Part 5

Nothing can be more curious than the appearance exhibited by _mouldiness_, when viewed through a microscope. If looked at by the naked eye, it seems nothing but an irregular tissue of filaments; but the magnifying glass shows it to be a forest of small plants, which derive their nourishment from the moist substance which serves them as a base. The stems of these plants may be plainly distinguish; and sometimes their buds, some shut and some open. They have much similarity to mushrooms, the tops of which, when they come to maturity, emit an exceedingly fine dust which is their seed. Mushrooms, it is well known, are the growth of a single night; but those in miniature, of which we are speaking, seem to come to perfection in a much less space of time than that; hence we account for the extraordinary progress which mouldiness makes in a few hours. Another curious observation of the same kind is, that M. Ahlefeld, seeing some stones covered with a sort of dust, had the curiosity to examine it with a microscope, and he found that it consisted of small microscopic mushrooms, raised on pedicles, the heads of which, round the middle, were turned up at the edges. They were striated also from the centre to the circumference, as certain kinds of mushrooms are. He further remarked, that they contained, above their upper covering, a multitude of small grains shaped like cherries somewhat flattened, which he suspected were the seeds; and finally he observed, among the forest of mushrooms, several small red insects, which probably fed upon them.

The _lycoperdon_, or puff-ball, is a plant of the fungus kind, which grows in the form of a tubercle, covered with small grains, very like chagreen. If pressed, it bursts, and emits an exceedingly fine kind of dust, which flies off under the appearance of smoke. If some of the dust be examined with the microscope, it appears to consist of perfectly round globules, of an orange colour, the diameter of which is only about the 1-50th part of the thickness of a hair, so that each grain of this dust is but the 1-125000th part of a globule, equal in diameter to the breadth of a hair.

The _farina of flowers_ is found to be regularly and uniformly organized in each kind of plant. In the mallow, for example, each grain is an opaque ball, covered over with small points. The farina of the tulip, and of most of the liliaceous kind of flowers, bears a striking resemblance to the seeds of a cucumber: that of the poppy is very like grains of barley, with a longitudinal groove in them.

There are certain plants, the leaves of which seem to be pierced with a multitude of small holes. Of this kind is the _hypericum_, or St. John's wort. Now, if a fragment of this be viewed with a good microscope, the supposed holes are found to be vesicles, contained in the thickness of the leaf, and covered with an extremely thin membrane; and these are thought to be the receptacles which contain the essential and aromatic oil peculiar to the plant.

The view exhibited by those plants which have down, such as borage, nettles, &c. is exceedingly curious.--When examined by a microscope, they appear to be covered with spikes. Those of borage are, for the most part, bent so as to form an elbow; and though really very close, they appear by the microscope, to be at a considerable distance from each other. The entire appearance is very similar to that of the skin of the porcupine.

If a needle be viewed through a microscope, though exceedingly fine, it is well known the point will appear quite blunt, more like a peg, broken at the end, than a sharp pointed steel needle. The edge of the finest set razor, when seen through a microscope, will appear more like the back of a penknife, full of irregularities, than what it really is. In these respects the works of art, when carried to the highest pitch of perfection, will not bear to be compared with the operations of nature. The latter, exposed to the microscope, instead of losing their lustre and high polish, appear so much the more beautiful and perfect in regularity and order. When the eyes of a fly are illuminated by means of a lamp or candle, and viewed through this instrument, each of them shows an image of the taper with a precision and vivacity which nothing can equal.

There are two kinds of _sand_, viz. the calcareous and the vitrifiable: the former, examined with a microscope, resembles large irregular fragments of rock; but the latter appears like so many rough diamonds. In some instances, the particles of sand seem to be highly polished and brilliant, like an assemblage of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.

Charcoal is a fine object for the microscope. It is found full of pores, regularly arranged, and passing through its whole length.

[_English Magazine._

The following melancholy letter alludes to Accum's "Treatise on Adulterations of Food and Culinary Poisons."

From Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine.

LETTER

_From an elderly Gentlewoman to Mr. Christopher North._

My dear Mr. North--I much fear that this is the last letter you will ever receive from your old friend. "I'm wearin' awa, Kit! to the land o' the leal!" and that, too, under the influence of a complication of disorders, which have been undermining my constitution (originally a sound and stout one) for upwards of half a century. Look to yourself my much respected lad--and think no more of your rheumatism. That, believe me, is a mere trifle; but think of what you have been doing, since the peace of 1763, (in that year were you born,) in the eating and drinking way, and tremble. I know, my dear Kit, that you never were a gormandizer, nor a sot; neither surely was I--but it matters not--the most abstemious of us all have gone through fearful trials, and I have not skill in figures to cast up the poisonous contents of my hapless stomach for nearly threescore years. You would not know me now; I had not the slightest suspicion of myself in the looking-glass this morning. Such a face! so wan and wobegone! No such person drew Priam's curtains at dead of night, or could have told him half his Troy was burned.

Well--hear me come to the point. I remember now, perfectly well, that I have been out of sorts all my lifetime; and the causes of my continual illness have this day been revealed to me. May my melancholy fate be a warning to you, and all your clear contributors, a set of men whom the world could ill spare at this crisis. Mr. Editor--I HAVE BEEN POISONED.

You must know that I became personally acquainted a few weeks ago, quite accidentally, with that distinguished chymist, well known in our metropolis by the name of "Death in the Pot."[7] He volunteered a visit to me at breakfast, last Thursday, and I accepted him. Just as I had poured out the first cup of tea, and was extending it graciously towards him, he looked at me, and with a low, hoarse, husky voice, like Mr. Kean's, asked me if I were not excessively ill? I had not had the least suspicion of being so--but there was a terrible something in "Death in the Pot's" face which told me I was a dead woman. I immediately got up--I mean strove to get up, to ring the bell for a clergyman--but I fainted away. On awaking from my swoon, I beheld "Death in the Pot" still staring with his fateful eyes--and croaking out, half in soliloquy, half in tête-a-tête, "There is not a life in London worth ten year's purchase." I implored him to speak plainly, and for God's sake not to look at me so malagrugorously--and plainly enough he did then speak to be sure--"Mrs. TROLLOPE, YOU ARE POISONED."

[7] Frederick Accum, Operative Chymist, &c.

"Who," cried I out convulsively, "who has perpetrated the foul deed? On whose guilty head will lie my innocent blood? Has it been from motives of private revenge? Speak, Mr. Accum[8]--speak! Have you any proofs of a conspiracy?" "Yes, Madam, I have proofs, damning proofs. Your wine merchant, your brewer, your baker, your confectioner, your grocer, aye, your very butcher, are in league against you; and, Mrs. Trollope, YOU ARE POISONED!"--"When!--Oh! when was the fatal dose administered? Would an emetic be of no avail? Could you not yet administer a----" But here my voice was choked, and nothing was audible, Mr. North, but the sighs and sobs of your poor Trollope.

[8] Death in the Pot.

At last I became more composed--and Mr. Accum asked me what was, in general, the first thing I did on rising from bed in the morning. Alas! I felt that it was no time for delicacy, and I told him at once, that it was to take off a bumper of brandy for a complaint in my stomach. He asked to look at the bottle. I brought it forth from the press in my own number, that tall square tower-like bottle, Mr. North, so green to the eye and smooth to the grasp. You know the bottle well--it belonged to my mother before me. He put it to his nose--he poured out a driblet into a teaspoon as cautiously as if it had been the black drop--he tasted it--and again repeated these terrible words, "Mrs. TROLLOPE, YOU ARE POISONED. It has," he continued, "a peculiar disagreeable smell, like the breath of habitual drunkards." "Oh! thought I, has it come to this! The smell ever seemed to my unsuspecting soul most fragrant and delicious." "Death in the Pot" then told me, that the liquid I had been innocently drinking every morn for thirty years was not brandy at all, but a vile distillation of British molasses over wine lees, rectified over quick lime, and mixed with saw-dust. And this a sad, solitary, unsuspecting spinster had been imbibing as brandy for so many years! A gleam of comfort now shot across my brain--I told Mr. Accum that I had, during my whole life, been in the habit of taking a smallish glass of Hollands before going to bed, which I fain hoped might have the effect of counteracting the bad effects of the forgery that had been committed against me. I produced the bottle--the white globular one you know. "Death in the Pot" tried and tasted--and alas! instead of Hollands, pronounced it vile British malt spirit, fined by a solution of sub-acetate of lead, and then a solution of alum--and strengthened with grains of paradise, Guinea pepper, capsicum, and other acrid and aromatic substances. These are learned words--but they made a terrible impression upon my memory. Mr. Accum is a most amiable man, I well believe--but he is a stranger to pity. "Mrs. Trollope, YOU HAVE BEEN POISONED," was all he would utter. Had the brandy and Hollands been genuine, there would have been no harm--but they were _imitation_, and "YOU ARE POISONED."

Feeling myself very faint, I asked, naturally enough for a woman in my situation, for a glass of wine. It was brought--but Mr. Accum was at hand to snatch the deadly draught from my lips. He tasted what used to be called my genuine old port,

"And in the scowl of heaven his face, Grew black as he was sipping."

"It is spoiled elder wine--rendered astringent by oak-wood, saw-dust, and the husks of filberts--lead and arsenic, madam, are----" but my ears tingled, and I heard no more. I confessed to the amount of six glasses a day of this hellish liquor--pardon my warmth--and that such had been my allowance for many years. My thirst was now intolerable, and I beseeched a glass of beer. It came, and "Death in the Pot" detected at once the murderous designs of the brewer. Coculus indicus, Spanish juice, hartshorn shavings, orange powder, copperas, opium, tobacco, nux vomica--such were the shocking words he kept repeating to himself--and then again, "Mrs. TROLLOPE IS POISONED."--"May I not have a single cup of tea, Mr. Accum," I asked imploringly, and the chymist shook his head. He then opened the tea-caddy, and emptying its contents, rubbed my best green tea between his hard horny palms. "Sloe-leaves, and white-thorn leaves, madam, coloured with Dutch pink, and with the fine green bloom of verdigris! Much, in the course of your regular life, you must have swallowed!" "Might I try the coffee?" Oh! Mr. North, Mr. North, you know my age, and never once, during my whole existence, have I tasted coffee. I have been deluded by pease and beans, sand, gravel, and vegetable powder! Mr. Accum called it sham coffee, most infamous stuff, and unfit for human food! Alas! the day that I was born! In despair I asked for a glass of water, and just as the sparkling beverage was about to touch my pale quivering lips, my friend, for I must call him so in spite of every thing, interfered, and tasting it, squirted out of his mouth, with a most alarming countenance. "It comes out of a lead cistern--it is a deadly poison." Here I threw myself on my knees before this inexorable man, and cried, "Mr. Death in the Pot, is there in heaven, on earth, or the waters under the earth, any one particle of matter that is not impregnated with death? What means this desperate mockery? For mercy's sake give me the very smallest piece of bread and cheese, or I can support myself no longer. Are we, or are we not, to have a morsel of breakfast this day?" He cut off about an inch long piece of cheese from that identical double Gloucester that you yourself, Mr. North, chose for me, on your last visit to London, and declared that it had been rendered most poisonous by the anotta used to colour it. "There is here, Mrs. Trollope, a quantity of red lead--Have you, madam, never experienced after devouring half a pound of this cheese, an indescribable pain in the region of the abdomen and of the stomach, accompanied with a feeling of tension, which occasioned much restlessness, anxiety, and repugnance to food? Have you never felt, after a Welsh rabbit of it, a very violent cholic?" "Yes! yes!--often, often!" I exclaimed. "And did you use pepper and mustard?" "I did even so." "Let me see the castors." I rose from my knees--and brought them out. He puffed out a little pepper into the palm of his hand, and went on as usual. "This, madam, is spurious pepper altogether--it is made up of oil cakes, (the residue of linseed, from which the oil has been pressed,) common clay, and, perhaps, a small portion of Cayenne pepper, (itself probably artificial or adulterated,) to make it pungent. But now for the mustard"--at this juncture the servant maid came in, and I told her that I was poisoned--she set up a prodigious scream, and Mr. Accum let fall the mustard pot on the carpet. But it is needless for me to prolong the shocking narrative. They assisted me to get into bed, from which I never more expect to rise. My eyes have been opened, and I see the horrors of my situation. I now remember the most excruciating cholic, and divers other pangs which I thought nothing of at the time, but which must have been the effect of the deleterious solids and liquids which I was daily introducing into my stomach.--It appears that I have never, so much as once, either eat or drank a real thing--that is, a thing being what it pretended to be. Oh! the weight of lead and copper that has passed thro' my body! Oh! too, the gravel and the sand! But is impossible to deceive me now. This very evening some bread was brought to me--Bread! I cried out indignantly--Take the vile deception out of my sight. Yes, my dear Kit, it was a villanous loaf of clay and alum! But my resolution is fixed, and I hope to die in peace. Henceforth, I shall not allow one particle of matter to descend into my stomach! Already I feel myself "of the earth, earthy."--Mr. Accum seldom leaves my bedside--and yesterday brought with him several eatables and drinkables, which he assured me he had analyzed, subjected to the test-act, and found them to be conformists. But I have no trust in chymistry. His quarter-loaf looked like a chip cut off the corner of a stone block. It was a manifest _sham loaf_. After being deluded in my Hollands, bit in my brandy, and having found my muffins a mockery, never more shall I be thrown off my guard. I am waxing weaker and weaker--so farewell! Bewildering indeed has been the destiny of

SUSANNA TROLLOPE.

P.S.--I have opened my mistress' letter to add, that she died this evening about a quarter past eight, in excruciating torments.

SALLY ROGERS.

VARIATION OF THE NEEDLE.

It is thought by some surveyors that a change has taken place in the variation of the needle, and that the power of attraction is returning to the east or right hand. For my own satisfaction, I have for some years past been endeavouring to ascertain the truth of the fact, and my observations for the last ten years past require only 20' to be added to strike the former object. It is well known that formerly surveyors made an allowance to the west or left hand, of one degree, for every 10 or 11 years for variation, and it now comes short 40' of the common allowance, so that from the result of my observations it appears evidently that the variation is not on the return, but still increasing, but so slow and variable every year, that it cannot be ascertained, unless by a series of experiments. To corroborate the following observations, I would remark, that I have lately read (I think in the Encyclopædia) of a curious gentlemen in London, who with a nice instrument, monthly for a number of years, made observations upon the variation, and he seldom found the needle cut the same degree and minutes, but varying sometimes to the right, others to the left: sometimes more, sometimes less, which shows that the attractive power is variable.

On the 18th of July, 1810, an object on the North mountain, 3 and a half miles off, bore

N. 61° 00' W.

8th July, 1811, the same object bore 60 50

14th July, 1812, do. 60 50

10th July, 1813, do. 60 50

8th July, 1814, do. 61 10

12th July, 1815, do. 61 15

13th July, 1816, do. 61 15

15th July, 1817, do. 61 15

14th July, 1818, do. 61 30

15th July, 1819, do. 61 25

10th July, 1820, do. 61 20

From whatever cause the variation of the needle arises, it evidently is affected by a something within our earth; but whether from the motion of two attractive poles, or four, as has been maintained by great men, or whether by a concentric globe of elementary particles composed of electricity and refined iron, adjusted and organized in a particular way, are all hypotheses. The phenomenon of the dipping needle is a curiosity, and sufficient to satisfy us that the power of attraction is about the centre of the earth, for let a needle be truly balanced on a centre pin in our latitude, then give it the polarity necessary, the north end will dip about fifty degrees;--move it to the equator it will become again level;--carry it still southward, the south end will dip.

When effects are obvious, man more curious than wise, endeavours to search out the cause, and in some things we may be successful,--others are beyond our knowledge, and hid in the mysteries of Nature's God.

JOHN KING.

_Mercersburgh, (Penn.)_ } _July 18, 1820._ }

COMPARATIVE MORALITY OF DIFFERENT COUNTIES IN ENGLAND AND WALES.

The following interesting table is copied from Mr. Myers' "New System of Geography," a work now publishing in monthly parts, and which, from the manner of its execution, promises to supply an important desideratum, in that branch of literature, created by the recent political changes upon the continent of Europe.

A Table, showing the proportion which the number of persons committed to prison in each county of England and Wales, bears to the whole population; and thus illustrating the influence of local circumstances on the morals of the people. The average of the commitments is taken for thirteen years, viz. from 1805 to 1817, inclusive, and the population, as stated in the returns of 1811.

_Counties._ _One in_

Anglesea, 18,522 Bedford, 2,623 Berks, 1,618 Brecon, 3,384 Bucks, 2,562 Cambridge, 2,386 Cardigan, 13,612 Caermarthen, 7,343 Caernarvon, 9,867 Chester, 1,638 Cornwall, 5,287 Cumberland, 3,904 Denbigh, 7,077 Derby, 3,435 Devon, 1,996 Dorset, 2,292 Durham, 4,337 Essex, 1,435 Flint, 8,399 Glamorgan, 4,551 Gloucester, 1,834 Hants, 1,230 Hereford, 1,438 Herts, 1,636 Huntingdon, 1,431 Kent, 1,385 Lancaster, 1,083 Leicester, 2,161 Lincoln, 2,164 Merioneth, 13,377 Middlesex, 588 Monmouth, 2,469 Mongomery, 3,534 Norfolk, 1,809 Northamton, 2,405 Northumberland, 3,037 Nottingham, 1,694 Oxford, 2,151 Pembroke, 5,669 Radnor, 3,672 Rutland, 2,696 Salop, 2,263 Stafford, 1,938 Somerset, 1,369 Suffolk, 1,731 Surrey, 1,261 Sussex, 2,422 Warwick, 989 Westmoreland, 5,642 Wilts, 1,969 Worcester, 1,668 York, 3,002

For the whole of England, the proportion is 1 in 1,483; for Wales, 1 in 6,213; and for both England and Wales, 1 in 1,554.

FRENCH WOMEN.

From Sketches of French Manners and Customs.

The women do not, as in England, employ themselves solely in household and nursery affairs, but they mix themselves in all the cares of their husbands, and assist them in their trade and business, whatever it may be.--Thus they are constantly found in the counting houses and shops; and they know as much, and often more, of the details of a trade, than their husbands. In Dieppe, every variety of shop and trade had a woman assisting in it, who, from her appearance, might generally be considered as the mistress of the family. At a blacksmith's shop, for instance, I saw a neatly dressed woman, with a very clean cap shoeing a horse; and, passing a second time, I saw her filing at a vice. I expressed my astonishment to the neighbours, but they seemed rather disposed to laugh at me, than to join in my laugh at the woman. I learnt that she was a widow, and thus kept up her husband's trade, to rear a large family. In Paris, I complimented a pretty wife of an eminent bookseller for her knowledge of the prices of paper, printing, and engraving, in which she several times corrected errors of her husband. I remarked, that the French ladies must have great talents thus to learn a trade in the honey moon, which had employed their husbands during an apprenticeship of seven years; and that I supposed she would be equally expert at any other trade, if, on becoming a widow, she married a husband in some other line. "Ah! Monsieur," said she, "we endeavour to assist our spouses in every way in our power;--it is our only pleasure; their cares are our cares, and their interests are ours; and, if it is our calamity to become widows, and we meet with another good husband, we do the best we can for him also."

LIFE.

When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire forsakes me; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the parents themselves, I feel how vain it is to grieve for those whom we must quickly follow; when I behold rival kings lying side by side, or the holy men who divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the frivolous competitions, factions, and debates of mankind; when I read the several dates of the tombs,--of some who died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I am reminded of that day when all mankind will be contemporaries, and make their appearance together.

ADDISON.

STATISTICS OF EUROPE.

From a French paper.