the separation of families-that the men would be apart from their wives and children, and the character of the festival as a scene of social enjoyment would thereby be greatly injured. But this was not the case. I was delighted to find that the difficulty was obviated by an admirable plan which Dr Beaumont had adopted. Each man came with his plate to the carver of whichever joint he chose to partake of, and received a handsome supply of meat; at another table he was furnished with about a pound of bread, some salt, and a pint of tea or coffee, and was then free to join his friends, or family, and eat his provisions in whatever part of the field he pleased. Meanwhile, the women and children were in like manner supplied with a bountiful helping of cake and tea, and each took up her quarters where she would. Abundance of forms, chairs, &c., were placed about the ground, the gnarled roots of the trees afforded seats to many; and as the season had been warm and dry, groups of children and young people found resting-places on the ground. It was a very pretty sight; the different parties looked so free and disengaged, and so much innocent mirth and laughter prevailed. It was quite of a picnic character, and the little difficulties which arose among the different groups-some of whom had forgotten to bring knives, others plates or cups, which, the doctor had given due notice, were to be provided by the guests for their own use-caused much fun and good-humoured scramble. Here was a father with his baby boy on his knee stuffing him with cake, and his wife, and two or three other young ones, all gathered round him. There another, with his two or three fine growing-up girls, and their matronly mother, all seated on a sunny bank together, with a young married daughter, and her husband and baby, and a fine handsome young harvester, the brother of the son-in-law, who seemed very likely, before the year was out, to have linked in his fortunes with that of the family, by taking the pretty Phoebe-a sweet, blue-eyed, modest girl, beside whom he sat for his wife. The feasting proceeded with as much order as mirth; for the good master of the feast was too intimately known and too much respected by all his people for any unsuitable noise or confusion to be likely to take place under his eye; and as there was on this occasion nothing stronger than tea and coffee to be had, a great degree of hilarity and enjoyment prevailed without the chance of its exceeding due bounds.

And now, the meal being over, a few words of thanksgiving were offered by the pastor, and the signal was given for the rural sports to begin-not the sports of running after a pig with a soaped tail, nor of scrambling up a pole for a leg of mutton; but men, women, and children were to amuse themselves as they would. The copse was thrown open to those who liked a nutting expedition; an adjoining field was placed at the disposal of cricketers; the band was playing cheerful tunes as they paraded about the grounds; and every oue was left to choose his own mode of amusement. The supper had occupied about an hour, and had commenced at three, so that some two hours remained before the time of dispersion-plenty of time for fun of divers sorts. George and Evelyn Beaumont, with the Savins, Sir James Scott, &c., took it in turn to watch over the conduct of the different parties of boys and young men who were engaged in their varied sports, and to lead them on in their pastimes. Evelyn Beaumont, a fine lad of eighteen, led on the cricketers on one side, and my cousin, Davenant Darcy, on the other; whilst George Beaumont was busily engaged in making tiny boys run races; and Sir James Scott and my uncle in superintending a leaping-match between several athletic youths, at the lower end of the cricketfield. Meanwhile, the little girls had formed an immense ring round the harvest-wagon, and were dancing round and round, holding hands, and singing most mightily. How the little creatures could keep on as

they did, I could scarcely imagine: I really wondered to see the spirit with which some thirty little damsels, from six to fourteen years old, continued to traverse that wide circle for so long a time without a moment's rest. It seemed a very great delight to them, for by degrees one after another joined the ring, till there wa not a little petticoat left on the field that was not whisking round the magic circle. Some of the elder girls and young women were-I blush to own it, but they certainly were flirting. It was very wrong of them, but they did it; and I saw several very loverlike-looking couples strolling about, and seeming quite to enjoy it.

Among the throng of happy beings amidst whom it was my good fortune this evening to move, were one or two groups which particularly interested me. A little withdrawn from the most crowded part of the field, I observed a party consisting of four individuals: one of them was an aged man, exceedingly tall and erect, and clothed in a long blue wrapping-coat, the livery of one of those alms-houses for old people which the piety of our ancestors so often led them to endow; his hair was long and as white as snow, and his clear blue eye, which was usually lifted to the heavens, was large and beautiful; he leaned on a staff, not as if weary, but rather as if from habit. I knew him well, and that, notwithstanding the apparent life of his eye, he was, and had been for years, totally blind. Seated on the bank near him, was a woman about sixty years of age, poorly but neatly clad, and engaged in lively talk with the old man, who was her father: another woman, many years younger, sat on the same bank, but she seemed to take but little interest in anything around her save one object-a lovely fair girl of about eighteen, who half reclined on the ground, her back resting against the trunk of a magnificent oak which overhung the bank, and carefully guarded from the risk of cold by several cloaks and shawls which were disposed around her. There was a look in her eye, a something in the demeanour of this sweet young creature, which but too plainly betokened that her race was nearly run, that the years she had already passed were all, or nearly all, she would know of the joys or sorrows of earth. She was exquisitely lovely; her complexion of a brilliant transparency; her form slight and fragile, yet scarcely as yet attenuated; and her hair a maze of lustrous golden curls, which would not be restrained, but strayed from the fillets that vainly strove to retain their glittering prey, and were lightly scattered on her cheek and fair white throat.

The party thus assembled were the sole surviving members of four generations, the aged man being the great-grandfather of the young girl. They were all as closely banded together in affection as by the ties of blood, and the love and unity of old William Maul and his family were proverbial in the village: he had been born there, and so had his daughter, his granddaughter, and his great-granddaughter, and he had lived there all his life. But now the youngest and dearest of the household band was setting out on her homeward journey, and it seemed but too probable that she would attain the goal before her aged relative, whose years numbered eighty-five. Mercy Grey's story was one, alas! too common in the present day, yet not the less touching. Her mother, the only child of the good old blind man's only daughter, Mary Maul, had married a soldier, who had been killed at the siege of Corunna a few months after their marriage, leaving his wife the mother of a new-born infant: this infant was the joy of the widow's life; she named her Mercy, 'Because,' said she, God has been very good in giving me such a blessing to comfort my widowed heart; and the little one grew up as lovely in mind as in outward forma child of the highest promise. There was a grace about everything little Mercy Grey did that bespoke a native refinement of mind, and a readiness in acquiring

anything she attempted to learn, which shewed an intellect of higher range than ordinary. As Mercy increased in age, and her character developed, an intensity of feeling exhibited itself in her, and an ardour in pursuit of any object that interested her, which often made her mother, who was a woman of much observation and clear judgment, tremble for the happiness of her precious child. Mercy was early sent to the village school, and soon distinguished herself beyond her fellows. The poor child, whose heart was so wholly wrapped up in her mother, that she could scarcely bear the necessary separation from her that would enable her to attend to her school duties, was, nevertheless, so earnestly bent on making progress, and attaining to a position which should enable her to provide that cherished parent with greater comforts than she now enjoyed, that she pressed onwards in pursuit of learning with an energy almost beyond her strength; and she succeeded in attaining her object. Presenting herself at fifteen as a candidate for a pupil-teacher's situation, she stood so good an examination that the post was awarded her, with high encomiums from the examiners; and the sum of L.10 for the first year, and L.15 for the second, was now at her disposal, with which she might assist her family.

But the immense amount of study and exertion required to enable her to fulfil her duties as teacher, and to stand the personal examination necessary for holding her place, was too much for her. One day in the early spring of the year, she had walked rather faster than usual to the school, and was engaged in leading her class in their singing, when her clear sweet voice suddenly stopped, never again to be raised on earth in the hymn of praise; and the crimson spots and stains on the handkerchief which she raised to her lips shewed to the distressed children what had occurred. Poor Mercy was laid on the bed of the schoolmistress, who loved her as her own child, and the terrified mother was summoned to see her darling prostrated, apparently on the bed of death. For some weeks the poor child's life seemed as if it would fleet away each hour that passed; but she was spared a little longer: the summer warmth relieved her symptoms, and she rallied so rapidly, that hope once more entered the heart of her mother. It was now many months since the rupturing of the blood-vessel, and Mercy could walk about and perform some of the lighter offices in her home, and she had longed once more to witness the festival in which she had so often been amongst the foremost to dance in the ring, and gather nuts and berries from the copse; she longed, too, to see the children of her class, in whom she had taken so much pride and pleasure, all in their full enjoyment, and so she had persuaded her mother to let her be taken to the field; and there she rested, her sweet calm smile assuring those who looked at her, that although her spring of youth and bodily strength were gone for ever, yet there were joy and peace within. It was pleasant to see the little ones whom she had taught flocking round her, and bringing each her little offering of berries, or nuts, or flowers, to the sick young teacher; and it was pleasant to see the aged come and speak a few words to her who they felt would precede even them to the other world. It was pleasant, also, to see the young village-girls, her former companions, gather round and look at her with softened glances of affection, and with almost tearful eyes. But there were no tears in Mercy's eyes, no gloom was on her brow, she was as bright and cheerful in aspect as the most healthy there; warmly interested in watching the gambols of her children, ready with a friendly greeting and pleasant smile for each who approached her, and looking sad only when she caught a glimpse of her beloved mother's anxious and careworn countenance, and felt that she was sorrowing.

But there was one, whom I could not choose but watch, who had, unseen, drawn near that group, and

now stood silent and still, with his eye fixed on the invalid. I knew something of his history, for I was often in communication with his excellent old father, Dr Beaumont's schoolmaster, and I knew that he was expected to be there that day. He was a young man; his capacious forehead and open countenance indicative of both a fine mind and a tender heart; but I read in the sad and mournful glance of his eye a tale of sorrow. He loved Mercy Grey, loved her with intensity of feeling, and had done so from her childhood. He had not spoken of his love, but had wisely waited until he had obtained some situation which would authorise him to seek her as his wife. He had at length done this, having for a year past been master of a respectable school in a distant parish, and he was now come, full of hope and affection, to ask her for her loveto ask her to share his home and his comparative wealth. Gerald and Mercy had not met since the day of the feast in the preceding year-then in that very field he had last seen her, and in parting from her had first felt how deeply he loved her. She was then in the full glow of health and beauty; now, how did he find her! He had heard, indeed, of her illness, but also of her recovery, and had vainly believed and hoped that it was complete; but the first sight of her was enough to shew him at once her real state, enough to crush the heart of the strong man, and wither every blossom of hope that was within him. Unseen by her he loved, he stood struggling with his grief until he should have strength to address her. In a few minutes he had conquered his emotion sufficiently to make his presence known. The quick flush on the cheek of the dying girl shewed that had life been before her she would gladly have spent it with Gerald Morgan. Yet the sweet frankness of her manner, and the placidity. with which she received his greeting, made me at once feel that earthly things had no longer hold over her; and I rejoiced that she and Gerald had not been betrothed, that no acknowledged tie was between them to render her parting with life more painful. But I must not thus linger over the remembrance of that sweet girl's last appearance amongst us, for such I feel it was.

The scenes of this happy evening were now near their close; for autumnal evenings, even when lighted by the harvest-moon, do not give much scope for prolonged enjoyment in the open air. It was six o'clock, and the well-known signal for all to gather round the wagon was now given by the band's striking up the national anthem, God save the Queen; for our good doctor always closed his parties, whether for the poor or the rich, by giving honour where honour is due, and recognising as well the earthly as the heavenly sovereign. As the beautiful anthem proceeded, the whole party, men, women, and children, gathered from all quarters around the laden wagon, and at its close more than a hundred voices might be heard chanting the well-known chorus. The vicar then mounted the wagon, and standing erect by the flag which floated above the fine load of golden grain, addressed a few words of exhortation to his people, reminding them of the mercy of God in thus blessing their labours with a good increase, and, as on a former occasion, called on them, before parting, to join in a hymn of praise, selecting these, with a village congregation, favourite verses of the sixty-fifth psalm, which speak of the gifts of plenty; a proposition which was welcomed by the people, who sang it with wonderful vigour, repeating the last lines

The valleys bring

A plenteous crop of full-eared corn,

And seem for joy to shout and singmore than once or twice. This merry-making then closed with a loud cheer for the vicar and his family; after which all, 'gentle and simple,' dispersed to their

homes, the more intimate friends of Dr Beaumont, among whom were my uncle's family, returning to take tea at the vicarage: and so ended the Feast of the Ingathering.

man.

HOW BOGS ARE TURNED INTO
CANDLES.

Ir would, we feel sure, startle the majority of Irish tourists were they told, when travelling through the vast bog districts in Ireland, that those dark and dreary places may before long be converted into shining lights, which will go forth to irradiate the halls of beauty. And were it not that chemistry is a marvellous worker, in comparison with whose magic wand, that wielded by the astrologer of old was a contemptible affair, scepticism, if not entire disbelief, might very naturally follow such an announcement. But the chemist is a mighty At his bidding, substances disclose properties and assume appearances stranger than the wildest dreams could imagine. And it is one of his especial qualities and triumphs, that by combinations which may almost be pronounced endless, he is enabled to make his knowledge applicable to the most useful purposes. One of these high achievements has been accomplished within the last few years. Dropping metaphor, candles of the most exquisite transparency, rivalling the best wax-lights in brilliancy of combustion, have been produced from the bogs of Ireland; and so successfully has the experiment answered, that works on a very large scale have just commenced operations, which, it is confidently expected, will realise a good profit, and be of great benefit to that part of Ireland where they are situated.

Before giving some account of these works, which is the principal purpose of this paper, it is desirable to say a few words respecting the nature of bogs. These Irish fuel-mines-for hitherto it is as fuel they have been chiefly valuable-are estimated to occupy about 2,900,000 English acres. They differ much in their exterior nature, being sometimes soft and spongy, and sometimes firm and hard. But in one respect they are similar, for they all contain a mass of a peculiar substance called peat, of the average thickness of twenty-five feet, nowhere less than twelve, and never exceeding forty-two. This substance varies materially in its appearance and properties, in proportion to the depth at which it lies, the upper portion containing vegetable fibres, visible, though much decomposed; while below, the colour of the peat changes from light brown to black, and the substance is much more compact, assuming the appearance, when dry, of pitch or bituminous coal, having a conchoidal fracture in every direction, with a black shining lustre, and being capable of receiving a high polish.

Now, chemists long ago informed us that, by proper chemical combination, peat might be made to yield sulphate of ammonia, acetate of lime, naphtha, paraffine, and oil; and they further state, that paraffine is an admirable substance for making candles. Dr Ure, in his well-known Dictionary of Arts and Manufactures, emphatically asserts this, and, when we see what paraffine is, the truth of the statement will be evident. Turning to Brande's Chemistry, we read, under this head: When beech-tar is distilled, three liquids pass into the recipient-1. A light oil; 2. An aqueous acid; 3. A heavy oil. The heavy oil is subjected to several redistillations, and then sulphuric acid is gradually added to it, till the mixture becomes a black and thin liquid; and if it does not spontaneously rise in temperature to 212 degrees, it is to be heated up to that point; the mixture is then kept for twelve hours or more, at a temperature of about 122 degrees, when a colourless oil will be found floating upon its surface. This is to be carefully poured off, and on

cooling, paraffine concretes upon its surface. This has to be purified by solution in hot anhydrous alcohol, when it appears a crystalline, tasteless, and odourless substance, fusing at 112 degrees into a transparent oily liquid, and burning with a white sootless flame. Its specific gravity is 0.870.'

We may add, that this curious substance derives its name from parum affinis, on account of its inertness as a chemical agent, or want of affinity, resisting the action of acids and alkalies. It, however, readily dissolves in oil of turpentine and in naphtha.

ments with paraffine, it is a binary compound of carbon According to Guy Lussac, who made several experiand hydrogen.

From this account, it is evident, that if peat can be made to yield paraffine at a remunerative profit, a new and vast field of commercial enterprise is at once opened. As to the feasibility of the undertaking, no doubt exists. The writer has seen large blocks of paraffine, of the most beautiful crystalline appearance, procured from peat. The only question was, whether it could be manufactured at a remunerative cost. This result, after a long and laborious series of experiments, has been realised. At least, Mr Reece, the intelligent and scientific manager of the works we are about to give some account of, has been so well satisfied with the success of his experiments, that machinery to the amount of nearly L.40,000 has been erected in the county of Kildare, on the verge of one of the largest bogs in that part of Ireland, for the purpose of extracting paraffine from peat.

The works, which are called the Irish Peat-works, are situated about eight miles from Monastereven, and four from Athy. The railway from Dublin to Athy passes close to the gates, and affords easy facility for visiting the works. The writer approached them from Monastereven. The road is monotonous enough, passing across tracts of dreary moorland, on the verge of which may yet be seen the genuine Irish squatter in all his unreclaimed misery. Happily, the disgraceful and melancholy spectacle of these human earth-grubbers is becoming every year more and more rare in Ireland, and the day is assuredly not far distant when the Irish squatter will no longer disfigure the face of the country. On reaching the works, which are visible from a great distance, we were fortunate in finding Mr Reece at home, and he at once kindly undertook to go with us over the establishment. Visitors, however, are not an everyday occurrence.

The first thing that strikes the eye is a huge furnace, or rather a row of furnaces, there being four side by side. They are similar in form to those used for smelting iron-ore, but are considerably larger, each furnace being capable of consuming no less than twenty-five tons of peat in eighteen hours. When filled, the top of the furnace is closed, and a fierce hot-blast being driven through the mass of turf, the smoke escapes through a pipe near the top, which terminates in a condenser. The magnitude of this apparatus may be estimated by the fact, that it will contain 8,000,000 cubic feet of gas. Here the first change in the conversion of peat into paraffine occurs, the smoke being condensed and precipitated in the form of tar. The lighter or gaseous portion is conducted by pipes to another locality.

It has been ascertained that 100 tons of peat will yield as much tar as will produce about 350 pounds of paraffine and 300 gallons of oil. But to obtain the paraffine, many delicate chemical operations are requisite, and for a long time it could not be extracted without using ether, which made the process far too costly for commercial purposes. At length-for what will not chemistry achieve?-Mr Reece discovered a less expensive mode of proceeding, which is at the same time fully as efficacious. Sulphuric acid is the principal agent employed: the tar being boiled for

the world finds useful. They help the current of trade; they distract no reader's attention from day-book or dinner; and they pass easily to the trunk-maker. Seriously, such books ought to be reckoned among the conveniences of the age, and, in some sense, also, among its exponents. To the populace of our day, they are what the broadside ballad or tract was to those of earlier generations. Moreover, they illustrate the whole art and mystery of book-making as known in the middle of the nineteenth century. Succeeding ages may improve upon it-for who shall limit progress in anything? -but there is a liberal-mindedness evinced in pressing matters into the service which posterity may imitate, though it can scarcely surpass: for instance, travels in Asia Minor will conclude with a survey of the state and prospects of the Rotheschildes; a romance of the Danube will wind off into the woes of somebody in Birkenhead; and an essay on the Eastern question be cked out with the report of a meeting at Exeter Hall. Campbell used to tell the story of a rapid author, who, when public interest was at its height regarding the siege of Warsaw in 1831, had undertaken to write, for a certain publisher within a fortnight, a history of Poland, of course from the foundation of the monarchy. The gentleman's information was limited as well as his time; but he contrived to get up a substantial manuscript by copying an entire article from the British Encyclopædia, giving a minute account of all that was done, said, and expended by a reduced Prince of the Poniatowski family with whom he had once scraped acquaintance in Paris, and inserting the lives of three notable Polish dwarfs. Nevertheless, there is a difference in books of the hour as regards both quantity and quality. It has been observed that the continental revolutions of 1848, although sympathised in by a large portion of the British public, gave comparatively few books to the trade; while the Duke of Wellington's decease called forth a greater number of volumes than any single event in late years. Next in numbers come the paraphrases and abridgments of Uncle Tom's Cabin; but the Australian gold-diggings seem to have engaged by far the best literature in their service. Few productions that in their nature belong to passing events and interests are worthy to live beyond them; yet ever since the press began its work in Europe, some have escaped that general doom, because of the salt that never loses its savour. The Drapier's Letters have long survived William Wood and his patent for copper coinage, against which Swift wrote them. Much older works of the kind might be quoted; but, strange to say, these outliners of their times are all against something, and perhaps among their numerous congeners yet written or read by our own generation, those that have appeared against Louis Napoleon will be found the most enduring, because the cleverest books of the hour.

SOME time ago, I had occasion to consult a dentist-not in an agony of toothache, to implore the extraction of the offending member, but, be it confessed, to get some of the ravages of time repaired by substitution. I was shewn into a drawing-room-a perfect museum of curiosities, of which the selection had evidently been prompted by no one peculiar bent of mind; they had been procured just as they occurred to the purchaser, and neatly placed here to amuse patients in waiting. Every variety of taste, one would think, might meet with something interesting; but, being little of a virtuoso, I was satisfied with a passing survey, and sat down to look over the periodical literature, which lay in similar abundance and variety on the table. A promising story caught my eye; I began to read it with avidity, became deeply interested, hoped the dentist would not soon be disengaged-when, lo! it

broke off with, 'To be continued.' I had not calculated upon this, and I was grievously disappointed, provoked-as angry, in short, as I ought to be. Tossing the book on the table, I called it catchpenny, and declared-to myself-that if the publisher's shop. were at my elbow, and the half-pence in my pocket, would not-no, I would not buy the next number; I would deny myself, and stifle my curiosity, rather than encourage such trickery. Then it was a consolation to think that the story was fictitious, of course, and I was quite at liberty to finish it according to my own fancy -at least to settle the points which it was desirable to have happily cleared up. Well, but most of these fictions are founded on fact; and one would like to know how the events in question turned out, if they did really happen. No-the single incidents only are facts, but the labyrinthine plot is the author's invention; nature, indeed-historic nature-often furnishes single events stranger than those of the novelist; but there is no such thing in real life as this complication of incidents, combining in this regular, artistic, half-veiled, half-revealed method to bring about a dénouement. 'No such thing,' added I to myself, as a history cut short with this hateful "To be continued." Stay-is there not occasionally something worse?-a glimpse of a romance afforded, a mystery permitted to tempt the curiosity, and no dénouement supplied, even at a future time? Have I not myself sometimes caught sight of the beginning, middle, or end of an interesting tissue of facts, and been unable to get at the rest? Has not historic nature sometimes been less kind than the novelist who clears up everything in succeeding numbers? Has she not sometimes broken off a story I was perusing, without adding the hopeful announcement, "To be continued?"" Thus far I had reflected, and my wrath somewhat abated, when Mr Wrencher was announced as ready for consultation; and the matter-of-fact business of forcing the teeth into a lump of warm wax, proved efficacious in dispelling the visions of fancy, and destroying the last vestige of my interest in the mutilated story. But memory insisted on vindicating the story-teller, by recalling some real histories that had balked my curiosity in by-gone days.

It reminded me first of walking one day in the high street of a large town in Ireland, when my attention was attracted by a respectable-looking female, having the appearance of a comfortable housewife, attended by a maid with a basket, as though they had been on an errand to the market, which was just at hand. She was evidently in great alarm and agitation-her face flushed, and her walk hurried. Suddenly, she started, and said: 'There he is again! what shall I do?'

Whereupon a low blackguard-looking fellow walked up to her: 'It's no use humbugging; I'll not quit you, and you my lawful wife.'

'I tell you I am not your wife. I don't know younever saw you in my life.' 'Well, now, Mary, and is it yourself can look me in the face and say that?'

100

The people who were passing began to stand, as I myself did, at a little distance, and the lady exclaimed: 'Is there no police at hand? Will nobody protect me against this man?'

'Oh, there,' cried one, pointing to a tall young man crossing an adjoining street-there's Mr Causewell, the stipendiary magistrate.'

The lady begged he might be called, and he quickly obeyed. Advancing, and raising his hat, he asked with the grace and gallantry of a true Irish gentleman, what he could do for her. die wond of75

Plase yer honour,' interrupted the man, she's my lawful wedded wife.'

'I'm not his wife,' said the lady: 'I never saw the man before.'

"It's the truth I'm telling yer honour, and ne'er a word of a lie,' persisted the man.