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OF

A SABBATH AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

(Lon. Mag.)

F this little, sweet, and enthusiastic poem, we have no wish to give a regular account; indeed no very regular account can be rendered of a work recording the various feelings, and duties, and meditations of a single day, and which aspires after no particular regularity of narrative, or strict continuity of action. To a lover of silent or animated nature-to one to whom the sabbath comes, not alone as a release from the dust and sweat of weekly toil, but as a time for purer aspirations and chastened thought, and the meek and mild austerities of devotion, these verses will be very welcome. We know not that they display great originality of thought, or contain much of that wrapt and inspired fervour

which sheds such a charm over the contemplative poetry of Wordsworth. The following passage affords a good specimen of the mannered beauty which distinguishes our author's style:

There is an isle by balmy breezes blest,
A green gem in the ocean of the west,
Where first the spring unfolds the mountain flower,

And summer lingers longest in the bower;
Bright ocean-lakes the favour'd shores surround,
Waving in sun-light like a zone unbound;
Stretching afar among romantic hills,
Till to the charmed eye they seem like rills;
Groves of unsullied verdure fringe the land,
Whose branches cast their shadows on the strand,
Or are within the limpid mirror seen,
In forms more lovely and a softer green.
Smooth as the summer sea the valley lies,
The little hills like summer billows rise,
Succeeding still in gentle interchange,
Amid the garden, or the woodland range;
Till nature seems the work of matchless art,
And art like nature steals upon the heart.

This writer's lines have more of the gentleness and meekness of James Grahame, than of any other of the worthies of sacred verse. There is more softness than strength,-more to move the heart to sober and staid gladness, than to warm and elevate it. The outward and inward man of a presbyterian assembly is reflected with great truth, and with no inconsiderable share of the grace and charms of poesy.

To say that the poem is the image of a Scottish sabbath day, will present

a complete idea of it to many of our readers; these lines are characteristic: That morn the Isle with expectation bright,

Its people pours from valley and from height.
The tartan'd maidens, link'd in rosy wreath,
Glitter like sunbeams from the mountain heath.
There the fair infant group, a mother's pride,

Collect the wild flowers by the pathway side;

or gathering round her, arm in arm entwine,
By her attracted, in her radiance shine.
In straggling bands the aged men appear,

Like venerable Patriarchs in the rear,
And, to the customs of their country true,
Robed in the mountain plaid, and bonnet blue,
Strong in the Scriptures, though in humble guise,
Men who, by toil, a scanty pittance earn,
Ye mitred heads from their discourse might learn.
The little barges on the billows ride,

Unletter'd Sages-by the evangile wise;

A navy of fair spirits on the tide ;
Like milk-white doves, on outstretch'd wings they

sail

With a smooth motion, in the gentle gale;

Peace with her olive in the canvass beams,
Hope leads the way, and in a rainbow gleams,
While glistening through the trees the sunny spire,

Is the bright beacon of each bark's desire.

To those of a strict contemplative mind, who prefer the matter to the manner, and to whom religion alone, without any external accompaniments, is ever dearest, we perhaps are not enhancing the beauty of the poem by saying, that its scene is laid in a region of romantic beauty,-in one of the little lovely lake isles of Scotland. But the peasantry of the north will like it not the less. Much as they are averse to the intrusion of sculptural or architectural beauty upon their devotions, they are lovers of the works of God's hand, and fond of worshipping him among their own green mountains and amid the open air. They are a thoughtful and poetical people, and lovers of Milton, and Thomson, and Jeremy Taylor, and Burns; and though they call not in the aid of instruments of music to assist them in their devotions, and are content to spend the Sabbath in a very humble tabernacle, yet when they dream of paradise, they dream of a green hill and a spreading vale, a waving wood and a running stream—a dream of their native land. They may recognize its features (and also the po

etical ones of a certain illustrious Scotch Minstrel) in our author's concluding lines :

Dear to my spirit, Scotland, hast thou been,
Since infant years in all thy glens of green;
Land of my love, where every sound and sight
Comes in soft melody, or melts in light;
Land of the green wood by the silver rill,
The beather and the daisy of the hill,
The guardian thistle to thy foemen stern,
The wild-rose, hawthorn, and the lady-fern;
Land of the lark, that like a seraph sings,
Beyond the rainbow, upon quivering wings;
Land of wild beauty and romantic shapes,
Of shelter'd valleys and of stormy capes ;
Of the bright garden and the tangled brake,
Of the dark mountain and the sun-light lake ;
Land of my birth and of my father's grave,
The eagle's home, the eyrie of the brave;

Land of affection, and of native worth;
Land where my bones shall mingle with the earth;

The foot of slave thy heather never stain'd,
Nor rocks that battlement thy sons profan'd;
Unrivall❜d land of science and of arts,
Land of fair faces and of faithful hearts;
Land where Religion paves her heavenward road,
Land of the temple of the living God!
Yet dear to feeling, Scotland, as thou art,
Should thou that glorious temple e'er desert,
I would disclaim thee, seek the distant shore
Of Christian isle, and thence return no more.

To them, therefore, the Sabbath among the Mountains will be welcome : we wish we could be as certain of its being acceptable to the peasantry of England.

SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY, NO. IV.

(Sel. Mag.)

ON LIGHT AND COLOURS.

VERY little was known either of

the nature or properties of light, till the subject occupied the attention of Newton; and it is remarkable that since his time so little has been added to his acute and laborious researches.

The opinion most prevalent among his opponents was that which originated in HUYGENS, who maintained that light was a subtle fluid, filling space, and rendering bodies visible by the undulating motion into which it is thrown. He conceived, that when the sun rises it agitates this fluid, and that these undulations are gradually extended like those on the surface of a pool of water, till at length they strike against our eye, and the sun thus becomes visible. Euler, a celebrated mathematician, embraced the same opinion, and called to his aid the whole of his strong reasoning powers in order to support it; but all his labour and great talents were exhausted in vain.

The majority of philosophers, with Newton as their leader, considered light as a substance consisting of small particles constantly separating from luminous bodies, moving in straight lines, and rendering objects visible, by passing from them and entering the eye. This acute observer discovered, that when a portion of light was made to pass through a round hole and fall upon a triangular prism, and then transmit

ted upon a sheet of white paper, the

image, or spectrum as it is called, instead of being circular like the hole, as might have been expected, was oblong, and terminated by circular arches. The colours were in the following or der. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. The red was the least refrangible, the violet the most, and the rest intermediate. And supposing the whole of the coloured image, or spectrum, to be divided into 360 parts, he ascertained by actual admeasurement, that the proportions were as follow.

Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Indigo. Violet. 45 27 48 60 60 40 80 360.

These are the seven primary colours, of which every single ray of white light is composed; so that, in fact, each ray of common or white light is not one single ray, but seven distinct rays, of seven different colours, all of which may be separated by means of the prism, and may likewise be again collected and reunited; in which case they appear white light as before.

But though light is thus generally considered as consisting of seven primary colours, there are many who suppose that these primary colours are only three; viz. red, yellow, and blue: and much may certainly be advanced in support of the opinion; for it is well known that these three colours

are capable of forming all the others. Thus the

Red and yellow will produce orange.
Red and blue

cording to the proportions used. And Blue and yellow will produce green.

sorbs all the others. A white body reflects all the rays, and absorbs none; while, on the contrary, a black body indigo and violet, ac- absorbs all, and reflects none: and it is owing to these circumstances, that when black bodies are exposed to the sun they become sooner heated than others, and of course constitute the warmest parts of our clothing. And white bodies, in the same way, being least disposed to receive heat, form the coolest parts of our dress.

Besides, it is seen by inspecting the coloured spectrum, that the different parcels of rays are not very distinct at their edges, but appear to be intermingled with those which are contiguous, so that it is exceedingly difficult to determine where one colour ends and the other begins.

I have mentioned that the seven primary colours may be combined together so as to produce white light; this is also the case with the three primary colours when mixed in proper proportion. The experiment may be tried, in both cases, by means of a common spinning-top, which, if painted with either the three or the seven colours, and made to spin, these colours, by this quick motion, will be blended together, and a whitish colour will be seen as the product of their union, and not the real colours themselves. Were the colours employed in painting the top quite perfect, and were they likewise used in their proper proportions, the combined colour would be perfectly white, but in general it appears of a darkish or dusky hue.

Almost all bodies have the property of absorbing the light which falls upon them. They do not, however, take up all the rays indiscriminately. Some absorb one coloured ray, and others another, while they reflect the rest. This is the cause of the different colours in bodies. A green cloth, for example, has the property of absorbing all the colours except the green, and this colour which it reflects, and which consequently is seen by us, causes persons to suppose that the cloth itself is actually green. But this is so far from being the case, that it does not receive within it the green colour, but reflects or sends it back again; and it merely appears to us green, because the green rays come from the body to us. Colour therefore is not inherent in bodies, but is merely a property of light.

Green bodies, then, reflect the green rays, and absorb all the rest and a red body reflects the red rays, and ab

The coloured rays of light are found objects. For if an equal portion of to differ in their power of illuminating be made to illuminate a minute object, each of these rays, one after another, be seen distinctly at the same distance a printed page for instance, it will not in each case. Those rays at the middle of the spectrum possess the greatest illuminating power, and those at the extremity the least; and this accounts for the indistinctness of such parts of a map as may happen to be coloured with blue of indigo, or red; and the same may be remarked of printed paeither of these colours. For these facts which are worked off on paper of of the illuminating power of the different rays, we are indebted to the experiments of the late SirWm.Herschel.

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Though the primary colours of light, as specified above, are but few, they are still capable of almost endless combination, and of course of similar variation. The workers in mosaic, in Rome, are said to have 750,000 different tints, which the artist can distinguish with the greatest ease; and their number, no doubt, might be considerably increased.

The different colours of bodies depend upon the affinity of their respective particles for the particular rays which they absorb, and their want of affinity for the rest. Thus, if a small quantity of the infusion of blue cabbage be poured into a wine glass, and a single drop of nitric, or sulphuric acid, be added, the blue colour will be changed into beautiful red. The reason of which is, that the new substance formed by the acid and the cabbage infusion, possesses an affinity for another set of colouring rays to what it had previously, viz. an affinity for all the rays

of light except the red. These therefore are absorbed, and the red rays, for which the mixture has no affinity, are let loose. In the same manner, if a drop of the nitrate of copper be let fall into a glass, and it be filled with clean water, it will appear colourless; but upon adding to it a drop of liquid

ammonia, which is also colourless, the mixture will assume a beautiful deep blue colour; the compound in this case also having a different affinity to what the substances separately possessed, viz. an affinity of all the primary colours excepting the blue, which is of course reflected.

THE MISCELLANY.
(Mon. Mag.)

EMPLOYMENT AND ASSOCIATION OF BIRDS.

What regal vestments can with them compare! What kings so shining! or what queens so fair!

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THE fowls of the air' have had many advocates in their praise; artists have lengthened their memory in beautiful hues, poets have pleaded in descriptive language for their vation, and generous hands have spread the sweet crumb in winter for them. They have their exits and their entrances; and, parodying our great British poet, one bird plays many parts.' Though birds have the range of life betwixt the visible earth and heaven, what difficulties they encounter, how many enemies they avoid! The 'game-laws,' the sporting cockney, the wary fowler, the lime-twig urchin, the soothing bell, the night-approaching clap-net; and, lastly, the wire domes tic cage. Those persons who never indulge in the softer impulses of reflection, are ready to call me a bird-fancier,' one who has more sympathy than sense. This I deny. But I reprobate habitual cruelty in my fellow-creatures, for the want of duly considering the use and abuse which lordly man' exercises to the feathered race.

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A custom prevailed in the country, some years past, for a party to go into the woods to take birds in the following manner:-One person took a torch, another a paddle, a third a bell, and a fourth a bag. An inquisitive gentleman of the village wished to join them, and they persuaded him to carry a grindstone upon his shoulder, to sharpen the clapper, if necessary. This he bore most patiently through bog and glen, in darkness and peril, till they all returned home again with twenty dozen of fieldfares, laughing most heartily at his unsuspecting credulity. This fact is worthy of preservation with the legends of Coggeshall's and Gotham's wise men.

To see a man six feet high leaning over a bridge with a rod and line, twelve hours successively, and merely get a 'glorious nibble,' is no enviable sight to me, more than to behold another man riding his horse to death, to drive a hare to its last home. If flogging can be justified in the catalogue of our laws for crimes, I think a few lashes for the angler, the horse-racer, the animal-hunter, and the voluntarily selfdefence follower, might render the pursuit less frequent and less obnoxious. Mr. Martin may be laughed at by the cruel for his regard for the brute creation, and Mrs. Fry receive the unmerited disapprobation of recreants for her desire to reform the vicious. The accumulation of crime, and the immoral example of fashion, call for the virtuous to exert their energies in ameliorating those who have neither courage nor condition to ameliorate themselves. But these subjects require more elucidation than I intend in this paper to propose. My theme is with birds, not with beasts or fishes. Every lover of Milton's purified muse must recollect his ardent expressions of birds, especially the nightingale, his sweet bird!' Chaucer, his predecessor, rehearsed many of his best pieces to the small fowl,' and the assembly of fowls,' to the birds that sleep with

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open eye,' to the cuckoos, the falcons,' and the merlins.' Dryden was enamoured of the 'chanticleer' in Chaucer, and 'the lark that at heaven's gate sings.' Drayton paints the colours of the ' pea

The ancients, heathens, Greeks, and Romans, revered birds, inasmuch as they thought them ominous of life, death, prosperity, victory, adversity, and vanquish ment. Vide their History.

cock,' and addresses the 'plover, and thrushes,' in many lovelorn plaints. Cowper loved birds, and employed his eloquent humanity in their behalf. Mrs. Barbauld has written petitions for 'robins.' Keates wrote a sonnet in the wood for the birds that had been rob bed. Kerrick and Marvell rehearsed 'the loves of birds.' Cowley used to admit a bird into his grot, at Chertsey, for humble pittance. Watts tamed a sparrow at the top of Lady Abney's house, where he studied. Elijah was fed by ravens. Bloomfield has spoken very prettily of birds in his delightful 'Farmer's Boy.' Shakspeare alludes continually to birds in his works. Not a valentine is offered at Cupid's shrine without the auspices of the feathered choir,' 'the warbling quire,' and the songsters of the grove.' I do firmly believe birds are worshippers of nature and heaven. I believe they waft their their offerings to the skies continually. I believe their wakening meetings at sunrise are spent in gratitude. I be lieve the voices which they tune are consecrated to divinity. Methinks I hear the sluggard complain that he hates the noise; and that he is awoke too soon; that he cannot slumber again: I am otherwise. Twenty birds, at least, meet of a morning in a tree before my bed-room window. Their regular devotion awakes my heart and inspires my love to join in their early praise. When an hour has elapsed, these birds separate to their several avocations. Their instinct guides them to food and industrious habits. Birds in their little nests agree,' says Watts. Washington Irving has shown, in his Tales of the Hall,' at the 'rookery,' what birds can do, and how tenacious they are of propriety and decorum in all their household discipline. Trees are the bird's paradise, yet they are social. Birds are fond of men naturally, but not the instruments of deceit; they dread men because of the engines of destruction. Yet birds in populous places seem aware that men cannot be their destroyers, by their pert familiarity and inquisitive intrusions. They seem to know, that men dare not shoot them for fear of shooting others of the 'winged tribe.' The sparrow takes

up his abode in the eaves of our dwelling. The owl comes to our ivied habitations; the wren is protected in our shed; the robin in a private nook in our wall; the swallow takes the airy part of our chimney; the martin dabs its ingenious plan together with mortar in a corner of our window; and our fowls accommodate themselves to our convenience for sheltering and rusticating them. O had 1 the wings of a dove!' exclaims the fugitive, 'for then I should be at rest.' Noah trusted to a bird for dry land. The beauty of birds is incomparable. Their constancy is proverbial. Their instruction to their young valuable. The harmony of birds surpasses all other sounds. They obtain their livelihood without injury to mankind. And it is erroneous that they destroy blossoms, and consume corn, but in exceptionable instances; on the contrary, they resort to trees and flowers, and eat the insidious insect, the worm in the bud that feeds on the damask cheek.' Birds are tractable and imitative. They can be taught to draw water, and articulate like the human voice. All birds are not even destitute of an approximation to reason. The seat of happiness cannot be more delightfully imagined than in the existence of a bird's nest full of happy young, and nurtured under the sheltering wing and warm bosom of their parents. Birds are fond of liberty. Freedom, like air, is their life. Thomson is alive to their interest in his paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chap. Matth. He says,

Behold, and look away your low despair!

See the light tenants of the barren air:
To them nor stores nor granaries belong,
Nought but the woodland and the pleasing song;
Yet your kind heavenly father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.

To him they sing when spring renews the plain,
To him they cry in winter's pinching reign,

Nor is their music nor their plaint in vain :
He hears the gay and the distressful call,
And with unsparing bounty fills them all.
If, ceaseless, thus the fowls of heaven he feeds,
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads,

Will he not care for you, ye faithless! say,
Is he unwise? or, are ye less than they?

J. R. PRIOR.
Islington, March 1, 1824.

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