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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

        NUMBER 38.      SATURDAY, MARCH 20, 1841.      VOLUME I.

[Illustration: HOLY-CROSS ABBEY, COUNTY OF TIPPERARY.]

In a recent number of our Journal we led our readers to the banks of that
beautiful river,

      “The gentle Shire, that, making way
    By sweet Clonmel, adorns rich Waterford;”

and we now return to it with pleasure to notice another of the beautiful
architectural remains of antiquity seated on its banks--the celebrated
Abbey of the Holy Cross. This noble monastic ruin is situated in the
barony of Eliogarty, county of Tipperary, three miles from Thurles, on
the road to Cashel, and seven miles north-east of the latter.

The origin as well as the name of this celebrated monastery is derived
from a piece of the holy cross for which it was erected as a fitting
depository. This relic, covered with gold and ornamented with precious
stones, was, as O’Halloran states, but without naming his authority,
a present from Pope Pascal II, in 1110, to Murtogh O’Brien, monarch
of Ireland, and grandson to Brian Boru, who determined to found a
monastery in its honour, but did not live to complete it. But, however
true this account may be as to the gift of the relic, there is every
reason to doubt it as far as the date of the foundation of the monastery
is concerned, which, as appears from the original charter still in
existence, was founded by Donald O’Brien, King of Limerick, the son of
the Murtogh above named, as late as the year 1182, at which time it was
richly endowed with lands for its support by its founder. These grants
were confirmed in 1186, by King John, then Lord of Ireland, who further
ordered that the monks of this abbey should enjoy all chartered liberties
and freedoms, as appears from the following record of the 20th Edward I.
A.D. 1320:--

“EDWARD, by the grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke
of Aquitain, to all to whom these presents shall come, greeting. Know
ye that brother Thomas, Abbot of the Church of Mary of the Holy Cross,
near Cashel, came into our Chancery of Ireland the day after the feast
of Michael the Archangel, in the 13th year of our reign, at Cashel, and
exhibited in our said Chancery a certain charter, not cancelled, nor in
any respect vitiated, under the seal of John, formerly Lord of Ireland
and Earl of Morton, in these words:

‘JOHN, Lord of Ireland and Earl of Morton, to all justices, barons, &c.,
as well French as English, Welsh and Irish, and all other liege men
of Ireland, greeting. Know ye, that, for the love of God, and for the
salvation of my own and the souls of my predecessors and successors, I
have granted and given, and by these presents do grant and give, to God
and the blessed Mary of the Holy Cross, and to the Cistertian Monks
serving God there, in free, pure, and perpetual alms, the under-written
lands, as fully and freely as Domuald O’Brien, King of Lymberick, gave
and granted, and by this charter confirmed to the Cistertian Monks of the
Holy Cross; to wit: Kelkaterlamunu, Ballydubal, Ballyidugin, Ballygirryr,
Ballymyoletobin, and Ballytheloth, Gardath, Ballaschelagh, Balythougal
et Ithologin. These lands I have given for the salvation of my soul, and
those of my predecessors and successors, and for the souls of my soldiers
who lie there, to enjoy peaceably, with all liberties and free customs,
without any secular exactions in fields, ways, forests, fisheries, &c. I
have also granted that they shall be free from all mulcts in my courts,
for what cause soever they shall be amerced, and also free of all toll
whatever; they shall sell or buy, for their own use, throughout my land
of Normandy, England, Wales, and Ireland; and that their lands be not put
in plevine.--Witnesses, a Bishop of Ferns; John de Courcy, de Angulo,
Riddel, Chancellor, and David of Wales.’”

It appears also that in 1233 the above charter of King John was confirmed
by King Henry III, who took this monastery into his protection, which
protection he again renewed in 1234; and that it was again confirmed by
King Richard II. in 1395, and that in 1414, James Earl of Ormond, and the
Lord Deputy Thomas le Botiller or Butler, prior of St John of Jerusalem,
further granted the protection of the crown to this house.

Thus protected and fostered by royalty, the Abbey of the Holy Cross
became one of the most magnificent and wealthy in the kingdom, and its
mitred abbot was styled Earl of Holy Cross, the lands belonging to the
abbey constituting an earldom. He was also a baron of parliament, and
usually vicar-general of the Cistertian order in Ireland. The abbey was
originally a daughter of the Abbey of Maig, or Monaster-Nenagh, in the
county of Limerick, and was subjected to that of Furnes in Lancashire by
the Abbot of Clarevaux, in a general chapter of the order in 1249. After
the dissolution of the monasteries in Ireland, Holy Cross Abbey with its
appurtenances was granted by Queen Elizabeth in 1563 to Gerald Earl of
Ormond, _in capite_, at the annual rent of £15, 10s. 4d.; and we believe
this constitutes at present the estate, by purchase, of a worthy and
deeply learned fellow of Trinity College, namely, Dr Wall.

As a monastic ruin, the Abbey of Holy Cross ranks in popular esteem as
one of the first, if not the very first, in Ireland. But though many of
its architectural features are of remarkable beauty, it is perhaps as
a whole scarcely deserving of so high a character; and its effect upon
the mind is greatly diminished by the cabins and other objects of a mean
character by which it is nearly surrounded. Like most monastic structures
of considerable importance, its general form is that of a cross,
consisting of a nave, chancel, and transept, with a lofty square belfry
at the intersection of the cross; but it is distinguished from other
structures of the kind in having in both of its transepts two distinct
chapels beautifully groined--a feature which imparts much interest and
picturesqueness to the general effect. Between two of these chapels
and the south transept there is a double row of three pointed arches,
supported by twisted pillars, each distant about two feet four inches
from the other, and having a similar pointed arch in front. The object
of this singular feature has given rise to much conjecture, but the more
rational opinion seems to be, that it was designed as a resting place
for the dead bodies of the monks and other persons previous to interment
in the abbey, or its cemetery. In addition to this, the interior of the
church has another very unique and remarkable feature, namely, that the
choir arch is not placed as usual beneath the tower, but thirty feet
in advance of it, thus making the choir of greater length by fourteen
feet than the nave, which is but fifty-eight feet long, the entire
length of the church being one hundred and thirty feet. This peculiarity
appears, however, to be an after-thought, and not the design of the
original architect, which was evidently to limit, as usual, the length
of the choir to the arch in front of the tower, and the second arch is
unquestionably of more modern construction. The steeple rests on four
beautifully groined arches, the supporters of which are connected in the
centre by a great variety of ogives passing diagonally from their angles;
and the roof of the choir, as well as those of the side chapels, is
similarly enriched. The nave appears to have been of meaner architecture,
and has lost its roof; but it has aisles formed by four pointed arches
on each side, and which lead into the transepts. Of the windows in this
church we may observe generally, that they are of very elegant taste of
design.

Thus much of the abbey church itself; but of the ruins of the cloisters,
which are of meaner architecture, and of all the other edifices
appertaining to a monastic establishment of this grandeur, though in
a tolerable state of preservation, it would be tedious to the general
reader to give a detailed account, nor would our present space permit
it. Neither can we describe what is of higher interest, the magnificent
monumental remains for which this abbey is so eminently distinguished.
But we shall return to the subject in a future number, and in the mean
time we shall only add, that this abbey is well worthy the attention of
the antiquary and architectural student, and that to the pleasure tourist
of cultivated tastes it is of the most delightful interest.

                                                                       P.




THE ITALIAN ORGAN BOY.

CONCLUSION.


Carlo having recovered himself, proceeded as follows:--

“In the thus light-hearted and unmurmuring though tedious and toilsome
accumulation of the fund that was to purchase station and happiness
for Bianca, the first of the three years sped prosperously past.
Francesco--for old Marcolini, confiding in the integrity and industry of
my father to fulfil the conditional arrangement, laid no restraint upon
him--was our almost daily visitor, and not rarely a cheerful assistant in
the lighter labours of our garden, in tending our rich parterres, our fig
trees, and our vines. One serious drawback on our happiness--the first
flush of devotion to Bianca over--we soon experienced. Ludovico, though
at times he worked harder and longer than the rest, and rejected the
occasional cheap indulgences my father permitted, had unfortunately been
so entangled with his lawless and loose-living companions, that after a
while he was again seduced by them into scenes of profligate amusement
and disgraceful licence. It mischanced that near the close of the year,
the very day before the great fair of Telese, to which we had long looked
forward as likely to swell our savings much, our father met with an
accident which disabled him from going to it. The cart, laden with our
richest and choicest garden produce, my mother’s eggs and poultry, and
Bianca’s contribution of nosegays, needlework, and straw plaits, was in
his unfitness necessarily entrusted to the charge of Ludovico. At the
fair he unfortunately fell in with some of his low-principled associates,
who seduced him into a gambling booth, where soon, infected with the
excitement of play, he hazarded a small sum, which by an evil chance
was returned to him threefold. Inflamed by the easy acquisition, he
thought with rapture how much readier a way this was for a lucky fellow,
as he appeared to be, to make his money, than by the slow and dull
and difficult returns of labour, and almost anticipated his returning
home that night with Bianca’s fortune in his pocket, and an immediate
abridgement, in consequence, of the weary postponement of her wedding. He
risked a higher sum with success, another with disappointment, and so on
with varying fortune, till a friendly neighbour, who had heard where he
was, came in and forced him with difficulty from the fatal fascination.
He had been at the table but a short time, and had lost but little,
which, to escape detection, he replaced by a loan; but he was inspired
with a passion for play, which, whenever an occasion was afforded, he
eagerly indulged. But notwithstanding this, and the occasional losses
and anxious evasions to which it exposed us, our efforts flourished,
and our reserved earnings increased apace. Never before had we gathered
such abundant returns from our garden and few fields, for never before
had we tended them with half the care. Our sales were quick as our
produce was luxuriant, and before half the allotted period had expired,
Bianca’s purse was by the half more valuable than we had ventured to
expect. At this time my father was induced by my mother’s influence and
representations to try and bring the suspense and postponement of the
nuptials to a close, by borrowing on security what would complete the
stipulated sum, and engage old Marcolini’s consent to an immediate union.
This was accordingly done, the necessary sum furnished by a money-lender,
Marcolini’s approval obtained, a day fixed, our festive arrangements
made, and all was light and merriment. But, alas and alas! a cruel blow
was in wait to dash to pieces our fond and joyous schemes, just as they
seemed to approach reality.

One morning, as by sunrise my father was going to the garden--it
was to decorate a bridal arbour which we had constructed for the
occasion--I heard from him, as he passed through the inner room, a cry
of astonishment and dismay, and hurrying in, found him gazing in horror
upon an open and, alas, empty box--it was the one in which Bianca’s long
hoarded dower had been kept! All was gone--the hardly gathered earnings,
the borrowed money, and with it all our mirthful plans and sparkling
expectations; and, though a grave, strong-minded man, he was for the time
quite crushed and broken by the shock. ‘Carlo,’ said he, ‘we are ruined,
utterly undone. Villains have plundered us: your sister’s heart will be
broken, and there is nothing left for us but despair. These weakened
limbs could not go through such another term of trial in the face of
such misfortune. It will be well if they last long enough to earn what
will meet the demands of Bartolo the broker. Your brother, to whom we
might else have looked for aid, is getting worse and worse in his evil
ways: he has turned--that ever I should have to speak such words of son
of mine!--yes, turned a worthless profligate and gamester. The God of
Heaven grant,’ continued he, turning ghastly pale, and staggering against
the wall as his eye fell upon a well-known knife, that, with its blade
broken, lay upon the floor, ‘that it be not even worse. Carlo, look
on that, and tell me, O tell me, that you know it not!’ With horror I
recognized my unhappy brother’s knife; and a fragment of the steel fixed
in the box showed too plainly in what base work it had been employed. I
was struck speechless at the sight; but in defiance of all evidence, when
I thought of my warm-hearted generous brother, I burned with anger at
myself for my momentary misgiving, and almost fiercely chid my father for
his dark suspicion. ‘Carlo,’ answered he gravely, ‘you are yet childish
and inexperienced, and know not the power of evil company, the blight
of that accursed vice upon every principle of truth and honesty. Your
brother, I have told you, is an abandoned gambler--consorts with all the
dregs and refuse of the country, mocks at the entreaties of a mother, the
warnings of a father, the honest, ay, till he bore it, the ever honest
name of his family; and he who does all this, will, time and temptation
pressing him, but feebly shrink from the basest act. But go,’ added he
with stern emphasis, ‘call him. Though guilty, I will see him face to
face before I lay my curse upon him.’ With fear and trembling, for I knew
how terrible my father’s temper was when roused, I was obliged to confess
that he had not spent the night at home; and his forehead grew still
gloomier and more wrinkled as he listened.

He said nothing, but fell upon a seat, folded his arms, and remained
looking fixedly upon the ground in great and fearful agony of thought.

About half an hour afterwards, my heart leaped within me as I caught the
sound of Ludovico’s cautiously approaching steps--for on such occasions
he strove to steal in unnoticed--and I rushed to the door. There indeed
he was coming up the walk in front. But what a figure!--his eyes were
bloodshot, his face haggard, his dress disordered, his gait uneven, and
altogether he appeared still under the power of a deep overnight debauch.
My father upon hearing rose to meet him, and at the sight of his agitated
and afflicted features, Ludovico, overcome with dismay and confusion,
only afforded confirmatory evidence of guilt. Without a word, my father
beckoned with his hand to him, and walking into the room, pointed to the
forced and vacant box, fixing his eyes sternly and accusingly upon my
poor brother, who with fainting knees accompanied him. With constrained
silence he then lifted up the broken knife from the floor, fitted it
before Ludovico’s eyes to the fragment remaining in the lid, and then
turning up the haft, presented it to him. A cry of dismay and horror
broke from his lips as he recognized his knife, and the terrible truth
burst upon him.

‘I am innocent, oh, my father, I am innocent,’ he cried as he fell on his
knees before him. But, alas, the action, in place of removing, was about
to rivet the evidence of his guilt, for as he stooped, a key fell from
his pocket--a false one for the door which led from the very room into
the garden, which he had privately procured for the purpose of secret
admission when belated in his revels. My father, without other reply,
seized it, applied it to the door, and opened the lock. He then turned to
him, as if every stay and doubt were banished, and with a voice in which
pain and sorrow only aggravated passion, exclaimed, ‘Wretched boy, I
disown thee! Never shall villain, gambler, robber, liar, be called son of
mine. Away, then, from my presence and my roof for ever! He who could so
basely forget every lesson of honesty he was taught from his childhood,
who could plunder his poor sister of what we have painfully earned for
her by the sweat of our brows, and doom her to hopelessness and life-long
loneliness, to feed his own vile profligacy, would not scruple to dip his
hand in blood, ay, in the blood of his household, for their inheritance.
We are not safe with such a one. Away to your brigand comrades of the
hills--lead the villain life you incline to--do what you will--but
never cross this threshold again!’ My mother and Bianca, roused by the
noise, now hurried fearfully into the room, and a glance at Ludovico’s
horror-struck and supplicating posture, at the shattered box, and my
father’s inflamed and convulsed countenance, was enough without words to
inform them of the revolting truth.

‘My father’s heart is hardened against me,’ exclaimed Ludovico, ‘and I
wonder not. I have indeed been loose-lived and disobedient, but never
base nor dishonest, and let me not be now condemned because these
appearances are against me. I solemnly swear by----’ My father fiercely
checked him. ‘Add not perjury to infamy--it needs not swearing--the
matter can be put beyond a doubt, ay, even beyond your own audacious
denial. Mark those footsteps in the soft soil before the door: that bed
was left by me smooth and unruffled yesternight--they are those of the
villain thief; and, Ludovico, I cannot mistake the footprints of him
who has wrought by my side since boyhood--wretched father that I am!
they are _yours_. Deny it if you can.’ Convinced in my own heart of
his innocence, I sprang forward to apply the test, but soon recoiled
in horror, as before the anxious eyes of all I proved the accurate
correspondence of the marks--a shock which for a moment crushed my own
faith in my brother’s truth. What now availed my mother’s entreaties,
my sister’s tears, Ludovico’s continued passionate assertion of his
innocence, to change the stern conviction of my father? He vehemently
reiterated his sentence of banishment, and counselled him, if he would
mitigate the keenness of remorse, to confess his crime and return its
ill-gotten fruits. Ludovico, stung to the quick by his reproaches, and by
the agonies of my mother and Bianca, felt resentment rise in his heart
to strengthen him to support his fate, and indignantly rose to depart.
‘Cease your prayers, my mother and my Bianca. Carlo, you will live, I
feel, to see me righted, and my father, too, to repent his harshness to
his son, and his distrust in one whom he has often detected in error,
but never yet in ignominy. My sister, if my heart’s blood could at this
moment be coined into treasure to replace that which you have lost, and
build again your shattered hopes, freely would I pour it out. But words
are idle to make your heart what it was but an hour ago. I go--better
any where than here--and if you hear of me again, it will be of one who
has learned seriousness from suffering, and proved by acts his love and
interest for you all.’ As he finished speaking, he hurried from the door
without further farewell, and, plunging among the thickly wooded <DW72>s,
was speedily lost to my passionate pursuit.

That evening, however, a boy left a billet from him to Bianca, in which
he mentioned his intention of trying to turn his musical talent to
account, by proceeding to England, where he was told that money was but
lightly thought of, and purses were ever open, and where he might readily
glean both what would support himself, and supply something towards
enabling my father to meet Bartolo the usurer, and perhaps, too, old
Marcolini, upon the day first fixed for her union with Francesco. He
concluded by asking pardon from our offended confidence and affection for
once more scornfully denying the odious charge--a denial which, amid our
joint tears over the letter, we believed as firmly as the words of holy
writ.

Why need I stay to mention all the gloom and grief which was now spread
over our but lately so bright and hopeful household, for Ludovico,
despite his thoughtless forwardness, had been the life and spring of all
our movements.

My father’s dark locks soon became streaked with grey, for his pride
of honesty in an unblemished name was sorely abased: his heart was
wounded and enfeebled; and when the fever of his first anger was past,
he began to think at times that perhaps he had dealt too hardly and
hastily with Ludovico. My mother often wept: my sister’s cheek became
wan and pale even with Francesco by her side: my own heart was faint and
joyless: a cloud of spiritless sadness and depression settled over all,
and every thing seemed to lament him who was far away among strangers,
in loneliness and disgrace--him whose bold spirit, athletic form, and
buoyant beauty, had, notwithstanding his frailties, been the pride and
glory, secret or avowed, of all.

But Providence is able and merciful to cleanse the character of the
innocent and calumniated in the end, and after many weary months
Ludovico’s was cleared before all the village by the death-bed confession
of one of his former associates, who, under the impulse of a late
remorse, stated that the robbery had been committed by himself--that
Ludovico had on the night in question been designedly drugged by some
of his accomplices--his knife taken and purposely left in the room, and
his shoes borrowed for the same end, of warding search or suspicion from
themselves by his condemnation. By way of expiation for the diabolical
villany, he secretly menaced his partners in the plot that he would
reveal their names and give them up to justice, unless the money with
the interest in full was forthwith restored, which in consequence was
quickly done. And now that his son’s good fame was established in
the light of day, my father’s breast was lightened of the burthen of
conscious disgrace, but only to suffer the more keenly the poignancy of
self-reproach for the extreme and unjust severity of his treatment; and
often would he bitterly accuse himself of savage inhumanity, and madly
wish that by the sacrifice of his own life he could restore his exiled
son to his embrace once more. As I listened to his painful lamentations
and upbraiding, I formed a scheme, which was no sooner devised than I
hurried to execute, of following Ludovico to England, of finding him,
as in the credulity of inexperience I doubted not readily to do, and
bringing him back with me to home, to reputation, and to happiness.
Knowing the opposition I would meet if I mentioned my secret, I collected
as speedily as I could what money I supposed would defray my first
expenses, procured this organ, and my poor little marmoset, as I knew
my wandering countrymen were wont to furnish themselves; and leaving a
letter with a young neighbour to give when I was gone, took my way to
Naples, whence I got a passage to London. My heart often died within me
as I wandered through its great and busy streets, and many is the hour
of sorrow and hardship I endured; but desire for Ludovico, and the hope
of finding him which never failed me, carried me through all. For nearly
a year I traversed England, much of Scotland and Ireland, supporting
myself by grinding this poor music. I have not my brother’s fine voice
and skill, but the people here are for the most part indulgent, and
not so delicate to please as those of Italy. But the good God guided
me at last to a happy meeting with an old Neapolitan, who alone, of
the hundreds whom I questioned, was able to give me any information of
Ludovico, with whom he had fortunately fallen in a few months before in
this very city. With that cordial confidence which one is apt to flare in
a fellow countryman when cast among strangers, Ludovico had made known
to him all his story, adding that, having now by prudence and exertion
of his talent for music--and few could touch a guitar or raise a voice
like him--gathered a sufficient sum of money, he was about to return
to Italy and to the neighbourhood of his native village, to apportion
Bianca once more, and set on foot some inquiry to redeem, if possible,
his forfeited character, and fix the guilt of the robbery upon the real
offenders, whom long reflection on the circumstances had erewhile led
him to suspect. Oh! how my heart thrilled and burned within me as I
listened to the long-sought blissful words, and knew that in very deed I
was at last upon the track of him--though the rapture of an unexpected
meeting in this foreign land I was not to have--after whom I had made
such a weary pilgrimage in vain. Not in vain neither. I have done what
I could, and when I stand proudly amid my family once more, and receive
their embraces and congratulations, say, shall I be without my reward? My
daily gleanings I hoard with the eagerness of a miser: little do I spend
on food or lodging: for when I think of my own dear Montanio, of those
to complete whose happiness I alone am wanting, I have but one wish, one
prayer--to have wherewithal to carry me to my own beautiful land again,
to my father’s blessing, my brother’s love, my mother’s and my sister’s
arms.”

Tears of tenderness and rapture started to the eyes of the ardent and
devoted youth as he thus concluded his narrative, in which the fervour
and interest of truth were, as he told it, beautifully blended with much
of the elevation and singularity of romance.

Further particulars respecting this generous witness to the
disinterestedness and fortitude with which family and fraternal love can
inspire the young, the delicate, and the undisciplined, my necessary
limitation of space compels me to forego. I need scarcely add that I
was instrumental in furnishing a supplement for his insufficient means,
and I did not lose sight of the noble lad, till, with mixed emotions of
buoyant anticipation, and perhaps momentarily regretful gratitude, he
parted from me on his return to Italy. In imagination I often make one of
the reunited family, and at times, too, indulge the hope that the chances
and changes of a shifting lot may some time enable me in very deed to
look on old Girardi and his spouse, Carlo and the reformed Ludovico, the
fair Bianca and the faithful Francesco, and claim a return in kind--an
evening spent among their gleeful rural party--for the fellow-feeling I
had the good fortune to conceive for the desolation, and the part I was
privileged to take in abridging the banishment, of the Italian Organ Boy.

                                                                 J. J. M.




KNOWLEDGE AND IGNORANCE.

Second Article.

BOULDERS--CONTINUED.


If the dreary waste of the sandy desert, when the hot and suffocating
blast sweeps over its parched surface, appears to the affrighted
traveller invested with all the characters of sublimity, not less
impressed with awe is the wanderer of polar regions, when, gazing on the
heart-chilling magnificence of the interminable ice which surrounds him,
he hears the sigh of the coming snow-storm, fraught with danger or with
death. But at a time when repeated voyages and spirit-stirring narratives
have rendered familiar to every one the beauties and the dangers of ice
in every conceivable form of floe, of field, or of berg, and have excited
sympathy for the sufferings or admiration of the daring of those who, to
advance the cause of science, or to pursue for commercial purposes the
mighty whale, have ventured within the precincts of that icy kingdom, it
is not necessary to describe the solitary grandeur of a scene in which
ice spreads like a sea beneath the feet, and rises as a mountain above
the head. Not even, then, by the side of a cheerful fire, in these more
temperate regions, shall we unnecessarily indulge in shudderings at the
thought of distant powers of congelation, or enter further into the
subject of polar picturesqueness. It is as a geological agent that we
have now to contemplate ice in the various forms of fields and bergs, or
of glaciers; its efficiency as a moving power being first considered.
Scoresby justly denominates ice-fields “one of the wonders of the deep.
They are often,” he says, “met with of the diameter of twenty or thirty
miles; and when in a state of such close combination that no interstice
can be seen, they sometimes extend to a length of fifty, or nearly a
hundred miles.” The average thickness of these fields is from ten to
fifteen feet, and their surface is varied by hummocks, which rise to a
height of from forty to fifty feet. The weight of a piece of field ice,
one mile square and thirteen feet thick, is, according to Scoresby’s
estimate, 11,314,284 tons; and from the difference of specific gravity
between ice and sea-water, this floating mass is sufficiently buoyant to
support a weight of stones or other heavy bodies equal to 1,257,142, or
in round numbers one million tons.

Grand, however, as such floating fields of ice are, they are exceeded in
magnificence by bergs. One of these, Scoresby relates, was one mile in
circumference, fifteen hundred feet square, and a hundred feet above the
level of the sea; so that, allowing for the inequalities of its surface,
he considered its depth in the water seven hundred feet, its total
thickness eight hundred feet, and its weight about forty-five millions of
tons--an enormous mass, capable of transporting at least five millions
of tons of extraneous weight. In number, too, they are as remarkable
as in magnitude: above five hundred were counted by Scoresby from the
mast-head at one time, of which scarcely one was less than the hull of
a ship, about a hundred as high as the ship’s mast, and some twice that
height, or two hundred feet above the surface of the sea; hence in total
thickness about sixteen hundred feet. These, then, it must be admitted,
are mighty engines fitted for the transport of rocks of colossal
magnitude. But