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jealous eye, and his dominion in this country as by no means secure, naturally laid upon them such restrictions as would most tend to lower their pride and degrade that noble activity of mind and body which might be productive of formidable opposition to the safety of his throne: this view is suggested by Polydore Vergil, who, upon this subject, writes, " In order that he might convert the native ferocity of the people into indolence and sloth, he deprived them of their arms, and ordained that each head of a family should retire to rest about eight o'clock in the evening, having raked the ashes over his fire: and that for this purpose a sign should be made through every village, which is even now preserved, and called in the Norman Cnver/eu."

Others, again, regard it as a mark of infamy, and as a proof of the slavery in which William held the conquered English. The poet, Thomson, seems to have adopted this opinion, when he wrote—

The shivering wretches, at the Curfew sound,
Dejected, sunk into their sordid beds, • ,
And through the mournful gloom of ancient times
Mused sad, or dreamt of better.

That it was not a badge of infamy, is, however, evident, from the fact, ihat the law was of equal obligation upon the Norman nobles of the court and upon the Saxon peasantry. The same argument might be adduced to show that it cannot justly be considered as a mark of slavery, since the high-spirited and chivalrous nobility which accompanied William in his expedition against Britain, each of whom was but too ready to exah his own pretensions to equality if not to superiority over their brave and adventurous but illegitimate leader, would have felt but little inclination to submit to any encroachment upon their hours of pleasure, or any derogation from the uncorrupted spirit of freedom of a knight of Normandy. In further proof that this custom cannot justly be considered as evidence of an unworthy state of subjection, is the fact, that the obligation to extinguish fires and lights at a certain hour was imposed upon his subjects by David the First, king of Scotland, in his Leges Burgorum, and in this case no one ever imagined that it conveyed any sign of infamy or servitude. Voltaire, in his Universal History, ridicules the notion of its being a badge of degradation. "The law," he says, "far from being tyrannical, was only an ancient police, established in almost all the towns of the north, and which had been long preserved in the convents." He adds this reason for it, "That the houses were all built of wood, and the fear of fire was one of the most important objects of general police."

This is, perhaps, the most rational and satisfactory mode of accounting for the institution of a practice so singular; for the fearful devastation made by fire in great towns, at that period, is well authenticated. Moscow generally suffered severely at least once in twenty years; and Fitzstephen says, that "the only pests of London are the immoderate potations of fools, and the continual fires," Alas! that while the progress of the arts and civilization has secured us in a great measure from the latter, the spread of religious information, and the better knowledge of our christian duties, should have conduced so little to the diminution of the former.

The custom of ringing the eight o'clock, or Curfew, bell, is still kept up, or wa3 till lately, in many towns in England, though the obligation it was intended to enforce, viz., the extinguishing the fires, &c, and the pains and penalties consequent upon the transgression of the law, were abolished in the year 1110, by Henry the First, who wished to conciliate his subjects, by

relieving them from some of the grievous burdens imposed by his father.

It is generally imagined, though we think without sufficient reason, that the punishment, in case of disobedience against this law, was no less than death. We are inclined to suppose, however, that even in those days of unjust laws and severe exaction, the life of a human being was not sacrificed for transgressing a mere matter of police, where no actual moral offence was committed, either against God or man. There is no instance on record which would lead us to conclude that William ever enforced the observance of this custom by so wanton a disregard of the life of a fellow creature, as stains the memory of an equally celebrated man, upon an occasion of similar disobedience. Though, not immediately connected with our subject, we cannot refrain from relating the circumstance. The severe Frederick, king of Prussia, intending to make an important movement during the night, gave orders that by eight o'clock all the lights in the camp should be put out, on pain of death. The moment that the time was past, he walked out to see whether his orders were obeyed. He found a light in the tent of a Captain Zeitern, which he entered just as the officer was folding up a letter. Zeitern knew him, and instantly fell on his knees to entreat his mercy. The king asked to whom he had been writing: he said it was a letter to his wife, whom he tenderly loved, and that he had retained the candle for a few minutes beyond the time, to finish it. The king ordered him to rise, and write one line more, which he should dictate. This line was to inform his wife, without any explanation, that by such an hour the next day he would be a dead man. The letter was then sealed and despatched, as it had been intended, and the next day the officer was executed.

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THE TUNNY FISHERY. The common Tunny (TAynnus vulgaris,) is a large fish belonging to the mackerel tribe: although but little known in England, it is an object of considerable importance to many of the nations bordering on the Mediterranean; to none more so, perhaps, than the Sicilians. The engraving at the head of this article represents one of the various methods of taking this fish, employed by that nation; it is called the fishery a la Thonnaire. The Tunnies, like the mackerel, appear in great shoals, or banks, which are believed to enter the Mediterranean at the beginning of April, for the purpose of depositing their spawn; but it is very likely, that instead of coming from any great distance, they merely rise from the deeper parts of that sea, in order to reach the shoal Water, that the spawn, or ova, may be placed within the influence of the sun's rays. The appearance of the mackerel is said to indicate the approach of the Tunnies, these last being voracious fish, and devouring great quantities of their smaller brethren.

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At the time when these fish make their periodical appearance, the strongest and the boldest precede their companions at distances determined by their greater vigour or courage. The form assumed by a shoal of Tunnies, is that of a long triangle, the ■weaker fish bringing up the rear. The approach of this living mass is perceived at a considerable distance, from the noise which accompanies their rapid movements, for the tail of the Tunny is large and powerful, and striking forcibly and rapidly against the water, produces a sound which can be heard at a great way off. "This murmuring noise, which is heard from afar, is echoed from rock to rock, and repeated from shore to shore, resembling that dull but imposing sound, which during a deceitful calm on a burning summer's day, announces the approach of a hurricane."

In spite, however, of their number, their strength, and their swiftness, a sudden noise will often arrest the whole shoal in the middle of their course, or even the unexpected appearance of any bright object. If we may believe the reasoning of Pliny, the Roman naturalist, who speaking of the Tunny, says, "in the spring, the Tunnies pass in troops, composed of numerous individuals, from the Mediterranean into the Euxine or the Black Sea, and in the strait which separates Europe from Asia, a rock of dazzling •whiteness, and of great elevation, rises near Chalcedony, on the Asiatic shore j and the sudden appearance of this rock, terrifies the Tunnies to such an extent, as to force them to alter their course, and suddenly turn towards the Cape of Byzantium, opposite the Chalcedonian shore; and this forced direction of the course of these fish, causes the fishery to be very abundant near the Cape of Byzantium." The usual size of this fish is from two to three feet in length; they are at times, however, taken as long as ten feet. Aristotle mentions an old Tunny which weighed upwards of two hundred weight.

The Tunny-fishery was attended to with great eare by the ancients, and still employs a vast number of hands in different parts of the Mediterranean, chiefly in Catalonia, Provence, Liguria, Sardinia, and, as we have already mentioned, Sicily.

The Tunnies are taken in two ways. In the first case, when a sentinel, posted on an elevated spot, has made a signal that the fish are in view, and has pointed out the quarter from which they are coming, a number of boats put to sea under the command of a leader, and arrange themselves in a curve, and joining their nets form an enclosure, which alarms the Tunnies, and gradually drives them into closer raaks: they still continue to add fresh nets, continually driving the fish towards the shore. When they have reached water only a few fathoms in depth, they cast their last and largest net, which has a kind of pocket or long bag attached to it; this they draw towards the land, and with it they bring all the fish. The small ones are then taken out with the hands, and the larger are landed after they are despatched with boat-hooks. This mode of fishing, which is employed on the coast of Languedoc, produces sometimes at a single take as much as fifteen ton weight of fishi

The second mode is that represented in the engraving with nets, called by the Italians tomiaro. These are much more complicated; Brydone calls the whole apparatus a kind of aquatic castle, constructed at great cost,—a double row of large long nets, supported in an upright position by means of corks fastened to their upper edge, and by lead weights and stones at the lower, are fixed by anchors in such a manner as to form an enclosure parallel to the shore for many hundred fathoms, sometimes an Italian mile in length, and divided into many chambers by transverse nets, and open on the land-side by a sort of door c. The Tunnies, who always swim


close to the shore, pass between it and the line of nets. Arrived at the end of this, they meet with a large net stretched across, which closes the passage, and obliges them to enter the tonnuro by the openings which are practicable; when they have once entered they are driven onward in various ways from chamber to chamber, till they reach the last, which has been named the chamber of death. A horizontal net here forms a kind of platform, which a great number of sailors, who have asembled in their boats, raise up in such a manner as to lift up the fishes at the same time nearly to the surface. It is now that the action commences, and blows are dealt in all directions with boat-hooks, and weapons of that description; the spectacle becomes quite imposing, and attracts a great number of spectators, and it forms at the same time one of the principal amusements of the rich Sicilians, and one of the chief branches of the commerce of the island.

As the Tunnies enter the nets in great numbers, the first endeavour of the fishermen is to drive them through the openings D D D of the chambers 12 3, till the chamber 1 is sufficiently full of fish; the opening to this chamber at D is then closed, by a net acting like a door, and the fish confined; in this manner the chambers 2 and 3, and afterwards 4 and 5, are filled. The opening at c is then also closed, and the doors separating the different chambers being lifted, the fish are driven as before noticed into B, the chamber of death, which is surrounded by the boats of the fishermen.

The flesh of the Tunny, when uncooked, bears a close resemblance to beef. "You would scarcely believe," says Cetti, "the different tastes of the various parts of the Tunny; at each part of the body, and at various depths from the surface, it varies; here it is like veal, there pork. The Sardinian fishermen employ a host of words, which the memory can scarcely retain, to distinguish these different morsels. The flesh of the belly, which is the most delicious, is called sorra, and costs twice as much as the netta, which is flesh of the second quality." Like all the Mackerel tribes, the Tunny remains fresh and good for a few hours only after it is taken; if the least tainted it is not only unwholesome, but even a dangerous kind of food.

For what is food given? To enable us to carry on the necessary business of life, and that our support may be such as our work requires. This is the use of food. Man eats and drinks that he may work, therefore, the idle man forfeits his right to his daily bread; and the apostle lays down a rule both just and natural, that " if any man will not work, neither shall he eat:" but no sooner do we fall into abuse and excess, than we are sure to suffer for it in mind and in body, either with sickness, or ill temper, or vicious inclinations, or with all of them at once. Man is enabled to work by eating what is sufficient, he is hindered from working, and becomes heavy, idle, and stupid, if he take too much. .As to the bodily distempers that are occasioned by excess, there is no end of them.—Jonks ofNay land.

Certain it is, that no man ever repented that he rose from the table sober, healthful, and with his wits about him; but very many have repented that they sat so long, till their bellies swelled, their health, and their virtue, and their God is departed from them. Jeremy Taylor.

If I am regardless of sensual comforts and pleasures, if I am not greedy of dainties, if I sleep little, &c, the reason is, because I spend my time more delightfully, in things whose pleasure ends not in the moment of enjoyment, and that also make me hope for an everlasting reward. Besides, thou knowest that when a man sees that his affairs go ill, he is not generally very gay, and that on the contrary, they who think to succeed in their designs, whether in agriculture, traffic, or any other undertaking, are very contented in their minds. Now, dost thou believe, that from any thing whatsoever, there can proceed a satisfaction like that, of believing that we improve daily in virtue.—Socrates.

The following lines addressed to the Alabaster Sarcophagus, supposed to be that of the King, called by Belzoni Ptammuthis, but whose real name was Ousiree-Menepthah, mentioned in voL iv., p. 154, of the Saturday Magazine, appeared in one of the public prints at the close of the year 1821. It may not be deemed an unworthy companion of the Lines to the Mummy, in page 72, and the Answer of the Mummy, in page 155, of our Fourth Volume.

Thou Alabaster relic 1 while I hold
My hand upon thy sculptured margin thrown,

Let me recall the scenes thou couldst unfold,
Might'st thou relate the changes thou hast known;

For thou wort primitive in thy formation,

Launched from th' Almighty's hand at the creation.

Yes—thou wort present when the stars and skies
And worlds unnumbered rolled into their places,

When God from chaos bade tho spheres arise,
And fixed the radiant sun upon its basis,

And with his finger on the bounds of space
Marked out each planet's everlasting race.

How many thousand ages from thy birth
Thou slopt'st in darkness, it were vain to ask;

Till Egypt's sons upheaved thee from the earth,
And year by year pursued their patient task,

Till thou wert carved and decorated thus,

Worthy to be a king's sarcophagus.

What time Elijah to the sides ascended,

Or David reigned in holy Palestine,
Some ancient Theban monarch was extended

Beneath the lid of this emblazoned shrine,
And to that subterranean palace borne
Which toiliug ages in the rock had worn.

Thebes from her hundred portals filled the plain
To see tho car on which thou wert upheld

What funeral pomps extended in thy train!
What banners waved! what mighty music swell'd,

As armies, priests, and crowds bewailed in chorus,

Their King, their God, their Serapis, their One.

Thus to thy second quarry did they trust
Thee, and tho lord of all the nations round;

Grim King of Silence! monarch of the dust!
Embalmed, anointed, jewelled, sceptred, crowned,

There did he lie in state; cold, stiff, and stark,
A leathern Pharaoh, grinning in the dark.

Thus ages rolled; but their dissolving breath
Could only blacken that imprison'd thing,

Which wore a ghastly royalty in death,
As if it struggled still to be a king:

And each revolving century, like the last,

Just dropp'd its dust upon thy lid—and passed.

The Persian conqueror o'er Egypt poured
His devastating host,—a motley crew,—

And steel-clad horsemen,—the barbarian horde,—
Music and men of every sound and hue,—

Priests, archers, eunuchs, concubines, and brutes,—

Gongs, trumpets, cymbals, dulcimers, and lutes.

Then did the fierce Cambyses tear away
The ponderous rock that seal'd the sacred tomb:

Then did the slowly-penetrating ray
Redeem thee from long centuries of gloom;

And lower'd torches flash'd against thy side,

As Asia's king thy blazon'd trophies eyed.

Pluck'd from his grave with'sacrilegious taunt,
The features of the royal corpse they scann'd:

Dashing the diadem from his temples gaunt,
They tore the sceptre from his graspless hand,

And on those fields where once his will was law

Left him for winds to waste, and beasts to gnaw.

Some pious Thebans, when the storm was past,
Upclosed the sepulchre with cunning skill;

And nature, aiding their devotion, cast
Over its entrance a concealing rill;

Then thy third darkness came, and thou didst sleep

Twenty-three centuries in silence deep.

But he, from whom nor pyramid nor sphynx

Can hide its secrecies, Belzoni, came, From the tomb's mouth unclosed the granite links,—

Gave thee again to light, and life, and fame,— And brought thee from the sands and deserts forth, To charm the "pallid children of the north."

Thou art in London, which, when thou wert new,
Was what Thebes u,—a wilderness and waste,

Where savage beasts more savage men pursue,
A sceno by nature cursed, by man disgraced.

Now, 'tis the world's metropolis, the high

Queen of arms, learning, arts, and luxury.

Here, where I hold my hand, 'tis strange to think
What other hands, perchance, preceded mine:

Others have also-stood beside thy brink
And vainly conn'd the moralizing line.

Kings, sages, chiefs! that touched this stone, like me,

Where are ye now? Where all must shortly be.

All is mutation: ho within this stone
Waa once the greatest monarch of the hour:

His bones are dust,—his very name unknown.
Go, learn from him the vanity of power I

Seek not the frame's corruption to control,

But build a lasting mansion for thy soul! Jf. F


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This eminent Physician, the Founder of the BriTish Museum, was a native of Ireland, and was born on the 16th of April, 1660. From his early youth, he evinced a strong inclination to the study of the works of nature. Having embraced the medical profession, he came to England to prosecute his favourite science of botany, in the Apothecaries' Garden, at Chelsea; and here he became acquainted with the celebrated John Ray, and that great and good man, the Honourable Mr. Boyle. Having availed himself of all the advantages which London afforded, he thought fit to travel into foreign countries, and upon his return resolved to fix himself in London, for the exercise of his profession. He soon became acquainted with the principal members of the Royal Society, and was elected a fellow in 1685. He sailed with the Duke of Albemarle for the Island of Jamaica, in 1687, and returned to England in July, 1689. He was, subsequently, appointed physician to Christ's Hospital, and though he constantly received the salary, he immediately returned it, for the use of the Hospital.

He married, in 1695, Elizabeth, one of the daughters of John Langley, Esq., citizen and alderman of London. The year following, he published his first work, A Catalogue of the Native Plants of Jamaica, which was dedicated to the Royal Society.

A Museum which he had for several years been forming, was, in the year 1701, greatly enlarged by the accession of that of his friend, William Courteen, Esq., who had spent the greatest part of his time and fortune in forming his collections, and which, at his death, he left to Dr. Sloane. Having discharged the office of Secretary of the Royal Society for twenty years, without any salary, he resigned it

in 1713; and, on the death of Sir Isaac Newton, in 1727, the high and honourable office of President ot the Royal Society was conferred on him. In the last illness of Queen Anne, he was called in to her assistance, and after the accession of King George the First to the throne, he was created a Baronet, being, it is said, the first physician upon whom that rank was bestowed.

Upon purchasing the manor of Chelsea, he gave the ground of the Garden to the Apothecaries' Company, appointing an annual rent of fifty plants from it to be presented to the Royal Society. The establishment of this garden was, indeed, as it well deserved to be, a peculiar object of his care and attention; having been of great advantage to the public, by assisting and encouraging the study of botany in this country; and, in order to perpetuate these benefits, he stipulated that it should for ever remain a botanic garden.

The severe winter of 1739 had nearly proved fatal to Sir Hans Sloane; however, he recovered, but at length determined to retire from his profession, and to spend the remainder of his life upon his estate at Chelsea. He began, in February of the year 1 742, to remove his library and museum from his house at Bloomsbury to that at Chelsea; but his retirement from London did not prevent him from being constantly visited by all persons of distinction, and sometimes by the Royal Family. At upwards of ninety years of age, though feeble, he was perfectly free from any distemper, enjoying his rational faculties, and all his senses except that of hearing, which had been impaired for several years. His decay was very gradual, indicating that he would one day drop like a fruit fully ripe; and he would often say that he "wondered he was so long alive ; that for many years he had been prepared for death, and was entirely resigned to the will of God, either to take him from this world, or continue him longer in it, as should seem best to Him." He would sometimes say, "I shall leave you one day or other, when you do uot expect it;" and indeed the illness which carried him off was but of two or three days' continuance, and seemed rather the natural decay of a strong constitution, than any real distemper. There appeared nothing in him to which old age is usually subject; for, as he was free from bodily pain, his mind seemed always composed, calm, and serene. He would sometimes reflect Od his past life with satisfaction, whilst he declared that, during his whole practice, he had never denied his advice to the poor, or had on any occasion neglected his patient. He was governor of almost every hospital in London, to each of which, besides a donation of a hundred pounds during his life-time, he left a legacy at his death. He was ever a benefactor to the poor, and formed the plan for bringing up the children in the Foundling Hospital.

He died on Thursday, January 11, 1753, and was interred, on the 18th of that month, in the churchyard of Chelsea, in the same vault with his lady, his funeral being attended by many persons of distinction, and several fellows of the Royal Society. His funeral sermon was preached by Dr. Zachaay Pearce, Lord Bishop of Bangor, according to the appointment of the deceased. A handsome monument, of which we give an Engraving, was erected to his memory in Chelsea church-yard.

The person of Sir Hans Sloane was tall and graceful; his behaviour free, open, and engaging; and hia conversation cheerful, obliging, and communicative. He was easy of access to strangers, and always readyto admit the curious to a sight of his museum. His

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