Part 123

Cassini, and after him sir Isaac Newton, by their close observations and accurate calculations respecting the nature and courses of comets, have given certainty to the opinions of the old philosophers; or, to speak with more propriety, they have recalled and fixed our attention upon what had before been advanced by the ancients on these subjects. For, in treating of the nature of these stars, their definitions of them, the reasons they assign for the rarity of their appearance, and the apologies they make for not having yet formed a more exact theory, are all in the very terms that Seneca had already used. In the time of that philosopher, the observations previously made of the returns of comets, were not sufficiently collected to establish the theory of these phenomena. Their appearances were so very rare, that they had not afforded an opportunity to determine, whether their course was regular or not. The Greeks, however, before Seneca’s time, had remarked to the same effect, and were applying themselves to researches of this kind.

Seneca says, that the Chaldeans looked upon comets as planetary bodies; and Diodorus Siculus, in giving an account of the extent of knowledge among the Egyptians, praises them for the application with which they studied the stars and their courses; and remarks, that they had collected, observations very ancient and very exact, fully informing them of the several motions, orbits, stations, &c. of the planets. He adds, that they could foretell earthquakes, inundations, and “the return of comets.”

Aristotle says, that Anaxagoras apprehended comets to be an assemblage of many wandering stars; which, by their approximation, and the mutual blending of their rays, rendered themselves visible to us. This notion, though far from being philosophical, was yet far preferable to that of some great moderns, such as Kepler and Hevelius, who supposed that comets were formed out of air, as fishes are out of water.

Pythagoras, however, who approached very near to the times of Anaxagoras, held an opinion worthy of the most enlightened age. He looked upon “comets as stars, which circulated regularly, though elliptically, about the sun, and which appeared to us only in particular parts of their orbit, and at considerable distances of time.”

Seneca, more than any other, has discussed this subject like a true philosopher. He relates all the different opinions respecting comets, and seems to prefer that of Artemidorus, who imagined, “that there was an immense number of them, but that their orbits were so situated, that, so far from being always within view, they could only be seen at one of the extremities.” He reasons upon this with equal elegance and solidity. “Why should we be astonished,” says he, “that comets, which are so rare a spectacle in the world, have not yet come under certain rules; or that we have not hitherto been able to determine, where begins or ends the course of _planets, as ancient as the universe, and whose returns are at such distant intervals_? The time will come,” he exclaims, with enthusiasm, “when posterity will be amazed at our ignorance in things so very evident; for what now appears to us obscure, will one day or other, in the course of ages, and through the industry of our descendants, become manifestly clear; but, a small number of years, passed between study and the indulgence of passion, are not of avail for researches so important, as those which propose to themselves the comprehension of natures so remote.”

The moderns have said nothing satisfactory respecting comets, but what is to be found in the writings of the ancients; except what later observations have furnished them with, which Seneca judged to be so necessary, and which only could be collected through a long succession of ages.

THE MOON.

The ancients discovered very early, that “the moon had no light of its own, but shone with that which it reflected from the sun.” This, after Thales, was the sentiment of Anaxagoras, and that of Empedocles, who thence accounted not only for the mildness of its splendour, but the imperceptibility of its heat, which our modern experiments confirm: for with all the aid of burning glasses, we have never yet found it practicable to obtain the least warmth from any combination of its rays.

With a telescope, we easily discern in the moon parts more elevated and more bright than others, which are judged to be mountains; and means have been found to measure their elevation. We discern also other parts, lower and less bright, which must be vallies, lying between those mountains. There are other parts, which reflecting less light, and presenting one uniform smooth surface, may therefore be supposed large pieces of water. As the moon, then, has its collections of water, its atmosphere, its mountains, and its vallies; it is thence inferred, that there may also be rain there, and snow, and all the other aerial commotions which are natural to such a situation; and our idea of the wisdom and power of God suggests to us, that he may have placed creatures there to inhabit it.

The ancients, who had not the aid of the telescope, supplied the defect of that instrument by extraordinary penetration. They deduced all those consequences that are admitted by the moderns; for they discovered long before, by the mental eye, whatever has since been presented to bodily sight through the medium of telescopes. We have seen in how sublime a manner they entered into the views of the Supreme Being in his destination of the planets, and the multitude of stars placed by him in the firmament. We have already seen, that they looked upon them as so many suns, about which rolled planets of their own, such as those of our solar system; maintaining that those planets contained inhabitants, whose natures they presume not to describe, though they suppose them not to yield to those of ours, either in beauty or dignity.

Orpheus is the earliest author whose opinion on this subject hath come down to us. Proclus presents us with three verses of that eminent ancient, wherein he positively asserts, that “the moon was another earth, having in it mountains, vallies,” &c.

Pythagoras, who followed Orpheus in many of his opinions, taught likewise, that “the moon was an earth like ours, replete with animals, whose nature he presumed not to describe,” though he was persuaded they were of a more noble and elegant kind than ours, and not liable to the same infirmities.

Cicero ascribes a similar sentiment to Democritus, when, in explaining his theory, he says, that, according to it, Quintus Luctatius Catulus, for instance, might without end be multiplied into an infinity of worlds. It were easy to multiply quotations, in proof that this opinion was common among the ancient philosophers. There is a very remarkable passage of Stobæus, wherein he gives us Democritus’s opinion about the nature of the moon, and the cause of those spots which we see upon its disk. That great philosopher imagined, that “those spots were no other than shades, formed by the excessive height of the lunar mountains,” which intercepted the light from the lower parts of that planet, where the vallies formed themselves into what appeared to us as shades or spots.

Plutarch went still farther, alleging, that there were embosomed in the moon, vast seas and profound caverns. These, his conjectures, are built upon the same foundation with those of the moderns. He says, that those deep and extensive shades which appear upon the disk of that planet, must be occasioned by the “vast seas” it contains, which are incapable of reflecting so vivid a light, as the more solid and opaque parts; or “by caverns extremely wide and deep, wherein the rays of the sun are absorbed,” whence those shades and that obscurity which we call the spots of the moon. Xenophanes said, that those immense cavities were inhabited by another race of men, who lived there, as we do upon this earth.

* * * * *

MEDICAL AND LEGAL DUALITY.

TWO PHYSICIANS.

A gentleman calling on a friend, found two physicians with him: he wrote the following lines on the back of his card:--

“By _one_ physician might your work be done, But _two_ are like a _double-barrell’d gun_; From one discharge sometimes a bird has flown, A second barrel always brings it down.”

TWO LAWYERS.

An opulent farmer applied about a law-suit to an attorney, who told him he could not undertake it, being already engaged on the other side; at the same time he said, that he would give him a letter of recommendation to a professional friend, which he did. The farmer, out of curiosity, opened it, and read as follows:

“Here are two fat wethers fallen out together, If you’ll fleece one, I’ll fleece the other, And make ’em agree like brother and brother.”

The farmer carried this epistle to the person with whom he was at variance. Its perusal cured both parties, and terminated the dispute.

* * * * *

THE HAUNTED MILL.

_For the Table Book._

Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer’s cloud, Without our special wonder?

At the basis of the Wolds, in the north riding of Yorkshire, creeps a sluggish stream, on whose bank may be seen the ruins of a mill, which our good forefathers supposed to be haunted. I often gaze upon those ruins with great interest; not so much for its picturesque beauty, which, like a flower in the wilderness, makes solitude less lonely, as for the many endearing claims it has upon my memory, by way of association. It stands near the home of my childhood, it reminds me of the companions of my youth, and tells of pleasures long departed.

It is now nearly ten years since I listened to a story, which haunts me like the recollection of a fearful dream; perhaps, because of its locality, or rather, of its having been told me as a _fact_. Be it as it may, I have thought it worth the relating; and trust that the readers of the _Table Book_ will at least be _interested_.

The mill, at the time referred to, had been uninhabited for some ten or twelve years. It had found an occupier in the person of Joe Davis. The inhabitants of the distant, though nearest village, endeavoured to frighten Joe, the miller, by telling him of its being haunted. He laughed at what he called their idle fears, bade them keep their superstitious nonsense for their children’s ears; and laughingly added, that if nought but ghosts visited the mill, he stood a good chance of getting what he most required after a hard day’s work--a quiet rest.

When Joe took possession of the mill, he was as jolly a fellow as ever lived, and a fine buxom wife had he, and three rosy children. His cup of happiness was filled to the brim; his song, merry as the lark’s, and his loud, hearty laugh, were alternately to be heard above the rush of the dam, and the click-clacking of the wheel. When his work was done, it was a treat to see him playing with his children at blindman’s-buff, or hide and seek, or dandling them upon his knee.

All went on well for some time; but in a few months Joe became an altered man. There was a visible difference in his face and manner. At first, a shade was seen to overcast his hitherto unclouded brow--then his cheek became robbed of its bloom, and his step lost its buoyancy. His laughter (when he _did_ laugh, which was seldom) seemed laboured, and was followed by a sigh; and the song--_that_ favourite song, which he had so often sung to Mary in his courtship--faltered on his lips. Instead of clinging to his home and family as usual, he deserted them; and when the straying villager kindly questioned him as to the change, he would not answer, but shake his head, and hurry onwards.

One day Mary found her husband unusually depressed. “Come, come,” said she, “I’m sure all is not right within.” She hung fondly upon his neck--kissed him, and besought him to make her the partner of his sorrow; he raised his head, gazed at her affectionately, and endeavoured to smile away her apprehensions--but it would not do. He dashed the tear from his eye, and rushed out of the room.

Joe Davis had dreamed a dream; or, as my narrator informed me, had seen a vision. Sitting one evening in his little parlour, with his wife and children before him, he, on a sudden, leaned back in his chair--his eyes became glazed, and were rivetted on the picture of his wife holding three roses in her hand, which hung over the mantelpiece--he thought that he beheld a shadow of himself bend over the picture, that the roses began to fade, and, in fading, he distinctly saw the faces of his children, while the portrait of his wife by degrees became colourless. Such was the dream which gave him so much concern--such was the prophecy which ere long was to be fulfilled.

Joe left his house, telling Mary he would return before night. The darkness set in, but he did not make his appearance. Poor Mary, as the night advanced, became mistrustful--she looked at the clock, and listened for his approaching step. It was nearly midnight; and, save the melancholy monotonous ticking of the clock, and the low breathing of her sweet children, who were sleeping near, all was silent as the grave--when, on a sudden, the eldest child cried out, “Father, how cold you are!”--Mary started, and beheld the death-pale face of her husband kissing her children--she shrieked wildly, and fell senseless on the floor.

When Mary came to herself the fire was out, and the clock had stopped. She endeavoured to calm her agitated mind, and thought she heard the noise of the dam, and her husband singing the chorus--

We’ll always be merry together, together, We’ll always be merry together.

She listened, and thought of her children, whom (by the revealment of one of the secrets of her prison-house) she knew were dead. The rest of that horrible night was a (----)

The morning came with its beautiful purple light--the lark hailed it with his matin-song--the flower bloomed at the very door-stone of the mill--the schoolboy whistled as he passed, as if in mockery of her woe. The light of reason had passed from Mary Davis. In the course of the day the body of her husband was found in the dam, but Mary knew it not.--

Say, gentle reader, did not Heaven deal kindly to her in bidding her taste the waters of oblivion?

----I shall never forget the story.

Q. T. M.

* * * * *

COUNSELS AND SAYINGS,

BY DR. A. HUNTER.

ACCUSTOM YOURSELF TO REFLECT.

Seek wisdom, and you will be sure to find her; but if you do not look for _her_, she will not look for _you_.

DO, AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY.

Use yourself to kindness and compassion, and you may expect kindness and compassion in return.

HAVE YOU A FRIEND?

If you have a grievance on your mind you may tell it to your friend, but first be sure that he is your friend.

EDUCATE YOUR CHILDREN PROPERLY.

An university implies a seminary, where all the young men go the same way. What that way is, fathers and grandfathers best know.

OBSTINACY IS WEAKNESS.

Obstinacy of temper proceeds from pride, and, in general, from ignorant pride, that refuses to be taught.

REGULATE YOUR TEMPER.

We can bear with a man who is only peevish when the wind is in the east; but it is intolerable to live with one who is peevish in every point of the compass.

TRUE GENEROSITY IS DELICATELY MINDED.

Blame no man for what he cannot help. We must not expect of the dial to tell us the hour after the sun is set.

* * * * *

GERMAN EPIGRAMS

HONOURABLE SERVICE.

If one have serv’d thee, tell the deed to many: Hast thou serv’d many--tell it not to any.--_Opitz._

A MOTHER’S LOVE.

E’er yet her child has drawn its earliest breath A mother’s love begins--it glows till death-- Lives before life--with death not dies--but seems The very substance of immortal dreams.--_Wernicke._

EPITAPH.

What thou art reading o’er my bones, I’ve often read on other stones; And others soon shall read of thee, What thou art reading now of me.--_Fleming._

ADAM’S SLEEP.

He laid him down and slept:--and from his side, A woman in her magic beauty rose, Dazzled and charm’d he call’d that woman “_Bride_,” And his first sleep became his last repose.--_Besser._

EPITAPH.

Here lies, thank God, a woman, who Quarrell’d and storm’d her whole life through: Tread gently o’er her mouldering form, Or else you’ll rouse another storm.--_Weckherlin._

* * * * *

PRUSSIAN COURT MOURNING.

Frederick the _first_ king of Prussia was an extremely vain man, and continually engaged in frivolous pursuits. His queen, Sophia Charlotte, the sister of our George I. was a woman of a very superior mind. In her last illness she viewed the approach of death with much calmness and serenity; and when one of her attendants observed how severely it would afflict the king, and that the misfortune of losing her would plunge his majesty into the deepest despair, the queen said, with a smile, “With respect to _him_, I am perfectly at ease. _His_ mind will be completely occupied in arranging the ceremonial of my funeral, and if nothing goes wrong in the _procession_, he will be quite consoled for his loss.”

* * * * *

MI-EAU IN AMERICA.

A New York paper says, that a lad in that city, on delivering his milk, was asked why the milk was so warm. “I don’t know,” he replied, with much simplicity, “unless they put in _warm_ water instead of _cold_.”

* * * * *

A CAPITAL EXTEMPORE

TO THE AUTHOR OF SOME BAD LINES, ON THE RIVER DEE.

Had I been U, And in the Q, As easy I might B. I’d let U C, Whilst sipping T, Far better lines on D.

* * * * *

PETITION OF THE LETTER _H_ TO ITS DECIDED ENEMIES.

Whereas, by you I have been driven From House, from Home, from Hope, and Heaven, And placed, by your most learn’d society, In Evil, Anguish, and Anxiety; And used, without the least pretence, With Arrogance and Insolence. I hereby ask full restitution, And beg you’ll change your elocution.

ANSWER.

Whereas we’ve rescued you, ingrate, From Hell, from Horror, and from Hate-- From Horseponds--Hanging in a _halter_, And consecrated you in--_altar_. We think you need no restitution, And shall not change our elocution.

HEZEKIAH HULK, _Huntsman_.

_Milford, June, 1827._

* * * * *

THE GLORIOUS MEMORY.

Sir Jonah Barrington lately met rather a noted corporator of Dublin in Paris, and in the course of conversation inquired why, after the king’s visit to the metropolis of Ireland, and his conciliatory admonitions, the corporation still appeared to prefer the “Boyne Water” and “King William.” The answer was characteristic. “Lord bless you, sir Jonah,” replied the corporator, “as for the _Wather_ we don’t care a farthing about that; but if we once gave up ould _King William_, we’d give up all our enjoyments! Only for the _Glorious Memory_ we would not have a toast to get drunk with--eh! sir Jonah?”

* * * * *

ERRATA.

Col. 397, line 18, for “_modern_ Europe,” read “_northern_ Europe.”

Col. 430. In the Will of John Keats, for “_losses_ of the sale of books,” read “_hopes_ of the sale of books.”

Vol. II.--43.

Among the verdant mountains of the Peak There lies a quiet hamlet, where the slope Of pleasant uplands wards the north-winds bleak; Below, wild dells romantic pathways ope; Around, above it, spreads a shadowy cope Of forest trees: flower, foliage, and clear rill Wave from the cliffs, or down ravines elope; It seems a place charmed from the power of ill By sainted words of old:--so lovely, lone, and still.

And many are the pilgrim feet which tread Its rocky steeps, which thither yearly go; Yet, less by love of Nature’s wonders led, Than by the memory of a mighty woe, Which smote, like blasting thunder, long ago, The peopled hills. There stands a sacred tomb, Where tears have rained, nor yet shall cease to flow; Recording days of death’s sublimest gloom; Mompesson’s power and pain,--his beauteous Catherine’s doom.

_The Desolation of Eyam._

Through the seventeenth and half of the eighteenth century the village of Eyam, three miles east from Tideswell, in Derbyshire, was populous and flourishing; and all that part of the country thickly sown with little towns and hamlets, was swarming with inhabitants. Owing to the exhausted state of the lead mines the scene is altered, and Eyam is now thinly peopled. It had before endured a dreadful affliction. The year after “that awful and terrible period, when the destroying angel passed over this island, and in the cities of London and Westminster swept away three thousand victims in one night,” the visitation was revived in this distant village, and four-fifths of the inhabitants perished in the course of the summer. This calamity is the subject of the title-page to a poetical volume of eminent merit and beauty, “_The Desolation of Eyam_, &c. by William and Mary Howitt, Authors of the Forest Minstrel and other Poems.”

Eyam was the birthplace of the late Anna Seward, and in the “Gentleman’s Magazine”[383] there is a letter written in her youthful days, which naturally relates the devoted attachment of the village rector, during the plague, to his stricken flock; and the affectionate adherence of his noble wife. Extracts from this letter, with others from the notes to “The Desolation of Eyam,” and a few stanzas from the poem itself, as specimens of its worth, may here suffice to convey some notion of the story. The poets’ “Introduction” is briefly descriptive of “The Peak”--its romantic rocks and glens--the roar of its flying streams--the welling-up of its still waters--the silence of its beautiful dells--

Such brightness fills the arched sky; So quietly the hill-tops lie In sunshine, and the wild-bird’s glee Rings from the rock-nursed service tree; Such a delicious air is thrown, Such a reposing calm is known On these delightful hills, That, as the dreaming poet lies Drinking the splendour of the skies, The sweetness which distils From herbs and flowers--a thrilling sense Steals o’er his musing heart, intense, Passive, yet deep; the joy which dwells Where nature frames her loneliest spells. And Fancy’s whispers would persuade That peace had here her sojourn made, And love and gladness pitched their tent, When from the world, in woe, they went. That each grey hill had reared its brow In peaceful majesty, as now. That thus these streams had traced their way Through scenes as bright and pure as they; That here no sadder strain was heard Than the free note of wandering bird; And man had here, in nature’s eye, Known not a pain, except, to die.

Poets may dream--alas! that they Should dream so wildly, even by day-- Poets may dream of love and truth, Islands of bliss, and founts of youth: But, from creation’s earliest birth, The curse of blood has raged on earth. Since the first arm was raised to smite The sword has travelled like a blight, From age to age, from realm to realm, Guiding the seaman’s ready helm. Go! question well--search far and near, Bring me of earth a portion here. Look! is not that exuberant soil Fraught with the battle’s bloody spoil? Turn where thou may’st, go where thou wilt, Thy foot is on a spot of guilt.