Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 443

Our manufacturing operatives have been justly censured for their occasional—and, to do them justice, it is but occasional—enmity to machinery. Sometimes it may be palliated, though not justified, by the hardship which is often, without doubt, suffered by those who have to seek a new occupation. We suspect, however, that the legislature is not entirely free from this kind of barbarous enmity. We are led to this supposition by finding, in the sixth year of Edward VI., an act 'for the putting down of gig-mills.' It sets out with the principle, that everything that deteriorates manufactured articles does evil, continuing: 'And forasmuch as in many parts of this realm is newly and lately devised, erected, builded, and used, certain mills called gig-mills, for the perching and burling of cloth, by reason whereof the true drapery of this realm is wonderfully impaired, and the cloth thereof deceitfully made by reason of the using of the said gig-mills'—and so provisions follow for their suppression. It is a general effect of machinery to fabricate goods less lasting than those which are handwrought, but with an accompanying reduction of price, which makes the machine produce by far the cheaper. We fear the legislature saw only the deterioration, and was not alive to the more than compensating facility of production.

VISIT TO THE ROYAL ITALIAN OPERA

It is by the territorial division of labour that a country arrives most successfully at wealth and civilisation. Our hops are grown in Kent and Essex; Glasgow annually sends forth the engines of our steam fleets; Sunderland is the focus of our shipbuilding; Edinburgh, with her legion of professors, and her busy presses, is one vast academy. In short, each district does something peculiar to itself, while all avoid sending coal to Newcastle.

A large number of manufactures, particularly those of luxury, are peculiar to the metropolis, and one of the most prominent of this class is public amusement. Every season has its novelty, whether the opera of a great foreign composer, or the lectures of a literary lion; besides endless panoramas, dioramas, cosmoramas, and cycloramas, which bring home to John Bull the wonders of the habitable globe, and annihilate time and space for his delectation. We see the Paris of the Huguenots to the sound of Meyerbeer's blood-stirring trumpets; or gain companionship with Hogarth, Fielding, or Smollett as we listen to Thackeray; or, after paying our shilling in the Chinese Junk, are, to all intents and purposes, afloat in the Hoang Ho.

London is the place at which these amusements are manufactured and first presented, and at which the stamp is sought which enables a portion of them to pass current in the provinces, and make large returns to the more fortunate speculators. In the metropolis, the vast capital afloat in such schemes is first cast on the waters, and a large amount annually sunk and engulfed for ever in the great vortex. The continued series of splendid fortunes which have been sacrificed in such schemes, would excite our astonishment that the fate of previous adventurers had not acted as a warning, if the moral of the gambling-table and the Stock Exchange were not always ready, by collateral illustration, to explain a riddle which would otherwise be insoluble.

Indisputably foremost of all the establishments which offer amusement to the London public, is the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden; and we say this without attempting to enter into the question of whether it has rightly or wrongly achieved a preponderance of vocal talent over the rival theatre. While noting, however, the combination of talent it presents, and the continued flow of capital it sends forth in the production of the highest class of works, we must at the same time express our admiration of the spirited efforts of Mr Lumley to sustain himself against such odds; and our hope that nothing will induce this gentleman to give up a rivalry which has been a stimulus to the exertions of the other house, and which has rendered London the musical capital of the world. Thus much premised, we sit down to give an account of a day spent at Covent Garden, devoted to a thorough examination of this vast establishment, from its extensive catacombs to the leads which overlook the panorama of London; persuaded as we are that the public has but an obscure idea of the capital, labour, and ingenuity expended in the production of what is visible to the eye of the audience. Access to the stage during rehearsal is strictly confined to the performers, although that is the least part of the exhibition; but by special favour, we were taken in charge by the chief mechanist, an individual provided with the necessary technical knowledge, as well as with a material bunch of keys to unlock all the mysteries of the place.

Our début was made upon the stage, which we examined in its various parts and appendages while the ballet practice was proceeding. The curtain was up: the audience part of the house, from the pit to the ceiling, was covered with linen, in order to preserve the satin draperies from dust. Comparative darkness pervaded the vast space; but the front of the stage was illumined by a pipe of gas, pierced for jets, running over the orchestra from wing to wing; while a beam of sunlight, penetrating through the cords and pulleys of the upper regions, cast a strange lustre on the boards, as if it had come through green glass. Half a dozen chairs were placed in front of the stage, on one of which sat the ballet-master—a stout, bald-headed man, who beat time with his stick. A violinist played at his elbow the skeleton airs of the ballet music, while the male and female dancers executed their assigned parts; the stout bald-headed gentleman occasionally interrupting the rehearsal to suggest improvements, or to issue a peremptory reprimand to one of those pale, pretty things who were bounding across the stage in short muslin petticoats and faded white satin rehearsal chaussure. 'Elle est folle!' 'Allez aux petites maisons!' sounded rather ungallant, if we did not know that an effective drill for so refractory a corps is not to be got through by the aid of the academy of compliments. The master himself, suiting the action to the word, occasionally started up, and making some pas, as an illustrative example, with his heels flying in the air, was certainly in a state of signal incongruity with his aspect, which, when seated, was that of a steady-looking banker's clerk from Lombard Street.

The width of the stage between the so-called fly-rails is 50 feet; while the depth from the footlights to the wall at the back, is 80 feet. But on extraordinary occasions, it is possible to obtain even a longer vista; for the wall opposite the centre of the stage is pierced by a large archway, behind which, to the outer wall, is a space of 36 feet; so that by introducing a scene of a triumphal arch, or some other device, a depth of 100 feet can be obtained, leaving still a clear space of 16 feet behind the furthest scene, round the back of which processions can double. It would otherwise be difficult to comprehend how it is possible, as in the opera of La Juive, to manœuvre here a procession of 394 persons, including a car drawn by eight horses.

The stage itself is covered all over with trap-doors and sliding panels, although it feels sufficiently firm to the tread; the depth from the boards to the ground below the stage is twenty-two feet, divided into two floors, the lower deck—if I may so call it—being also furnished with abundant hatchways down to the hold. On the left of the stage, facing the audience, is a room of good size, close to the flies; this is the property-room of the night, in which are accumulated, previous to the performance, all the articles required for that night, whether it be the toilette-table of a princess, or the pallet and water-jug of a dungeon prisoner. This apartment, the reader may easily understand, is quite distinct from the property store-room, which contains everything required for every opera, from the crown of the Prophet of Munster to the magpie's cage in La Gazza Ladra. There is one property, however, which is of too great dimensions to be transportable. The large and fine-toned organ, used in the Prophète, Huguenots, and Robert le Diable, is to the right of the stage, opposite the property-room; and the organist, from his position, being unable to see the baton of Mr Costa, takes the time from a lime-tree baton fixed to the organ, which is made to vibrate by machinery under the control of Mr Costa, from his place in the orchestra. It would take up too much space to enter more at large into the machinery used in theatrical entertainments; and at anyrate, the parallel slides, the pierced cylinder—by which a ripple is produced on water—and many other devices, however curious and interesting, could not be made intelligible without woodcuts.

Our conductor now provided himself with a lantern, in order to lead us to the regions under the stage; for, in consequence of the mass of inflammable material connected with a theatre, there are as strict regulations against going about with open lights as in a coal-pit addicted to carbonic acid gas. Descending a trap, we reached the so-called mazarine-floor, a corruption of the Italian mezzanine, from which the musicians have access to the orchestra. It is not much higher than the human stature; and hither descends that Ateista Fulminato, Don Juan, or any other wight unlucky enough to be consigned to the infernal regions until the curtain drops. In this floor is a large apartment for the orchestra, in which are deposited the musical instruments in their cases; and beside it is the so-called pass-room, in which note is taken of the punctual arrival of performers.

Below this is the ground-floor, and below that, again, a vast extent of catacombs. One of these is the rubbish-vault, and this is of considerable size; for although dresses and properties are often made of the coarsest materials, and will not stand a close inspection—the problem to be solved being the combination of stage effect with economy—yet, on the other hand, their want of durability, and the constant production of new pieces, necessarily creates a large amount of waste; and for this accommodation must of course be provided.

Leaving the rubbish-vault, we examined the gasometer, and the remains of gas-works; for Covent Garden made its own gas, until an explosion took place, which suffocated several men. My conductor pointed out to me the spot where they attempted to escape, having gone through a long corridor until they were stopped by a dead wall, now pierced by a door. Near the gasometer is the hydraulic machine for supplying with water the tank on the top of the house; all the other services on this line of pipe are screwed off, and thus the water is forced to the top of the building. In the Queen's Theatre, Haymarket, a supply for the tank on the roof is obtained from a well which was sunk by Mr Lumley under the building, in consequence of the river company having raised his water-rate from L.60 to L.90. From the well, the water is forced up by a machine.

We next ascended a stair, flight after flight; then wound our way through a region of flies and pulleys; and then scrambled up ladders until we arrived at the tank itself, which is large enough to hold sufficient water to supply six engines for half an hour. It has long hose attached to it, ready, at the shortest notice, to have the water directed either over the scenery or the audience part. We now proceeded over the roof of the audience part, to what appeared to be a large well, fenced by a parapet; and looking down ten or twelve feet, saw below us the centre chandelier, the aperture, which would otherwise be unsightly, being closed by an open framework in Arabesque. Through this the chandelier is lighted by a long rod, having at the end a wire, to which is attached a piece of ignited sponge soaked in spirits of wine: the chandelier is raised and lowered at pleasure by a three-ton windlass.

Not less than eighty-five apartments, great and small, surround the stage or adjoin it, and are used as dressing-rooms, workshops, store-rooms, and offices. We first visited the dressing-room of Madame Grisi, nearest the stage, and it had the air of an elegant boudoir, hung and furnished in green and crimson; while another close beside it, fitted up in precisely the same style, was somewhat prematurely called the dressing-room of Mademoiselle Wagner. The dresses of the various performers, we may mention, are supplied by the management; but some of them, with large salaries, and priding themselves on appearing before the public in costly and well-fitting garments, choose to incur this expense themselves.

The sempstresses-room looks exactly like a large milliner's shop, and here we found a forewoman with eighteen assistants at work. Books of costumes are always at hand, so that a degree of historical accuracy is now attained in Opera costume, which materially assists the illusion; and no such anachronism is visible in Covent Garden as in a certain theatre across the Thames, where, instead of the Saracenic minarets of Cairo, this gorgeous Arab city is represented by pyramids, obelisks, and sphynxes. The painting-room of Covent Garden is a light and lofty apartment at the top of the house, and the name of Mr Grieve is a sufficient guarantee both for historical accuracy and artistic character. Scene-painting, as practised at Covent Garden, is a most systematic process: a coloured miniature of each scene is made on Bristol-board, and consigned to an album; then a larger miniature is made, and placed in a model of the Opera stage, on a large table, and from this the scenes themselves are executed. Near the painting-room is the working property-room, filled with carpenters, mechanists, smiths, painters, and other artificers—everything either before or behind the curtain being kept up, repaired, and altered by the people of the establishment.

We now proceeded to hear the rehearsal of the opera of Lucia di Lammermoor, and entering the stalls, found the orchestra full and nearly ready to commence, Mr Costa discussing a glass of port-wine and a sandwich, while the stage-manager was marshalling the people for the first tableau, the principal singers being seated on chairs at the side. What would most have struck those accustomed only to English theatricals, was the respectable appearance of the chorus, so different from the ragamuffin troop that fill up the back-ground of an English scene. The Covent Garden chorus includes, at rehearsal, a considerable number of well-dressed men in shining hats and new paletots, many of whom are good music-teachers, not the less qualified for that business by the opportunities they have in this establishment of becoming familiar with the way in which the best works of the best masters are executed by the best artists.

The rehearsal over, we turned our attention to the audience part of the house, more particularly the Queen's box, of the privacy and splendour of which even old habitués have no idea. In the first place, Her Majesty has a separate court-yard for entrance, in which she may alight, which is a check not only upon obtrusive curiosity on the part of the public, but upon the evil disposed; for although one might naturally suppose, that if there is any individual who ought to enjoy immunity from danger or disrespect, it would be a lady who is exemplary in her public duties as a constitutional sovereign, as well as in those of a consort and mother—experience has shewn the fallaciousness of the idea.

The staircase is very noble, such as few mansions in London possess. Passing through the vestibule, we enter the grand drawing-room, in the centre of which is one of those tables that formed an ornament of the Exhibition last year. The drapery is of yellow satin damask. The principal feature of this drawing-room is the conservatory, which is separated from it by one vast sheet of plate-glass, the gas-light being contrived in such a way as to be unseen by those in the room, although bringing out the colours of the flowers with the greatest brilliancy.

Adjoining the drawing-room is the Queen's dressing-room; and between the grand drawing-room and the royal box is the little drawing-room, the walls of which are hung with blue satin damask, relieved by rich gilt ornaments, mouldings, and bronzes, in the style of Louis Quinze. The royal box itself is fitted up with crimson satin damask, a large arm-chair at the extreme right of the front of the box being the one Her Majesty usually occupies; but when she visits the theatre in state, fourteen boxes in the centre of the house, overlooking the back of the pit, are opened into one, involving a large amount of expense and trouble, which, however, is no doubt amply compensated by the extraordinary receipts of the night.

A private and separate entrance is not the exclusive privilege of royalty. The Duke of Bedford, as ground-landlord, and Miss Burdett Coutts, who has likewise a box in perpetual freehold, have separate entrances, just under that of the Queen's box, with drawing-rooms attached, which are small and low-roofed, but sumptuously fitted up. Such were the principal objects appertaining to the audience part of the house.

Returning behind the scenes, the two principal public rooms are the manager's room and green-room, which both suggested recollections of old Covent Garden in its British drama-days. Unlike the audience part of the theatre, which has been entirely reconstructed, the stage part has only been refurnished—and yet not entirely refurnished—for in this very manager's room, where John Kemble used to play the potentate off the stage with as much dignity as on it, stands a clock with the following inscription: 'After the dreadful fire of Covent Garden Theatre, on the morning of September the 21st 1808, this clock was dug out of the ruins by John Saul, master-carpenter of the theatre, and repaired and set to work.' When we reached the green-room itself, what recollections crowded on me of the stars that glittered around the Kemble dynasty! In Costa, seated at the pianoforte, I saw the face of an honest man, who unites dogged British perseverance and energy with the Italian sense of the beautiful in art. A feeling of regret, however, came over me, to think that our British school of dramatic representation and dramatic literature, which dawned brightly under Elizabeth, and in the eighteenth century was associated with everything distinguished in polite letters and polite society, should have become all but extinct. But this feeling was momentary, when I reflected that our sense of the beautiful, including the good and the true, had not diminished, but had merely gone into new channels; and, more especially, that Meyerbeer and Rossini, in order to hear their own incomparable works executed in perfection, must come to the city which the Exhibition of last year has indelibly stamped as the capital of the civilised world.

NUMBER TWELVE

When I was a young man, working at my trade as a mason, I met with a severe injury by falling from a scaffolding placed at a height of forty feet from the ground. There I remained, stunned and bleeding, on the rubbish, until my companions, by attempting to remove me, restored me to consciousness. I felt as if the ground on which I was lying formed a part of myself; that I could not be lifted from it without being torn asunder; and with the most piercing cries, I entreated my well-meaning assistants to leave me alone to die. They desisted for the moment, one running for the doctor, another for a litter, others surrounding me with pitying gaze; but amidst my increasing sense of suffering, the conviction began to dawn on my mind, that the injuries were not mortal; and so, by the time the doctor and the litter arrived, I resigned myself to their aid, and allowed myself, without further objection, to be carried to the hospital.

There I remained for more than three months, gradually recovering from my bodily injuries, but devoured with an impatience at my condition, and the slowness of my cure, which effectually retarded it. I felt all the restlessness and anxiety of a labourer suddenly thrown out of an employment difficult enough to procure, knowing there were scores of others ready to step into my place; that the job was going on; and that, ten chances to one, I should never set foot on that scaffolding again. The visiting surgeon vainly warned me against the indulgence of such passionate regrets—vainly inculcated the opposite feeling of gratitude demanded by my escape: all in vain. I tossed on my fevered bed, murmured at the slowness of his remedies, and might have thus rendered them altogether ineffectual, had not a sudden change been effected in my disposition by another, at first unwelcome, addition to our patients. He was placed in the same ward with me, and insensibly I found my impatience rebuked, my repinings hushed for very shame, in the presence of his meek resignation to far greater privations and sufferings. Fresh courage sprang from his example, and soon—thanks to my involuntary physician—I was in the fair road to recovery.

And he who had worked the charm, what was he? A poor, helpless old man, utterly deformed by suffering—his very name unnoticed, or at least never spoken in the place where he now was; he went only by the appellation of No. 12—the number of his bed, which was next to my own. This bed had already been his refuge during three long and trying illnesses, and had at last become a sort of property for the poor fellow in the eyes of doctors, students, nurse-tenders, in fact, the whole hospital staff. Never did a gentler creature walk on God's earth: walk—alas! for him the word was but an old memory. Many years before, he had totally lost the use of his legs; but, to use his own expression, 'this misfortune did not upset him:' he still retained the power of earning his livelihood, which he derived from copying deeds for a lawyer at so much per sheet; and if the legs were no longer a support, the hands worked at the stamped parchments as diligently as ever. But some months passed by, and then the paralysis attacked his right arm: still undaunted, he taught himself to write with the left; but hardly had the brave heart and hand conquered the difficulty, when the enemy crept on, and disabling this second ally, no more remained for him than to be conveyed once more, though this time as a last resource, to the hospital. There he had the gratification to find his former quarters vacant, and he took possession of his old familiar bed with a satisfaction that seemed to obliterate all regret at being obliged to occupy it again. His first grateful accents smote almost reproachfully on my ear: 'Misfortune must have its turn, but every day has a to-morrow.'

It was indeed a lesson to witness the gratitude of this excellent creature. The hospital, so dreary a sojourn to most of its inmates, was a scene of enjoyment to him: everything pleased him; and the poor fellow's admiration of even the most trifling conveniences, proved how severe must have been his privations. He never wearied of praising the neatness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, the quality of the food; and my surprise gave place to the truest pity, when I learned that, for the last twenty years, this respectable old man could only afford himself, out of the profits of his persevering industry, the coarsest bread, diversified with white cheese or vegetable porridge; and yet, instead of reverting to his privations in the language of complaint, he converted them into a fund of gratitude, and made the generosity of the nation, which had provided such a retreat for the suffering poor, his continual theme. Nor did his thankful spirit confine itself to this. To listen to him, you would have believed him an especial object of divine as well as human benevolence—all things working for his good. The doctor used to say, that No. 12 had 'a mania for happiness;' but it was a mania that in creating esteem for its victim, infused fresh courage into all that came within its range.

I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with his little black silk cap, his spectacles, and the well-worn volume, which he never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of the sun rested on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicing and thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might have supposed that the sun was rising for him alone.

I need hardly say, that he soon interested himself in my cure, and regularly made inquiry respecting its progress. He always found something cheering to say—something to inspire patience and hope, himself a living commentary on his words. When I looked at this poor motionless figure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that smiling countenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to complain. At each painful crisis, he would exclaim: 'One minute, and it will be over—relief will soon follow. Every day has its to-morrow.'

I had one good and true friend—a fellow-workman, who used sometimes to spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight in cultivating an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by a kindred spirit, he never passed his bed without pausing to offer his cordial salutation; and then he would whisper to me: 'He is a saint on earth; and not content with gaining Paradise himself, must win it for others also. Such people should have monuments erected to them, known and read of all men. In observing such a character, we feel ashamed of our own happiness—we feel how comparatively little we deserve it. Is there anything I can do to prove my regard for this good, poor No. 12?'

'Just try among the bookstalls,' I replied, 'and find the second volume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than six years since he lost it, and ever since, he has been obliged to content himself with the first.'

Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of literature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art of printing as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idleness and conceit; and as to writing—in his opinion, a man was never thoroughly committed, until he had recorded his sentiments in black and white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success in life, which had been tolerable—thanks to his industry and integrity—he attributed altogether to his ignorance of those dangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming face as he exclaimed: 'What! the good creature is a lover of books? Well, we must admit that even the best have their failings. No matter. Write down the name of this odd volume on a slip of paper; and it shall go hard with me, but I give him that gratification.'

He did actually return the following week with a well-worn volume, which he presented in triumph to the old invalid. He looked somewhat surprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain that it was at my suggestion he had procured it in place of the lost one, the old grateful expression at once beamed up in the eyes of No. 12; and with a voice trembling with emotion, he thanked the hearty giver.

I had my misgivings, however; and the moment our visitor turned his back, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour reddened, stammered, and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his last intrenchments, he handed me the little volume. It was an old Royal Almanac. The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer's ignorance, had substituted it for the book he had demanded. I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with the only impatient word I ever heard from his lips: 'Do you wish our friend to hear you? I would rather never recover the power of this lost arm, than deprive his kind heart of the pleasure of his gift. And what of it? Yesterday, I did not care a straw for an almanac; but in a little time it is perhaps the very book I should have desired. Every day has its to-morrow. Besides, I assure you it is a very improving study: even already I perceive the names of a crowd of princes never mentioned in history, and of whom up to this moment I have never heard any one speak.'

And so the old almanac was carefully preserved beside the volume of poetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid never failed to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friend happened to enter the room. As to him, he was quite proud of its success, and would say to me each time: 'It appears I have made him a famous present.' And thus the two guileless natures were content.

Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength of poor No. 12 diminished rapidly. At first, he lost the slight powers of motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; at last, no part obeyed his will except the eyes, which continued to smile on us still. But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as if his very glance had become dim. I arose hastily, and approaching his bed, inquired if he wished for a drink; he made a slight movement of his eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray of the rising sun shone in on his bed. Then the eyes lighted up, like a taper that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished—he looked as if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as I watched him for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, his kindly heart ceased to beat. He had thrown off the burden of To-day; he had entered on his eternal To-morrow.

THINGS TALKED OF IN LONDON

    June 1852.

As usual, everything shews in this month that our season will soon be past its perihelion: soirées, whether scientific, exquisite, or political, take place almost too frequently for the comfort and wellbeing of the invited; and loungers and legislators are alike beginning to dream of leafy woods and babbling brooks. Our learned societies have brought their sessions to a close, with more or less of satisfaction to all concerned, the Royal having elected their annual instalment of new Fellows, and the Antiquaries having decided to reduce their yearly subscription from four guineas to two, with a view to an increase and multiplication of the number of their members, so that the study of antiquity may be promoted, and latent ability or enthusiasm called into play. The British Association are making preparations for their meeting at Belfast, and if report speak truth, the result of the gathering will be an advancement of science in more than one department. Concerts, musical gatherings, spectacles, are in full activity, the entrepreneurs seizing the moments, and coins too, as they fly. In short, midsummer has come, and fashion is about to substitute languor for excitement. Meantime, our excursion trains have commenced their trips to every point of the compass; and during the next few months, thousands will have the opportunity of exploring the finest scenery of our merry island at the smallest possible cost; and for one centre of attraction, as London was last year, there will now be a hundred.

The award of Lord Campbell on the bookselling question has given a great triumph to the innovating party, to which the authors to a man, and the great bulk of the public, had attached themselves. The Trade, as the booksellers call themselves, while admitting that they can no longer stand under a protective principle, feel certain difficulties as to their future career, for unquestionably there is something peculiar in their business, in as far as a nominal price for their wares is scarcely avoidable. If so, the question is, How is it to be adjusted? at a lower allowance for the retailer? In that case, some would still undersell others; and the old troubles would still be experienced. Ought there, then, to be no fixed retailing price at all, but simply one for the publisher to exact from the retailer, leaving him to sell at what profit he pleases or can get? In that case, the publisher's advertisement, holding forth no price to the public, would lose half its utility. Shall we, then, leave the retailer to advertise? All of these questions must occupy the attention of booksellers for some time to come, and their settlement cannot speedily be hoped for. The general belief, however, is, that the cost for the distribution of books from the shops of the publishers must be considerably reduced, the prices of books of course lowered, and their diffusion proportionately extended. It will perhaps be found that some of the greatest obstructions that operate in the case are not yet so much as touched upon.

The French have resumed their explorations and excavations at Khorsabad, and will doubtless bring to light many more remains of the arts of Nineveh; and Colonel Rawlinson has found the burial-place of the kings and queens of Assyria, where the bodies are placed in sarcophagi, in the very habiliments and ornaments in which they were three thousand years ago! What an important relic it will be for our rejuvenated Society of Antiquaries to exercise their faculty of investigation upon! If discoveries go on at this rate, we shall soon want to enlarge our British Museum.

The Registrar-General tells us, in his first Report for the present year, that 90,936 persons were married in the last quarter of 1851—a greater number than in any quarter since 1842, except two, when it was slightly exceeded. It is altogether beyond the average, and confirms what has been before observed, that marriages are most numerous in England in the months of September, October, and November, after the harvest. To every 117 of the whole population there was one marriage. On the other hand, births are found to be most abundant in the first quarters of the year; the number for the first three months of the present year was 161,776. 'So many births,' says the Registrar, 'were never registered before in the same time.' In the same period of 1851, it was 157,374; and of 1848, 139,736. The deaths during the three months were 106,682, leaving an increase in the population of 55,094, which, however, disappears in the fact, that 57,874 emigrants left the United Kingdom in the course of the quarter. The mortality, on the whole, was less than in the ten previous winters, owing, perhaps, to the temperature having been 3° above the average; but the difference was more marked in rural districts than in the large towns. According to the meteorological table attached to the Report, it appears that the mean temperature for the three months ending in February was 41°.1, being 4°.2 above the average of eighty years. On the 10th of February, the north-east wind set in, and on seventy nights during the quarter the temperature went below freezing. The movement of the air through January and February was 160 miles per day—in March, 100 miles. Up to February 9, the wind was generally south-west, and rain fell on twenty-three days, and on six days only after that date. These periodical reports, and those of our Meteorological and Epidemiological Societies will doubtless, before long, furnish us with sufficient data for a true theory of cause and effect as regards disease, and for preventive measures.

Gold is, and will be for some time to come, a subject much talked about. Some of our financiers are beginning to be of opinion, that the period is not distant when a great change must be made in the value of our currency—the sovereign, for instance, to be reduced from 20s. to 10s. If so, there would be a good deal of loss and inconvenience during the transition; but, once made, the difficulty would cease. Others, however, consider that the demand for gold for manufacturing purposes and new appliances in the arts, will be so great, that not for many years to come will its increase have any effect on the value of the circulating medium. It will be curious if the result, as not unfrequently happens, should be such as to falsify both conclusions. Connected with this topic is the important one of emigration; and so important is it, that either by public or private enterprise, measures will be taken to insure a supply of labourers to the Australian colonies to replace, if possible, those who have betaken themselves to the diggings. Convicts will not be received; and as something must be done with them, Sir James Matheson has offered to give North Rona, one of the Orkney Islands, to the government for a penal settlement. It has been surveyed, and found to contain 270 acres, sufficient to support a population of 1000. Should the proposal be adopted, it will afford an opportunity for trying an entirely new system of discipline with the criminal outcasts.

Some attention has been drawn to the fact, that our 'Ten Hour Bill' has produced an effect on the other side of the Atlantic. The legislature of Ohio has just passed a 'ten hour law,' to apply to 'all manufactories, workshops, and other places used for mechanical or manufacturing purposes' throughout the state; the penalty to be a fine of from one guinea to ten. Something has already been said about extending its provisions to agricultural labourers and domestic servants—not so easy a task as the other; but when one remembers how desperately hard people are made to work in the United States, it is gratifying to observe ever so small a beginning towards more temperate and life-preserving regulations. In New York, great efforts are made towards establishing female schools of design and female medical colleges, with a view to open to women a wider sphere of employment than that to which they are now restricted. Notwithstanding the objections expressed in many quarters against female physicians, it is certain that they would find favour among a large class of invalids. Another Women's Rights Convention has been held, and an Industrial Congress. One of the questions discussed at the latter was: Why in the United States some have all the work and no property, and others all the property and no work? Harriet Martineau's stories of Political Economy would have helped the debaters to a satisfactory solution.

Our sanitary reformers, also, are felicitating themselves on the spread of their principles to the West, seeing that the first Baths for the People were opened in New York a few weeks since. It appears from accounts which have been sent over, that the edifice cost 30,000 dollars, and is provided with every convenience to insure the end in view—the promotion of cleanliness. The charge for plunge-baths is two cents; for warm-baths, five cents; and first-class baths, ten cents. For washing, a range of stalls extends through the building, in the bottom of which is a contrivance for admitting hot or cold water, as may be desired. The drying machinery is 'arranged after the plan of a window-sash, with weights and pulleys, so as to rise and fall at pleasure. This sliding apparatus, when elevated, is brought into contact with confined heated air for a few minutes, followed by a rapid draught of dry air, which dries the clothes with great rapidity. The same heat is made use of for heating the flat-irons, which are brought from the furnace to the hands of the laundresses on a miniature railway.' With such an establishment as this in full play, the 71,000 emigrants who landed in New York during the first four months of the present year, would have little difficulty in purifying themselves after their voyage.

There is yet another topic of interest from the United States—namely, the earthquake that was felt over a wide extent of country on the 29th of April last. Our geologists are expecting to derive from it some further illustration of the dynamics of earthquakes, as the Smithsonian Institution has addressed a circular to its numerous staff of meteorological observers, calling for information as to the number of shocks, their direction, duration, intensity, effects on the soil and on buildings, &c. There have been frequent earthquakes of late in different parts of the world, and inquiry may probably trace out the connection between them. The centre of intensest action appears to have been at Hawaii, where Mauna Loa broke out with a tremendous eruption, throwing up a column of lava 500 feet high, which in its fall formed a molten river, in some places more than a mile wide. It burst forth at a point 10,000 feet above the base of the mountain.

Dr Gibbons has published a few noteworthy facts with respect to the climate of California, which shew that San Francisco 'possesses some peculiar features, differing from every other place on the coast.' The average yearly temperature is 54°; at Philadelphia it is 51°.50; and the temperature is found to be remarkably uniform, presenting few of those extremes common to the Atlantic states. On the 28th of April last year, it was 84°; on October 19th, 83°; August 18th, 82°—the only day in the three summer months when it rose above 79°. It was 80° on nine days only, six of them being in October; while in Philadelphia it is 80° from sixty to eighty days in the year. In the latter city, the temperature falls below the freezing-point on 100 days in the year, but at San Francisco on twenty-five mornings only. The coldest month is January; the hottest, October. 'In the summer months, there is scarcely any change of temperature in the night. The early morning is sometimes clear, sometimes cloudy, and always calm. A few hours after sunrise, the clouds break away, and the sun shines forth cheerfully and delightfully. Towards noon, or most frequently about one o'clock, the sea-breeze sets in, and the weather is completely changed. From 60° or 65°, the mercury drops forthwith to near 50° long before sunset, and remains almost motionless till next morning.' The summer, far from being the beautiful season it is in other countries, parches up the land, and gives it the aspect of a desert, while the 'cold sea-winds defy the almost vertical sun, and call for flannels and overcoats.' In November and December, or about midwinter, the early rains fall, and the soil becomes covered with herbage and flowers. These are facts which emigrants bound for California will do well to bear in mind.

To come back to Europe. M. Fourcault has addressed a communication to the Académie on 'Remedies against the Physical and Moral Degeneration of the Human Species,' intended more especially for the working-classes. He would have schools of gymnastics and swimming established along the great rivers, and on the sea-shore; gymnastic dispensaries, and clinical gymnastic in towns; and agricultural and other hospitals, combining simple and economical means of water-cure. His clinical gymnastic comprehends three divisions: hygienic or muscular exercise, not violent or long-continued, or productive of perspiration; medical, in which the exercise is to be kept up until perspiration is induced; and orthopedic, which, by means of ropes, bands, and loops attached to a bed, enable the patient to take such straining and stretching exercise as may be likely to rectify any deformity of limb. Whichever method be adopted, it must be carried out conscientiously, because 'feeble muscular contractions, without energy or sustained effort, produce no hygienic, medical, or orthopedic effect.' M. Fourcault may perhaps find some of his objects accomplished in another way, for the Prince President has, by a decree, appropriated 10,000,000 francs to the improvement of dwellings for the working-classes—3,000,000 of the sum being set apart for Paris—and has offered 5000 francs for the best design. If such works as these continue, we shall soon cease to hear that enough is not done for the working-classes; and they will have, in turn, to shew how much they can do for themselves.

A portable electric telegraph has lately been introduced on some of the French railways, by which, in case of accident, the conductors may communicate with the nearest stations. It is all contained in a single box, the lower portion of which contains the battery, the upper, the manipulator and signal apparatus. When required to be used, one of the wires is hooked on to the wires of the telegraph, and the other attached to an iron wedge thrust into the earth. It answers so well, that the directors of the Orleans line have provided thirty of their trains with the portable instruments. In connection with this, I may tell you that Lamont of Munich, after patient inquiry, has come to the conclusion, that there is a decennial period in the variations of the magnetic declination; it increases regularly for five years, and decreases as regularly through another five. If it can be discovered that the horizontal intensity is similarly affected in a similar period, another of the laws of terrestrial magnetism will be added to the sum of our knowledge.

NATIVITY AND PARENTAGE OF MARSHAL MACDONALD, DUKE OF TARENTUM

M. de Lamartine having made a mistake in his History of the Restoration, in describing Marshal Macdonald as of Irish extraction, it may be worth while to state what really was the parentage of that highly respectable man.