tition of the small pieces of beef in their tubs of farinha, the most perfect fair-dealing is always observed.' On the 28th of May, Cape Agulhas came in sight, and in a day or two afterwards the negroes were landed, in order to be transported to Cape Town in wagons. Of the 397 at the beginning of the voyage, only 222 lived to reach the Cape, making the total number of deaths on board 175. Many, however, died after landing; and of those in the Cleopatra, two died. The scene on board the Progresso at the clearing out of the living mass was appalling. Seven bodies lay piled on deck to be buried on the beach, and the body of a lad was found beneath the planks in a state of decomposition. Part of a hand had been devoured, and an eye completely scooped out by rats. point to the kind of missionaries to be employed. Africa, in our opinion, is only to be civilised by her own coloured race. This, fortunately, can be done without taking a shilling from the European purse. There is a demand for hired labourers in the West Indies. Supply this demand from Africa, giving the servants so introduced a safe conduct back to their native country on the expiry of their engagements. Carrying home with them the civilised habits and tastes, also the knowledge of the Christian doctrines and graces, which they would acquire during their servitude, a flood of civilisation might thus be regularly returned to the African continent, affecting all within its influence. Nor is this scheme without precedent. Already, in the small and free state of Liberia, on the At the conclusion of his narrative, the reverend writer coast of Africa, manumitted American slaves have sucstates it as his impression, that the present arrangements cessfully planted the standard of civilisation, and, we to put down the slave trade are futile. In the first place, believe, done more to Christianise this benighted region the trade offers the most extraordinary profits. On the than all the efforts of English philanthropists put toeast coast of Africa slaves can be always purchased with gether. It is unfortunate that, because the Liberian ease, and at a moderate price. Sometimes money, and scheme did not originate in England, it has hitherto sometimes coarse cottons are paid in exchange, at the been viewed with distrust, if not open indignity, in this rate of about L.3, 16s. 6d. per man, and L.2, 9s. for country. Still, there is the fact of its success, offering boys. Taken to Rio Janeiro, a man will sell for L.52, a lesson which the anti-slavery societies should not a woman for 1.41, 10s., and a boy for L.31. The author rashly disregard. The experience of half a century assumes that L.19,000 will thus be cleared on a single proves that guns cannot put down the slave trade. And cargo. At this rate of profits, a slave trader will be a refusal to have commercial dealings with the South compensated if he secure only one cargo out of four or American states will prove equally fallacious; for they five, which he is certain to do. With avarice whetted will deal with some one else, and we shall only lose by an average degree of success, he defies all risks. In their trade for our pains. In short, there appears no the second place, he has nothing to fear from punish- means to quell this horrid traffic than that of outdoing ment. The United States, Great Britain, the States of the slave-holding states by cheapness and dexterity of Buenos Ayres, Brazil, Austria, Prussia, Russia, and labour; and to effect this result, nothing could be so Portugal, have each, by conventions or legislative enact-effectual as to strip the West Indies of their present ments, declared the slave trade to be piracy, and its sloth-inducing monopoly, and compel them to resort to perpetrators deserving of death as pirates; but all this every honourable expedient to undersell their slaveis practically a dead letter. The crew of the Progresso holding competitors. were set at liberty, 'there being no authority at the Cape to deal with them as criminals.' Stimulated with the hopes of excessive gains, and dreading no personal chastisement, the slave traders carry on their detestable traffic with as great vigour at the present moment, if not greater, than at any former period. While we boast the name of Wilberforce,' observes Mr Hill, and the genius and eloquence which enabled him to arouse so general a zeal against the slave trade; while others are disputing with him the claim of being "the true annihilator of the slave trade," that trade, so far from being annihilated, is at this very hour carried on under circumstances of greater atrocity than were known in his time, and the blood of the poor victims calls more loudly on us as the actual, though unintentional aggravators of their miseries.' In conclusion, we offer thanks to the Rev. Mr Hill for the candour of his disclosures, which cannot fail to make a deep and beneficial impression in the country. POPULAR FRENCH SONGS. NO. II. THE LOUNGER. THAT process of killing time described by the word lounging,' is practised more or less in every civilised country; but Paris is, without doubt, its head-quarters. In England, the struggle for livelihood is so active, that no one can be a regular lounger who has not some sort of independence; but the case is different in France. Many a tradesman, for example, believing that his shop is best conducted by his wife, spends his time in sauntering about the town in search of cheap pastimes, or into the cafés to talk politics. He, together with the small rentiers (or fund-holders), is a lounger by habit and continuance,' but by no means the only lounger peculiar to Paris. Those who are much occupied during the day-such as office-clerks and shopmen-find sauntering a great resource after business. The pleasures of lounging, however, have been materially lessened in Paris of late years, partly by the police-through whose efforts street-music, and several other gratis amusements, have been much abated-and partly by the increased necessity for a more profitable use of time, in consequence of the growing demands of an augmented population. In former days, says our authority, I have seen crowds habitually surround these minstrels, listen to their songs with avidity, remain for hours, and thus were kept away from drinking and gaming-houses, from dangerous political meetings, and from the evils to which they gave rise. These street-songs, with their joyous burthens, suggested cheerful thoughts, and drove away evil Some would copy the poetry into their penny These announcements, by no means new, are sufficiently humiliating. The interference of British philanthropists has vastly aggravated the horrors of the slave trade. Instead of being carried across the ocean in roomy vessels, the negroes are now packed into the smallest possible space, in brigantines built for quick sailing; and thus, while as many cross the Atlantic as ever it is said 20,000 annually-notwithstanding the vigilance of British cruisers, the sufferings and deaths during the passage are prodigiously increased. Capture, even by a British vessel, would seem, from the account before us, to be by no means an immediate relief to the sufferers. Officers, unaccustomed to such duties, and probably with few trusty hands to aid them, make indifferent custodiers of the newly emancipated negroes; so that, under the British flag, and under the guise of discipline, scenes occur as revolting as any which take place in the slave-holding states of the New World. Is there, then, really no means left for putting down the abominable trade in slaves? Must philanthropy sit down and sigh over evils which are apparently irremediable? The author before us hints at civilising and Christianising Africa by missionaries, as the only means of cutting up the traffic at its roots. We agree with him so far; but go a step farther, and Populaires de la France; the richly illustrated periodical formerly ones. * Monsieur de Mersan in No. 73 of the Chants and Chansons noticed. memorandum-books, and the frugal supper which terminated the night in their own homes was enlivened by some song caught up in the street, which the husband taught the wife, who repeated it in turn to her children.' Notwithstanding that the police of Paris has-by forbidding street minstrels to exercise their vocation in a stationary manner-abridged the pleasures of the idle, still, for the true lounger-who, in most instances, must be a small annuitant-many resources are still open, and his day's occupation is characteristically described in the following chant.' The author is the vivacious Casimir Menètrier, a member of the Society of Momus,' and himself a lounger of repute. THE LOUNGER (LE FLANEUR). Me? I lounge! You may blame or praise, And smile at my ways- I at everything stare, I am seen everywhere. I leave about seven My room nearest heaven, What's the news from Nanterre.* (That takes me an hour), The lost and stolen' page Should be advertised there. Then I take a short nap At the sound of the drum, I follow the soldiers, On the banks of the stream You may see me again, To note how they build The new quay on the Seine. To the Palace of Justice And in caricatures To the second-hand bookstalls To study with prudence ;- To read, but not buy. If I find a good passage, Turn the leaf down anew, Till I've read the book through. I now think of dinner, To call at some house Where I'm known more or less; 'Both master and mistress Me? I lounge! &c. At night in the café Of a hazard at billiards On a domino game. Or on politics chat, Knotty questions define, Using arguments strong, While drinking weak wine. Me? I lounge! &c. * A village near Paris, see page 247 of our twelfth volume. INNS OF PAST AND PRESENT DAYS. 155 No longer than a century ago, the traveller whose business required despatch took his way on horseback; for the wagons and stage-coaches then on the road were not for a moment to be thought of by one who was in a hurry. Booted and spurred, with a riding-coat buckled tightly around him-the belt garnished with a pair of horse-pistols, to scare, rather than to shoot highwaymen-he would wend his way till hunger or nightfall made him anxious concerning some house of entertainment. If his route lay through a populous town, he would soon be able to find such an asylum; and entering the yard, would speedily perceive an hostler standing at his nag's head, and inviting him to dismount. Presently the landlord appears, and after giving the guest the time o' day, calls lustily for Tom Drawer, to unbuckle his worship's saddle-bags and valise.' During this operation the traveller has leisure to look around. He finds himself in a square court, its four sides bounded by buildings. The ground-floor of one of these is occupied by the long window of the bar, through which the dim light of two or three oil lamps scarcely pierces the evening's gloom. Above appear tiers of balconies, running completely round the quadrangle, and edged with balusters of ponderous turned-wood pillars. These platforms lead to the dormitories, in one of which the traveller will have to pass the night. He follows the drawer to the bar, in an inner recess of which he sees his luggage placed, knowing it to be, however valuable its contents, as safe there as if deposited in the bullion-cellars of the Bank of England. Our friend, ordering a tankard of ale and a pipe, enters the Blue Lion,' which title is given to the public room; the numbering of apartments not having been at that time invented. In all probability he finds here one or two characters who were the frequent visitors of the old-fashioned inn; the foremost some country squire, who had come into the town that day on private, or, peradventure, on 'justice' business. All he utters would be received with humble deference by the substantial shopkeeper and the manufacturer's bagman with whom he condescendingly converses. some daring highway robbery recently committed; The subject is certain to be the bagman caps the story with one of his own, far more striking and remarkable than the squire's; for the tales of travellers were proverbial even at that day. Our friend joins in the conversation, turning it to politics, the German wars,' or the troubles in the 'plantations,' as our colonies were then called. Presently the landlord joins the party, and they all agree to sup together. A carouse is the consequence; and by the time our friend is ready to be conducted to his chamber, he is hardly in a condition to find it without the assistance of the chamberlain. Indeed, under the most favourable circumstances, these bed - chambers were difficult to distinguish, unless the traveller took careful notice whether his room was the fox,' the 'star,' or the 'dragon;' for the long rows of doors, all exactly alike, often gave rise to those awkward mistakes of which so many traditions have been preserved in the old novels and farces, and which have been always a fertile source of imbroglio to authors. ་ The traveller of those days rose carly, went into the stable to see to his beast, breakfasted, paid his bill (never more than a few shillings), and was again in the saddle long before the modern hour of rising. On, on he would jog, till food and temporary rest were again necessary, and he next alights at another sort of hostelry a road-side public-house, to which he is invited by the conspicuously painted words, Good entertainment for man and horse.' It is here he intends to dine. His nag having been put up' by a ragged urchin (for no regular ostler belonged to the establishment), he is ushered by the landlord into the kitchen, a paved hall, with a huge wooden settle' placed before a glowing fire. If, however, he require more privacy and comfort, he is shown into the parlour, the floor of which is sanded. In the middle stands one of those curious tables which is supported by almost a forest of legs, some of which are formed to be pulled out, so as to support flaps for extra company. This being the best room, the walls are ornamented with pictures. Over the mantelshelf is a coloured print of the great Duke of Marlborough, or the Duke of Cumberland, supported on one side by the effigy of a shepherdess with her crook, and on the other by a shepherd to match-only, instead of a crook, he has a pipe. Some curious specimens of china ware and glass-blowing adorn the chimney shelf. Having taken an ample survey of the parlour, the traveller of that era, knowing that a broil of beef-steak occupied an hour, usually filled up that space of time by taking a look round at the crops;' for which purpose he sallies forth. The consequence is, that after dinner, when the landlord gets into chat with his guest, the subject is the price of grain, the prospects of the harvest, and other topics of a purely agricultural nature. When the reckoning is called for, the traveller, though both he and his horse have dined well, gets change out of a shilling, and pursues his way. When at the end of his journey, he boasts of his exertions on the road-having performed fifty miles in something less than a couple of days. Such were the inns of the olden time-social, comfortable, and cheap. The slow motions of our forefathers allowed of these excellencies; for where there was never any hurry, but few servants were required; and as the host's expenses were moderate, so were his guest's. There was, moreover, always time for what was considered social enjoyment, which meant drinking, smoking, and conversation. But as locomotion became quicker on the road, such establishments were forced to become more complete. The fast coaches of Mr Palmer, and the smooth roads of M'Adam, whisked customers to and from inn-doors at such a rate, that unless business could be done rapidly, there would be none done at all. This, with the increased number of travellers brought about by the increase of facilities for travelling, rendered large accessions of servants necessary. The place of the one drawer was supplied by a dozen waiters; the landlady was superseded by a smart bar-maid; the chamberlain was replaced by chambermaids, or degraded to a new office of separate duty-that of boots.' One ostler was enough for the few equestrians who visited the more modern inn; but 'horse-keepers' there were in plenty to attend to the teams of the stage-coach. Thus, when you were drawn up to an inn door to get dinner, a couple of these officials were in an instant at the horses' heads, unbuckling the reins, after having thrown a cloth over their backs to prevent the too sudden check of cold. By the time you got out of the coach, the team was also at liberty, and slowly sauntering into the stables to get their feed, while you entered the inn to get yours. Although you had very little time to spare out of the twenty-five minutes the guard allowed for your meal, yet you could not help observing the larder at the end of the passage. This-contained in an extensive glass case-seemed to consist of samples of the fare you were about to get. On entering the dining-room, you found that some of the travellers had already commenced operations; and the waiters, in cotton jackets, with napkins tucked into the side pockets in a way that gave them an unpleasant resemblance to pocket handkerchiefs, were busily handing plates from a tin warmer which stood opposite the fire. Having made good haste, finished your dinner, and paid four times as much as it had cost our traveller of the olden time for himself and his horse, you leave the inn, and do not alight from the coach till arriving at another, where you get tea in almost the same manner, and quite at a similar rate of expense. By the time your journey was finished, another room in the inn you had been dining at would, in all likelihood, be filled with company, being perhaps the quarters of a club. Assembled here, neighbouring tradesmen would be found smoking cigars instead of pipes, and drinking wine and spirits in lieu of ale. Perhaps, in a private apartment, sat a country squire; while, if the house were what is called the 'commercial' one, a third room was occupied by the successors of the bagman we have before adverted to, and who have taken the more comprehensive name of commercial travellers. Thus we perceive the effects of rapid advancement in wealth and population. Three-quarters of a century sooner, and one room sufficed to hold members of each class we have enumerated; but at the time we now speak, separate habits and separate interests obliged them to associate-each according to his grade and employment-in three distinct apartments. In some country inns, however, it was only the stimulus of a coach-dinner or a club that kept up the bustle. Enter them when the coach has gone, or before the club had met, and instead of activity, the house would appear (we speak of such inns as they were some ten or fifteen years ago) deserted. If you came on foot, and did not promise to be a good customer, by arriving with some sort of equipage, you had to find your way into a room as best you could, for not one of the jacketed waiters appeared to direct you. After finding a resting place, the bell was rung once or twice before the summons was answered; and when at length the waiter did appear, and you ordered dinner, it was an unconscionable time before it came. The fraternity of waiters had an ingenious expedient for staving off your impatient demands. When sufficient time had passed for the dinner to have been cooked twice over, an attendant came in and laid the cloth; and the natural inference was, that the meal would soon follow. Not so, however: after the lapse of another quarter of an hour you rang the bell, and the waiter, to show that things are really progressing, brings in the castors. Ten minutes more a second peal at the bell, and-enter a man with the salt, who answers your inquiries by saying, 'Coming di-rectly, sir,' and slamming the door. A little while longer, and your patience is quite exhausted; the bell is applied to more violently, and the attendant actually comes in at last with-the plates. Hunger and human endurance are pushed to the last extremity; but the tormentor takes your reproaches with the utmost coolness, and declares of your dinner that it is dishing up, sir.' Having been deceived so often, you put on your hat, and decide on seeking refreshment elsewhere; but while on the threshold to depart, your dinner is really and truly placed on the table; and after the first mouthful or so, all anger vanishes. Another provoking trait of these country inns was, that whatever the guest asked for, it was readily promised; but when the time came for the appearance of the favourite dish, the waiter would exclaim, 'Very sorry, sir; last salmon bespoke for club dinner.' A waiter of that day could never say 'no' to whatever you ordered, though he knew perfectly well it was not to be had. The only known instance to the contrary was related with the most pathetic comicality by the late Charles Matthews. Entering a forlorn-looking country inn, he accosted a lugubrious waiter, and inquired if he could have a chicken and asparagus? The mysterious serving-man shook his head. Can I have a duck, then?' 'No, sir.' This explanation, though short, was comprehensive and touching. The fate it expressed has been of late shared by a great many inns of the same stamp; first, in consequence of the establishment of private clubs in towns of any importance; and next, by the railways, which have not only diverted the traffic from the roads upon which the inns are placed, but-from the short time occupied in each journey-have nearly abolished temporary refreshment. Inns, therefore, of the most modern date are situated at the termini of the various lines, to accommodate the public on arrival and departure. In some of the establishments of the present day, innkeeping appears to be brought to the highest conceivable perfection. Their outward appearance is that of palaces; and even when you enter them, the similarity is not diminished. In the entry you perceive a hall-porter who directs servants in livery to convey your luggage to a handsomely furnished bed-room. Were it not for two huge glass cases-one containing a couple of clerks, and the other a brace of bar-maids-the delusion would be complete. But you have scarcely time to look round, before you are accosted by a well-dressed person, whom you follow to a coffee-room furnished with luxuriance and splendour. The dress of your gentleman-usher deserves remark. He is, in fact, a waiter; but how changed from he of the striped jacket, who flourished his towel in the coaching days! The modern attendant is attired handsomely, but upon principles of severe, rather than vulgar taste; insomuch that he might, in any other situation, be mistaken for a clergyman. Black, of the most superfine quality, is his wear; but that this should not appear too sombre, it is relieved by a shirt and neckerchief of spotless whiteness. To prevent mistakes, however, he carries the badge of office-a napkin-but one of the finest texture. If it be dinner-time, he hands you, with ready politeness, the 'carte; but the first glance at it shows that selection from so vast a variety would be a work of time, which would ill suit the state of your appetite; and you throw yourself on the discretion of the waiter. With scarcely a moment's consideration he sketches off a dinner which an emperor might covet; and looking at the clock, inquires at what hour you would wish it. If you reply immediately,' with the supposition of having to wait, it will be a great mistake. Things are wonderfully reformed since the slow coaches were taken off the road; for, ere you can read one line of the newspaper which the attendant has obligingly furnished, the soup is served. From that time the succession of courses come on with scarcely a moment's pause--a convincing proof that the cuisine is complete in all its departments. Every course is served upon silver, and every plate is porcelain. The wine is brought in decanters of the newest fashion, and the dessert on richly cut glass. At night, you sleep in a well-furnished room, and next morning have breakfast on a scale of commensurate splendour and excellence; for its materials are supplied daily from a farm which belongs to the hotel. In short, everything is of the most costly kind, including, of course, your own expenditure. But that is to be expected: if you be accommodated quite as well as it is possible for a nobleman with a princely income to be, you must pay for it. It is when charges are high, accommodation limited, and management bad, that you have cause to be dissatisfied. A glance back at the history of inns for the last twenty years, proves that to their exorbitant charges and mismanagement may be partly traced their recent decline and fall. Rather than submit to them, clubs were formed; and so prevalent are they all over the country, that few persons of respectability make a habit of frequenting taverns, because they get what they want better and cheaper at their own clubs. This remark of course applies to inns which were out of the influence of coaching, and which have been abolished by railroads. Houses of entertainment of a lower grade are also being fast swept away by the gratifying progress of temperance, so that we must look upon the present as an age of gradual downfall for inns, taverns, spirit-shops, and public houses of all grades and characters. ANIMAL POISONS. THE most noted poisons are of a vegetable or mineral nature; but in nearly every class of the animal kingdom there is found some creature which is, or was anciently, said to secrete a venom. Modern zoologists state that the gall of the ounce is deadly poison; and the vulgar have a superstitious belief that a cat's breath is poisonous to children, if they inhale it long while the animal sleeps in the same cradle. This is clearly a mere fancy, as is also the notion that cats occasionally suck the breath of children till the little innocents can breathe no longer. The origin of both stories is probably this: a cat has gone to the cradle, and, for greater warmth, has lain on the breast of the sleeping babe, until, by the weight of its body repressing the play of the lungs, the infant has been gradually suffocated. There was formerly a notion that the fur of the cat imparted snakes' poison to those who handled it much; and this was referred to the habit cats were supposed to indulge in, of playing with and teazing those reptiles without injury to themselves. The virus of a rabid dog, or other animal, can only be regarded as a diseased and infectious matter, and therefore need not be discussed here among the natural poisons of animals. The polar bear presents one of the best attested examples of a poisonous quadruped; this property of its flesh being probably derived from some of the vegetables and berries which it seeks on the shores during the autumn. Scoresby says, that those sailors who, while in the arctic regions, have been obliged to eat the flesh of bears, and have not taken the precaution of rejecting the liver, have almost always been attacked with sickness, a peeling off of the skin, and sometimes have even died from its baneful effects. During Sir John Ross's stay at Fury Beach, some of his party being tempted by the fine appearance of the meat of the polar bears, made a hearty meal of the first that was shot. All who partook of it soon complained of a violent headache, which, with some, continued two or three days, and was followed by the skin peeling off the face, hands, and arms; and in others, who had probably eaten more largely, the skin peeled off the whole body. On a former occasion, he witnessed a similar occurrence, when, on Sir Edward Parry's polar journey, having lived for several days wholly on two bears that were shot, the skin peeled off the feet, legs, and arms of many of the party; but it was then attributed rather to the quantity than to the quality of the meat, and to their having been, for some time previous, on very short allowance of provision. It was anciently supposed that the wound from a stag's horn was poisonous; but death, in such a case, arises merely from the immense force with which the animal strikes its enemy. If thou be hurt with hart, it brings thee to thy bier; But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, thereof thou need'st not fear.' In America, when the snow lies so deep as to prevent the deer from grazing, they are compelled to subsist only by browsing on the leaves and bark of the laurel, in consequence of which they secrete so much of its wellknown poison, that their flesh proves hurtful to persons who eat it. We have often heard people complain of illness after dining on hares and rabbits; and we doubt not that the flesh of these animals is occasionally noxious, owing to their having eaten largely of poisonous barks and poisonous plants. Some reader, perhaps, will ask, 'Would not such food poison the animals themselves?' No, not always; for certain animals will cat with cagerness and perfect impunity various plants, barks, and berries, which prove poisonous to human beings. In the same way the flesh of many birds that eat poisonous berries is sometimes hurtful to people who partake of it. During the time that the American ruffled grouse feeds on laurel-buds, its flesh is highly deleterious. Southey says that the flesh of parrots is so powerful, that it is used medicinally abroad. The head and intestines of the Carolina parrot are said to be instantaneously poisonous to cats. Beauplan relates that the flesh of a blue-footed sort of quail, inhabiting Ukraine, in Tartary, proves fatal to persons who eat it. Among reptiles, we find more poisonous animals than in any other class; indeed the examples are much too numerous to be here particularised. Snakes are the most celebrated of all venomous animals; but a great many species are as free from venom as is our common British snake and our small brittle snake, commonly called the blind-worm, both of which are perfectly harmless, though popular ignorance cherishes a thousand stories of their deadly deeds. The British viper, or adder, does, indeed, inflict a poisonous bite, producing a very rapid swelling of the wounded part, but never proving fatal, except to persons whose blood was previously in a very bad state. Its wound, in a healthy subject, is soon counteracted with a little spirit of ammonia. The Egyptian viper is 'the asp,' from whose bite Cleopatra sought death, that she might avoid being taken to Rome to grace the triumph of Augustus. Shakspeare has described the workings of the poison in her frame; but it is not often that its bite is attended with fatal results. Its wound is easily cured by volatile alkaline spirits, particularly that preparation called eau-de-luce, and even by fetid spirit of tartar. In the class of fishes, perhaps the most noted example of a poisonous one is the barbel. Juliana Barnes, who lived in the fourteenth century, when it was sometimes usual to eat fish without any cooking, says, 'The barbel is a sweet fish, but it is a quasy and perilous meat for man's body-for commonly he giveth an introduction to the fever; and if he be eaten raw, he may be cause of man's death, which hath oft been seen.' Yet a famous scientific writer on fishes, Dr Bloch, says that he and all his family have eaten the roe of the barbel without sustaining any harm. The hurtful qualities of a fish called the weever (Trachinus draco) are noticed by ancient writers without any exaggeration. The flesh is exceedingly good eating, but the wounds inflicted by its spines are very painful, attended with a violent burning and most pungent shooting, and sometimes with an inflammation that will extend from the arm to the shoulder. It is a common notion that these symptoms proceed from something more than the small wound which the fish is capable of inflicting; and that there is a venom infused into it, at least into such as is made by the spines that form the first dorsal fin, which is black, and has a most suspicious aspect. The remedy used by Welsh fishermen is sea-saud, with which they rub the affected part for a considerable time. In the Uni versal Museum, of November 1765, an instance is related of a person being reduced to a very dangerous state by a wound from this fish, but who was cured by the application of sweet-oil, and by taking opium and Venicetreacle. Mackarel, herrings, crabs, lobsters, and muscles, frequently produce eruptions on the bodies and limbs of persons who eat them. According to Orfila, Mæring, Rondeau, Fodére, and Burrows, death has often resulted from eating muscles. Some mystery rests on this point. It has been observed that the musclés prove injurious to particular persons only, and to them only at some particular times. This would lead to a supposition that the effect is owing more to constitutional peculiarities in the eaters of the muscles, than to the muscles themselves. But this is certainly not the case in all instances, for it is clearly established that muscles which have been taken from the copper sheathing of ships are poisonous, evidently from the copperas which they have imbibed. Mr John Murray tells us that he found on the Exmouth coast, Devonshire, a sponge-like substance, which he discovered to be the matrix of innumerable very minute muscles; in fact, the envelope of the spawn of the eatable muscle. He rubbed a portion of this substance on the back of his hand, where it produced a virulent inflammation, accompanied by eruptive spots, which, finally becoming ulcerated, healed with great difficulty. The marks still remain perfect, and are likely to continue for life. He adds, that he heard of a gentleman who experienced violent sickness from having merely trod on this substance while bathing. These facts show that it is not an imaginary poison, but an undoubtedly malignant one. The venom of the wasp, bee, and hornet, is a most irritating poison, but is quickly neutralised by the application of sweet-oil to the punctured part. Here we inay notice that the honey of the bee is sometimes poisonous. Xenophon records that, during the celebrated retreat of the ten thousand Greeks from Persia, the soldiers, when they came to a place near Trebizonde, found many beehives, the combs of which they sucked; but soon afterwards they became as though intoxicated, and were attacked with a virulent cholera-morbus. The famous botanist Tournefort, when at Trebizonde, made some researches relative to this occurrence, and learnt that it arose from the bees collecting their honey partly from a plant which is very abundant there, and the very blossoms of which exhale a sweet but intoxicating perfume. This plant was most likely either the rose-laurel (Rhododendron ponticum) or the yellow azalea (Azalea pontica); for Father Lamberti found both these poisonous plants, together with poisonous honey, in Mingrelia. Colonel Rottiers, in 1816, observed the rose-laurel growing on all the mountains of Trebizonde; and the inhabitants asserted, that the strong honey' which the bees extract from its flowers is a kind of poison, causing stupor in a greater or less degree, according to the season of the year. M. Dupré, the French consul, assured Colonel Rottiers that he had experienced this effect himself. In the autumn and winter of 1790, there was an extensive mortality among the people of Philadelphia who had eaten of honey that had becu collected near that city. The American government having instituted a minute inquiry into the cause of the honey proving fatal, it was satisfactorily ascertained that it had been chiefly extracted from the flowers of the Kalmia latifolia. Plants of the genus Andromeda also yield a poisonous honey. In the American Philosophical Transactions,' Dr Barton states that the dwarf-laurel, great laurel, broad-leaved moorwort, Pennsylvania mountain-laurel, wild honeysuckle, and the stramonium or James-town weed, yield a poisonous syrup, and that the honey which the bees make therefrom has been fatal to man. These facts ought to induce the keepers of bees to be careful how they venture to cultivate plants of noxious qualities near their hives. The Greeks and Romans were careful to eradicate all bitter-tasting herbs from the vicinity of their apiaries, lest they should impart a bad quality to the honey. According to De Lille, the bee-keepers of Languedoc also pay great attention to this point. Even wild species of honey-bees will resort to noxious plants quite as readily as the domestic species 'Like to those bees of Trebizonde Which, from the sunniest flowers that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth which drives men mad.' An intoxicating and poisonous honey is extracted from the flowers of the monkshood, or aconite, by the choura, or wild rock-bee of Gurwhal (Apis irritabilis). |
