Part 2
M. Mangili, an Italian naturalist, made some curious experiments upon the dormouse and other animals which sleep during the cold weather. He kept the dormouse in a cupboard in his study. On the 24th December, when the thermometer was about 40°, that is 8° above the freezing point, the dormouse curled himself up amongst a heap of papers and went to sleep. On the 27th December, when the thermometer was several degrees lower, M. Mangili ascertained that the animal breathed, and suspended his respiration at regular intervals;--that is, that after four minutes of perfect repose, in which he appeared as if dead, he breathed about twenty-four times in the space of a minute and a half, and that then his breathing was again completely suspended, and again renewed. As the thermometer became higher, that is, as the weather became less cold, the intervals of repose were reduced to three minutes. On the contrary, when the thermometer fell nearly to the freezing point, the intervals were then six minutes. Within ten days from its beginning to sleep (the weather then being very cold), the dormouse woke and ate a little. He then went to sleep again; and continued to sleep for some days, and then to awaken, throughout the winter; but as the season advanced, the intervals of perfect repose, when no breathing could be perceived, were much longer, sometimes more than twenty minutes. The effects of confinement upon this individual animal caused him to sleep much longer than in a state of nature.
When a dormouse is discovered asleep, in his natural retreat, he is cold to the touch, his eyes are shut, and his respiration is slow and interrupted, as just described. Torpid animals, in general, when thus found, may be shaken, or rolled, or even struck, without a possibility of arousing them. But as the fine weather advances, the heat of their bodies increases, as it decreases at the approaches of winter; till at length they shake off their drowsiness, and are again the busy and happy inhabitants of the fields and gardens, active in the search of food to gratify their appetite, which is now as keen as it was dull in the cold months. These movements of course depend upon the states of the atmosphere, and are different in individuals of the same species.
THE SWALLOW.
The swallow, and other birds of passage--that is, birds who fly from one country to another, as the weather becomes unsuited to their natures--now begin to return to us. The swallow is a general favourite. He comes to us when nature is putting on her most smiling aspect, and he stays with us through the months of sunshine and gladness. “The swallow,” says Sir H. Davy, “is one of my favourite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he glads my sense of seeing, as much as the other does my sense of hearing. He is the joyous prophet of the year, the harbinger of the best season, he lives a life of enjoyment amongst the loveliest forms of nature; winter is unknown to him, and he leaves the green meadows of England in autumn, for the myrtle and orange groves of Italy, and for the palms of Africa.”
Mr. White, a clergyman of Hampshire, who delighted to observe all the works of the creation around him, has thus accurately described the window swallow’s or martin’s mode of building:--
“About the middle of May, if the weather be fine, the martin begins to think in earnest of providing a mansion for its family. The crust or shell of this nest seems to be formed of such dirt or loam as comes most readily to hand, and is tempered and wrought together with little bits of broken straws to render it tough and tenacious. As this bird often builds against a perpendicular wall without any projecting ledge under, it requires its utmost efforts to get the first foundation firmly fixed, so that it may safely carry the superstructure. On this occasion, the bird not only clings with its claws, but partly supports itself by strongly inclining its tail against the wall, making that a fulcrum; and thus steadied, it works and plasters the materials into the face of the brick or stone. But then, that this work may not, while it is soft and green, pull itself down by its own weight, the provident architect has prudence and forbearance enough not to advance her work too fast; but by building only in the morning, and by dedicating the rest of the day to food and amusement, gives it sufficient time to dry and harden. About half an inch seems to be a sufficient layer for a day. Thus careful workmen, when they build mud-walls (informed at first perhaps by this little bird), raise but a moderate layer at a time and then desist, lest the work should become top-heavy, and so be ruined by its own weight. By this method, in about ten or twelve days, is formed a hemispheric nest with a small aperture towards the top, strong, compact, and warm, and perfectly fitted for all the purposes for which it was intended.
“The shell or crust of the nest is a sort of rustic-work, full of knobs and protuberances on the outside: nor is the inside of those that I have examined smoothed with any exactness at all; but is rendered soft and warm, and fit for incubation, by a lining of small straws, grasses and feathers, and sometimes by a bedding of moss interwoven with wool. They are often capricious in fixing on a nesting-place, beginning many edifices and leaving them unfinished; but when once a nest is completed in a sheltered place, after so much labour is bestowed in erecting a mansion, as nature seldom works in vain, the same nest serves for several seasons. Those which breed in a ready finished house, get the start in hatching of those that build new by ten days or a fortnight. These industrious artificers are at their labours in the long days before four in the morning; when they fix their materials, they plaster them on with their chins, moving their heads with a quick, rotatory motion.”
[Illustration: A swallow perched outside its nest.]
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THE WEEK.
April 7.--The day of the birth, and also that of the death, of Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, whom the universal voice of posterity has recognized as the Prince of modern Painters, and designated by the enthusiastic appellation of “the divine Raphael.” No rival, at least, has ever been placed beside Raphael except Michael Angelo. Of the two illustrious contemporaries the former may perhaps be appropriately styled the Shakspeare, the latter the Milton of Painting. Dignity and imposing grandeur of design are the reigning characteristics of Michael Angelo; the highest dramatic power which has ever been displayed by the pencil, and the representation of passion with all the force of life, are the qualities that chiefly give their wonderful fascination to the works of Raphael. Raphael was born at Urbino in 1483. By the time he had reached the age of twenty-five he had so greatly distinguished himself that he was invited by Pope Julius II. to paint in fresco the chambers of the Vatican. From this time till his death, in 1520, at the early age of thirty-seven, he was employed in the execution of a succession of great works, chiefly for that pontiff and his successor, Leo X. His most famous performances are, his picture of the School of Athens in the Vatican, the Transfiguration, and his Cartoons on subjects taken from the Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles, which were brought to this country by Charles I., and are now to be seen at Hampton Court, upon the payment of a shilling for each party. Like Michael Angelo, Raphael was an architect as well as a painter, and, among other buildings, superintended the erection of part of the cathedral of St. Peter’s. But his untimely death interrupted his prosecution of this and other great works on which he was engaged; leaving him, however, although with a glory gathered in comparative youth, with no living superior, and followed by no equal in succeeding times.
April 10.--This is the birth-day of the celebrated Dutch writer, Hugh de Groot, better known by his Latin name of Grotius, who was born at Delfft in 1583. Grotius was a prodigy of youthful talent and acquirement. When only fourteen he prepared an edition of a Latin author, Martianus Capella, in which he showed extensive classical and historical erudition. At the age of sixteen, having already made a journey to France, and been presented to Henry IV., who honoured him with the gift of his picture and a gold chain, he entered upon the profession of an advocate at Delfft. From this time he continued till his death to take an active part in political transactions; but still found leisure to write a vast number of books, most of them distinguished for their learning and ability. The book by which he is now principally known is his famous treatise on the law of nations, entitled, ‘On the right of Peace and War.’ It was first published at Paris in 1625. Another of his productions, which is still very popular, is his treatise ‘On the Truth of the Christian Religion,’ written, like the former, in Latin, but which has been translated into every language of Europe. Grotius wrote a great part of this work while confined by a rival political faction in the castle of Louvestein, from which, however, after nearly two years’ detention, his wife contrived to get him conveyed away in a chest, which she pretended was full of books. Grotius died in his sixty-third year, on the 28th of August, 1645.
April 11.--The birth-day of the late Right Honourable George Canning, who was born in London, in the year 1771. His father, an Irish gentleman of good family, died the same year in which his son was born. At the usual age young Canning was sent to Eton, where he soon distinguished himself by the brilliancy of his talents. While there he made the first public trial of his literary powers in ‘The Microcosm,’ a very clever periodical work, which he carried on in conjunction with some of his schoolfellows, and of which he was the projector and the editor. In 1787 he removed to Christ Church, Oxford, intending to adopt the profession of the law. But while yet at the University, his reputation for ability obtained for him the notice of Mr. Pitt, who brought him into Parliament in 1793. Mr. Canning’s official career belongs to the history of his country, and especially that period of it during which he was Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. The system of foreign policy with which his name is associated has caused his memory to be held in honour; and although he opposed Parliamentary Reform, as well as other popular measures, yet his steadfast support of Catholic Emancipation for a long series of years, and the protection he afforded to the cause of freedom on the Continent, and in South America, are proofs of his attachment to his celebrated toast of “_Civil and Religious Liberty all over the World!_” In April, 1827, he was appointed Prime Minister by George the Fourth, and continued to hold the offices of First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer till his death, on the 8th of August in the same year, at the Duke of Devonshire’s villa at Chiswick, after a short illness. His death at so early a period after his accession to power called forth a deep feeling of grief in his own country, and, perhaps, a still stronger and more general feeling on the Continent, where medals were struck in memory of the British Minister.
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THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
“The characteristic of the English populace,--perhaps we ought to say people, for it extends to the middle classes,--is their propensity to mischief. The people of most other countries may safely be admitted into parks, gardens, public buildings, and galleries of pictures and statues; but in England it is necessary to exclude them, as much as possible, from all such places.”
This is a sentence from the last published number of the ‘Quarterly Review.’ Severe as it is, there is much truth in it. The fault is not entirely on the side of the people (we will not use the offensive term populace); but still they are in fault. The writer adds, speaking of this love of mischief, which he calls “a disgraceful part of the English character,” that “anything tends to correct it that contributes to give the people a taste for intellectual pleasures,--anything that contributes to their innocent enjoyment,--anything that excites them to wholesome and pleasurable activity of body and mind.” This is quite true. We hope to do something, speaking generally, to excite and gratify a taste for intellectual pleasure; but we wish to do more in this particular case. We wish to point out many unexpensive pleasures, of the very highest order, which all those who reside in London have within their reach; and how the education of themselves and of their children may be advanced by using their opportunities of enjoying some of the purest gratifications which an instructed mind is capable of receiving. Having learnt to enjoy them, they will naturally feel an honest pride in the possession, by the Nation, of many of the most valuable treasures of Art and of Science; and they will hold that person a baby in mind--a spoiled, wilful, mischievous baby--who dares to attempt the slightest injury to the public property, which has been collected together, at an immense expense, for the public advantage.
Well, then, that we may waste no time in general discussion, let us begin with the BRITISH MUSEUM. We will suppose ourselves addressing an artisan or tradesman, who can sometimes afford to take a holiday, and who knows there are better modes of spending a working day, which he some half-dozen times a year devotes to pleasure, than amidst the smoke of a taproom, or the din of a skittle-ground. He is a family man; he enjoys a pleasure doubly if it is shared by his wife and children. Well, then, in Great Russell-street, Bloomsbury, is the British Museum; and here, from ten o’clock till four, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he may see many of the choicest productions of ancient art--Egyptian, Grecian, and Roman monuments; and what will probably please the young people most, in the first instance, a splendid collection of natural history--quadrupeds, birds, insects, shells--all classed and beautifully disposed in an immense gallery, lately built by the Government for the more convenient exhibition of these curiosities. “But hold,” says the working man, “I have passed by the British Museum: there are two sentinels at the gateway, and the large gates are always closed. Will they let me in? Is there nothing to pay?” That is a very natural question about the payment; for there is too much of paying in England by the people for admission to what they ought to see for nothing. But _here_ there _is_ nothing to pay. Knock boldly at the gate; the porter will open it. You are in a large square court-yard, with an old-fashioned house occupying three sides. A flight of steps leads up to the principal entrance. Go on. Do not fear any surly looks or impertinent glances from any person in attendance. You are upon safe ground here. You are come to see your own property. You have as much right to see it, and you are as welcome therefore to see it, as the highest in the land. There is no favour in showing it you. You assist in paying for the purchase, and the maintenance of it; and one of the very best effects that could result from that expense would be to teach every Englishman to set a proper value upon the enjoyments which such public property is capable of affording. Go boldly forward, then. The officers of the Museum, who are obliging to all strangers, will be glad to see you. Your garb is homely, you think, as you see gaily-dressed persons going in and out. No matter; you and your wife, and your children, are clean, if not smart. By the way, it will be well to mention that very young children (those under eight years old) are not admitted; and that for a very sufficient reason: in most cases they would disturb the other visitors.
You are now in the great Hall--a lofty room, with a fine staircase. In an adjoining room a book is presented to you, in which one of a party has to write his name and address, with the number of persons accompanying him. That is the only form you have to go through; and it is a necessary form, if it were only to preserve a record of the number of persons admitted. In each year this number amounts to about seventy thousand: so you see that the British Museum has afforded pleasure and improvement to a great many people. We hope the number of visitors will be doubled and trebled; for exhibitions such as these do a very great deal for the advance of a people in knowledge and virtue. What reasonable man would abandon himself to low gratifications--to drinking or gambling--when he may, whenever he pleases, and as often as he pleases at no cost but that of his time, enjoy the sight of some of the most curious and valuable things in the world, with as much ease as a prince walking about in his own private gallery. But that he may enjoy these treasures, and that every body else may enjoy them at the same time, it will be necessary to observe a few simple rules.
1st. _Touch nothing_. The statues, and other curious things, which are in the Museum, are to be seen, not to be handled. If visitors were to be allowed to touch them, to try whether they were hard or soft, to scratch them, to write upon them with their pencils, they would be soon worth very little. You will see some mutilated remains of two or three of the finest figures that ever were executed in the world: they form part of the collection called the Elgin Marbles, and were brought from the Temple of Minerva, at Athens, which city at the time of the sculpture of these statues, about two thousand three hundred years ago, was one of the cities of Greece most renowned for art and learning. Time has, of course, greatly worn these statues: but it is said that the Turkish soldiers, who kept the modern Greeks under subjection, used to take a brutal pleasure in the injury of these remains of ancient art; as if they were glad to destroy what their ignorance made them incapable of valuing. Is it not as great ignorance for a stupid fellow of our own day slily to write his own paltry name upon one of these glorious monuments? Is not such an act the most severe reproach upon the writer? Is it not, as if the scribbler should say, “Here am I, in the presence of some of the great masterpieces of art, whose antiquity ought to produce reverence, if I cannot comprehend their beauty; and I derive a pleasure from putting my own obscure, perishable name upon works whose fame will endure for ever.” What a satire upon such vanity. Doubtless, these fellows, who are so pleased with their own weak selves, as to poke their names into every face, are nothing but grown babies, and want a fool’s cap most exceedingly.
2dly. _Do not talk loud._ Talk, of course, you must; or you would lose much of the enjoyment we wish you to have--for pleasure is only half pleasure, unless it be shared with those we love. But do not disturb others with your talk. Do not call loudly from one end of a long gallery to the other, or you will distract the attention of those who derive great enjoyment from an undisturbed contemplation of the wonders in these rooms. You will excuse this hint.
3rdly. _Be not obtrusive._ You will see many things in the Museum that you do not understand. It will be well to make a memorandum of these, to be inquired into at your leisure; and in these inquiries we shall endeavour to assist you from time to time. But do not trouble other visitors with your questions; and, above all, do not trouble the young artists, some of whom you will see making drawings for their improvement. Their time is precious to them; and it is a real inconvenience to be obliged to give their attention to anything but their work, or to have their attention disturbed by an over-curious person peeping at what they are doing. If you want to make any inquiry, go to one of the attendants, who walks about in each room. He will answer you as far as he knows. You must not expect to understand what you see all at once: you must go again and again if you wish to obtain real knowledge, beyond the gratification of passing curiosity.
In future numbers we shall briefly mention what is most worthy your attention in this National Collection.
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POESIE.
[George Wither, born 1588, died 1677.]
Though I miss the flowery fields, With those sweets the spring-tide yields; Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, And the lasses more excel, Then the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past, Nothing now remains at last, But remembrance (poor relief) That more makes, then mends my grief; She’s my mind’s companion still, Maugre Envy’s evil will. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolated place To her presence be a grace; And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments. In my former days of bliss, Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw, I could some invention draw; And raise pleasure to her height, Through the meanest object’s sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough’s rustling; By a daisy whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed, Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me, Then all nature’s beauties can, In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness. The dull loneness, the black shade, That those hanging vaults have made, The strange music of the waves Beating on these hollow caves, This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss, The rude portals that give light, More to terror than delight,-- This my chamber of neglect, Walled about with disrespect, From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this. Poesie, thou sweet’st content, That e’er Heaven to mortals lent; Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; Though thou be to them a scorn, That to nought but earth are born; Let my life no longer be, Than I am in love with thee.