first colony, in computing their time, have continued the use of the solar year. Diodorus Siculus says, 'They do not reckon their time by the moon, but according to the sun. Thirty days constitute their month, to which they add five days and the fourth part of a day, and this completes their year.' They have another way of describing time, peculiar to themselves. They read the whole of the four evangelists every year in their churches, beginning with Matthew, and proceeding to Mark, Luke, and John in order; and, in speaking of an event, they write or say that it happened in the days of Matthew, if it was in the first quarter of the year, while the Gospel of St Matthew was being read in the churches. And so of Mark, Luke, and John.

Nothing can be more inaccurate than all Abyssinian calculations. Besides their ignorance of arithmetic, their excessive idleness and aversion to study, and a number of fanciful, whimsical combinations, by which every particular scribe or monk distinguishes himself, there are obvious reasons why there should be a variation between their chronology and ours. The beginnings of our years are different theirs begin on the first of September. The last day of August may be the year 1780 with us, and only 1779 with the Abyssinians. In the annals of their kings they seldom give the lengths of the reigns with precision; and this produces more or less of confusion in the history of the country. A difference of two or three years, however, is a matter of little consequence in the history of barbarous nations. From the record of certain eclipses in the annals of Abyssinia, the dates of which correspond with European observations, I am satisfied that the chronology of my sketch of the history of this country is sufficiently correct for all practical purposes.

Steaks from a Living Cow.

Not long after losing sight of the ruins of this ancient capital of Abyssinia, we overtook three travellers driving a cow before them. They had black goat-skins upon their shoulders, and lances and shields in their hands, and appeared to be soldiers. The cow did not seem to be fatted for killing, and it occurred to us all that it had been stolen. This, however, was not our business. Our attendants attached themselves, in a particular manner, to the three soldiers, and held a short conversation with them. The drivers suddenly tripped up the cow, and gave the poor animal a very rude fall. One of them sat across her neck, holding down her head by the horns; the other twisted the halter about her forefeet; while the third, who had a knife in his hand, instead of taking her by the throat, got astride upon her belly, and, to my very great surprise, gave her a deep wound in the upper part of her buttock.

From the time I had seen them throw the beast upon the ground, I had rejoiced, thinking that when three people were killing a cow, they must have agreed to sell part of her to us; and I was much disappointed on hearing the Abyssinians say that we were not to encamp here. Upon my proposing that they should bargain for part of the cow, my men answered, what they had already learned in conversation, that they were not then going to kill her, that she was not wholly theirs, and they could not sell her. This awakened my curiosity. I let my people go forward; and stayed till I saw, with the utmost astonishment, two pieces, thicker and longer than our ordinary beef-steaks, cut out of the higher part of the

This,

buttock of the beast. How it was done I cannot positively say; but it was accomplished very adroitly, and the two pieces were spread on the outside of one of their shields. One of them continued holding the head, while the other two were busied in curing the wound. too, was done not in an ordinary manner. The skin which had covered the flesh that was taken away, and had been flapped back during the operation, was now brought over the wound, and fastened to the corresponding part with small skewers or pins. Whether they had put anything under the skin, I know not; but at the river-side, where they were, they had prepared a cataplasm of clay, with which they covered the wound. They then forced the animal to rise, and drove it forward, to furnish them with a fuller meal, when they should meet their companions in the evening.

British Incredulity.

When first I mentioned this in England, as one of the singularities which prevailed in this barbarous country, I was told by my friends it was not believed. I asked the reason of this disbelief, and was answered that people who had never been out of their own country, and others well acquainted with the manners of the world (for they had travelled as far as France), had agreed the thing was impossible, and therefore it was so. My friends counselled me farther, that as these men were infallible, and had each the leading of a circle, I should by all means obliterate this from my journal, and not attempt to inculcate in the minds of my readers the belief of a thing that men who had travelled pronounced to be impossible. Far from being a convert to such prudential reasons, must for ever profess openly that I think them unworthy of me. To represent as truth a thing I know to be a falsehood; not to avow a truth which I know I ought to declare the one is fraud, the other cowardice. I hope I am equally distant from both; and I pledge myself never to retract the fact here advanced, that the Abyssinians do feed in common upon live flesh; and that I myself have, for several years, been partaker of that disagreeable and beastly diet. I have no doubt that, when time shall be given to read this history to an end, there will be very few, if they have candour enough to own it, that will not be ashamed of having ever doubted.

I

A second edition of the Travels, edited by Dr Alexander Murray, an excellent Oriental scholar, was published, with a Life, in 1805, and a third in 1813. See also a Life by Sir Francis Head (1844), and Fanny Burney's Early Diary.

Mungo Park (1771-1805) was born, the son of a farmer, at Foulshiels on the Yarrow, and studied medicine at Edinburgh University. Through Sir Joseph Banks, he was named assistant-surgeon in the Worcester, bound for Sumatra (1792); and in 1795 his services were accepted by the African Association. He learnt Mandingo at an English factory on the Gambia, started inland in December, was imprisoned by a chief, but escaping, reached the Niger at Sego in July 1796. He pursued his way westward along its banks to Bammaku, and then crossing a mountainous country, fell ill, but was ultimately brought by a slave-trader back to the factory again, after an absence of nineteen months. His adventures he recorded in Travels in the Interior

of Africa (1799). Having married (1799), he settled as a surgeon at Peebles; but the life was repugnant to him, and in 1805 he undertook another journey to Africa at Government expense. Again he started from Pisania on the Gambia, with a company of forty-five; when he reached the Niger he had but seven followers. From Sansanding he sent back his journals and letters in November 1805, and embarked in a canoe with four European companions. Through many perils and difficulties they reached Boussa, where the canoe was caught on a rock; they were attacked by the natives, and drowned in the double effort to defend themselves and escape from their perilous plight. Joseph Thomson declared that 'for actual

MUNGO PARK.
From an Engraving after Henry Edridge.

hardships undergone, for dangers faced and difficulties overcome, together with an exhibition of the virtues which make a man great in the battle of life, Mungo Park stands without a rival.' He was unhappily cut off ere he achieved his great aim, the discovery of the course of the Niger; but the record of his wanderings throws much light on the botany and meteorology of the countries he passed through, and on the social and domestic life of the various tribes he made friends with. His narratives are written in a simple and straightforward way, and at once took their place amongst the classics of travel. The same can hardly be said for the records of the travels of Denham, Clapperton, or Lander, who a little later fell successively victims to their zeal in exploring this part of Africa.

African Hospitality.

Next morning (July 20) I endeavoured, both by entreaties and threats, to procure some victuals from the Dooty, but in vain. I even begged some corn from one

of his female slaves as she was washing it at the well, and had the mortification to be refused. However, when the Dooty was gone to the fields, his wife sent me a handful of meal, which I mixed with water and drank for breakfast. About eight o'clock I departed from Doolinkeaboo, and at noon stopped a few minutes at a large korree, where I had some milk given me by the Foulahs; and hearing that two Negroes were going from thence to Sego, I was happy to have their company, and we set out immediately. About four o'clock we stopped at a small village, where one of the Negroes met with an acquaintance who invited us to a sort of public entertainment, which was conducted with more than common propriety. A dish, made of sour milk and meal, called sinkatoo, and beer made from their corn, was distributed with great liberality, and the women were admitted into the society-a circumstance I had never before observed in Africa. There was no compulsion, every one was at liberty to drink as he pleased; they nodded to each other when about to drink, and on setting down the calabash commonly said Berka (Thank you). Both men and women appeared to be somewhat intoxicated, but they were far from being quarrelsome.

Departing from thence, we passed several large villages, where I was constantly taken for a Moor, and became the subject of much merriment to the Bambarrans, who, seeing me drive my horse before me, laughed heartily at my appearance. 'He has been at Mecca,' says one; 'you may see that by his clothes;' another asked if my horse was sick; a third wished to purchase it; so that I believe the very slaves were ashamed to be seen in my company. Just before it was dark we took up our lodging for the night at a small village, where I procured some victuals for myself and some corn for my horse, at the moderate price of a button, and was told that I should see the Niger (which the Negroes called Jolliba, or the great water) early the next day. The lions are here very numerous; the gates are shut a little after sunset, and nobody allowed to go out. The thoughts of seeing the Niger in the morning, and the troublesome buzzing of mosquitoes, prevented me from shutting my eyes during the night, and I had saddled my horse and was in readiness before daylight; but on account of the wild beasts, we were obliged to wait until the people were stirring and the gates opened. This happened to be a market-day at Sego, and the roads were everywhere filled with people carrying dif ferent articles to sell. We passed four large villages, and at eight o'clock saw the smoke over Sego.

As we approached the town, I was fortunate enough to overtake the fugitive Kaartans to whose kindness I had been so much indebted in my journey through Bambarra. They readily agreed to introduce me to the king; and we rode together through some marshy ground where, as I was anxiously looking around for the river, one of them called out, Geo affili (See the water'), and looking forwards, I saw with infinite pleasure the great object of my mission-the long-sought-for majestic Niger, glittering to the morning sun, as broad as the Thames at Westminster, and flowing slowly to the eastward. I hastened to the brink, and having drunk of the water, lifted up my fervent thanks in prayer to the Great Ruler of all things for having thus far crowned my endeavours with success.

The circumstance of the Niger's flowing towards the east, and its collateral points, did not, however, excite

I waited more than two hours without having an opportunity of crossing the river, during which time the people who had crossed carried information to Mansong, the king, that a white man was waiting for a passage, and was coming to see him. He immediately sent over one of his chief men, who informed me that the king could not possibly see me until he knew what had brought me into his country, and that I must not presume to cross the river without the king's permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a distant village, to which he pointed, for the night, and said that in the morning he would give me further instructions how to conduct myself. This was very discouraging. However, as there was no remedy, I set off for the village, where I found, to my great mortification, that no person would admit me into his house. I was regarded with astonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without victuals in the shade of a tree; and the night threatened to be very uncomfortable-for the wind rose, and there was great appearance of a heavy rain-and the wild beasts are so very numerous in the neighbourhood that I should have been under the necessity of climbing up the tree and resting amongst the branches. About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at liberty, a woman, returning from the labours of the field, stopped to observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my situation, which I briefly explained to her; whereupon, with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her. Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a ⚫ mat on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the night. Finding that I was very hungry, she said she would procure me something to eat. She accordingly went out, and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having caused to be half-broiled upon some embers, she gave me for supper. The rites of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress-pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep there without apprehension -called to the female part of her family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ themselves great part of the night. They lightened their labour by songs, one of which was composed extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally translated, were these: 'The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to bring him milk-no wife to grind his corn. Chorus-Let us pity the white man-no mother

has he,' &c. Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I presented my compassionate landlady with two of the four brass buttons which remained on my waistcoat-the only recompense I could make her.

An account of Park's second journey was published in 1815. A Life by Wishaw was prefixed to the Journal of 1815; and Joseph Thomson, himself a well-known African traveller, wrote a little monograph on Mungo Park (1890).

Sophia and Harriet Lee were the daughters of John Lee, who had been articled to a solicitor, but adopted the stage as a profession. Sophia was born in London in 1750, Harriet not till 1757, and the early death of their mother devolved the cares of the household upon the elder sister, who nevertheless secretly cherished a strong attachment to literature. Sophia's first appearance as author was not made till 1780, when her comedy, The Chapter of Accidents, based on Diderot and brought out at the Haymarket by the elder Colman, was received with applause. The profits served to establish a Seminary for Young Ladies at Bath, a family enterprise rendered the more necessary by the death of the father in 1781; and to Bath accordingly the sisters repaired. Happily their accomplishments and prudence secured rapid and permanent suc

cess.

In 1784-85 Sophia published The Recess, or a Tale of Other Times (the times, namely, of Queen Elizabeth), which instantly became popular. The melancholy and contemplative tone of the Recess appears also in the blank-verse tragedy, Almeyda, Queen of Grenada (1796). Harriet Lee, who had meanwhile produced two rather tedious novels and a dull comedy, now published The Canterbury Tales (5 vols. 1797-1805), in which the introduction and two of the tales, tender the and sympathetic both, are from pen of Sophia-The Young Lady's Tale, or the Two Emilys, and The Clergyman's Tale. But the best things in the Canterbury Tales are all Harriet's. Kruitzner, or the German's Tale, fell into Byron's hands when he was about fourteen: It made a deep impression upon me,' he recorded, and may indeed be said to contain the germ of much that I have since written.' While at Pisa in 1821 Byron dramatised Miss Lee's romantic story, and published his version of it under the title of Werner, or the Inheritance. The incidents and much of the language of the play are taken straight from the novel, and the public were unanimous in considering Harriet Lee as more interesting, passionate, and poetical than her illustrious dramatiser. She herself adapted it for the stage as The Three Strangers, but it was only played four times. The compactness of these tales and the liveliness of the frequent dialogues made them a pleasing contrast to the average three-volume novel. In 1803 Sophia Lee gave up the school having earned a provision for the rest of her life. In 1804 she

published The Life of a Lover, a tale written early, and showing juvenility both of thought and expression. In 1807 a comedy from her pen, called The Assignation, was performed at Drury Lane, but played only once, the audience conceiving that some of the satirical portraits were aimed at popular personages. Sophia died in 1824; Harriet lived on till 1851, remarkable to the last for her vigorous intellect and lively conversation. William Godwin was a devoted admirer of Harriet's, and, in 1798, a formal suitor for her hand; but his religious views were an insuperable barrier to a union. Both sisters were buried in Clifton Church. From the Introduction to 'The Canterbury Tales.' There are people in the world who think their lives well employed in collecting shells; there are others not less satisfied to spend theirs in classing butterflies. For my own part, I always preferred animate to inanimate nature, and would rather post to the antipodes to mark a new character or develop a singular incident than become a Fellow of the Royal Society by enriching museums with nondescripts. From this account you, my gentle reader, may, without any extraordinary penetration, have discovered that I am among the eccentric part of mankind, by the courtesy of each other, and themselves, ycleped poets-a title which, however mean or contemptible it may sound to those not honoured with it, never yet was rejected by a single mortal on whom the suffrage of mankind conferred it; no, though the laurelleaf of Apollo, barren in its nature, was twined by the frozen fingers of Poverty, and shed upon the brow it crowned her chilling influence. But when did it so? Too often destined to deprive its graced owner of every real good by an enchantment which we know not how to define, it comprehends in itself such a variety of pleasures and possessions that well may one of us cry

'Thy lavish charter, Taste, appropriates all we see !' Happily, too, we are not like virtuosi in general, encumbered with the treasures gathered in our peregrinations. Compact in their nature, they lie all in the small cavities of our brain, which are, indeed, often so small as to render it doubtful whether we have any, at all. The few discoveries I have made in that richest of mines, the human soul, I have not been churl enough to keep to myself; nor, to say truth, unless I can find out some other means of supporting my corporeal existence than animal food, do I think I shall ever be able to afford that sullen affectation of superiority.

Travelling, I have already said, is my taste, and, to make my journeys pay for themselves, my object. Much against my good liking, some troublesome fellows, a few months ago, took the liberty of making a little home of mine their own; nor, till I had coined a small portion of my brain in the mint of my worthy friend George Robinson, could I induce them to depart. I gave a proof of my politeness, however, in leaving my house to them, and retired to the coast of Kent, where I fell to work very busily. Gay with the hope of shutting my door on these unwelcome visitants, I walked in a severe frost from Deal to Dover, to secure a seat in the stage-coach to London. One only was vacant; and having engaged it, 'maugre the freezing of the bitter sky,' I wandered forth to note the memorabilia of Dover, and was soon lost in one of my fits of exquisite abstraction.

With reverence I looked up to the cliff which our immortal bard has with more fancy than truth described; with toil mounted, by an almost endless staircase, to the top of a castle, which added nothing to my poor stock of ideas but the length of our Virgin Queen's pocket-pistol -that truly Dutch present: cold and weary, I was pacing towards the inn, when a sharp-visaged barber popped his head over his shop-door to reconnoitre the inquisitive stranger. A brisk fire, which I suddenly cast my eye on, invited my frozen hands and feet to its precincts. A civil question to the honest man produced on his part a civil invitation; and having placed me in a snug seat, he readily gave me the benefit of all his oral tradition.

'Sir,' he said, 'it is mighty lucky you came across me. The vulgar people of this town have no genius, sir—no taste; they never shew the greatest curiosity in the place. Sir, we have here the tomb of a poet!'

'The tomb of a poet!' cried I, with a spring that electrified my informant no less than myself. 'What poet lies here? and where is he buried?'

'Ay, that is the curiosity,' returned he exultingly. I smiled; his distinction was so like a barber. While he had been speaking, I recollected he must allude to the grave of Churchill-that vigorous genius who, well calculated to stand forth the champion of freedom, has recorded himself the slave of party and the victim of spleen! So, however, thought not the barber, who considered him as the first of human beings.

'This great man, sir,' continued he, who lived and died in the cause of liberty, is interred in a very remarkable spot, sir; if you were not so cold and so tired, sir, I could shew it you in a moment.' Curiosity is an excellent greatcoat: I forgot I had no other, and strode after the barber to a spot surrounded by ruined walls, in the midst of which stood the white marble tablet marked with Churchill's name-to appearance its only distinction. 'Cast your eyes on the walls,' said the important barber; they once enclosed a church, as you may see!' On inspecting the crumbling ruins more narrowly, I did indeed discern the traces of Gothic architecture.

'Yes, sir,' cried my friend the barber, with the conscious pride of an Englishman, throwing out a gaunt leg and arm, Churchill, the champion of liberty, is interred here! Here, sir, in the very ground where King John did homage for the crown he disgraced.'

The idea was grand. In the eye of fancy, the slender pillars again lifted high the vaulted roof that rang with solemn chantings. I saw the insolent legate seated in scarlet pride; I saw the sneers of many a mitred abbot; I saw, bareheaded, the mean, the prostrate king; I saw, in short, everything but the barber, whom in my flight and swell of soul I had outwalked and lost. Some more curious traveller may again pick him up, perhaps, and learn more minutely the fact.

Waking from my reverie, I found myself on the pier. The pale beams of a powerless sun gilt the fluctuating waves and the distant spires of Calais, which I now clearly surveyed. What a new train of images here sprang up in my mind, borne away by succeeding im pressions with no less rapidity! From the monk of Sterne I travelled up in five minutes to the inflexible Edward III. sentencing the noble burghers; and having seen them saved by the eloquence of Philippa, I wanted no better seasoning for my mutton-chop, and pitied the emptyheaded peer who was stamping over my little parlour in fury at the cook for having over-roasted his pheasant.

William Gilpin (1724-1804), author of works on the picturesque aspects of the scenery of Britain, illustrated by his own aquatint engravings, was in his own way an apostle of romanticism. Born at Scaleby, Carlisle, he studied at Queen's College, Oxford; kept a school at Cheam; and in 1777 became vicar of Boldre in Hampshire. He published, besides some theological works, a series of books on the scenery of the Wye, of the Lake District, of the Scottish Highlands, and of the Isle of Wight, which drew on him the ridicule of the author of Dr Syntax. His best-known book was his too poetic Remarks on Forest Scenery, in which he says: 'It is no exaggerated praise to call a tree the grandest and most beautiful of all the productions of the earth;' and he describes trees, singly and in masses, under all conditions of light and weather. In not a few points he may rank as an early forerunner of Ruskin.

Sunrise in the Woods.

The first dawn of day exhibits a beautiful obscurity. When the east begins just to brighten with the reflections only of effulgence, a pleasing progressive light, dubious and amusing, is thrown over the face of things. A single ray is able to assist the picturesque eye, which by such slender aid creates a thousand imaginary forms, if the scene be unknown, and as the light steals gradually on, is amused by correcting its vague ideas by the real objects. What in the confusion of twilight perhaps seemed a stretch of rising ground, broken into various parts, becomes now vast masses of wood and an extent of forest.

As the sun begins to appear above the horizon, another change takes place. What was before only form, being now enlightened, begins to receive effect. This effect depends on two circumstances-the catching lights which touch the summits of every object, and the mistiness in which the rising orb is commonly enveloped.

The effect is often pleasing when the sun rises in unsullied brightness, diffusing its ruddy light over the upper parts of objects, which is contrasted by the deeper shadows below; yet the effect is then only transcendent when he rises accompanied by a train of vapours in a misty atmosphere. Among lakes and mountains, this happy accompaniment often forms the most astonishing visions, and yet in the forest it is nearly as great. With what delightful effect do we sometimes see the sun's disk just appear above a woody hill, or, in Shakspeare's language,

'Stand tiptoe on the misty mountain's top'

and dart his diverging rays through the rising vapour. The radiance, catching the tops of the trees as they hang midway upon the shaggy steep, and touching here and there a few other prominent objects, imperceptibly mixes its ruddy tint with the surrounding mists, setting on fire, as it were, their upper parts, while their lower skirts are lost in a dark mass of varied confusion, in which trees and ground, and radiance and obscurity, are all blended together. When the eye is fortunate enough to catch the glowing instant -for it is always a vanishing scene-it furnishes an idea worth treasuring among the choicest appearances

of nature. Mistiness alone, we have observed, occasions a confusion in objects which is often picturesque; but the glory of the vision depends on the glowing lights which are mingled with it.

Landscape-painters, in general, pay too little attention to the discriminations of morning and evening. We are often at a loss to distinguish in pictures the rising from the setting sun, though their characters are very different both in the lights and shadows. The ruddy lights, indeed, of the evening are more easily distinguished, but it is not perhaps always sufficiently observed that the shadows of the evening are much less opaque than those of the morning. They may be brightened perhaps by the numberless rays floating in the atmosphere, which are incessantly reverberated in every direction, and may continue in action after the sun is set; whereas in the morning the rays of the preceding day having subsided, no object receives any light but from the immediate lustre of the sun. Whatever becomes of the theory, the fact, I believe, is well ascertained.

Sir Uvedale

Price (1747-1829), another notable apostle of the picturesque, was educated at Eton and Christ Church, where he became the friend of Fox, inherited a fortune on the death of his father and the estate of Foxley in Herefordshire, and was made a baronet in 1828. In his Essay on the Picturesque he earnestly recommended the study of the great landscape painters, their works and art, in order to improve real scenery, as well as to promote landscape gardening on true principles. He wrote also with elegance' on artificial water, on house decorations, architecture, and buildings. He insisted that the picturesque in nature is distinct from the sublime and the beautiful; and in enforcing and maintaining this, he attacked the style of ornamental gardening which Mason the poet had recommended, and Kent and Brown, the great landscape improvers, had reduced to practice. Some of Price's positions had the honour to be debated and confuted by Dugald Stewart. Price was credited with having greatly stimulated public interest in questions of art and taste, in provoking the desire to observe and enjoy and conscientiously reproduce natural beauty.

Atmospheric Effects.

It is not only the change of vegetation which gives to autumn its golden hue, but also the atmosphere itself, and the lights and shadows which then prevail. Spring has its light and flitting clouds, with shadows equally flitting and uncertain; refreshing showers, with gay and genial bursts of sunshine, that seem suddenly to call forth and to nourish the young buds and flowers. In autumn all is matured; and the rich hues of the ripened fruits and of the changing foliage are rendered still richer by the warm haze, which, on a fine day in that season, spreads the last varnish over every part of the picture. In winter, the trees and woods, from their total loss of foliage, have so lifeless and meagre an appearance, so different from the freshness of spring, the fullness of summer, and the richness of autumn, that many, not insensible to the beauties of scenery at other times,