’t your equal
except myself at building a gig! Now, boys,” continued he, addressing
his own crew, “pull a rattling touch over, and we’ll give them such a
cheer! Heave, my lads--that’s it; bend your lazy backs!” The course was
about two or three miles in length from the buoy to the old convict-hulk,
round whose dark mass the boats must pull before they made for the quay
from which they had started, and which was also the winning-place. The
struggle up along the bank was indeed a beautiful sight, as from time
to time the chances seemed to vary in favour of each, and as the crews
appeared to gain new vigour from the cheering that came from the numerous
boats which met them on the course. Gallantly did the long stroke tell
on the Sally, as she shot far out of the rakish buff. She was dashing on
in noble style for the convict-ship, when, smash! away went the bowman’s
oar! All was in confusion. On came the Norah! At that very moment Jerry
Sullivan arrived; and seeing the terrible disaster, he caught at the
oar next his hand, and flung it within reach of the bowman. “You have
it now, my boys. Now, Bill, pull, my darling fellow, hurrah!” shouted
Jerry, as the crew gave back the cheer, and the Sally bounded after the
lively Norah. Thirty strokes more, and the Sally was stem and stem with
her well-manned rival. They passed the man-of-war, and the sailors who
crowded the side of the noble vessel gave them a cheer. Before them rose
the hull of the old convict-ship, and now the struggle was, who should
round her first. Still was the same quick stroke pulled on the buff, and
still did the other crew continue to keep the same powerful one on the
black. The stern of the hulk was neared; the Sally was five boats ahead,
but the Norah dashed on gallantly in her wake. “Pull, boys, pull!” was
the word in both boats. “Back water hard! Pull on the bow! Hurra! Back
her well! Hurra!” shouted both cockswains. The Sally had not well rounded
the bow of the convict-ship, when the Norah had turned, as if on a pivot,
and again was stem and stem with her opponent. Now, indeed, was the true
time for testing the capabilities both of the men and the boats, for a
breeze was blowing from the west, and as the tide was making fast out
of the harbour, there was a swell as both met in opposition. Shouts now
greeted the gigs as they dashed on to the winning-place. Again did old
Jerry meet them, and cheer aloud! Duggin literally foamed at the mouth,
as he plied his oar with the energy of desperation, while William shouted
to his crew to pull; and pull they did. In spite of all the exertions
of Duggin, the Norah dropped back, as the Sally bounded on to the goal.
Duggin cursed and raved, but all to no purpose; for the high-pointed bow
of his gig caught the wind, and she had not the same power of keeping her
way as the other, owing to her want of keel. “Stand by with the match!”
cried the steward. “There they come; the black boat is long ahead! Fire!”
No sooner had the loud report followed the quick flash, than the oars
were tossed on high, and the Sally rode triumphant! Loud were the shouts
that rang from land and sea, as the victors dropped their blades into the
wave, and shot into the landing-place to receive their well-earned prize.
Who can describe the pride and joy of the old man, or the deep rapture of
his daughter, as they saw the steward present the silver cup to William,
flushed as he was from the exertion and triumph of the moment! As it
would be quite impossible to do justice to their feelings, the attempt
must be modestly refrained from.

The gig was immediately purchased for twenty-five guineas, and orders
were given to Jerry for the building of two more on an exactly similar
plan. As for Duggin, he was so subdued in spirit by the loss of his
reputation as a crack oarsman, that he never after that day was known
to try his fortune on the course, and neither visited Ring to woo Miss
Sullivan, nor to make good his threat on the body of the victorious
William. It has been since whispered among the gossips of the village
that old Jerry Sullivan, though much surprised at hearing of the mutual
love of William and Sally, finally gave his blessing and consent to their
union. Need it be told that the well-won silver cup was ever looked on as
an honoured vessel, and that Sally prized it nearly as much as William
himself did?

                                                                 J. F. M.



A RIDE WITH DEATH.


    I saw him pass by, while the east-wind blew,
    And the vernal blooms from the branches flew;
    Lo! there he speeds, that old skeleton-man,
    With his frame all bleached, all withered and wan;
    His eye-balls are gone, and his cheek-bones bare,
    And he rides a pale horse through the cold humid air!

    Now he resteth himself ’neath an old dry tree,
    Where the moss hath grown for a century:
    He feeds his steed with grass that grew rank
    On the field where warriors in battle sank;
    Bedabbled with blood, it thick grew, and strong,
    And to Death’s pale horse doth of right belong!

    Gone is the beauty from violet blue,
    For the look of Death hath pierced it through;
    And the crocus that bloomed near the old dry tree,
    Hath faded away, such a sight to see;
    And the grass where he sat, that was bright and green,
    Turned pale as the blades where a stone hath been.

    Ha! ha! old pilgrim! may I go with thee,
    Thy doings fearful and strange to see?
    He nodded his head; not a word said Death,
    For he had little need to waste his breath:
    A man of short speech, he speaks in his brow;
    He looks what he means, when he says “Come thou!”

    We paused near a maiden with rosy cheek,
    A lovely maiden, with blue eye meek;
    But her youthful bloom, how it faded away!
    Her heart was in heaven, she might not stay:
    And we looked at an infant that lay on the breast,
    A mother’s pride, and it sank to rest!

    We stood by the cot of a widowed dame;
    Life’s feeble embers gave out their last flame:
    At the hut of a slave we stepped gently in;
    With pity Death looked on his frame so thin,
    And his face, as he watched at the old man’s bed,
    Said “Peacefully let him be one with the dead!”

    At a palace we tarried, and there one lay
    On his last sad couch, at the close of day;
    He struggled hard, but Death’s face said “No!
    Duty is mine, wheresoever I go:
    Peasant or king, it is all the same,
    Mine must thou be--I have here thy name!”

    We hovered around where a Christian sire
    Lay waiting to join the eternal choir;
    Peaceful and calm was his holy repose;
    He sank as the sun on a May-day’s close:
    He rose as the sun with beams tricked anew,
    When flowers bend with beauty, and leaves with dew.

    We crossed the path of a beautiful bark,
    How many the corses, all stiff and stark!
    Down sank the vessel beneath the wild wave,
    No hand was near one poor soul to save!
    We glanced at a ship by an iceberg crushed,
    We gazed but a moment--then all was hushed.

    We asked of a miser to yield up his gold,
    But he loosed not his clutch when his hands were cold.
    We entered a town, as it shook to and fro,
    An earthquake was raging in fury below;
    Dwellings were rocking like trees when storm-tost,
    Crashing and sinking--till all were lost!

    We stayed our flight o’er a funeral pile,
    Where the Ganges roll’d swift through a deep defile;
    Where Brahmin priests rent with cries the air,
    While the victim lay burning and crackling there;
    And the devotees of dark Jaggernath
    We saw mangled and torn in its bloody path.

    We paused a while where a family stood,
    Partaking the sacred “body and blood;”
    And we saw their mother unfaltering pray,
    When life’s mellow evening way failing away;
    And as she sighed out her last tremulous breath,
    Was ended my first wild ride with Death.

                                              --_From the Knickerbocker._



ANCIENT SEAL OF THE ISLAND OF SAINT COLMOC.


[Illustration]

The prefixed woodcut of an impression of an ancient monastic seal
hitherto unpublished, will, we think, interest some of our readers both
in Scotland and Ireland, as, though it is certainly not Irish, it is
intimately connected with that bright period of our history when Ireland
sent forth her crowds of learned ecclesiastics to preach the gospel
and instruct the people, not only to Scotland and England, but also to
Germany, France, Switzerland, Belgium, Mecklenburg, and even distant
Iceland, in all which their memories are still venerated as patron
saints--that period to which Spenser alludes in the lines:

    “Whylome, when Ireland flourished in fame
    Of wealth and goodness, far above the rest
    Of all that bear the British island’s name.”

The matrix, which is of bronze or brass, was discovered among old brass
at a foundry in London some three or four years ago, and is now in the
possession of Mr Thomas, a merchant of that city, who has the largest
collection of remains of this kind ever formed in the British empire.

The legend, which is in the semi-Saxon character of the twelfth century,
reads--

             SI . COMMUNE . DE . INSULA . SANCTI . COLMOCI:
                                   or,
             THE COMMON SEAL OF THE ISLAND OF SAINT COLMOC.

The locality of this seal has been hitherto referred to the celebrated
Irish monastery of Iona, or Hy-Columbkille, and such we ourselves deemed
it when the impression was first sent to us. But on maturer reflection
we are now disposed to consider this conclusion erroneous, and that the
seal should with greater probability be referred to the monastery of
Inch-Colm, a small island in the Frith of Forth, lying between Edinburgh
and Inverkeithing, and which was anciently called Emonia, or Y-mona, _i.
e._ the Island of Mona. On this island the Scottish King Alexander I., in
gratitude for his escape from a violent storm, by which he was driven on
the island in 1123, founded a monastery dedicated to its patron saint,
and of which there are still considerable remains. It was plundered by
the English in the reign of Edward III., who, as it is said, suffered
shipwreck for their sacrilege; and if we might hazard a conjecture, it
would be, that the seal may have been carried into England at that time.
But be this as it may, the seal perfectly agrees in style with similar
remains of the twelfth century, and we have little doubt, that this is
its true locality, as the name in the legend will not with correctness or
propriety apply to any other known to exist. For, in the first place,
the monastery of Iona, the only other religious house to which it could
be referred, is invariably called Insula Columbæ, or I-Columbkille, in
all ancient documents, and it would be against all probability that it
should bear a different appellation on its seal. In the second place,
the name of the patron saint of Iona is never written COLMOC, which is
an Irish diminutive form of the name COLUM, and which, as in the Latin,
means a dove. But this name COLMOC was applied by the ancient Irish and
Scotch indifferently to persons bearing the name of COLMAN, both being
but synonymous and convertible diminutives of the name _Colum_--and hence
it would follow that this seal must have belonged to some monastery
which was dedicated not to St Columb, but to St Colman or Colmoc. It may
however be objected that the island called Inch-Colm was dedicated to
the celebrated apostle of Scotland, St Columbkille; and it is true that
Colgan, on the authority of Fordun, does place it among the list of his
foundations. But Fordun is a weak authority to rely on in such matters;
and from the greater contiguity of this island to Lindesfarn, of which
the Irish St Colman was the third bishop, it would seem more rational
to attribute the origin of its name to him than to the saint of Iona.
In either case, however, the seal is one of great interest to Scottish
topography and Irish history.

                                                                       P.



STREET CIGAR-SMOKERS.


Reader, are you given to cigar-smoking? The reason we put the question
is, that we should not like to offend you by any thing you might find
in our pages indicating a contempt on our part for this silly, and,
as we think, vulgar practice. If you be, then, pass over this short
article, or as our old Irish schoolmaster used to tell us when we came
to a passage which we could not construe, nor he neither, “skip and go
on.” But we feel tolerably certain you are not a smoker, or at least a
cigar-smoker or exhibiting-street-performer, for we are satisfied that
among the lovers of this now fashionable amusement we can count but few
as supporters of our little work, or of any other of a mental or literary
character--that renowned periodical called Paddy Kelly’s Budget, if it
be still in existence, excepted. It is the practice of unidea’d men
with unidea’d faces, who puff, not whistle--as the latter is no longer
a fashionable amusement--as they go, for want of thought, and as they
think to make them look manly and genteel! Well, heaven help their little
wit! You think, reader, perhaps, as we ourselves were till lately foolish
enough to suppose, that there must be a pleasure in this practice on its
own account, like that which madmen feel in being insane. But no such
thing. We have discovered that it is anything but an agreeable pastime,
and that it is indulged in solely from the love of distinction, which
is one of the peculiar characteristics of the human race, and which is
so strong in these cigar-smokers, that they actually, in the spirit of
martyrs, surrender both their minds, such as they are, and their bodies
also, to its influence. Such a desire is not only natural to us, but
praiseworthy: it is only the choice of means of gratifying it that is
unworthy and even contemptible. It will bear no comparison in point of
intellectuality with that of the fashionable dandies of our youthful
days, who used to promenade the streets and public places, playing
quizzes, that is, flat circular pieces of boxwood suspended on a string
by a kind of pulley, and which they kept in a sort of perpetual motion
with one or both hands, and sometimes even (great performers) with their
mouths; their arms see-sawing up and down, and their heads shaking like
those of the Chinese mandarins in the tea shops. This, though perhaps a
little grotesque, was a comical mode of attracting notice and obtaining
distinction. It was a healthy folly too, and required some human
intellect to practise it adroitly. A monkey or a dog, both of whom we
have seen expert smokers, could not, we are persuaded, be taught this; it
would be beyond their intelligence; and it had a touch of the odd, the
gay, and the ridiculous about it, that seemed to harmonize naturally with
our national character--and we are not ashamed to confess it, we were
ourselves great quizzers in our youth. But the cigar-smoking folly--it
is a dull, lifeless, stupid, silent, moping mania, wholly unbecoming an
Irishman, and inconsistent with the spirit, life, and animation that
should be characteristic of youth. Old as we are, we think of taking to
quizzing again, but we shall never fall into such a solemn absurdity as
smoking for applause. It would not suit our temperament.

But we have said that we had made the discovery that the practice of
cigar-smoking is any thing but a pleasant one in itself, and that it
is indulged in solely from ambitious motives, and an amiable love of
applause. Yes, reader, and we shall induct you into our knowledge of the
matter, by a true and faithful narrative of the incident which enabled us
to ascertain the fact.

We were lately coming along that favourite lounge of the cigar-smokers,
Sackville Street, when, arriving near Mitchell’s, two young well-dressed,
moustached, and imperialled dandies, stept out from that intellectual
emporium, each with a Havannah in his mouth, his hands in his “Dorsay”
pockets, and looking as grave as possible, evidently impressed with the
pleasing idea that they were the admiration and envy of all passers. They
proceeded before us in solemn slinge in the direction of the Rotunda,
we following in their wake, observant yet not observed; and before they
reached Earl Street, they were met by a mutual friend, with whom they
linked, putting him between them, to allow them the greater facility to
spit out, when the following colloquy ensued:--

_Friend._ Well, Tom, how goes the world with you? and, Dick, my boy, how
is every bit of you?

_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- Well.

_Friend._ Are you long in town--eh?

_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- No.

_Friend._ How did you leave them all in the country?--how is the old
fellow?

_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- Puff---- Well.

_Friend._ Oh, damn ye! there’s no getting a word out of you but a
monosyllable.

_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- (And then each of them spat out.)

_Friend._ Why, Tom, you’ve become a great smoker.

_Tom._ Puff---- Puff---- Yaws.

_Friend._ And you too, Dick?

_Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- Ees. (The imperfect vocable being squeezed out
through his teeth at the left corner of his mouth.)

_Friend._ And do you find it agree with you, Tom--is it pleasant?

Tom here, after a few puffs, slowly draws one hand out of his pocket, and
taking the cigar out of his mouth, spits out, draws his breath, and after
a minute replies:

“No, _blast_ it; it always makes me sick.”

He then restores the cigar to his mouth and his hand to his pocket, while
his friend puts a similar interrogatory to Dick.

“And does it always make you sick too?”

Here Dick, having in like manner indulged in a few puffs, takes the cigar
out of his mouth, spits out at the other side, and drawing breath and
looking very pale, answers:

“Infernally!”

_Friend._ In the name of heaven, then, what do you both smoke for?

This, as one would have supposed, not an unnatural query, produced a
simultaneous stare of astonishment, mingled with contempt, from both the
smokers, as much as to say, “What an ass you must be!” and Dick, slowly
removing his cigar once more, and spitting out, answers,

“Why, how the devil can you ask such a stupid question--what do you
suppose?”

_Friend._ Suppose! why hang me if I can guess.

Here Tom took hold of his Havannah, and after spitting out on a lady
who was passing--but this was only an accident--replied for himself and
fellow puffer---- But let us pause a moment. Guess, reader, what it was.
Do you give it up? Well, then, here it is,

“Why, for the GAG, to be sure!”

This was enough for us. Our mind was enlightened by a new idea; and
leaving the gentlemen to follow their gaggery, we hurried home to dinner,
a wiser if not a better man.

                                                          AN OLD QUIZZER.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOT A FABLE.--A boy three years of age was asked who made him? With his
little hand and foot upon the floor, he artlessly replied--“God made me a
little baby, so high, and I _grew the rest_.”--_Mirror._

       *       *       *       *       *

PUBLIC.--We have a reading, a talking, and a writing public. _When_ shall
we have a _thinking_ public?

       *       *       *       *       *

The mind is a field, in which, so sure as man sows not wheat, so sure
will the devil be to sow tares.--_Bentham._



THE HERRING.

CLUPEA HARENGUS.

First Article.


Of all the branches of study into which natural history has been divided,
the most interesting, from its extensiveness, its variety, and the
almost insurmountable difficulties which it presents to the student,
is Ichthyology. To acquire a thorough knowledge of zoology requires
much labour, study, travel, and considerable risk; in like manner with
ornithology, in the prosecution of which the difficulties are greater,
from the mixture of elements; but still the inhabitants of the air have
thus much in common with us, that they live in the same atmospheric
medium, derive their sustenance from the same earth, and although the
difficulties of following their motions, and observing (unseen by
them) their habits and natures, are considerable, yet still, thanks to
the extension of science, they have not proved unconquerable, and the
telescope, in that form called the ornithoscope, has enabled man to
acquire a large store of information on this interesting subject. But
with ichthyology how widely different! Here the preliminary obstacle
which presents itself is an element fatal to the existence of man within
it, and out of which the creatures with whose nature he would fain
be acquainted cannot exist. His very powers of observation are thus
rendered useless, except in a very limited degree. They are bounded by a
glass vase, or a small clear pond at the utmost, and confined to a few
specimens of the smaller fishes, and even then it is doubtful whether
circumstances may not have altered their really natural habits. Yet
above these obstacles the mind of man has risen, and by the union of
analogy with laborious and constant observation, he has succeeded in
classing a large amount of the tenants of the mighty deep. But before he
can ascertain what proportion, or write the history of any one of them
fully, he must discover some substitute for gills which will enable him
to extract the necessary air for his existence from the water, and thus
enable him to search the depths of ocean, and seek its inhabitants in
their haunts. That such may yet be discovered by the ingenuity of man,
let no one deem impossible.

Amongst the fishes hitherto discovered and classed, the herring (_Clupea
harengus_) is one of the most universally known, most generally useful,
and one of the greatest boons of an all-bounteous Providence to the
inhabitants of these countries. Abundance, the universal producer of
contempt, has caused this beautiful creature to be despised; but to
the naturalist’s eye few creatures are possessed of greater charms.
When first taken out of the water, it is of a dark-bluish and green
colour on the back, lightening down the sides to a silvery blue, which
shades to white on the belly. The scales have a clear lustrous golden
colour, which changes in various shades of light after the manner of
mother-of-pearl; they lie over one another in regular lines, with the
convex edges pointing towards the tail. The termination of the body is
remarkable for the beautiful dark-green colour which it exhibits when
held before the light. The fins are seven in number--one dorsal, of
eighteen or nineteen rays; two ventral, of nine rays each; one anal, of
seventeen rays; two pectoral, of eighteen or nineteen rays each; and the
caudal, or tail fin, of eighteen or nineteen rays. The eyes are placed
in the middle of the sides of the head; the iris is of a silvery white
colour, and the pupil black. The spine consists of fifty-six vertebræ.
The ribs are thirty-five or six in number on each side, and there are
several minute bones below the ribs, which terminate in soft elastic
muscles at the anal fin, and serve to give it strength and elasticity.
Fifty-two bones compose the head. The bronchiæ or gills are four on each
side, each gill being supported by an arched cartilage; and there are two
imperfect gills without the arch, which join the gill lid, and appear
to regulate its motions. The convex side of the gills is furnished with
fringed fleshy fibres, of a strong red colour when the fish is healthy;
the concave side, which is next the mouth, is furnished with long
serrated spines. The heart is placed in a cavity near the gills, above
the stomach; it is three sided, and consists of a single auricle and
ventricle. The œsophagus, or gullet, is remarkably short in proportion
to the size of the fish; the stomach is thin, membranous, and capable
of great distension. The gut is of uniform size throughout. The gall
bladder is small, and of a dark-green colour; the liquid is of a light
claret hue, having a sweetish pungent taste. The air bag, or _vesica
natatoria_, is of a silvery white colour, round, of nearly the length of
the stomach, and pointed and narrow at both ends; it is connected with
the funnel-shaped posterior part of the stomach by a duct. The use of
the _vesica natatoria_, or, as it is commonly called, the _swim_, is to
enable the fish, by inflating or expelling the air from it, to rise or
sink, for if the air-bag of a living fish be pierced, the creature sinks
at once to the bottom. The under jaw of the herring projects beyond
the upper. The form and consistency of its nose proves its use for the
purpose of feeling, in the absence of the cirri or feelers possessed by
other fishes. The skin not being provided with the _corpus papillæ_, and
being besides covered with scales, it is supposed that the sensation of
touch is either very limited or wholly wanting. The herring is provided
with two nostrils; and from the perfection of the olfactory organ, it is
presumed that its sense of smell is very acute. It has no external organs
of hearing but a fringed orifice below the eye on the inner side of that
part of the head which covers the gills. Fishermen affirm that their
sense of hearing is very acute, and state instances of their immediately
ceasing the peculiar pattering noise which they are accustomed to make on
calm evenings, if a loud sound is made on any part of the interior of the
boat.

The Swedes attribute the departure of the herrings from the neighbourhood
of Gothenburg to the frequent firing of the British ships of war which
were stationed there for convoys; and so great is the influence which
fishermen have been accustomed to attribute to sound, that we are told
in Chambers’s Picture of Scotland that the bell of St Monance in Fife,
which was suspended from a tree in the churchyard, was removed every year
during the herring season, lest the noise should scare the fish from the
coast.

The mouth of the herring is furnished with a few teeth in the upper and
lower jaws, and four rows in the tongue. These pointing inwards, enable
it the more readily to secure and swallow its slippery prey, which
chiefly consists of extremely minute animals, such as small medusæ, the
_Oniscus marinus_, and small cancri and animalcula. The herrings on the
coast of Norway sometimes feed upon a small red worm called the Roé-aal,
which renders them unfit for curing; but there is probably no fish so
indiscriminate in its food. The herring is often caught with flies, at
which it leaps readily, and frequently with naked unbaited hooks. Mr
Mitchell, in his article on the herring in the Quarterly Journal of
Agriculture, mentions that in the stomachs of several herrings which he
examined, he found numbers of young sand-eels, and he adds a very curious
observation, namely, that in the stomachs of such herrings as had the
milt or roe small and immature, the sand-eels were numerous; whereas in
those which had the milt or roe full grown, there were none whatsoever;
but he offers no suggestion to account for this remarkable circumstance.
They also frequently feed on their own ova and young.

The herring propels itself through the water by rapidly moving the
tail from side to side, the other fins being employed in steadying and
probably aiding its movement, and it is this rapid waving of the tail
which causes the rippling or pattering sound which announces the presence
of a shoal when swimming near the surface. On a calm night their course
may be traced by a brilliant phosphorescent light, which illuminates the
surface of the water, and is emitted partly from the fish themselves, and
partly from the minute marine animals with which the ocean swarms.

Sometimes herrings do not approach the surface, and fine healthy shoals
are often apt to swim deep; hence fishermen, through their ignorance in
trusting too much to appearances, are frequently misled, they being apt
to suppose that when they see no gulls or large fishes of prey exhibiting
their gluttonous gambols, there are no herrings present, whilst the
finest and choicest may be at the moment in millions beneath them; in
fact, those which swim near the surface are usually the young, the
gorged, and the sickly. Mr Mitchell informs us that several experienced
masters of Dutch herring busses assured him that the only appearances
they ever sought for were the colour of the sea, which should be a dark
green, and its consistence apparently muddy. There is an additional fact
worthy of observation, which is, that in clear dry weather the fish keep
down at the bottom, and do not ascend until the moon rises.

The migration of the herring has been long a disputed point, and from
the difficulties to which we have alluded in the commencement of this
article, of observing minutely or accurately the movements or nature of
fishes, it is likely to remain unsettled much longer. The old and long
received opinion has been, that the winter habitation of the herring is
under the vast fields of ice which surround the North Pole within the
Arctic Circle; that they there deposit their spawn and advance southwards
with the opening year, making their appearance off the Zetland islands
about the month of April, and coming upon the coasts of Ireland and
Scotland in June. Off Thurso they are sometimes taken as early as May,
but June, July, and August, are the months in which the fishing is most
actively commenced off the west Highlands of Scotland. Off the east
coast of Ireland, near Arklow, the fishery used to commence in June, but
latterly it has been postponed till October. The fluctuations in the
time of commencing the herring fishery at various places, and the fact
of a winter fishery being successfully carried on in some parts--as for
instance at Killybegs, where they are taken from December till March, and
along the whole coast of Ireland south of Galway Bay, where there are
sufficient indications that the fishery might be successfully carried
on the whole year--have at length caused the hitherto received opinion
of their migration from the Arctic Circle to be questioned, and Mr
Mitchell has given many sound arguments in refutation of it. He divides
the theories upon the subject into three:--first, that the herrings come
from the North Pole in great shoals of many leagues in extent, dividing
into lesser shoals on coming towards the north point of Scotland;
second, that they do not come from the Arctic regions, but from a less
northerly direction, still, however, very far north of Shetland; and,
third, that they are spawned on the coasts near which they are caught,
and are consequently natives; that after spawning, they retire out to
sea, and continue so until their spawning season comes round again, when
they return to their accustomed shore. The latter he considers to be the
most reasonable theory, and adduces in support of it the well-known fact
that the herrings at every fishing station are of a peculiar quality
uniformly the same, and always different from those at other even very
nearly adjoining stations; and so well has this fact been established,
that practical men can at once pronounce from the size, appearance,
and quality of the fish, where it was taken. For example, the herrings
taken off the coast of Stadtland in Norway are almost twice the size of
those taken near Shetland, and these are twice the size of those caught
near Thurso, whilst the Dublin Bay herrings have long been famous for
their superior flavour, which is unmatched by those of any other bay or
harbour. Again, a size of herrings similar to those of Yarmouth visited
till lately the coast of Lumfiord in Denmark, whilst on the Mecklenburg
coast higher up the Baltic, the herrings are one-third larger than those
of Lumfiord; and proceeding up the Baltic above Mecklenburg to the
Pomeranian and part of the Prussian coasts, they are fully one-third
_smaller_; and again still farther up they are larger. In quality and
condition they differ as much as in size, those off the coast of Holland
being so inferior as not to be worth pickling, and the Dutch fishermen
consequently seek the coasts of Scotland and England.

As to the time of appearance at the several fishing stations, their
irregularity goes far to prove their constant propinquity, the take
commencing at some of the more southern stations before the northern
ones; whereas, if they migrated regularly from the north, it is evident
that the fishing should commence at the various stations in regular
order, from the most northern where the shoals would first make their
appearance, to the next, and so on to the most southward, which should be
deserted by them at some certain season, in order that they might return.

But there is no well-authenticated instance of those prodigious shoals of
herrings having been met with approaching the south in any high northern
latitude; and so far from their abounding in the Arctic regions, none
have been found in the Greenland seas, nor have any been discovered in
the stomachs of the whales killed there. Egede, who resided in Greenland
for fifteen years, and compiled the natural history of it, after
enumerating the fishes, adds, “No herrings are to be seen;” whilst on the
contrary, the whales which feed principally on herrings, frequent our own
coasts. These arguments appear to be fatal to the theory of the Arctic
migration, and to support most powerfully that of the mere retirement
of the herring to the deep. But Mr Mitchell goes farther, and asserts,
upon the evidence of the celebrated naturalists Bloch and Lacepede, that
“fishes of a similar size even in fresh water cannot go above half a
mile a-day, and that therefore herrings could not make, even from spring
to autumn, the long voyage attributed to them.” Now, this appears to be
going too far, and we would prefer that the argument should rest on the
former grounds, excluding this, which seems to be a weak assertion,
founded upon the observation that fishes do not proceed far from their
haunts, whilst the fact is, that they merely move about in search of
food; but who that has seen the rapid movement of a trout, or of the very
fish we are treating of, could for a moment entertain the idea of their
progress being confined to a rate that the crawling snail might equal?
Mr Mitchell himself mentions a fact that alone is sufficient to rebut
such an assertion, namely, that shortly after the union between England
and Scotland, an immense shoal of herrings ran ashore near Cromarty, and
covered the beach to the depth of several feet; and he adds, “Strange to
say, however, the shoal left the Frith in a single night, and no shoals
made their appearance again for more than half a century.”

Now, if they could make but half a mile a-day, how could they have
returned several miles in a single night? But this argument was
unnecessary, and it would be well for many persons to know that an
ill-sustained argument is not merely a bad prop to a cause, but a wedge
inserted for the advantage of an adversary, placed ready for his use in
overturning it.

But the most powerful argument against the theory of migration seems to
have escaped Mr Mitchell’s observation; it is--that the herrings do not
retire to spawn, as was asserted, but actually spawn near the fishing
stations, and retire after it. Their spawn is taken up in abundance, and
the nets are always found to contain large quantities of it, whilst the
assertion that no young herrings are found near our shores, is altogether
absurd, the contrary being the fact. The fecundated roe has the power,
after having been deposited, of attaching itself firmly to the stones,
rocks, or sea-weed, and in about three weeks after deposition, the young
fry come forth from the eggs, and are seen in millions near the shore; in
six or seven weeks they are about three inches in length, and arrive at
maturity in about eighteen months.

Lacepede tells that in North America the inhabitants carry the
herring-spawn from the spawning ground to the mouths of rivers and
other places not before frequented by the fish, and those places become
forthwith regular resorts for them; and the same authority mentions the
fact of a similar custom in Sweden.

Thus the theory of the herring being a native of the place which it is
accustomed to frequent annually, seems to be satisfactorily established;
and having thus presented our readers with such information upon the
subject of the natural history of the herring as our space permits, we
shall close this article, reserving some account of the various modes of
fishing and methods of curing, for another paper.

                                                                       N.

       *       *       *       *       *

SENTIMENT.--How much fine sentiment there is wasted in our strange world!
I have seen a young lady in raptures of admiration over a flower which
was to deck her hair in the ball-room, who would turn away with a look of
loathing from the proffered kiss of her baby brother; and I have heard
lovely lips, all wreathed in smiles, and breathing tones of joy over a
pretty shell, a shining insect, or even a gay ribbon, say cold and cruel
words to the best friend, ay, the _mother_, who was wearing her life out
to promote the happiness of her ungrateful daughter.

       *       *       *       *       *

MARRIAGE.--When a man of sense comes to marry, it is a companion whom
he wants, and not an artist. It is not merely a creature who can paint,
play, dress, and dance--it is a being who can comfort and console him.

       *       *       *       *       *

BLUSHING.--Blushing in the male sex is too frequently and constantly
regarded as a proof of guiltiness: it is a proof of sensibility and
fear of disrepute, by whatever incident called forth; but except in so
far as fear of being thought guilty is proof, it affords no proof of
the existence of the object by the idea of which the apprehension is
excited.--_Bentham._

       *       *       *       *       *

Pride destroys all symmetry and grace, and affectation is a more terrible
enemy to fine faces than the small pox.--_Hughes._

       *       *       *       *       *

At twenty years of ago the will reigns, at thirty the wit, at forty the
judgment.--_Grattan._

       *       *       *       *       *

Authors in France seldom speak ill of each other, unless they have a
personal pique. Authors in England seldom speak well of each other,
unless they have a personal friendship.--_Pope._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Printed and published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at
    the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane,
    College Green, Dublin.--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley,
    Paternoster Row, London; SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street,
    Manchester; C. DAVIES, North John Street, Liverpool; J. DRAKE,
    Birmingham; SLOCOMBE and SIMMS, Leeds; FRASER and CRAWFORD,
    George Street, Edinburgh; and DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate,
    Glasgow.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 31, January 30, 1841" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.