that of all organic existences, recorded and unrecorded, a beginning and an end; a beginning how remote! an end—how distant! Myriads of ages must have elapsed ere these vestiges of creation could have formed—by their own successive growth, by their subsequent mergence, by the formation above them of beds of coral, beds of limestone, and beds of shale, and again by a later and fresher vegetation—that solid and enduring mass of fuel, which yet may last for ages to come. That our coal was formed from these vast accessions of cryptogams, conifers, and sigillaria, is now beyond a doubt; for intertwined and interlaced with the fabric of the coal we find the plants themselves, crushed and altered it is true, but still retaining a part of their form and beauty. It is a matter of history, recorded by the botanist, microscope in hand, that in some coal all is vegetable structure; and though it is beyond human power to effect the transition from vegetable to coal, yet is it not difficult to comprehend the change which has taken place.
What is coal in its general signification composed of? Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and a small proportion of saline ingredients. What is a piece of wood, or a pine, or a fern composed of? Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, with water, and a small proportion of saline ingredients.
Thus, the transition from vegetable to coal appears to consist principally in the loss, in the former, of the water or juices which constitute the sap of the plant, and which when no longer living it requires no more. Borne down by the flood, buried under the coral reef, it slumbers through ages and ages under the continually increasing pressure, till its juices being exhausted, its membranes are united in one solid mass, and the gradual process of eremacausis has connected foliage, trunk, and roots, into one homogeneous body, undistinguishable to an ordinary observer from its brother shale, found both above and beneath it in the mine. The point at issue between the scientific arbiters of this question raises our interest and excites our curiosity to know more upon a subject so fraught with mysterious grandeur; and when the distinction between our shales and coals, and other formations of the carboniferous era are more clearly defined, there will still be eager inquiries with each succeeding generation: What is coal?
ONLY A PENNY.
When a wag won his bet that he would cry a trayful of sovereigns on London Bridge, and not sell one, the price he fixed was a penny. “Only a penny, ladies and gentlemen! real sovereigns, full weight! buy, buy! only a penny!” Had he offered them for twopence, he would have sold the lot. Depend upon it, he gained his wager not only because the proposal seemed at first ludicrous, not to say improbable, but because the price he asked was so familiar that it did not arrest attention. Certainly those vagabond merchants who take the penny as the unit of our coinage live somehow; but who ever saw them complete a bargain? There is a man near the corner of Great Portland Street, Oxford Street, who offers little Jacks-in-the-box, which jump out with a spring and squeak, at only a penny. I have passed him, I may say without any exaggeration, hundreds of times; he is always nipping the spring of the box-toy, and starting the little image, then shutting him down again, and thus giving him an intermittent view of society throughout the day; but I never saw him sell one. His cry is very melancholy and monotonous, as if he were sentenced to the work. Children sometimes put a drag on their nurses or mammas as they pass, and point imploringly at the temptation; but the merchant never meets their efforts with a step forward, a responsive gesture, or a change of tone. “O-o-o-nly a penny!” then a squeak from the toy; but, I repeat, I never saw him sell one, though I always look to see. I wonder how the people in the shop opposite to which he plants himself can bear the sound of his trade. The man who blows a whistle in a little cup of water, thereby making general imitations of a singing-bird, might not be so wearisome—he is no worse than a canary—moreover, he is a pleasanter-looking party to deal with, glances cheerily at the public over his little tin mug, and occasionally exchanges the exhibition of his instrument for verbal persuasion.
It is curious to see the interest taken in those dealers who propose wonderful scouring-drops, and exemplify their quality on the collar of some promiscuous boy, who puts on while the operation proceeds just that uncertain face which might precede an electric shock. A little spot is cleansed in the collar—a little clear space like that which the skating-club sweep in the snow—the experiment succeeds unequivocally; the effect is, as was previously assured, instantaneous; but no one buys; not that no one need—it would take a bucket of the magic mixture to scour the group—but they disperse, gratified and dirty. What an apt emblem we have here of the reception which much excellent advice meets with. An offender is exhibited, theoretically, and the panacea is applied; what was foul becomes fair under the wonder-working tongue of the performer. Will no one possess himself of the corrective? Not he; he sees the rascal cleansed, and departs.
There is one article sold cheap in the streets in which I could never bring myself to believe the public can be suddenly interested, or feel a noonday want for. I mean sponge. The seller here does not exhibit the detersive quality of his wares like the magic drop merchant, but he carries as many as possible in his hand till it looks like a swelled boxing glove. I once, however, saw a man on the point of buying a sponge at the Regent Circus.
The most successful of this class of traders are, perhaps, those who deal in pens. The merchant writes in a fine bold hand, at intervals; probably this is the secret of his business. That little boy who invests his penny is not the only one deceived by thinking the result is to be attributed to the pen instead of the hand which moves it. Poor little chap! your purchase will make nothing but blots in your uneducated fingers. However, the pen-seller acts like hundreds who appear to offer for sale what really cannot be sold—skill. Thus
