Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 352, January 17, 1829», страница 5

SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY

Analogous Growth of Trees and Animals

Trees placed in an exposed situation have their resources;—the object being to protect the sap-vessels, which transmit nutriment, and which lie betwixt the wood and the bark, the tree never fails to throw out, and especially on the side most exposed to the blast, a thick coating of bark, designed to protect, and which effectually does protect, the sap-vessels and the process of circulation to which they are adapted, from the injury which necessarily must otherwise ensue. Now, if an animal is in danger of suffocation from want of vital air, instead of starving by being exposed to its unqualified rigour, instinct or reason directs the sufferer to approach those apertures through which any supply of that necessary of human life can be attained, and induces man, at the same time, to free himself from any coverings which may be rendered oppressive by the state in which he finds himself. Now it may be easily proved, that a similar instinct to that which induced the unfortunate sufferers in the black-hole of Calcutta to struggle with the last efforts to approach the solitary aperture which admitted air to their dungeon, and to throw from them their garments, in order to encourage the exertions which nature made to relieve herself by perspiration, is proper, also, to the noblest of the vegetable tribe. Look at a wood or plantation which has not been duly thinned:—the trees which exist will be seen drawn up to poles, with narrow and scanty tops, endeavouring to make their way towards such openings to the sky as might permit the access of light and air. If entirely precluded by the boughs which have closed over them, the weaker plants will be found strangely distorted by attempts to get out at a side of the plantation; and finally, if overpowered in these attempts by the obstacles opposed to them, they inevitably perish. As men throw aside their garments, influenced by a close situation, trees placed in similar circumstances, exhibit a bark thin and beautifully green and succulent, entirely divested of that thick, coarse, protecting substance which covers the sap-vessels in an exposed position.

There is a singular and beautiful process of action and re-action which takes place betwixt the progress of the roots and of the branches. The latter must, by their vigour and numbers, stretch out under ground before the branches can develope themselves in the air; and, on the other hand, it is necessary that the branches so develope themselves, to give employment to the roots in collecting food. There is a system of close commerce between them; if either fail in discharging their part, the other must suffer in proportion. The increase of the branches, therefore, in exposed trees is and must be in proportion with that of the roots, and vice versâ; and as the exposed tree spreads its branches on every side to balance itself against the wind, as it shortens its stem or trunk, to afford the mechanical force of the tempest a shorter lever to act upon, so numerous and strong roots spread themselves under ground, by way of anchorage, to an extent and in a manner unknown to sheltered trees.—Quarterly Review.

Preservation of Eggs

Relative to the preservation of eggs by immersion in lime-water, M. Peschier has given most satisfactory evidence of the efficacy of the process. Eggs which he had preserved for six years in this way, being boiled and tried, were found perfectly fresh and good; and a confectioner of Geneva has used a whole cask of eggs preserved by the same means. In the small way eggs may be thus preserved in bottles or other vessels. They are to be introduced when quite fresh, the bottle then filled with lime-water, a little powdered lime sprinkled in at last, and then the bottle closed. To prepare the lime-water, twenty or thirty pints of water are to be mixed up with five or six pounds of slaked quick-lime put into a covered vessel allowed to clear by standing, and the lime-water immediately used.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

ARRIVALS AT A WATERING PLACE

SCENE—A conversazione at Lady Crumpton's—Whist and weariness, caricatures and Chinese Puzzle.—Young ladies making tea, and young gentlemen making the agreeable.—The stableboy handing rout-cakes.—Music expressive of there being nothing to do.

 
I play a spade—such strange new faces
Are flocking in from near and far:
Such frights—Miss Dobbs holds all the aces.—
One can't imagine who they are!
The lodgings at enormous prices,
New donkeys, and another fly—
And Madame Bonbon out of ices,
Although we're scarcely in July—
We're quite as sociable as any,
But our old horse can hardly crawl—
And really where there are so many,
We can't tell where we ought to call.
 
 
Pray who has seen the odd old fellow
Who took the Doctor's house last week?—
A pretty chariot,—livery yellow,
Almost as yellow as his cheek—
A widower, sixty-five, and surly,
And stiffer than a poplar-tree—
Drinks rum and water, gets up early
To dip his carcass in the sea—
He's always in a monstrous hurry,
And always talking of Bengal;
They say his cook makes noble curry—
I think, Louisa, we should call.
 
 
And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker,
Has let her cottage on the hill?—
The drollest man, a sugar-baker,
Last year imported from the till—
Prates of his orses and his oney,
Is quite in love with fields and farms—
A horrid Vandal,—but his money
Will buy a glorious coat of arms;
Old Clyster makes him take the waters;
Some say he means to give a ball—
And after all, with thirteen daughters,
I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.
 
 
That poor young man!—I'm sure and certain
Despair is making up his shroud:
He walks all night beneath the curtain
Of the dim sky and murky cloud—
Draws landscapes,—throws such mournful glances!—
Writes verses,—has such splendid eyes—
An ugly name,—but Laura fancies
He's some great person in disguise!
And since his dress is all the fashion,
And since he's very dark and tall,
I think that, out of pure compassion,
I'll get papa to go and call.
 
 
So Lord St. Ives is occupying
The whole of Mr. Ford's Hotel—
Last Saturday his man was trying
A little nag I want to sell.
He brought a lady in the carriage—
Blue eyes,—eighteen, or thereabouts—
Of course, you know, we hope it's marriage!
But yet the femme de chambre doubts.
She look'd so pensive when we met her—
Poor thing! and such a charming shawl!
Well! till we understand it better,
It's quite impossible to call.
 
 
Old Mr. Fund, the London banker,
Arrived to-day at Premium Court—
I would not, for the world, cast anchor
In such a horrid dangerous port—
Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster,
(Contractors play the meanest tricks)
The roof's as crazy as its master,
And he was born in fifty-six—
Stairs creaking—cracks in every landing,
The colonnade is sure to fall—
We sha'n't find post or pillar standing,
Unless we make great haste to call.
 
 
Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures,
Last Sunday, in the Rector's seat?
The finest shape,—the loveliest features,
I never saw such tiny feet.
My brother,—(this is quite between us)
Poor Arthur,—'twas a sad affair!
Love at first sight,—She's quite a Venus,
But then she's poorer far than fair—
And so my father and my mother
Agreed it would not do at all—
And so,—I'm sorry for my brother!
It's settled that we're not to call.
 
 
And there's an author, full of knowledge—
And there's a captain on half-pay—
And there's a baronet from college,
Who keeps a boy, and rides a bay—
And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon,
Fine specimen of brogue and bone—
And Doctor Calipee, the canon,
Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone—
A maiden lady is adorning
The faded front of Lily Hall—
Upon my word, the first fine morning,
We'll make around, my dear, and call.
 
 
Alas! disturb not, maid and matron,
The swallow in my humble thatch—
Your son may find a better patron,
Your niece may meet a richer match—
I can't afford to give a dinner,
I never was on Almack's list—
And since I seldom rise a winner,
I never like to play at whist—
Unknown to me the stocks are falling—
Unwatch'd by me the glass may fall—
Let all the world pursue its calling,
I'm not at home if people call.
 

London Magazine

WINE DRINKING

Use a little wine, for thy stomach's sake.

I Tim. v. 23.

So says St. Paul—and this seems to have been the opinion of the most ancient philosophers and physicians. A moderate use of it has been sanctioned by the wise and good in all ages. Those who have denied its virtues are those who have not been able to drink it. Asclepiades wrote upon wine, the use of which he introduced with almost every remedy, observing, that the gods had bestowed no more valuable gift on man: even the surly Diogenes drank it; for it is said of him, that he liked that wine best, which he drank at other people's cost—a notion adopted by the oinopholous Mosely, who, when asked, "What wine do you drink, doctor?" answered, "Port at home—claret abroad!"

Hippocrates, the father of physic, recommends a cheerful glass; and Rhases, an ancient Arabian physician, says, no liquor is equal to good wine. Reineck wrote a dissertation "De Potu Vinoso;" and the learned Dr. Shaw lauded the "juice of the grape." But the stoutest of its medical advocates was Tobias Whitaker, physician to Charles II., who undertook to prove the possibility of maintaining life, from infancy to old age, without sickness, by the use of wine!

It must, however, be remembered, that Whitaker was cordially attached to wine, and a greater friend to the vintner than to the apothecary, having as utter a dislike to unpalatable medicines, as the most squeamish of his patients; therefore, Dr. Toby's evidence must be taken with caution, independently of the courtly spirit that might have led him to adapt his theories to the times.

It has been questioned whether the use of wine was known to the antediluvian world; but there can be do doubt, in the corrupt state of man, that wine would have its share in his debasement, and it may be very strongly inferred, from the circumstance that Noah planted a vineyard, and, moreover, "that he drank of the wine, and was drunken," (Gen, ix. 20.)—a sad stain in the character of a man who was "perfect in his generation;" and which also proves that, in the earliest period of the world, the very best of men were liable to fall into error and excess.

But the antiquity and propriety of wine-drinking is not matter of question. The archbishop of Seville, Antonio de Solis, who lived to be 110 years old, drank wine; and even that wonderful pattern of propriety, Cornaro, did the same: but the question is about quantity. Sir William Temple was pleased to lay down a rule, and limit propriety to three glasses. "I drink one glass," says he, "for health, a second for refreshment, a third for a friend; but he that offers a fourth is an enemy."

As in eating, so in drinking, in the question of quantity—much depends on the capacity of the stomach. A very abstemious friend of mine, not long since, dined tete-a-tete with a gentleman well known for his kindness and hospitality, and not less so for his powers of bibulation. After dinner, at which a fair share of many excellent wines was taken, Port and Madeira were put on the table, and before the host, a magnum of Claret. My friend drank his usual quantum, three glasses of Madeira, during which time a great portion of the magnum had disappeared; and soon afterwards, being emptied, the host said, "I think we can just manage a bottle between us." The bottle was brought, and very shortly disappeared, without the aid of the visiter.

The same gentleman and Lord –, at the Angel at Bury, fell in with some excellent Claret. They had disposed of six bottles, when the landlord, who did not guess or gauge the quality of his customers (the bell being rung for a fresh supply,) begged very gently to hint that it was expensive stuff, being fifteen shillings a bottle! "Oh! is it so? then bring up two bottles directly!"

We have nothing, however, in modern times, at all equal to the account given of some of the ancients. The elder Cato, we are told, warmed good principles with a considerable quantity of good wine.⁵ But Cicero's son exceeds all others; so much so, that he got the name of Bicongius, because he was accustomed to drink two congii⁶ at a sitting. Pliny, and others, abound in grand examples, that prove we have degenerated at any rate in this respect, for these convivials were neither sick nor sorry. Even that eminent debauchee, Nero, was only three times sick in fourteen years. "Nam qui luxuriae immoderatissimae esset, ter omnino per xiv. annos languit; atque ita, ut neque vino, neque consuetudine reliqua abstineret."

The Abbé de Voisenon, a very diminutive man, said to his physician, who ordered him a quart of ptisan per hour, "Ah! my friend, how can you desire me to swallow a quart an hour? I hold only a pint."

Wine has not only been considered good for the body, but has, from the earliest period, been thought invigorating to the mind. Thus we find it a constant theme of praise with poets. Martial says—

 
Regnat nocte calix, volvuntur biblia mane,
Cum Phoebo Bacchus dividit imperium.
 
 
All night I drink, and study hard all day;
Bacchus and Phoebus hold divided sway.
 

Horace has done ample justice to it; and even Homer says—

 
The weary find new strength in generous wine.
 

Upon the principle, no doubt, of expanding the imagination, we find, so early as 1374, old Geoffrey Chaucer had a pitcher of wine a day allowed him. Ben Jonson, in after times, had the third of a pipe annually; and a certain share of this invigorating aliment has been the portion of Laureates down to the present day.

Nor are the poets the only eulogists of wine. Some of the greatest names in history are to be found in the list. We find Mr. Burke furnishing reasons why the rich and the great should have their share of wine. He says, they are among the unhappy—they feel personal pain and domestic sorrow—they pay their full contingent to the contributions levied on mortality in these matters;—therefore they require this sovereign balm. "Some charitable dole," says he, "is wanting to those, our often very unhappy brethren, to fill the gloomy void that reigns in minds which have nothing on earth to hope or fear; something to relieve the killing languor and over-laboured lassitude of those who have nothing to do."