like leaves from amidst the humbler bushes; and in the most obscure corners, over some decaying log, nods the noble spike of the magnificent limodorum. Nothing is flaunting or showy; all is solemn and subdued; but all is exquisitely beautiful. . . . The smaller wood consists largely of the plant called glass-eye berry, a scrophularious shrub, the blossoms of which, though presenting little beauty in form or hue, are pre-eminently attractive to the long-tailed humming-bird. These bushes are at no part of the year out of blossom, the scarlet berries appearing at all seasons on the same stalk as the flowers. And here at any time one may with tolerable certainty calculate on finding these very lovely birds. But it is in March, April, and May, that they abound: I suppose I have sometimes seen not fewer than a hundred come successively to rifle the blossoms within the space of half as many yards in the course of a forenoon. They are, however, in no respect gregarious; though three or four may be at one moment hovering round the blossoms of the same bush, there is no association; each is governed by his individual preference, and each attends to his own affairs. It is worthy of remark, that males compose by far the greater portion of the individuals observed at this elevation. I do not know why it should be so, but we see very few females there, whereas in the lowlands this sex outnumbers the other. In March, a large number are found to be clad in the livery of the adult male, but without long tail-feathers; others have the characteristic feathers lengthened, but in various degrees.. One day several of these "young bloods" being together, a regular tumult ensued, somewhat similar to a sparrowfight-such twittering, and fluttering, and dartings hither and thither! I could not exactly make out the matter, but suspected that it was mainly an attack (surely a most ungallant one, if so) made by these upon two females of the same species, that were sucking at the same bush. These were certainly in the skirmish, but the evolutions were too rapid to be certain how the battle went.' It appears that, small and beautiful as they are, the humming-birds are excessively pugnacious. Near Mr Gosse's chamber window at Phoenix Park, near Savannale-Mar, there were two Malay apple-trees, covered with blossom, to which a Mango humming-bird had for several days been paying his devoirs. One morning, another came, and the manoeuvres of these two tiny creatures became highly interesting. They' chased each other through the labyrinth of twigs and flowers, till, an opportunity occurring, the one would dart with seeming fury upon the other, and then, with a loud rustling of their wings, they would twirl together, round and round, until they nearly came to the earth. It was some time before I could see with any distinctness what took place in these tussles; their twirlings were so rapid as to baffle all attempts at discrimination. At length an encounter took place pretty close to me, and I perceived that the beak of the one grasped the beak of the other, and thus fastened, both whirled round and round in their perpendicular descent, the point of contact being the centre of the gyrations, till, when another second would have brought them both on the ground, they separated, and the one chased the other for about a hundred yards, and then returned in triumph to the tree, where, perched on a lofty twig, he chirped monotonously and pertinaciously for some time-I could not help thinking, in defiance. In a few minutes, however, the banished one returned, and began chirping no less provokingly, which soon brought on another chase and another tussle. I am persuaded that these were hostile encounters, for one seemed evidently afraid of the other, fleeing when the other pursued, though his indomitable spirit would prompt the chirp of defiance; and when resting after a battle, I noticed that this one held his beak open, as if panting. Sometimes they would suspend hostilities to suck a few blossoms, but mutual proximity was sure to bring them on again, with the same result. In their tortuous and rapid evolutions, the light from their ruby necks would now and then flash in the sun with gem-like radiance; and as they now and then hovered motionless, the broadly expanded tail-whose outer feathers are crimson-purple, but when intercepting the

sun's rays transmit orange-coloured light-added much to their beauty. A little Banana quit, that was peeping among the blossoms in his own quiet way, seemed now and then to look with surprise on the combatants; but when the one had driven his rival to a longer distance than usual, the victor set upon the unoffending quit, which soon yielded the point, and retired, humbly enough, to a neighbouring tree. The war, for it was a thorough campaign, a regular succession of battles, lasted fully an hour, and then I was called away from the post of observation.' Mr Gosse took several of these birds, and attempted to domesticate them, sometimes with partial success; but generally they quickly died. Amongst those which he kept for some time, he observed much variety of temper; 'some being moody and sulky, others very timid, and others gentle and confiding from the first.' He adds the remark, 'I have noticed this in other birds also; doves, for instance, which manifest individuality of character perhaps as much as men, if we were competent to appreciate it.'

Wilson has already made us acquainted with the mocking-bird; externally handsome, but with nothing brilliant about him; easy and animated in his movements, and possessing a voice capable of almost every modulation, from the clear mellow notes of the woodthrush to the savage scream of the bald eagle.' His powerful notes silence all other birds, and he becomes a substitute for all. 'A bystander destitute of sight would suppose that the whole feathered tribes had assembled together on a trial of skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect, so perfect are his imitations. He many times deceives the sportsman, and sends him in search of birds that perhaps are not within miles of him. Even birds themselves are frequently imposed upon by this admirable mimic, and are decoyed by the fancied call of their mates; or dive with precipitation into the depths of thickets at the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow-hawk.' In the domesticated state, he whistles for the dog-Caesar starts up, wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt chicken, and the hen hurries about, with hanging wings and bristled feathers, clucking, to protect its injured brood. The barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow with great truth and rapidity. While pursuing his imitations, he spreads his wings, expands his tail, and throws himself round the cage in all the ecstacy of enthusiasm, seeming not only to sing but to dance, keeping time to the measure of his own music.'

Of this extraordinary bird Mr Gosse speaks as one of the commonest in Jamaica, bold and forward in his manners, of striking though not showy colours.' Many a time has it caused disappointment to our naturalist. Hearing the voice of, as I supposed, some new bird, or some that I was in want of, I have found, after creeping cautiously and perhaps with some difficulty to the spot, that it proceeded from the familiar personage before me.' A friend of Mr Gosse has been at the pains to study the ordinary or proper song of the bird, and has ascertained that it comprehends no fewer than eighteen notes.

It is in the stillness of the night,' says Mr Gosse, when, like his European namesake [the nightingale], he delights "With wakeful melody to cheer The livelong hours," that the song of this bird is heard to advantage. Sometimes, when desirous of watching the first flight of Urania Sloaneus, I have ascended the mountains before break of day, I have been charmed with the rich gushes and bursts of melody proceeding from this most sweet songster, as he stood on tiptoe on the topmost twig of some sour-sop or orange-tree, in the rays of the bright moonlight. Now he is answered by another, and now another joins the chorus, from the trees around, till the woods and savannas are ringing with the delightful sounds of exquisite and innocent joy. Nor is the season of song confined, as in many birds, to that period when courtship and incubation call forth the affections and sympathies of the sexes towards each other. The mocking-bird is

vocal at all seasons; and it is probably owing to his permanency of song, as well as to his incomparable variety, that the savannas and lowland groves of Jamaica are almost always alive with melody, though our singing birds are so few.

"It is remarkable," observes Mr Hill [Mr Gosse's principal coadjutor], "that in those serenades and midnight solos, which have obtained for the mocking-bird the name of the nightingale, and which he commences with a rapid stammering prelude, as if he had awaked, frightened out of sleep, he never sings his songs of mimicry; his music at this time is his own. It is full of variety, with a fine compass, but less mingled and more equable than by day, as if the minstrel felt that the sober-seeming of the night required a solemnity of music peculiarly its own. The night-song of the mockingbird, though in many of its modulations it reminds us of that of the nightingale of Europe, has less of volume in it. There is not more variety, but a less frequent repetition of those certain notes of ecstacy, which give such a peculiar character, and such wild, intense, and allabsorbing feeling to the midnight song of the European bird. Though the more regulated quality of the song of our nightingale is less calculated to create surprise, it is the more fitted to soothe and console; and that sensation of melancholy which is said to pervade the melody of the European minstrel, is substituted in the midnight singing of our bird by one of thoughtful and tranquil delight." The nest of the mocking-bird is not so elaborate a structure as that of many birds. It is built with little attempt at concealment in some bush or low tree, often an orange near the dwelling-house. When young are in possession, their presence is no secret; for an unpleasant sound, half-hissing, half-whistling, is all day long issuing from their unfledged throats; delightful efforts, I daresay, to the fond parents. At this time the old birds are watchful and courageous. If an intruding boy or naturalist approaches their family, they hop from twig to twig, looking on with outstretched neck, in mute but evident solicitude; but any winged visitant, though ever so unconscious of evil intent, and though ever so large, is driven away with fearless pertinacity. The saucy ani and tinkling instantly yield the sacred neighbourhood, the brave mocking-bird pursuing a group of three or four even to several hundred yards distance; and even the John-crow, if he sail near the tree, is instantly attacked and driven from the scene. But the hogs are the creatures that give him the most annoyance. They are ordinarily fed upon the inferior oranges, the fruit being shaken down to them in the evenings; hence they acquire the habit of resorting to the orange-trees, to wait for a lucky windfall. The mocking-bird, feeling nettled at the intrusion, flies down and begins to peck the hog with all his might. Piggy, not understanding the matter, but pleased with the titillation, gently lies down, and turns up his broadside to enjoy it; the poor bird gets into an agony of distress, pecks and pecks again; but only increases the enjoyment of the luxurious intruder, and is at last compelled to give up the effort in despair.'

THE CHEAP EXCURSION. CHEAPNESS! What wonderfully clever things are done and thought of in thy name-what mighty sums saved -what pleasures realised! We shall not, however, celebrate thy praises in an essay. The philosophy of cheapness may be best detailed in a story-the story of a terribly saving couple whom we lately heard of in Paris.

The morning of the fête of St Cloud shone bright and beautiful, and Monsieur Krukaine, who had set himself on enjoying a holiday, was anxious to be off. 'I think, my dear, it is time to start,' said he to his wife; as we mean to walk, it will be wise for us to go

before the heat comes on.'

'Well, Monsieur Krukaine,' screamed a shrill voice from an inner room, you may be off if you like; but Alexander's face is not washed, and my things are not on yet, and I shan't hurry either.'

M. Krukaine looked at his watch and groaned; but he knew by experience that to endeavour to hasten Madame Krukaine's preparations would only occasion further delay: so, after ascertaining once more that it was really a fine day, he glanced over the newspaper with as much composure as he could preserve. This was a great day in the life of the Krukaines, who had long looked forward to it with keen anticipations of the pleasure it was to afford them. St Cloud is a pretty village on the banks of the Seine, at a short distance from Paris. It possesses a palace and very handsome gardens, which on the fête day of the patron saint of the place are thronged with visitors, and offer a very gay appearance. The Krukaines were retired grocers in comfortable circumstances; their elder children were settled in the world, but the youngest, Alexander Krukaine, a boy about nine years of age, still remained with his parents, who resided in the Rue de l'Arbre, near the Place Dauphine. As the heavy cares of life were over for them, M. and Madame Krukaine might have been considered very happy people, but for the unlucky parsimony of their habits. Nothing literally seemed so difficult to M. Krukaine as to spend a few francs for any purpose not strictly indispensable. To save money was his first consideration in everything; and his contrivances to get cheap bargains, and conduct matters on all occasions cheaply, were most exemplary. Unfortunately, his cheap often turned out dear purchases, when all the cost was counted; but better luck was hoped for next time; and failure accordingly only led to new experiments. Madame had not originally been a votary of cheapness; but from living in an atmosphere of economical devices, she at length rivalled her husband in saving, and after that it would have been difficult to say who was the cleverest in scenting out a bargain, or contriving means for holding in money. In carrying out their projects, they stoically deprived themselves of the most innocent pleasures, lest they should cause any expense. They declared that their means would not allow them to see company. As every one knew this to be false, the Krukaines were soon called selfish, avaricious people; but to this they remained perfectly indifferent; M. Krukaine, who piqued himself on being a philosopher, remarking that right to be surprised at the treatment they experienced as calumny was the usual reward of merit, they had no from their neighbours. If the truth must be told, they were rather glad than otherwise at the turn which reports took against them. They had the pleasure of thinking they were unjustly persecuted, and this pleasure they had the satisfaction of enjoying without cost: it was a cheap way of getting amusement.

Such being their disposition, it was not without mature deliberation that the Krukaines had adopted the resolution of going to the fête of St Cloud; but the beauty of the weather rendered the temptation irresist ible; besides, they determined to spend so very little, that it would be scarcely worth mentioning. A circumstance which increased their wish of seeing the fête was, that several lodgers of the house in which they resided had resolved to go to it in a party, and spoke enthusiastically of the pleasures they anticipated from the excursion. The Krukaines had been invited to join them, but had churlishly refused; for as M. Krukaine prudently observed, 'What was the use of going with other people, when you could gain nothing by them?' They accordingly determined to go alone. Brenu, a sarcastic widow who lived on the same landing with them, and who was to be one of the pic-nic party, did indeed make some malicious and spiteful remarks about stingy and unsociable people; but as Madame Krukaine loftily observed, in emulation of her husband's philosophy, She was above such things, and should treat the woman's impertinence with the calm contempt it merited.'

Madame

Though M. Krukaine, after waiting a very long time, ended by thinking madame would never be dressed, she was ready at last, and appeared in the full glory of a

eye, they hastened to leave the spot whilst still unseen. Alexander felt aggrieved; this feeling increased when Madame Krukaine positively forbade him to go near the stalls, temptingly covered with toys and sweets; and snappishly declared that too much money had already been thrown away on that day for her to think of squandering any more by the most trifling purchase. There was a good deal of stubbornness in Alexander Krukaine's disposition; he was, moreover, accustomed to great indulgence, and on the present occasion he thought himself extremely ill-used. To show a proper sense of his wrongs, he spared no pains to render both himself and his parents thoroughly uncomfortable. This was easily effected. Whenever they wanted to rest, he insisted on going on; and when, on the contrary, they wished to walk, he declared himself too fatigued to proceed. Madame Krukaine scolded, M. Krukaine remonstrated and threatened by turns; but nothing could produce the least effect on Alexander, who was now roused to a state of dogged resistance.

The Krukaines were heartily glad when evening came on. M. Krukaine, who felt a most unphilosophic appetite, hinted something about having dinner; but madame sharply observed that they had already dined; and though her husband felt this to be a most lamentable fiction, he was compelled to acquiesce. The question was now how they were to go home. They endeavoured to secure some conveyance, for fatigue had so far conquered their feelings of avarice, as to make them willing to sacrifice a few francs to comfort. But this was the hour when every one was returning-the most insignificant vehicle suddenly rose in importance, and extravagant sums were asked and given for a seat.

We will walk home,' indignantly exclaimed Madame Krukaine, on beholding this deplorable state of things; and as her husband seconded the heroic resolve, they set out immediately. The evening was close and sultry, and before they had walked a quarter of a league, Alexander Krukaine, exasperated by this forced march, sat down by the roadside, and expressed his solemn determination of not going one step farther. His parents walked on, pretending to leave him behind; but Alexander, who had grown accustomed to misfortunes, remained insensible to this one, and was fast asleep by the time they returned near him. What was to be done? M. Krukaine suggested a sound whipping as soon as they should reach home. But as this afforded no present relief, his wife sharply bade him hold his peace, and began a long recriminating speech, by which she clearly proved that all their sufferings originated in M. Krukaine's loss of the basket. They were still in this dilemma, when a fiacre drove up to the door of a villa, near which they were then standing. A gentleman came out of the house and stepped into the coach. 'Place Dauphine,' said he to the coachman, who nodded and took his seat.

M. and Madame Krukaine exchanged a rapid look of intelligence. Place Dauphine was close to their abode; the seat at the back of the fiacre was wide; the night was dark, no one could see them. In short, after a very brief hesitation, they seized on the slumbering Alexander, and sprang up stealthily on the convenient seat, whilst the unsuspecting coachman drove off.

The Krukaines actually chuckled with exultation at the success of their stratagem. There was something so truly delightful in the idea of riding home for nothing, that it made them forget the miseries of the day. It is true that they were rather uncomfortably seated, and that Alexander, who seemed determined to drown the remembrance of his woes in sleep, was every minute in danger of falling off; but, as M. Krukaine wisely remarked, 'What would be the use of philosophy, if it did not teach us to bear patiently such trifling inconveniences?'

They accordingly bore their trials with exemplary fortitude, until they discovered, to their dismay, that it was beginning to rain, or, as Madame Krukaine bitterly declared, to pour.' The unhappy lady opened her

parasol in the vain hope of sheltering her bonnet; but the only consequence of this arrangement was to transfer to it some of the blue of the parasol. She fortunately remained unconscious of this unlooked-for result, and entertained herself by lamenting the loss of her husband's basket, as she persisted in terming it. M. Krukaine was thoroughly fatigued and hungry. These were sufficient evils even for a sage, and he accordingly fell fast asleep, heedless alike of madame's scolding and of the rain which poured upon him. It was not until the fiacre stopped that he wakened with an alarmed start; but he immediately recollected the necessity of silence, and alighted noiselessly. His next task was to take down Alexander, who was still in the embrace of Morpheus, and to rouse Madame Krukaine, who had followed the example of her husband and son. These delicate proceedings were conducted with so much discretion, that neither the tenant of the fiacre nor the coachman suspected what was going on. Whilst there was a chance of detection, the Krukaines prudently remained within the deep shadow of one of the neighbouring houses; but as soon as the fiacre drove away, M. Krukaine, who felt uncomfortably cool about the head, exclaimed, My dear, will you be kind enough to give me my hat?'

'Your hat!' indignantly echoed his wife; 'what have I to do with your hat, sir?'

M. Krukaine was stupified by this new misfortune. Though he had evidently lost his hat whilst sleeping behind the fiacre, he refused to believe in this melancholy truth, and repeatedly declared there must be some mistake, that it could not be. Madame Krukaine listened to her husband's lamentations with bitter triumph, and sarcastically asserted that she felt delighted at what had occurred. This was extremely aggravating, and her spouse took it in very ill part; he and madame therefore quarrelled on the subject until they grew tired of it; after which they began to think of going home. But though they knew they ought to be within a very short distance of their dwelling, they could never succeed in finding the turn which led to it: they at first ascribed this to the darkness of the night.

'Most extraordinary, to be sure!' exclaimed M. Krukaine, rubbing his eyes to ascertain that it was not in them the mistake lay. Will you be kind enough to tell me the name of this place?' he asked of a man who happened to be passing by.

Place Dauphine,' was the answer.

M. Krukaine breathed freely, and next inquired for the way leading to the Rue de l'Arbre. 'I don't know the street.'

M. Krukaine's doubts returned. Perhaps this was not the Place Dauphine; but the man reiterated his assertion. Then where was the Rue de l'Arbre? The man again declared he did not know.

But, my friend,' coaxingly observed M. Krukaine, let me tell you it must be very near this spot.'

And let me tell you,' testily answered the man, 'there does not exist such a street in all Versailles.' ⚫ Versailles!' echoed M. Krukaine in a hollow tone. "Versailles!' screamed Madame Krukaine.

Alas, they were indeed in Versailles, which possessed a Place Dauphine as well as Paris! The unhappy couple, forgetting all their causes of dissent, looked on one another in mute despair. Versailles was much farther from Paris than St Cloud; the rain still fell heavily; a neighbouring clock struck twelve; in short, their misery seemed complete. M. Krukaine, whose imagination seemed affected by the misfortunes of the day, scrupled not to declare that they were persecuted by an inexorable fatality. One moment he felt tempted to defy his destiny; but on second thought, he resolved to delay doing this until he should be safely home --an event which, as he bitterly observed, did not seem likely to occur for some time yet. In the meanwhile, Madame Krukaine, who, according to her own assertion, had been prepared, since the loss of her basket, for

everything which had occurred, learned from the individual who had apprized them of their melancholy situation, that they would find a little inn in one of the neighbouring streets, where they might probably gain admittance for the night. It was not without much difficulty that the unhappy Krukaines succeeded in discovering this place of refuge, and in rousing the inmates, who, on beholding their pitiable condition, consented to receive them, although they were unprovided with a passport. But even when they found themselves in a comfortable room, and to all appearance safe, M. Krukaine remained sceptical, and refused to believe that their misfortunes were over.

'Don't think yourself safe yet, my dear,' he gravely observed to his wife, as they retired for the night; we are the victims of fatality.'

M. Krukaine's first act on awakening the next morning, and on ascertaining, though he declared himself astonished at such an escape, that he had not been spirited away during the night, was to send for a hatter, in order to replace the indispensable article of wearing apparel he had unfortunately lost. Of course he was dreadfully cheated; the hatter knew that he lay at his mercy, and made the most of his advantage; but M. Krukaine was now prepared for anything, and he bore the imposition with a kind of desperate resignation. Madame Krukaine did not yield so readily to the decrees of fate; she gazed with unutterable dismay on her bonnet, to which her parasol, through the agency of the rain, had imparted a green tint; and like those struck by some sudden calamity, she remained incredulous, and long refused to believe in the reality of this lamentable metamorphosis. When the Krukaines had breakfasted -and they now felt a sort of recklessness at whatever expenses they might incur-they secured a vehicle, of which the owner engaged to take them to their own door for what M. Krukaine termed an enormous sum; but this was of little consequence, as he had made up his mind to submit to all the exigencies of destiny until he found himself at his own door in Paris. There they arrived at length, after undergoing, as he observed in a melancholy tone, a series of unparalleled misfortunes. They had indeed the appearance of travellers returning from a disastrous voyage. Madame Krukaine's features were haggard and fatigued; Alexander looked stupified and dirty; and though M. Krukaine had suffered least in outward appearance, his startled air plainly bespoke the unhappy victim of fatality.

The family had no sooner alighted from their conveyance, than they perceived the sarcastic countenance of Madame Brenu looking down on them from her window.

'Why,' she screamed out, where have you been all this time, we were so uneasy? I hope you enjoyed yourselves. We had quite a delightful day of it I assure you; dined in the wood, and came home just in time to escape the rain. I hope you did not get wet. But dear me, what is the matter with your bonnet? Green! I declare; surely it was yellow yesterday? And where is your basket? Ah! empty of all the good things by this, I daresay?' And so the provoking woman went on, whilst the unhappy Krukaines, now resigned to anything, did not even attempt to retort, but retired to their apartment.

For several days the Krukaines could think of nothing but the disasters which they had met with in the pursuit of pleasure; and M. Krukaine clearly proved to his wife that a more unhappy couple had never gone to the fête of St Cloud. His next act was to ascertain the precise sum they had spent in their unlucky expedition. After a good deal of nice calculation, he found that, including the loss of the basket and hat, besides the total ruin of the bonnet and parasol, their expenses amounted to fifty-seven francs twenty-five centimes. Madame Krukaine raised her eyes and clasped her hands as she heard this lamentable result, from which she concluded that it was perfect ruin to think of pleasure a sentiment in which her husband entirely acquiesced.

But even this soothing delusion was not granted to the Krukaines; for as Madame Brenu took good care to inform them of the exact sum which had been spent by the whole pic-nic party, they soon perceived that there are two methods of economising-one by which pleasure can be procured at a moderate expense, whilst serious loss and inconvenience are too frequently entailed by the other. The effect produced by this discovery is not yet known; but it is thought that the fit of rheumatism from which M. Krukaine suffered shortly after the fête of St Cloud, considerably softened the rigidity of his economy, whilst the loss of her yellow bonnet produced a similar effect on Madame Krukaine's feelings.

Though the Krukaines have not yet had the magnanimity of acknowledging their mistake, they have lately manifested signs of improvement in a more liberal style of living. What must be considered a good sign of approaching common sense, was an observation which madame made the other day to a neighbour, that she was afraid there is no way of getting a franc for a centime;' or, as this wise saw may be Anglicised for general benefit, 'THERE IS NO GETTING A SHILLING FOR A SIXPENCE.'

THE BREAKWATER AT PLYMOUTH. AN account of this great work, the most successful of the kind ever executed in this country, which involves so many important principles in theory, and displays so much skill in the construction, can scarcely fail of being generally interesting. A large book, just published, at the expense of an eminent engineer, puts us in possession of authentic documents from which we may compile a connected narrative of the proceedings from their commencement.* From the earliest periods of our history, Plymouth has been a much frequented port, well situated for trade, and the headquarters of government expeditions. The town stands at the inner end of the inlet known as Plymouth Sound, of which the two extremities to seaward are the Lizard and Start Points. Properly speaking, the Sound comprises an area of three miles in length and width, receiving the waters of three rivers. The shores are hilly, and in some places project, so as to diminish the width to a mile and a half, and form bays more or less secure, which, before the erection of the breakwater, were the only refuge for vessels. The Sound is exposed to winds, ranging easterly and westerly over twelve points of the compass. The south-westerly are the most prevalent, and drive in waves from the Bay of Biscay and the Atlantic with a force that appears altogether irresistible, and is often productive of disastrous effects. Notwithstanding these risks and inconveniences, and the commercial importance of the station, no attempts were made to remedy its defects during a long course of years; and although one of the most capacious harbours in the kingdom, it was really useful only in fine weather, or with the wind off shore. At length, in 1806, the idea of a breakwater was suggested by Earl St Vincent; and in the same year Mr Rennie, architect of the Bell-Rock lighthouse, and Mr Whidbey, a naval officer of great experience, were ordered by the Admiralty to make a survey, and draw up a report on the subject. Proposals had been made to construct piers running out from the land on either side of the Sound, as a practicable means of affording protection to shipping; but these were disapproved of by the surveyors, as favouring the deposition of shoals, and at the same time taking up the deepest water. Their recommendation was for a detached mole or embankment, to be built on a line of shoals, known as the San Carlos and Shovel Rocks, already existing in the middle of the channel, which would shut in an area of about 2000 acres as a secure anchorage, and accommodate from

* A Historical, Practical, and Theoretical Account of the Break

water in Plymouth Sound. By Sir John Rennie, F.R.S., &c. Folio. London: H. G. Bohn, and J. Weale. 1843.