year, make treble the quantity of good manure, than those who are careless. At Catrine, in the above parish, there is an extensive cotton factory, where the usual close confinement and long hours are kept up; but in consequence of almost all the workmen and their families employed in the factory cultivating their own potatoes in the manner above described, ill-health is much less common among them than in public works, where so beneficial a combination of rural with mechanical labour is unknown. There is one disadvantage : holydays are unknown in Scotland, with the exception of new-year's day and the king's birth-day, and the rigidity of Presbyterian discipline will not permit the gathering of a weed or the lifting of a hoe on Sunday; so that the cotton spinners are obliged to attend to their potatoe crops in the evenings after working hours.

As our author had previously acquired a reputation for botanical knowledge, we anticipated that the portion of his journal devoted to this department would not be the least interesting; and we confess that, so far from being disappointed in this, he has exceeded our expectations, not in the mere technology of names, which it requires only a mechanical memory to parrot, but in original and beautiful remarks, the following for example, on the prevalence of yellow colours in spring flowers:

We have no colour so easily produced as this is; and it is equally remarkable, that, amidst all the varied hues of spring, yellow is the most predominant in our wild and cultured plants. The primrose, cowslip, pilewort, globe-flower, butter-cup, cherlock, crocus, all the cabbage tribe, the dandelions, appear in this dress. The very first butterfly, that will

is the sulphur butterfly (gonepteryx rhamni), which in the bright sunny mornings of March we so often see under the warm hedge, or by the side of some sheltered copse, undulating and vibrating like the petal of a primrose in the breeze. The blossoms of many of our plants afford for the decoration of the fair a vast variety of colours and intermediate tints; but they are all of them, or nearly so, inconstant or fugitive before the light of the sun, or mutable in the dampness of the air, except those obtained from yellow flowers; circumstances may vary the shade, but yet it is mostly permanent. Yellow is again the livery of autumn, in all the shades of ochre and of orange; the "sere and yellow leaf" becomes the general cast of the season, the sober brown comes next, and then decay.

His theory, we may remark, has led him into the mistake of considering the sulphur butterfly as "the very first;" for both the tortoise shell and the peacock (Vanessa urticæ, and V. Io,) often if not always precede it*; (we have seen the peacock in January ;) and upon these there is not a tint of yellow.

As botany has, since the time of Linnæus, become almost exclusively a science of names, we could not but admire the way in which our author has taken notice of the common appellations of plants, many of which are now obsolete, or at least becoming so.

Modern science may wrap up the meaning of its epithets in Greek and Latin terms; but in very many cases they are the mere translations of these

* See Companion to the Almanac for 1829, page 33.

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despised" old, vulgar names." What pleasure it must have afforded the poor sufferer in body or in limb,-what confidence he must have felt for relief, when he knew that the good neighbour who came to bathe his wounds, or assuage his inward torments, brought with him such things as all-heal, break-stone, bruise-wort, gout-weed, fever-few" (fugio,) and twenty other such comfortable mitigators of his afflictions: why their very names would almost charm away the sense of pain! The modern recipe contains no such terms of comfortable assurance: its meanings are all dark to the sufferer; its influence unknown. And then the good herbalist of old professed to have plants which were all good:" they could assuage anger by their "loosestrife;" they had "honesty, truelove, and heartsease." The cayennes, the soys, the catchups, and extratropical condiments of these days, were not required, when the next thicket would produce "poor man's pepper, sauce alone, and hedge-mustard;" and the woods and wilds around, when they yielded such delicate viands as "fat hen, lambs-quarters, way-bread, butter and eggs, with codlins and cream," afforded no despicable bill of fare. No one ever yet thought of accusing our old simplers of the vice of avarice, or love of lucre; yet their "thrift" is always to be seen: we have their humble pennyworth, herb twopence, moneywort, silverweed, and gold of pleasure." We may smile, perhaps, at the cognomens, or the commemorations of friendships, or of worth, recorded by the old simplers, at their herbs, "Bennet, Robert, Christopher, Gerard, or Basil;" but do the names so bestowed by modern science read better, or sound better? it has " Lightfootia, Lapeyrousia, Hedwigia, Schkuhria, Scheuchzeria;" and surely we may admit, in common benevolence, such partialities as good King Henry, sweet William, sweet Marjory, sweet Cicely, Lettuce, Mary Gold, and Rose." There are epithets, however, so very extraordinary, that we must consider them as mere perversions, or at least incapable of explanation at this period. The terms of modern science waver daily; names undergo an annual change, fade with the leaf, and give place to others; but the ancient terms, which some may ridicule, have remained for centuries, and will yet remain till nature is swallowed up by art. No: let our ancient herbalists, a grave and whiskered race," retain the honours due to their labours, which were most needful and important ones at those periods: by them were many of the casualties and sufferings of man and beast relieved; and by aid of perseverance, better constitutions to act upon, and faith to operate, than we possess, they probably effected cures, which we moderns should fail to accomplish if attempted.

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Our author has given an excellent, and in many respects an original account of the mole, to which we beg leave to add one or two circumstances which have occurred to ourselves. It has been frequently remarked, that though moles are partial to fields within the reach of water, they like to have their galleries in dry banks, or the more elevated parts of fields, where they are not in danger of being flooded. It is not unlikely, indeed, that it is to the great humidity of the climate we ought to refer the want of moles in Ireland. Be this as it may, we recently met with a striking instance of contrivance in the mole to afford a protection from moisture. In the woods adjoining Shooter's Hill, there are considerable patches of swampy ground, which are partially flooded in winter. On passing near one of these swamps, we were struck with the unusual size of a mole-hill, which we at first imagined to be an ant's nest. It was indeed a singular locality for a mole-hill, moles being seldom found in woods, and much seldomer in swamps; -but though it was as large as six ordinary mole-hills, there could be no doubt that it was one. Upon removing a portion of the upper layer

of the mould, the reason of its extraordinary elevation was at once explained; a circular gallery having been constructed on the highest part of the mound, and covered only by about two inches' depth of mould. As this gallery was at least two feet above the level of the swamp, it was out of the reach of any common inundation; and it appeared evident to us that it had been reared for this very purpose. We do not recollect of meeting with any similar fact recorded of the mole.

Another circumstance recently observed by us serves to illustrate Mr. Knapp's idea of the extraordinary acuteness of smell in the mole. He tells us that it will hunt for worms in the richest parts of a field or on the edges of a dung-heap, to which it must be guided by the smell. Now we accidentally discovered that young moles almost invariably find their way directly under the droppings of cows in a pasture, where of course they meet with a more abundant supply of food than elsewhere. In one field we found the galleries of young moles under every dropping, and that without any earth thrown out from their excavations. What they had done with this we could not discover.

The author seems very partial to the study of ornithology, and has enriched his volume with many valuable remarks upon birds. The following account of the magpie, however, by no means agrees with our own observation.

The tall tangled hedgerow, the fir grove, or the old well-wooded enclosure, constitute the delight of the magpie (corvus pica), as there alone its large and dark nest has any chance of escaping observation. We here annually deprive it of these asylums, and it leaves us; but it does not seem to be a bird that increases much any where. As it generally lays eight or ten eggs, and is a very wary and cunning creature, avoiding all appearance of danger, it might be supposed that it would yearly become more numerous. Upon particular occasions we see a few of them collect; but the general spread is diminished, and, as population advances, the few that escape will retire from the haunts and persecutions of man.

On the contrary, it has always appeared to us to be no less partial to human neighbourhood than its congener, the rook; and so far from being a solitary, though it is certainly a shy and wary bird, we have never met with it except near farm-houses. In the north almost every farm has its denizen pair of magpies, which incubate in their hereditary nest on the old ash tree, year after year, and probably for century after century, precisely like an hereditary colony of rooks. That the race does not increase has struck us frequently, for the several pairs to which we have alluded, as remaining partial for years to a particular tree, seldom increase beyond their original number. But this may be partly accounted for from the pugnacious spirit of the bird, which will not permit its kindred to form a settlement in its neighbourhood. We know not whether the magpie was included by the ncient Romans in the term corvus, as it is by modern Naturalists; but the vulgar universally look upon it as a bird of bad omen, supposing its appearance to betoken death and other calamities, and particularly when more magpies than one are seen at the same time.

Our author has made many beautiful remarks on the voices and singing of birds, which we are strongly tempted to extract entirely ; but we can spare room only for the following:

The singing of most birds seems entirely a spontaneous effusion, produced by no exertion, or occasioning no lassitude in muscle, or relaxation of the parts of action. In certain seasons and weather, the nightingale sings all day, and most part of the night; and we never observe that the powers of song are weaker, or that the notes become harsh and untunable, after all these hours of practice. The song thrush, in a mild moist April, will commence his tune early in the morning, pipe unceasingly through the day, yet, at the close of eve, when he retires to rest, there is no obvious decay of his musical powers, or any sensible effort required to continue his harmony to the last. Birds of one species sing in general very like each other, with different degrees of execution. Some counties may produce finer songsters, but without great variation in the notes. In the thrush, however, it is remarkable that there seems to be no regular notes, each individual piping a voluntary of his own. Their voices may always be distinguished amid the choristers of the copse, yet some one performer will more particularly engage attention by a peculiar modulation or tune; and should several stations of these birds be visited in the same morning, few or none probably will be found to preserve the same round of notes; whatever is uttered seeming the effusion of the moment. At times a strain will break out perfectly unlike any preceding utterance, and we may wait a long time without noticing any repetition of it. Harsh, strained, and tense, as the notes of this bird are, yet they are pleasing from their variety. The voice of the blackbird is infinitely more mellow, but has much less variety, compass, or execution; and he too commences his carols with the morning light, persevering from hour to hour without effort, or any sensible faltering of voice. The cuckoo wearies us throughout some long May morning with the unceasing monotony of its song; and, though there are others as vociferous, yet it is the only bird I know, that seems to suffer from the use of the organs of voice. Little exertion as the few notes it makes use of seem to require, yet, by the middle or end of June, it loses its utterance, becomes hoarse, and ceases from any further essay.

With respect to the singing of birds in the night, we may remark that there are many more night songsters than has been commonly imagined. The nightingale has usually engrossed all the praise; but besides it, we have observed the reed-sparrow, the wood-lark, the skylark, the white-throat, and the water-ousel, sing at most hours of the night. The mock-birds also, both that of our own country (sylvia subcaria) and the celebrated American mimic of the grove, may be added to the number. A species of finch (laxia enucleator, LINN.) common in the pine forests of Hudson's bay, and sometimes seen in the North of Scotland, enlivens the summer nights with its song. It is no uncommon occurrence for the canary, the song-thrush, and other species, when kept in cages, to sing in the night, particularly when the room in which they are is well lighted; and it may be remarked, that all night-song birds are partial to the moon,-a circumstance well known in America, where the night-hunter is roused from his bed or his bottle by the mocking bird, heralding with its loud notes the rising of the moon. To this catalogue we may likewise subjoin the land-rail or corn-crake (rallus crex), the partridge, grouse, and guinea-fowl, which, though they cannot be said to sing, utter their peculiar cries in the night.

Many more species of birds, perhaps, than those we have enumerated, sing in the night. Captain Cook, when off the coast of New Zealand, says, "We were charmed the whole night with the songs of

innumerable species of birds, from the woods which beautify the shores of this unfrequented island." (Voyages, Vol. I.) A very anomalous instance of a bird singing in the night, fell under our observation on the 6th of April, 1811. About ten o'clock at night we heard a hedgesparrow (accentor modularis) go through its usual song more than a dozen times, faintly indeed, but very distinctly. The night was cold and frosty, but might it not be that the little musician was dreaming of summer and sunshine? We have the poetical authority of Dryden for making the conjecture, who says,

"The little birds in dreams their songs repeat."

Indian Emperor.

We were particularly struck with our author's account of the thrush : In the winter season, the common song thrush feeds sparingly upon the berries of the whitethorn, and the hedge fruits, but passes a great portion of its time at the bottoms of ditches, seeking for the smaller species of snails (helix hortensis, and hel. nemoralis), which it draws out from the old stumps of the fence with unwearied perseverance, dashing their shells to pieces on a stone; and we frequently see it escaping from the hedge bank with its prize, which no little intimidation induces it to relinquish. The larger kind at this season are beyond its power readily to obtain; for, as the cold weather advances, they congregate in clusters behind some old tree, or against a sheltered wall, fixing the openings of their shells against each other, or on the substance beneath, and adhering so firmly in a mass, that the thrush cannot by any means draw them wholly, or singly, from their asylum. In the warmer portion of the year they rest separate, and adhere but slightly; and should the summer be a dry one, the bird makes ample amends for the disappointment in winter, intrudes its bill under the margin of the opening, detaches them from their hold, and destroys them in great numbers. In the summers of 1825 and 1826, both hot and dry ones, necessity rendered the thrush unusually assiduous in its pursuits; and every large stone in the lane, or under the old hedge, was strewed with the fragments of its banquet. This has more than once reminded me of the fable of the " Four Bulls;" united invincible, when separated an easy prey: but, with the exception of this season, and this bird, I know no casualty to which the garden snail is exposed.

With respect to the shell of the snail we may remark, that when it is injured, or broken, the animal soon repairs the breach by means of its mantle or collar, from the fluid produced, by which the shell is originally formed. It is a very amusing, instructive, and by no means a cruel experiment, to watch the manner in which a snail repairs its broken shell, by passing the mantle repeatedly over the breach, and leaving at each movement a quantity of mucus to harden in the air. To vary the experiment, a portion of the shell may be broken, as far out of reach of the mantle as may be, such as in the last whorl but one; when it will be seen to pass out the foot to make room for the mantle being drawn up sufficiently high into the shell to reach the part which has been injured. If the experiments be made upon the snail-shells with coloured bands, (Helix nemoralis, &c.) it may be remarked, that the mantle is banded in a similar manner, the several bands secreting each its peculiarly coloured material.

St. Jerome beautifully remarks, that "it is not only in the creation of the heavens, of the earth, of the sun, of the sea, of elephants, camels, horses, oxen, leopards, bears, and lions, that the power of