The Mirror Of Literature, Amusement, And Instruction. Volume 14, No. 391, September 26, 1829. Various

For instance, every additional cwt. we shift on the hind or working wheels, will increase the power of traction in our steepest hills upwards of 4 cwt., and on the level road half a ton. Such, then, is the paradoxical nature of steam-carriages, that the very circumstance which in animal exertion would weaken and retard, will here multiply their strength and accelerate. This, no doubt, Mr. Gurney's ingenuity will soon turn to profitable account.

      "It has often been asserted that carriages of this sort could not go above 6 or 7 miles an hour. I can see no reasonable objection to 20. The following fact, decided before a large company in the barrack-yard, will best speak for itself:—At eighteen minutes after three I ascended the carriage with Mr. Gurney. After we had gone about half way round, 'Now,' said Mr. Gurney, 'I will show you her speed.' He did, and we completed seven turns round the outside of the road by twenty-eight minutes after three. If, therefore, as I was there assured, two and a half turns measured one mile, we went 2.8 miles in ten minutes; that is, at the rate of 16.8, or nearly 17 miles per hour. But as Mr. Gurney slackened its motion once or twice in the course of trial, to speak to some one, and did not go at an equal rate all the way round for fear of accident in the crowd, it is clear that sometimes we must have proceeded at the rate of upwards of twenty miles an hour."

      The Engraving will furnish the reader with a correct idea of such of Mr. Gurney's improvements as are most interesting to the public. The present arrangement is certainly very preferable to placing the boiler and engine in immediate contact with the carriage, which is to convey goods and passengers. Men of science are still much divided on the practical economy of using steam instead of horses as a travelling agent; but we hope, like all great contemporaries they may whet and cultivate each other till the desired object is attained. One of them, a writer in the Atlas, observes, that "if ultimately found capable of being brought into public use, it would probably be most convenient and desirable that several locomotive engines should be employed on one line of road, in order that they might be exchanged at certain stages for the purposes of examination, tightening of screws, and other adjustments, which the jolting on passing over the road might render necessary, and for the supply of fuel and water."

      An effectively-coloured lithographic of Mr. Gurney's carriage (by Shoesmith) has recently appeared at the printsellers', which we take this opportunity of recommending to the notice of collectors and scrappers.

      PUNNING SATIRE ON AN INCONSTANT LOVER

      You are as faithless as a Carthaginian,

      To love at once, Kate, Nell, Doll, Martha, Jenny, Anne.

SWIFT.

      BRIMHAM ROCKS 3 BY MOONLIGHT

(For the Mirror.)

      The sun hath set, but yet I linger still,

      Gazing with rapture on the face of night;

      And mountain wild, deep vale, and heathy hill,

      Lay like a lovely vision, mellow, bright,

      Bathed in the glory of the sunset light,

      Whose changing hues in flick'ring radiance play,

      Faint and yet fainter on the outstretch'd sight,

      Until at length they wane and die away,

      And all th' horizon round fades into twilight gray.

      But, slowly rising up the vaulted sky,

      Forth comes the moon, night's joyous, sylvan queen,

      With one lone, silent star, attendant by

      Her side, all sparkling in its glorious sheen;

      And, floating swan-like, stately, and serene,

      A few light fleecy clouds, the drapery of heav'n,

      Throw their pale shadows o'er this witching scene,

      Deep'ning its mystic grandeur—and seem driven

      Round these all shapeless piles like Time's wan spectres risen

      From out the tombs of ages. All around

      Lies hushed and still, save with large, dusky wing

      The bird of night makes its ill-omened sound;

      Or moor-game, nestling 'neath th' flowery ling

      Low chuckle to their mates—or startled, spring

      Away on rustling pinions to the sky,

      Wheel round and round in many an airy ring,

      Then swooping downward to their covert hie,

      And, lodged beneath the heath again securely lie.

      Ascend yon hoary rock's impending brow,

      And on its windy summit take your stand—

      Lo! Wilsill's lovely vale extends below,

      And long, long heathy moors on either hand

      Stretch dark and misty—a bleak tract of land,

      Whereon but seldom human footsteps come;

      Save when with dog, obedient at command,

      And gun, the sportsman quits his city home,

      And brushing through the ling in quest of game doth roam.

      And lo! in wild confusion scattered round,

      Huge, shapeless, naked, massy piles of stone

      Rise, proudly towering o'er this barren ground,

      Scowling in mutual hate—apart, alone,

      Stern, desolate they stand—and seeming thrown

      By some dire, dread convulsion of the earth

      From her deep, silent caves, and hoary grown

      With age and storms that Boreas issues forth

      Replete with ire from his wild regions in the north.

      How beautiful! yet wildly beautiful,

      As group on group comes glim'ring on the eye,

      Making the heart, soul, mind, and spirit full

      Of holy rapture and sweet imagery;

      Till o'er the lip escapes th' unconscious sigh,

      And heaves the breast with feeling, too too deep

      For words t' express the awful sympathy,

      That like a dream doth o'er the senses creep,

      Chaining the gazer's eye—and yet he cannot weep.

      But stands entranced and rooted to the spot,

      While grows the scene upon him vast, sublime,

      Like some gigantic city's ruin, not

      Inhabited by men, but Titans—Time

      Here rests upon his scythe and fears to climb,

      Spent by th' unceasing toil of ages past,

      Musing he stands and listens to the chime

      Of rock-born spirits howling in the blast,

      While gloomily around night's sable shades are cast.

      Well deemed I ween the Druid sage of old

      In making this his dwelling place on high;

      Where all that's huge and great from Nature's mould,

      Spoke this the temple of his deity;

      Whose walls and roof were the o'erhanging sky,

      His altar th' unhewn rock, all bleak and bare,

      Where superstition with red, phrensied eye

      And look all wild, poured forth her idol prayer,

      As rose the dying wail,4 and blazed the pile in air.

      Lost in the lapse of time, the Druid's lore

      Hath

3

Yorkshire. This wonderful assemblage lies scattered in groups, covering a surface of nearly forty acres of heathy moor. The numerous rocking-stones, rock-idols, altars, cannon rocks, &c. evidently point out this spot as having been used by the Druids in their horrid and mysterious ceremonies. The position of some of these rocks is truly astonishing; one in particular resting upon a base of a few inches, overhangs on all sides many feet; while others seem suspended and balanced as if they hung in air.

4

Human sacrifices formed part of the religious rites of the Druids.