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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

VOL. 19. No. 547.]    SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1832    [PRICE 2d.

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WILTON CASTLE.


[Illustration: Wilton Castle.]

Here is one of the ivy-mantled relics that lend even a charm to romantic
nature on the banks of the Wye. Its shattered tower and crumbling wall,
combine with her wild luxuriance, to form a scene of great picturesque
beauty, though, as Gilpin observes, "the scene wants accompaniments to
give it grandeur."

These ruins stand opposite to Ross, on the western bank of the Wye. The
Castle was for several centuries the baronial residence of the Greys of
the south, who derived from it their first title, and who became owners
in the time of Edward the First. It may therefore be presumed to have
been one of the strongholds, in the great struggles for feudal
superiority with Wales, which were commenced by Edward, whose "active
and splendid reign may be considered as an attempt to subject the whole
island of Great Britain to his sway."[1] Or, in earlier times, being
situated on the ancient barrier between England and Wales, it may have
been a station of some importance, from its contiguity to Hereford,
which city was destroyed by the Welsh, but rebuilt and fortified by
Harold, who also strengthened the castle. The whole district is of
antiquarian interest, since, at the period of the Roman invasion,
Herefordshire was inhabited by the Silures, who also occupied the
adjacent counties of Radnor, Monmouth, and Glamorgan, together with that
part of Gloucestershire which lies westward of the Severn. The Silures,
in conjunction with the Ordovices, or inhabitants of North Wales,
retarded, for a considerable period, the progress of the Roman victors,
whose grand object seems to have been the conquest of these nations, who
had chosen the gallant Caractacus as their chieftain, and resolutely
exhausted every effort in defence of the independence of their country.

    [1] Mackintosh's Hist. England, vol. i, p. 247.

The present demolished state of the Castle is referred to the Royalist
Governors of Hereford, by whose orders it was burnt to the bare walls
during the reign of Charles I. in the absence of its then possessor, Sir
J. Brydges.

The scenery of the WYE, at this point is thus described by tourists:
"From Hereford to Ross, its features occasionally assume greater
boldness; though more frequently their aspect is placid; but at the
latter town wholly emerging from its state of repose," it resumes the
brightness and rapidity of its primitive character, as it forms the
admired curve which the churchyard of Ross commands. The celebrated
spire of Ross church, peeping over a noble row of elms, here fronts the
ruined Castle of Wilton, beneath the arches of whose bridge, the Wye
flows through a charming succession of meadows, encircling at last the
lofty and well-wooded hill, crowned with the majestic fragments of
Gooderich Castle, and opposed by the waving eminences of the forest of
Dean. The mighty pile, or peninsula, of Symonds' Rock succeeds, round
which the river flows in a circuit of seven miles, though the opposite
points of the isthmus are only one mile asunder. Shortly afterwards, the
Wye quits the county, and enters Monmouthshire at the New Wear.

The Rev. Mr. Gilpin, in his charming little volume on Picturesque
Beauty,[2] has a few appropriate observations: after passing Wilton--

    [2] Observations on the River Wye, &c. By William Gilpin,
    M.A.--Fifth Edition.

"We met with nothing for some time during our voyage but grand, woody
banks, one rising behind another; appearing and vanishing by turns, as
we doubled the several capes. But though no particular objects
characterized these different scenes, yet they afforded great variety of
pleasing views, both as we wound round the several promontories, which
discovered new beauties as each scene opened, and when we kept the same
scene a longer time in view, stretching along some lengthened reach,
where the river is formed into an irregular vista by hills shooting out
beyond each other and going off in perspective."

We ought not to forget to mention Ross, and its association with one of
the noblest works of GOD--honest John Kyrle, celebrated as the Man of
Ross. Pope, during his visits at Holm-Lacey, in the vicinity, obtained
sufficient knowledge of his beneficence, to render due homage to his
worth in one of the brightest pages of the records of human character.

       *       *       *       *       *


"MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS"--EGGS.

(_For the Mirror._)


In a paper on the _Superstitions of the Sea_, a few years ago,[3] I
slightly alluded to the nautical belief that the appearance of the
Stormy Petrel, and other marine birds at sea, was often considered to be
the forerunner of peril and disaster; and as your excellent
correspondent, _M.L.B._, in a recent number, expresses a wish to know
the origin of the _soubriquet_ of _Mother Carey's Chickens_, which the
former birds have obtained, I now give it with all the brevity which is
consistent with so important a narration. It appears that a certain
outward-bound Indiaman, called the _Tiger_, (but in what year I am
unable to state,) had encountered one continued series of storms, during
her whole passage; till on nearing the Cape of Good Hope, she was almost
reduced to a wreck. Here, however, the winds and waves seemed bent on
her destruction; in the midst of the storm, flocks of strange looking
birds were seen hovering and wheeling in the air around the devoted
ship, and one of the passengers, a woman called "Mother Carey," was
observed by the glare of the lightning to laugh and smile when she
looked at these foul-weather visitants; on which she was not only set
down as a witch, but it was also thought that they were her familiars,
whom she had invoked from the _Red Sea_; and "all hands" were seriously
considering on the propriety of getting rid of the old beldam, (as is
usual in such cases,) by setting her afloat, when she saved them the
trouble, and at that moment jumped overboard, surrounded by flames; on
which the birds vanished, the storm cleared away, and the tempest-tossed
_Tiger_ went peacefully on her course! Ever since the occurrence of this
"astounding yarn," the birds have been called "Mother Carey's Chickens,"
and are considered by our sailors to be the most unlucky of all the
feathered visitants at sea.

    [3] See Mirror, No. 205, vol. xi.

To turn by a not unnatural transition from _birds_ to _eggs_, permit me
to inform your Scottish correspondent, _S.S._ (see No. 536,) where he
asserts that the plan of rubbing eggs with grease in order to preserve
them, "is not so much as known in our own boasted land of stale eggs and
bundlewood;" that the said _discovery_ has long been known and practised
in many parts of old England; and that the repeated experience of
several friends warrants me in giving a decided negative to his
assertion that eggs so prepared "_will keep any length of time perfectly
fresh_." If kept for a considerable period, though they do not become
absolutely bad, yet they turn _very stale_. I happen to know something
of Scotland, and was never before aware that the raw clime of our
northern neighbours was so celebrated for its poultry. _M.L.B._ is
certainly misinformed in speaking of the trade in _Scotch_ eggs to
_America_. The importation of eggs from the continent into England is
very extensive: the duty in 1827 amounted at the rate of 10_d_. per 120,
to 23,062_l_. 19_s_. 1_d_.; since which period there has, we believe,
been an increase. The importation of eggs from Ireland is also very
large. If _S.S._ resides in London, he may have occasion to sneer at
"our boasted land of stale eggs;" but he should rather sneer at the
preserved French eggs, with which the London dealers are principally
supplied.

VYVYAN.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE CURFEW BELL.

(To the Editor.)


In addition to the remarks made by _Reginald_, in No. 543, and by
_M.D._, and _G.C._, in No. 545 of _The Mirror_, let me add that the
Curfew is rung every night at eight, in my native town, (Winchester,)
and the bell, a large one, weighing 12 cwt., is appropriated for the
purpose, (not belonging to a church) but affixed in the tower of the
Guildhall, and used only for this occasion, or on an alarm of fire.

In that city the Curfew was first established under the command of the
Conqueror, and the practice has continued to the present day. I have
been assured by many old residents, that it formerly was the custom to
ring the bell every morning at four o'clock, but the practice being
found annoying to persons living near, the Corporation ordered it to be
discontinued.

To such of your readers who, like myself, are fond of a solitary ramble
along the sea shore by moonlight, I would say, go to Southampton or the
Isle of Wight; take an evening walk from Itchen through the fields to
Netley, thence to the Abbey and Fort ruins, under woods that for a
considerable distance skirt the coast; or on the opposite side, through
the Forest of Oaks, from Eling to Dibden, and onwards over the meadows
to Hythe: there they may, in either, find ample food for reflection,
connected with the Curfew Bell.

Seated on a fragment of the towers of Netley Abbey, whose pinnacles were
so often hailed by seamen as well known landmarks, but whose Curfew has
for centuries been quiet, the spectator may see before him the crumbling
remains of a fort, erected hundreds of years ago. On the left is an
expanse of water as far as the eye can reach, and in his front the
celebrated New Forest,--

  Majestic woods of ever vigorous green,
  Stage above stage, high waving o'er the bills;
  Or to the far horizon wide diffus'd,
  A boundless deep immensity of shade--

the scene of William's tyranny and atrocity, the spot where his children
met their untimely end, and where may be seen the _tumuli_ erected over
the remains of the Britons who fell in defence of their country.

In the deep recesses of a wood in the south-east prospect, the eye may
faintly distinguish the mouldering remains of the Abbey of Beaulieu,
famed in days of yore for its Sanctuary, the name of which is now only
recorded in history. Even the site of the tower is unknown, whose Curfew
has long ceased to warn the seamen, or draw the deep curse from the
forester.

There they may

  "On a plat of rising ground,
  Hear the far off Curfew sound,
  Over the wide watered shore,
  Swinging slow with sullen roar."

The Curfew is rung at Southampton, Downton, Ringwood, and many other
towns in the west, every night at eight.

P.Q.

       *       *       *       *       *



THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.


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SPANISH SCENERY.


The following is from the delightful pencil of Washington Irving: it
will be seen to bear all the polish of his best style:--

"Many are apt to picture Spain to their imaginations as a soft southern
region, decked out with all the luxuriant charms of voluptuous Italy. On
the contrary, though there are exceptions in some of the maritime
provinces, yet, for the greater part, it is a stern, melancholy country,
with rugged mountains, and long sweeping plains, destitute of trees, and
indescribably silent and lonesome, partaking of the savage and solitary
character of Africa. What adds to this silence and loneliness, is the
absence of singing-birds, a natural consequence of the want of groves
and hedges. The vulture and the eagle are seen wheeling about the
mountain-cliffs, and soaring over the plains, and groups of shy bustards
stalk about the heaths; but the myriads of smaller birds, which animate
the whole face of other countries are met with in but few provinces in
Spain, and in those chiefly among the orchards and gardens which
surround the habitations of man.

"In the interior provinces the traveller occasionally traverses great
tracts cultivated with grain as far as the eye can reach, waving at
times with verdure, at other times naked and sunburnt, but he looks
round in vain for the hand that has tilled the soil. At length, he
perceives some village on a steep hill, or rugged crag, with mouldering
battlements and ruined watch tower; a stronghold, in old times, against
civil war, or Moorish inroad; for the custom among the peasantry of
congregating together for mutual protection, is still kept up in most
parts of Spain, in consequence of the maraudings of roving freebooters.

"But though a great part of Spain is deficient in the garniture of
groves and forests, and the softer charms of ornamental cultivation, yet
its scenery has something of a high and lofty character to compensate
the want. It partakes something of the attributes of its people; and I
think that I better understand the proud, hardy, frugal, and abstemious
Spaniard, his manly defiance of hardships, and contempt of effeminate
indulgences, since I have seen the country he inhabits.

"There is something, too, in the sternly simple features of the Spanish
landscape, that impresses on the soul a feeling of sublimity. The
immense plains of the Castiles and of La Mancha, extending as far as the
eye can reach, derive an interest from their very nakedness and
immensity, and have something of the solemn grandeur of the ocean. In
ranging over these boundless wastes, the eye catches sight here and
there of a straggling herd of cattle attended by a lonely herdsman,
motionless as a statue, with his long, slender pike tapering up like a
lance into the air; or, beholds a long train of mules slowly moving
along the waste like a train of camels in the desert; or, a single
herdsman, armed with blunderbuss and stiletto, and prowling over the
plain. Thus the country, the habits, the very looks of the people, have
something of the Arabian character. The general insecurity of the
country is evinced in the universal use of weapons. The herdsman in the
field, the shepherd in the plain, has his musket and his knife. The
wealthy villager rarely ventures to the market-town without his trabuco,
and, perhaps, a servant on foot with a blunderbuss on his shoulder; and
the most petty journey is undertaken with the preparation of a warlike
enterprise.

"The dangers of the road produce also a mode of travelling, resembling,
on a diminutive scale, the caravans of the east. The arrieros, or
carriers, congregate in convoys, and set off in large and well-armed
trains on appointed days; while additional travellers swell their
number, and contribute to their strength. In this primitive way is the
commerce of the country carried on. The muleteer is the general medium
of traffic, and the legitimate traverser of the land, crossing the
peninsula from the Pyrenees and the Asturias to the Alpuxarras, the
Serrania de Ronda, and even to the gates of Gibraltar. He lives frugally
and hardily: his alforjas of coarse cloth hold his scanty stock of
provisions; a leathern bottle, hanging at his saddle-bow, contains wine
or water, for a supply across barren mountains and thirsty plains. A
mule-cloth spread upon the ground, is his bed at night, and his
pack-saddle is his pillow. His low, but clean-limbed and sinewy form
betokens strength; his complexion is dark and sunburnt; his eye
resolute, but quiet in its expression, except when kindled by sudden
emotion; his demeanour is frank, manly, and courteous, and he never
passes you without a grave salutation: 'Dios guarde a usted!' 'Va usted
con Dios, Caballero!' 'God guard you! God be with you, Cavalier!'

"As these men have often their whole fortune at stake upon the burthen
of their mule, they have their weapons at hand, slung to their saddles,
and ready to be snatched out for desperate defence. But their united
numbers render them secure against petty bands of marauders, and the
solitary bandolero, armed to the teeth, and mounted on his Andalusian
steed, hovers about them, like a pirate about a merchant convoy, without
daring to make an assault.

"The Spanish muleteer has an inexhaustible stock of songs and ballads,
with which to beguile his incessant wayfaring. The airs are rude and
simple, consisting of but few inflexions. These he chants forth with a
loud voice, and long, drawling cadence, seated sideways on his mule, who
seems to listen with infinite gravity, and to keep time, with his paces,
to the tune. The couplets thus chanted, are often old traditional
romances about the Moors, or some legend of a saint, or some love-ditty;
or what is still more frequent, some ballad about a bold contrabandista,
or hardy bandolero, for the smuggler and the robber are poetical heroes
among the common people of Spain. Often the song of the muleteer is
composed at the instant, and relates to some local scenes or some
incident of the journey. This talent of singing and improvising is
frequent in Spain, and is said to have been inherited from the Moors.
There is something wildly pleasing in listening to these ditties among
the rude and lonely scenes that they illustrate; accompanied, as they
are, by the occasional jingle of the mule-bell.

"It has a most picturesque effect also to meet a train of muleteers in
some mountain-pass. First you hear the bells of the leading mules,
breaking with their simple melody the stillness of the airy height; or,
perhaps, the voice of the muleteer admonishing some tardy or wandering
animal, or chanting, at the full stretch of his lungs, some traditionary
ballad. At length you see the mules slowly winding along the cragged
defile, sometimes descending precipitous cliffs, so as to present
themselves in full relief against the sky, sometimes toiling up the deep
arid chasms below you. As they approach, you descry their gay
decorations of worsted tufts, tassels, and saddle-cloths, while, as they
pass by, the ever-ready trabuco slung behind the packs and saddles,
gives a hint of the insecurity of the road.

"The ancient kingdom of Granada, into which we are about to penetrate,
is one of the most mountainous regions of Spain. Vast sierras, or chains
of mountains, destitute of shrub or tree, and mottled with variegated
marbles and granites, elevate their sun-burnt summits against a
deep-blue sky; yet in their rugged bosoms lie engulfed the most verdant
and fertile valley, where the desert and the garden strain for mastery,
and the very rock is, as it were, compelled to yield the fig, the
orange, and the citron, and to blossom with the myrtle and the rose.

"In the wild passes of these mountains the sight of walled towns and
villages, built like eagles' nests among the cliffs, and surrounded by
Moorish battlements, or of ruined watch-towers perched on lofty peaks,
carries the mind back to the chivalric days of Christian and Moslem
warfare, and to the romantic struggle for the conquest of Granada. In
traversing these lofty sierras the traveller is often obliged to alight
and lead his horse up and down the steep and jagged ascents and
descents, resembling the broken steps of a staircase. Sometimes the road
winds along dizzy precipices, without parapet to guard him from the
gulfs below, and then will plunge down steep, and dark, and dangerous
declivities. Sometimes it straggles through rugged barrancos, or
ravines, worn by winter torrents, the obscure path of the
contrabandista; while, ever and anon, the ominous cross, the monument of
robbery and murder, erected on a mound of stones at some lonely part of
the road, admonishes the traveller that he is among the haunts of
banditti, perhaps at that very moment under the eye of some lurking
bandolero. Sometimes, in winding through the narrow valleys, he is
startled by a hoarse bellowing, and beholds above him on some green fold
of the mountain side a herd of fierce Andalusian bulls, destined for the
combat of the arena. There is something awful in the contemplation of
these terrific animals, clothed with tremendous strength, and ranging
their native pastures in untamed wildness, strangers almost to the face
of man: they know no one but the solitary herdsman who attends upon
them, and even he at times dares not venture to approach them. The low
bellowing of these bulls, and their menacing aspect as they look down
from their rocky height, give additional wildness to the savage scenery
around."

(From _The Alhambra_, or _New Sketch Book_, to which we propose to
return in a _Supplement_ in a fortnight.)

       *       *       *       *       *



ANECDOTE GALLERY.


       *       *       *       *       *


THE UNLUCKY PRESENT: A TALE.


A Lanarkshire minister (who died within the present century) was one of
those unhappy persons, who, to use the words of a well known Scottish
adage, "can never see green cheese but their een reels." He was
_extremely covetous_ and that not only of nice articles of food, but of
many other things which do not generally excite the cupidity of the
human heart. The following story is in corroboration of this
assertion:--Being on a visit one day at the house of one of his
parishioners, a poor lonely widow, living in a moorland part of the
parish, he became fascinated by the charms of a little cast-iron pot,
which happened at the time to be lying on the hearth, full of potatoes
for the poor woman's dinner, and that of her children. He had never in
his life seen such a nice little pot--it was a perfect conceit of a
thing--it was a gem--no pot on earth could match it in symmetry--it was
an object altogether perfectly lovely. "Dear sake! minister," said the
widow, quite overpowered by the reverend man's commendations of her pot;
"if ye like the pot sae weel as a' that, I beg ye'll let me send it to
the manse. It's a kind o' orra (_superfluous_) pot wi' us; for we've a
bigger ane, that we use for ordinar, and that's mair convenient every
way for us. Sae ye'll just tak a present o't. I'll send it ower the morn
wi' Jamie, when he gangs to the schule." "Oh!" said the minister, "I can
by no means permit you to be at so much trouble. Since you are so good
as to give me the pot, I'll just carry it home with me in my hand. I'm
so much taken with it, indeed, that I would really prefer carrying it
myself." After much altercation between the minister and the widow, on
this delicate point of politeness, it was agreed that he should carry
home the pot himself.

Off then he trudged, bearing this curious little culinary article,
alternately in his hand and under his arm, as seemed most convenient to
him. Unfortunately the day was warm, the way long, and the minister fat;
so that he became heartily tired of his burden before he got half-way
home. Under these distressing circumstances, it struck him, that, if,
instead of carrying the pot awkwardly at one side of his person, he were
to carry it on his head, the burden would be greatly lightened; the
principles of natural philosophy, which he had learned at college,
informing him, that when a load presses directly and immediately upon
any object, it is far less onerous than when it hangs at the remote end
of a lever. Accordingly, doffing his hat, which he resolved to carry
home in his band, and having applied his handkerchief to his brow, he
clapped the pot, in inverted fashion, upon his head, where, as the
reader may suppose, it figured much like Mambrino's helmet upon the
crazed capital of Don Quixote, only a great deal more magnificent in
shape and dimensions. There was, at first, much relief and much comfort
in this new mode of carrying the pot; but mark the result. The
unfortunate minister having taken a by-path, to escape observation,
found himself, when still a good way from home, under the necessity of
leaping over a ditch, which intercepted him, in passing from one field
to another. He jumped; but surely no jump was ever taken so completely
_in_, or, at least _into_, the dark as this. The concussion given to his
person in descending caused the helmet to become a hood; the pot slipped
down over his face, and resting with the rim upon his neck, stuck fast
there; enclosing his whole head as completely as ever that of a new born
child was enclosed by the filmy bag, with which nature, as an indication
of future good fortune, sometimes invests the noddles of her favourite
offspring. What was worst of all, the nose, which had permitted the pot
to slip down over it, withstood every desperate attempt, on the part of
its proprietor, to make it slip back again; the contracted part, or
neck, of the _patera_, being of such a peculiar formation as to cling
fast to the base of the nose, although it had found no difficulty in
gliding along its hypothenuse. Was ever minister in a worse plight? Was
there ever _contretemps_ so unlucky? Did ever any man--did ever any
minister, so effectually hoodwink himself, or so thoroughly shut his
eyes, to the plain light of nature? What was to be done? The place was
lonely; the way difficult and dangerous; human relief was remote, almost
beyond reach. It was impossible even to cry for help; or, if a cry could
be uttered, it might reach, in deafening reverberation, the ear of the
utterer, but it would not travel twelve inches farther in any direction.
To add to the distresses of the case, the unhappy sufferer soon found
great difficulty in breathing. What with the heat occasioned by the
beating of the sun on the metal, and what with the frequent return of
the same heated air to his lungs, he was in the utmost danger of
suffocation. Every thing considered, it seemed likely that, if he did
not chance to be relieved by some accidental wayfarer, there would soon
be _death in the pot_.

The instinctive love of life, however, is omni-prevalent; and even very
stupid people have been found, when put to the push by strong and
imminent peril, to exhibit a degree of presence of mind, and exert a
degree of energy, far above what might have been expected from them, or
what they were ever known to exhibit, or exert, under ordinary
circumstances. So it was with the pot-ensconced minister. Pressed by the
urgency of his distresses, he fortunately recollected that there was a
smith's shop at the distance of about a mile across the fields, where,
if he could reach it before the period of suffocation, he might possibly
find relief. Deprived of his eyesight, he acted only as a man of
feeling, and went on as cautiously as he could, with his hat in his
hand. Half crawling, half sliding, over ridge and furrow, ditch and
hedge, somewhat like Satan floundering over chaos, the unhappy minister
travelled with all possible speed, as nearly as he could guess, in the
direction of the place of refuge. I leave it to the reader to conceive
the surprise, the mirth, the infinite amusement of the smith, and all
the hangers-on of the _smiddy_, when, at length, torn and worn, faint
and exhausted, blind and breathless, the unfortunate man arrived at the
place, and let them know (rather by signs than by words) the
circumstances of his case. In the words of an old Scottish song,

  "Out cam the gudeman, and high he shouted;
  Out cam the gudewife, and low she louted;
  And a' the town neighbours were gathered about it:
        And there was he, I trow."

The merriment of the company, however, soon gave way to considerations
of humanity. Ludicrous as was the minister, with such an object where
his head should have been, and with the feet of the pot pointing
upwards, like the horns of the great Enemy, it was, nevertheless,
necessary that he should be speedily restored to his ordinary condition,
if it were for no other reason than that he might continue to live. He
was accordingly, at his own request led into the smithy, multitudes
flocking around to tender him their kindest offices, or to witness the
process of release; and, having laid down his head upon the anvil, the
smith lost no time in seizing and poising his goodly forehammer. "Will I
come sair on, minister?" exclaimed the considerate man of iron, in at
the brink of the pot. "As sair as ye like," was the minister's answer;
"better a chap i' the chafts than die for want of breath." Thus
permitted, the man let fall a blow, which fortunately broke the pot in
pieces, without hurting the head which it enclosed, as the cook-maid
breaks the shell of the lobster, without bruising the delicate food
within. A few minutes of the clear air, and a glass from the gudewife's
bottle, restored the unfortunate man of prayer; but, assuredly, the
incident is one which will long live in the memory of the parishioners
of C----.--_Chambers' Edinburgh Journal._

       *       *       *       *       *



THE NATURALIST.


       *       *       *       *       *


LOUDON'S MAGAZINE OF NATURAL HISTORY.


Sundry and manifold are our obligations to this delightful Journal. From
the Number (26) for the present month we glean the following:

_The Gurnard and Sprat._

Mr. J. Couch, in an interesting paper on the fishes of Cornwall, has the
following notes:

"Ray observes that the word gurnard, which may be regarded as the
English term, is derived _a grunnitu_, from grunting like a hog. In
this, however, I venture to think this eminent naturalist mistaken.
Pengurn is the ancient Cornu-British name for these fishes, and
signifies hard head; and its English translation is now sometimes given
to the grey gurnard. From the Cornish word _gurn_ (hard), I therefore
derive the name, as descriptive of the head of these species. This is a
common fish at all seasons; but in December and January it sometimes
abounds to such a degree, that, as they are not much esteemed, I have
known them sold at thirty for a penny. It keeps near the bottom
commonly, at no great distance from land; but sometimes multitudes will
mount together to the surface; and move along with the first dorsal fin
above the water: they will even quit their native element, and spring to
the distance of a yard; thus imitating the flying gurnard, though not to
the same extent. In summer they are found basking in the sun, perhaps
asleep, as they will at times display no signs of animation, until an
attempt is made to seize them.

"In reference to some observations by Mr. Yarrell, in the _Zoological
Journal