The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 547, May 19, 1832

Off then he trudged, bearing this curious little culinary article, alternately in his hand and under his arm, as seemed most convenient to him. Unfortunately the day was warm, the way long, and the minister fat; so that he became heartily tired of his burden before he got half-way home. Under these distressing circumstances, it struck him, that, if, instead of carrying the pot awkwardly at one side of his person, he were to carry it on his head, the burden would be greatly lightened; the principles of natural philosophy, which he had learned at college, informing him, that when a load presses directly and immediately upon any object, it is far less onerous than when it hangs at the remote end of a lever. Accordingly, doffing his hat, which he resolved to carry home in his band, and having applied his handkerchief to his brow, he clapped the pot, in inverted fashion, upon his head, where, as the reader may suppose, it figured much like Mambrino's helmet upon the crazed capital of Don Quixote, only a great deal more magnificent in shape and dimensions. There was, at first, much relief and much comfort in this new mode of carrying the pot; but mark the result. The unfortunate minister having taken a by-path, to escape observation, found himself, when still a good way from home, under the necessity of leaping over a ditch, which intercepted him, in passing from one field to another. He jumped; but surely no jump was ever taken so completely in, or, at least into, the dark as this. The concussion given to his person in descending caused the helmet to become a hood; the pot slipped down over his face, and resting with the rim upon his neck, stuck fast there; enclosing his whole head as completely as ever that of a new born child was enclosed by the filmy bag, with which nature, as an indication of future good fortune, sometimes invests the noddles of her favourite offspring. What was worst of all, the nose, which had permitted the pot to slip down over it, withstood every desperate attempt, on the part of its proprietor, to make it slip back again; the contracted part, or neck, of the patera, being of such a peculiar formation as to cling fast to the base of the nose, although it had found no difficulty in gliding along its hypothenuse. Was ever minister in a worse plight? Was there ever contretemps so unlucky? Did ever any man—did ever any minister, so effectually hoodwink himself, or so thoroughly shut his eyes, to the plain light of nature? What was to be done? The place was lonely; the way difficult and dangerous; human relief was remote, almost beyond reach. It was impossible even to cry for help; or, if a cry could be uttered, it might reach, in deafening reverberation, the ear of the utterer, but it would not travel twelve inches farther in any direction. To add to the distresses of the case, the unhappy sufferer soon found great difficulty in breathing. What with the heat occasioned by the beating of the sun on the metal, and what with the frequent return of the same heated air to his lungs, he was in the utmost danger of suffocation. Every thing considered, it seemed likely that, if he did not chance to be relieved by some accidental wayfarer, there would soon be death in the pot.

The instinctive love of life, however, is omni-prevalent; and even very stupid people have been found, when put to the push by strong and imminent peril, to exhibit a degree of presence of mind, and exert a degree of energy, far above what might have been expected from them, or what they were ever known to exhibit, or exert, under ordinary circumstances. So it was with the pot-ensconced minister. Pressed by the urgency of his distresses, he fortunately recollected that there was a smith's shop at the distance of about a mile across the fields, where, if he could reach it before the period of suffocation, he might possibly find relief. Deprived of his eyesight, he acted only as a man of feeling, and went on as cautiously as he could, with his hat in his hand. Half crawling, half sliding, over ridge and furrow, ditch and hedge, somewhat like Satan floundering over chaos, the unhappy minister travelled with all possible speed, as nearly as he could guess, in the direction of the place of refuge. I leave it to the reader to conceive the surprise, the mirth, the infinite amusement of the smith, and all the hangers-on of the smiddy, when, at length, torn and worn, faint and exhausted, blind and breathless, the unfortunate man arrived at the place, and let them know (rather by signs than by words) the circumstances of his case. In the words of an old Scottish song,

"Out cam the gudeman, and high he shouted;
Out cam the gudewife, and low she louted;
And a' the town neighbours were gathered about it:
And there was he, I trow."

The merriment of the company, however, soon gave way to considerations of humanity. Ludicrous as was the minister, with such an object where his head should have been, and with the feet of the pot pointing upwards, like the horns of the great Enemy, it was, nevertheless, necessary that he should be speedily restored to his ordinary condition, if it were for no other reason than that he might continue to live. He was accordingly, at his own request led into the smithy, multitudes flocking around to tender him their kindest offices, or to witness the process of release; and, having laid down his head upon the anvil, the smith lost no time in seizing and poising his goodly forehammer. "Will I come sair on, minister?" exclaimed the considerate man of iron, in at the brink of the pot. "As sair as ye like," was the minister's answer; "better a chap i' the chafts than die for want of breath." Thus permitted, the man let fall a blow, which fortunately broke the pot in pieces, without hurting the head which it enclosed, as the cook-maid breaks the shell of the lobster, without bruising the delicate food within. A few minutes of the clear air, and a glass from the gudewife's bottle, restored the unfortunate man of prayer; but, assuredly, the incident is one which will long live in the memory of the parishioners of C–.—Chambers' Edinburgh Journal.

THE NATURALIST

LOUDON'S MAGAZINE OF NATURAL HISTORY

Sundry and manifold are our obligations to this delightful Journal. From the Number (26) for the present month we glean the following:

The Gurnard and Sprat.

Mr. J. Couch, in an interesting paper on the fishes of Cornwall, has the following notes:

"Ray observes that the word gurnard, which may be regarded as the English term, is derived a grunnitu, from grunting like a hog. In this, however, I venture to think this eminent naturalist mistaken. Pengurn is the ancient Cornu-British name for these fishes, and signifies hard head; and its English translation is now sometimes given to the grey gurnard. From the Cornish word gurn (hard), I therefore derive the name, as descriptive of the head of these species. This is a common fish at all seasons; but in December and January it sometimes abounds to such a degree, that, as they are not much esteemed, I have known them sold at thirty for a penny. It keeps near the bottom commonly, at no great distance from land; but sometimes multitudes will mount together to the surface; and move along with the first dorsal fin above the water: they will even quit their native element, and spring to the distance of a yard; thus imitating the flying gurnard, though not to the same extent. In summer they are found basking in the sun, perhaps asleep, as they will at times display no signs of animation, until an attempt is made to seize them.

"In reference to some observations by Mr. Yarrell, in the Zoological Journal, relative to the distinction between the sprat and the young of the pilchard and herring, I can state that Cornish fishermen term the young of both the latter fishes sprats; but, how far this should go in determining the judgment of a naturalist will appear, when I add that I have never seen above one specimen of the genuine sprat in Cornwall, and that was brought me by a fisherman, to be informed what fish it was. In taking fish out of his net by night, he felt it to be neither a pilchard nor a herring, and supposed it something rare."

STRUCTURE OF BIRDS

Birds may be said to constitute an isolated class of beings. They are distinguished by certain characters from all other animals: their classification does not pass into any other, and cannot, therefore, be consistently introduced into the supposed chain or gradation of natural bodies.

The skeleton or bony frame of birds is in general lighter than in quadrupeds. They have the largest bones of all animals, in proportion to their weight; and their bones are more hollow than those of animals that do not fly: air-vessels also enable them to blow out the hollow parts of their bodies, when they wish to make their descent slower, rise more swiftly, or float in the air. The spine is immovable, but the neck has a greater number of bones, (never less than nine, and varying from that to twenty-four,) and consequently of joints, and more varied motion, than in quadrupeds. The breast-bone is very large, with a prominent keel down the middle, and is formed for the attachment of very strong muscles: the bones of the wings are analagous to those of the fore-legs in quadrupeds, but the termination is in three joints or fingers only, of which the exterior is very short. This will be better understood by the annexed:

Skeleton of a Turkey.

The muscles that move the wings downwards, in many instances, are a sixth part of the weight of the whole body; whereas those of a man are not in proportion one hundredth part so large. The centre of gravity of their bodies is always below the insertion of their wings to prevent them falling on their backs, but near that point on which the body is, during flight, as it were, suspended. The positions assumed by the head and feet are frequently calculated to accomplish these ends, and give to the wings every assistance in continuing the progressive motion. The tail also is of great use, in regulating the rise and fall of birds and even their lateral movements. What are commonly called the legs are analogous to the hind legs in quadrupeds, and they terminate, in general, in four toes, three of which are usually directed forwards, and one backwards; but in some birds there are only two toes, in others three.

Birds exceed quadrupeds in the quantity of their respiration, for they have not only a double circulation, and an aerial respiration, but they respire also through other cavities beside the lungs, the air penetrating through the whole body, and bathing the branches of the aorta, or great artery of the body, as well as those of the pulmonary artery.

Birds are usually classed according to the forms of their bills and feet, from those parts being connected with their mode of life, food, &c. and influencing their total habit very materially.

THE RHINOCEROS BIRD

This curious bird is of the order Picæ, or Pies, and of the genus Buceros, consisting of birds of rather large size, and distinguished by the disproportionate forms of their beaks, which are often still further remarkable for some kind of large prominence on the upper mandible. The most conspicuous species is the Buceros Rhinoceros of Linnæus, commonly called the Rhinoceros Bird.

The Rhinoceros Bird.

Its general size is that of a Turkey, but with a much more slenderly proportioned body. Its colour is black, with the tail white, crossed by a black bar: the beak is of enormous size, of a lengthened, slightly curved, and pointed shape, and on the upper mandible, towards the base, is an extremely large process, equal in thickness to the bill itself, and turning upwards and backwards in the form of a thick, sharp-pointed horn, somewhat resembling the horn of the rhinoceros. The use of this strange proboscis is by some supposed to be that of enabling the bird more easily to tear out the entrails of its prey; but others affirm that it is not of a predaceous nature, feeding only on vegetable substances. This bird is principally found in the East Indian Islands. A remarkably fine specimen was preserved in the Leverian Museum.

THE SKETCH-BOOK

RECOLLECTIONS OF A WANDERER

A scene on the coast of Cornwall

A short time before my departure from the hamlet of Landwithiel,[4 - See "Recollections of a Wanderer," Mirror, Nos. 430-475.] I was awoke early one morning by the roaring of the wind in the huge old chimney of my room—the whole tenement, indeed, occasionally shook as a violent gust swept down the valley, tossing the branches of the stout old tree before the door to and fro in a way that threatened at last to level them with the dust. The very briny scent of the atmosphere convinced me there was some sea running in the bay; and it was the more unexpected as we had had no tokens of a storm for several days previous. From the peninsular situation of this county, surrounded on almost every side with the restless ocean and exposed to the wide sweep of the Atlantic, it may be supposed that storms are of frequent occurrence. As on the present occasion, they often come with little or no warning; and the effects of a hurricane in the distant main, far outstripping the wind, sometimes rolls with tremendous fury towards our western shores, on which the sea is encroaching in every part.

Landwithiel was a wild little place. It was essentially a "fishing village." The people ploughed the deep, not the land; and the constant exposure—blow high, blow low—on the restless sea, endued its inhabitants, and the Cornish fishermen generally, with a fearlessness of danger and boldness of character almost unequalled in these islands. The lives and pursuits of the two great classes in this county—the maritime and mining population—are widely opposite to each other. The one class pass their existence on the stormy waters of the deep, whilst the other labour far below the surface of the earth; each being continually exposed to numberless perils and dangers.

When I descended below I found my host already astir; so after attending well to the inward man, I lost no time in starting towards the harbour. As I formerly described, this comes abruptly in sight round a sharp angle, at some elevation from the beach. On the upper part of the descent the road was flanked on each side with a row of cottages, the street being so steep that steps were formed in many parts to aid the progress of the passenger. This gave an air of singularity and wildness to the place, which was aided by the boldness of the surrounding scenery. The street bore all the marks of the occupation of the inhabitants—nets hanging to dry—strings of fish—an old oar—or a "fisher's wife" broiling fish for her husband's breakfast—met the eye on either side.

On clearing the street, I observed a larger throng on the old pier than was wont to gather there on ordinary occasions. There was obviously some unusual subject of interest agitated amongst them; so I turned from my course and joined the group.

A gale is an important event in a fishing town. Independent of the interest naturally felt for the various craft belonging to the place which may happen to be afloat, there may be wrecks or other marine casualties to excite the interest or cupidity of the observer.

There was a tremendous tumbling sea rolling into the little bay, when I drew towards the pier. At the further end was a group of persons in earnest conversation, whom I distinguished as the knowing ones and long-heads of the place; while their younger companions were engaged in parties walking briskly to and fro on the pier. A tier of boats had been carefully drawn up high and dry beyond the wreck left by the last spring tide. Four or five, however, were afloat, and lurching heavily alongside the pier, whither the tide had not long reached; the wind rattling amongst the masts, shrouds, and half-bent sails of some craft which had just run in for shelter from the impending storm. My recent adventure had made me pretty well acquainted with most of the persons around: and I learned that a ground swell had been observed along shore the preceding night. This phenomenon is generally occasioned by a storm in the Atlantic, with a westerly wind; and it affords to the old fishermen an almost certain indication of approaching foul weather.

"A stiff bit of a gale, this same, Master Charles," said an old tar, giving an energetic jerk to his trousers, "Ay, ay, old boy," he replied, "this wind is not blowing for nothing, you may take my word for it; but if the Jane and the Susan hove in sight I'd not mind a bit for all that; we've not a stick afloat but her."

"What! is Sam Clovelly[5 - See Mirror, No. 475. "Dawlish's Hole."] out this morning, Helston?" I anxiously inquired of the pilot, who was a manly, excellent sort of fellow. He had grown grey with service, and there was something in the steady eye and calm decision of his look that marked him out as no common character.

"Yes, sir, we have no tidings of him yet, and the sky looking as black, yonder, as the face of a negro; but we'll hope that he's run out of harm's way before now."

As the morning waxed apace, the interest in the fate of the Jane and Susan became more evident amongst the by-standers. Every stick that came in sight cut out conversation; but many an eye was cast anxiously to windward in vain for poor Sam Clovelly and his brother Arthur, who had been out since the preceding night. Presently the two little orphan sisters of the missing men came upon the pier, and Helstone, the pilot, and some of the others anxiously endeavoured to cheer and console them.

"I'll be bound they've run for – port long ago, darlings, so don't cry now, Jane; the old craft's stood many a stronger breeze than this; now, wipe your eyes, there. Poor things," he said, turning to me, as the children went farther on the pier, "their two brothers are the only friends they have got in the world, and if they are gone who is to take care of them? Their father, old Sam Clovelly, was lost—I recollect the time well—somewhere off Milford; leaving his wife, with two stiff tidy bits of lads, and likely to increase the family; well, sir, she took to her bed, with the shock, and never rose from it more, after giving birth to these two little girls, leaving poor Sam and Arthur to struggle on like a cutter in a heavy sea. But God Almighty never deserts the innocent, sir—you've seen that, I dare say? Sam's been a steady lad, and has prospered, and he and Arthur have never forgotten their mother's dying words, and have been very kind to their sisters; but, come what will, the orphans shall never want a friend as long as Charley Helston has a home or a bit of bread to offer them."

We now again reverted to the state of the day. As the gale swept on, numberless craft were running along the coast towards – port, for shelter. A crack Fowey-man now making a board till she "eat out" of the wind a North-countryman right ahead—now with her helm-a-lea, and now careering along with a heavy following sea on either quarter—kept our attention on the alert. Presently a steamer came in sight bearing up across the bay towards – Head. The white rush of steam from her safety-valves was well made out by the blackness of the windward horizon; and contrasted with the dense puffs of smoke from her funnel, which were instantly dispersed or carried in heavy patches to leeward. The glory of modern discoveries is unpopular with our coasting-seamen, and the mate of a coaster, who was watching her movements, observed that "we should not have a lad fit to hand a sail or man a yard soon with their cursed machinery."

As she passed on her course "cleaving blast and breaker right ahead," with her weather-wheel often spinning in the air, and as the sky darkened and the waves roared louder, I thought with deep interest on what might even now be the fate of those, without whose friendly aid I should have been lying on a rocky pillow and seaweed for my shroud, near Dawlish's Hole. The weather now became entitled to the formidable name of a storm, but some time had yet to elapse before darkness added its horrors to the scene of desolation.

Heavy masses of breakers were continually striking the pier-head with fearful crashes; now bursting over, amid seas of spray, with resistless impetuosity, drenching every one under its lee; now recoiling for a brief moment, as if to gather strength, leaving a smooth, hollow waste of oily sea—like the treacherous pauses of human passion,—and then returning with wilder haste and tenfold added fury to the onset.

The morning was waning away. I left the pier, and bent my course away from Landwithiel.

The path I pursued led along the summit of the cliffs; oftentimes winding so close round the edge of a projecting acclivity, that it required a clear head and a steady foot, for one false step would have been instant destruction. The coast below me was justly entitled to take its place amongst the finest rock-scenery in the island; and exhibited in its grandest form, the peculiarly wild and picturesque nature of the coast of Cornwall. After working my way against a head-wind for three or four miles, I took shelter in Dawlish's Watch Tower, an old half-ruined building, which commanded an almost boundless look-out. Nearly right opposite to this station lay the Wolf-stone, an insular, and almost inaccessible rock, which rose in deep water about three-quarters of a mile from land. Whilst scanning with my glass the windward horizon, I accidentally rested on this islet, and I had not looked long before my gaze was rivetted to it. Two individuals I fancied were standing near a pole which was erected on the highest point. These lone and unusual tenants of the sea-birds' home were obviously, from their motions, much agitated. A heavy driving shower, for a few minutes, wrapped it in mist. When this cleared off, the black and dreary front of the Wolf-stone became dimly visible through the tumultuous assemblage of gigantic breakers, that were every instant grappling with the steep which defied them. Another minute's observation and I was running at my utmost speed back to Landwithiel. The captives could be no other than Sam and Arthur Clovelly.

My arrival caused universal stir and interest in Landwithiel. The Dasher, the best sea-boat in the harbour was instantly manned, with directions to pull to Carn Cove, almost opposite the rock, whither the rest of the men rapidly proceeded along the heights. Helston and myself also went thither to consult in the first instance, as to the best plan for relief; for no boat could live, in such a day as this, within some distance of the rock.

The anxious group gathered on the edge of the cliff; and while a white flag was running up a boat's mast which we had erected on the tower, we cheered loudly and repeatedly to assure the distant captives that aid was nigh.

"It is Sam—God be praised," sang out Helston, who was steadily looking out through his glass—and every one crowded around. "And is Arthur there too, Charles?"—"Yes, I see.—Death! I thought that wave would sweep over all. Now they wave their neckcloths—they beckon us to use haste. High water is drawing fast on, and what man ever lived on the Wolfstone in a spring flood. They wave again; sing away there, my lads, cheerily!" and a tumultuous shout of human voices again mingled with the blast.

Almost every eye was now cast out for the Dasher, and she was seen pulling with great difficulty—for a handkerchief of canvass would have been madness—towards the shelter of a projecting mass of rock, in Carne Cove, in the comparatively smooth water behind which, Helston and myself were enabled with some difficulty to get aboard. It was a moment of some excitement. Accustomed from childhood fearlessly to brave an element they might truly call their own, the gallant little crew steadily seated themselves, and taking off their hats manfully answered the encouraging cheers from aloft. The men now shipped their oars, and all having been made snug, I seated myself in the stern-sheets, near Helston, who had taken the helm. There was something fine in his weather-beaten countenance, and grey hair streaming in the breeze, as he steadily scanned the dark masses of the distant Wolf-stone—he was a true seaman.

The Dasher was a boat that would live in almost any weather on this coast, head to wind; but when she was put about, there was no little danger of her being pooped in a heavy following sea. Ours was now the former case, and as the crew put her through the contending sea, which at every stroke hit our bows and soaked us with spray, I anxiously consulted with Helston on the best means of shipping the captives on making the Wolf-stone. Keeping his eye fixed on the rock, which was grimly visible on our larboard bow, he shook his head as the portentous darkness of the sky again claimed our attention. "If we had been delayed a quarter of an hour longer they would have been food for fishes;" I remarked, "but it will be close run; our men are doing all that strength and skill can do, but it avails little when opposed to such a power as this."

"Never fear, sir, we shall do yet—you are not so cool as I—how should you? when I have braved the storms of nearly sixty winters:—but the Wolf-stone's a spot, I will frankly confess, with which I had rather make acquaintance with a clearer sky and a flowing sheet, than on such a night as this. Just give a look-out a-head, sir," he added, as we were mounting a heavy sea, "and tell me how things are aloft on the rock."

However formidable this dreary steep might have appeared at a distance, now we were drawing near to it, the wildness and sublimity of the scene surpassed my calculations. The fugitives, who by their gestures were urging us onward, had been driven for shelter to a hollow on the leeward side of the rock, which indeed was almost the only spot that now afforded an asylum from danger. The waves as they came rolling onwards with aggravated force from the main, ever and anon burst against the isle with terrific violence, now breaking into gigantic masses, then driven in columns of sparkling spray to a vast height in the air, and now closing on every side around their victims. The isle, indeed, appeared to be menaced with total annihilation.