thread the insect ties together the different filaments of wool which compose the sheath, forming, as it were, a kind of tissue, of which the warp is of wool, and the weft of silk. This tissue is very firm in texture, for the silk of caterpillars when drawn out is covered with an adhesive gum, which dries in the air, and serves to bind the substances to which it is attached still more closely together. While weaving the filaments of wool, the insect carries the silken thread to the interior, where it completes the lining. The spinning-tube below its mouth is the shuttle, and the grub may be seen moving its head from one side to the other with great rapidity.

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Whether the insect begins its sheath with pure silk, or with a mixture of wool and silk, cannot be determined by ordinary observation; but all its proceedings become apparent by stripping the insect, and pelling it, as it were, to make a new cloak. M. Réaumur introduced into the end of several sheaths a small twig, and by pushing it forward gradually drove the insects out. They seem never to have thought of getting back into the old sheath, which was left near, but set to work to weave new ones; sometimes the naked insect would remain uneasy and restless for half a day, as if uncertain what to do, but eventually they all began by weaving a silken envelope, which was finished in one night; then the woolly sheath was formed, and completed in five or six days, although the old one had been several months in progress.

The young grubs work in the same manner; they first make a vest of pure silk, they then attach to the central part of this a ring of little filaments of wool, parallel to each other, and inclined gently to the length of the sheath; a second ring is added, close to and partly supported by the first; then a third, and so on; but in lengthening the sheath they first lay a foundation of silk, upon which the woollen filaments are afterwards tied.

The sheath formed by the newly hatched grubs, small as it is, is much too large for the insect's body, as if the grub wished to spare itself, for some time, the trouble of enlarging it. In this state they do not retain a firm hold of the sheath, for on shaking a piece of cloth covered with young grubs over another piece of cloth, the naked insects will frequently fall down, leaving the sheaths behind them.

At certain periods the insects remain inactive; this is always the case in winter, and for short seasons in summer and autumn. At such times they fasten the sheaths securely to the cloth on which they have been pasturing, by means of their silken cables, and no shaking of the cloth will detach them.

However singular it may appear that the stomachs of these grubs can digest woolly fibres, it is not less remarkable that the dye stuffs with which these fibres are coloured, pass through their bodies unaltered: hence, Réaumur has suggested that water colours of beautiful tints, not otherwise easily attainable, might be procured by feeding the grub on different coloured wools.

material. It is not easy to see these grubs at work, because they attach themselves to the surface of the skin, and are entirely concealed by the hairs. The insect seems to take a pleasure in cutting off these hairs, for those necessary for its wants are as nothing compared with the immense quantity which falls from a skin on slightly shaking it. A razor could not shave off the hairs so completely or so well.

It appears exceedingly probable that the wool-moth and the fur-moth belong to the same species. Réaumur has taken the young grubs from fur and put them upon wool, and they continued to live and thrive, and they passed through their changes like the other grubs. He has transplanted them from wool to fur with equal success. The grubs are not at all nice as to the kind of skin they are put upon; for they seem to pasture equally well upon a horse's hide as upon the most delicate fur. They will even feed upon butterflies' wings, as Réaumur proved.

M. Réaumur has devoted a separate and very elaborate memoir to an inquiry into the best method of getting rid of the clothes-moth: from this we select a few of the most important details. Let us first notice a few superstitions connected with the subject.

According to Pliny a dress which has been used to cover a coffin is for ever after safe from the attacks of the grub. Rasis says that cantharides suspended in a house will drive them away, and that clothes wrapped up in a lion's skin are safe. Other writers recommend various vegetable substances, such as sabine, myrtle, peppermint, iris, lemon-peel, anise, &c. Caton recommends a preparation of olives for rubbing over the interior of drawers.

With the exception of the coffin and the lion-skin, Réaumur tried the other substances, and a variety of others; none proved injurious to the grubs, and some of the most noted preservatives even seemed to make the insects thrive. They were not affected when shut up with pieces of cloth which had been steeped in vinegar, infusion of peppermint, sea salt, soda, &c.; they thrived admirably with iris-root, and were not at all injured by cantharides shut up with them in a bottle.

Although the grubs attack woollen fabrics of all colours, they are not altogether indifferent as to the texture; they prefer loose textures to close ones, because in the one case the fibres are more easily torn out. On this account they prefer the nap of the cloth, because it is so easily got at, and they do not attack the thread until the nap is removed. The more the yarn of the woven material is twisted, and the more perfectly the cloth has been fulled, the less is it exposed to their attacks. Some of the old tapestries remain entire, because they are made of hard-spun yarn, while modern tapestries of loose texture are destroyed in a few years. Thus the tapestries of Auvergne are much more liable to be attacked than those of Flanders; and the scrge, once so extensively employed in the houses of France, has been almost entirely given up, on account of its liability to the attacks of this grub. Backs of chairs are now covered with leather, or some such material; so that it is an actual fact that the textile manufactures of France have suffered from the attacks of an ap

but little attacked, on account of the interlacing of the fibres rendering it difficult to separate them.

The fur-moth does not greatly differ from the woolmoth. The grub constructs its sheath in a similar manner, the only difference being in the nature of the

"But is there no remedy against the attacks of the clothes-moth grub?" will the fair reader exclaim, who has had the patience to accompany us thus far. She will probably suspect the writer of being so captivated with the ingenuity of these silk-lined-woollen-cloak gentry, that he seeks to conceal the instrument of their destruction. But what will you say, fair reader, to asking your husband to smoke his evening's cigar in the bed-room, instead of in the garden? Or would you object to the risk of being suffocated with the fumes of burning sulphur? These are remedies, it is true; but perhaps you will agree that they are worse than

It is usual every year with good housewives to turn out and dust their wardrobes and drawers, and to shake and brush their contents. This is an excellent preservative, if done about the time when the young grubs are hatched, which is during August and September. At this time they can be shaken off the cloth with a very little force; but at other times, when they anchor their sheaths to the cloth with silken cables, it is not so easy to get rid of them.

It may, perhaps, strike many persons as remarkable, that the wool on the sheeps' back is not liable to the attacks of the clothes-moth grub. In fact they do not attack the wool until the yolk or natural grease of the fleece is got rid of, and the more perfectly cloth is scoured, the better is it suited to the palates of these creatures. Some oils, however, such as nut oil, suit their taste. This remedy, however, is not to be thought of, for no one would like to have his clothes greasy for the sake of keeping away the moth. It is astonishing, however, how slight an application of grease is effectual as a preservative; merely passing a piece of undressed wool over some serge was found sufficient to preserve it. An infusion of tobacco, of pepper, of soda, and of olive oil had the same effect. And it is curious to notice the behaviour of the insect when shut up with this unpalatable food. Well may Réaumur exclaim, "Je ne connoissais pas encore tout leur génie quand j'ai cherché à devenir leur destructeur." Under such circumstances the grubs adopt the same plan as some of our arctic voyagers have done to allay the pangs of hunger: they eat their kid gloves and leathern breeches; the caterpillar, however, eats his woollen cloak or portions thereof, and supplies its place with the little dry round grains of excrement, which as before noticed retain the colour of the wool which has been digested: these grains are united with silken threads, and serve to keep the insect covered, which is essential to its well-being.

It is an old custom with some housewives to throw into their drawers every year a number of fir cones, under the idea that their strong resinous smell might keep away the moth. Now, as the odour of these cones is due to turpentine, it occurred to Réaumur to try the effect of this volatile liquid. He rubbed one side of a piece of cloth with turpentine, and put some grubs on the other: the next morning they were all dead, and, strange to say, had voluntarily abandoned their sheaths. On smearing some paper slightly with the oil, and putting this into a bottle with some grubs, the weakest were immediately killed; the most vigorous struggled violently for two or three hours, quitted their sheaths, and died in convulsions.

It was soon abundantly evident that the vapour of oil or spirits of turpentine acts as a terrible poison to the grubs. Perhaps it may be said that even this remedy is worse than the disease; but, as Réaumur justly observes, we keep away from a newly-painted room, or leave off for a few days a coat from which stains have been removed by turpentine, why therefore can we not once a year keep away for a day or two from rooms that have been fumigated with turpentine. It is, however, surprising how small a quantity of turpentine is required: a small piece of paper or linen just moistened therewith, and put into the wardrobe or drawers for a single day two or three times a year is a sufficient preservative against moth. A small quantity of turpentine dissolved in a little spirits of wine (the vapour of which is also fatal to the moth) will entirely remove the offensive odour, and yet be a sufficient preservative.

The vapour of turpentine, and the smoke of tobacco, are also effectual in driving away flies, spiders, ants, carwigs, bugs, and fleas. The latter torments are so abundant on the continent, as frequently to deprive the weary traveller of his night's rest. If he would provide himself with a phial containing turpentine and spirits of wine in equal parts, and would sprinkle a few drops over the sheets and coverlid before retiring to rest, he will probably have reason to be grateful for the hint. Foreigners are in the habit of smoking in their bed-rooms-a habit which excites surprise and disgust in England; it will now be seen, however, that there is a reason for the practice.

In concluding this long article we may sum up the whole with a short word of advice, in the form of a household recipe.

TO KEEP AWAY THE MOTH.

Before folding up and putting away your winter blankets, furs, and other articles, sprinkle them, or smear them over with a few drops of oil of turpentine, either alone or mixed with an equal bulk of spirits of wine. No stain will be left, and if spirits of wine be used, the odour is not disagreeable. C. T.

THE LIVING AND THE DEAD.

AN IRISH SKETCH.

BY MRS. HOARE.

around them still. 66

In common with other imaginative and half-civilized people, the lower orders of Irish have many wild superstitions connected with death. Not a mere cold belief, but a firm and lively faith in the existence of " a world beyond the grave," fills their minds with a vivid conviction that their departed friends are with them and Not lost, but gone before," is a truth ever present to the warm-hearted Irishman; he continues to associate his buried ones in all the cares and pleasures of existence, and that in an every-day and lifelike manner, which would often border on the ludicrous, did not the wild pathos, the genuine poetry, that clothe the expression of his mourning, seem fully to redeem it from any touch of vulgar association.

The little damsel who, in Wordsworth's touching ballad, so repeatedly asserted "We are seven," ought to have been a native of our Green Isle; for there many a childish heart holds the loving faith that cheered that little churchyard lingerer. The anxious care also bestowed by the very poorest peasant on the obsequies of his relative, shows that he believes the latter still cognizant of his actions: all business, however important, is postponed, whenever any funeral within a circuit of several miles is to be attended. To have "a dacent berrin, and all the neighbours at it," is the grand object of an Irishman's solicitude, when he feels his end approaching. Many an old boccough, the sum total of whose worldly possessions is borne on his back, and, being the tattered remnants of "Irish old clothes," would probably not fetch a silver sixpence at the ragdealers, has died with a sum of money stitched into his fragment of a waistcoat, and encircled with a scroll enjoining those who find it "to bury him dacent, or else his sperrit will haunt them for evermore." The injunetion, coupled with such a penalty, is, I believe, never disobeyed. In the lack of relatives, professed keeners are hired, whose practised tones of woe sound in their wild cadence so like the burst of real grief, that it is often only by watching the unmoved countenance and unquivering lips of the old crones, one can distinguish their mourning from that of the wife or mother of the

"How can I expect other people to come to my berrin, if I don't go to theirs?" was the unanswerable query of a labouring man, whose employer sought to convince him of his folly in losing many days' work by attending the funerals of persons with whom he had had only a slight acquaintance.

But I forget-I am writing of my country, not as it is, but as it was. Now the stern hand of hunger, ay, of direst famine, has dimmed the merry eye, and closed the white lip, whose tones were once so joyous. Buoy ancy of spirit is gone with vigour of body; all the energies of mind are concentrated in the one fierce craving of animal life. "Food! food!" is the cry that echoes through the land :—the short bleak wintry day, and the long dark frosty night, alike resound with the shrieks of those who perish from hunger and nakedness. In nothing is the utter disruption of old cherished feeling more apparent than in the poor creatures' forced disregard of their dead. Instead of the careful laying out of the corpse, the lighted candles, the protracted wake, where all who came were regaled with pipes and whisky, at an outlay which often sorely pinched the survivors, but was at all times made without grudging, they are now often compelled to leave the rites of sepulture to be performed by the rats, which swarm around the hovels, allured by their loathsome prey, and in many cases devouring the flesh of the dying as well as of the dead. In some rural districts, the bodies that have died of what is emphatically called "starvation fever" are interred by wholesale at the public expense, uncoffined and uncared for. Such scenes are horrifying to contemplate, yet they are true; nor can any human being foresee their termination. I will not, however, dwell on them longer, humbly trusting that the same gracious God, who, in Judæa's favoured land, had compassion on the multitude, and, not willing to send them away fasting to their distant homes, created with his word a plenteous repast in the wilderness, may ere long send forth that mighty voice, to bid our fields once more be fertile, and our perishing poor ones live.

I will notice a few instances of the strange picturesque superstitions with which the poor Irishman, in happier times, loved to encircle the memory of his dead.

On a fine day in Autumn, about two years since, as a friend of mine, who resides in a wild district of the south, was walking on the road near his house, he overtook a countryman returning from the next markettown. He was a stout middle-aged man, tolerably welldressed, and evidently belonging to the class of small farmers. After the customary salutations, (in no country do strangers meeting casually on the road greet each other more cordially than in Ireland,) Mr. entered into conversation with him, as they walked along together.

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This is a fine day for the country, your honour, thanks be to God for it."

"It is, indeed," replied Mr. - "and pleasant weather for walking. Have you far to go?" "Why, middling, Sir; my little place is about five mile off, up at Gurthunowen."

"I suppose you were at M this morning?" "I was, then, Sir, just doing a trifle of business at the market; for herself wasn't able to go in to-day, and I had to sell some fresh eggs and young chickens for her."

"You seem to have been purchasing, also," said Mr., looking at a large brown-paper parcel, which he carried under his arm.

The man's countenance changed. "I was, your honour," he said, in a mournful voice. "After two years' savings, 'tis only now I was able to buy the makings of a cloak for my little girl."

(1) In Ireland, "herself" is the term invariably and emphatically employed by the peasant to designate his spouse, when speaking in the third person; the masculine pronoun being similarly applied to him by his better half.

As he spoke, he opened the parcel, and displayed its contents, a piece of fine blue cloth.

"That will make a very nice cloak indeed," said my friend, smiling, "your daughter will outshine all her neighbours next Sunday at mass."

"It cost two guineas, Sir; and though I'm a poor man, 'tis no more I'd think of that than of the mud under my feet, if 't would bring ase or comfort to the soul of my darling. Ah, ma colleen bawn!" he cried, clasping his hands in sudden agony, "the fifteen years you were left to me ran by as quick as the winter streams down the side of Coom Rhue, and as pleasant as if the warm summer stopped with them always. But the dark day came at last;-and when the mother and I saw you stretched before us as cold and as white as the snowdrift on the hill, we thought the life within ourselves was gone for ever! I ax your pardon, Sir, for talking so wild, but indeed there was few in the whole country like our Nelly. Even when she was a slip of a child, going to the school, Father Jerry himself would stop her every Saturday after the catechiz, to stroke her fair head, and tell her she answered the best of them all. Well, after a while, when the first stun was over, and the mother and I had time to take some comfort from the two boys that were left us,―it began to give us sore trouble to think that she died without a cloak, and that maybe the crathur that we kep all her life tender and warm, like a pet lamb, might be suffering now for the want of it. So we set to work, saving every penny we could scrape together, till we'd have enough to buy her a good one; and though the sorrow and the lonesomeness is hurting our hearts yet, still 'tis proud the mother and I will be to see it handsomely made, and waiting for her in the

house."

"True for your Honour."

"Well," continued my friend, "you believe, what we deny, that there is a third place, which you call purgatory; but by all accounts it is a very hot place-what could she want of a cloak there?"

"Some of them," replied the father earnestly, "do be very cold there. In parts of it there's a dale of frost and snow, and sleet, and hail; and how do I know but my darling child might be there, thinking hard thoughts of the father and mother that wouldn't get a cloak to cover her. Any way, 'twill be made, and left in the house; herself may take the loan of it to wear at times, but 'twill be Nelly's cloak, and ready for her there when she wants it." "In that case," said Mr. "it would, I think, be a good plan if you had it made large enough to cover both; your daughter's spirit might then find shelter under it, without depriving your wife of its use."

"That's very true; indeed, Sir, I never thought of that before. Plase God, I'll have it done; and, sure 'twill comfort the mother's heart, when she's going to mass or to market, to think she has the sperrit of her colleen bawn along with her undernathe the cloak."

This is the substance of a bona fide conversation: the firm persuasion entertained by the poor father that the departed possess a sort of semi-corporeal existence, is very general among the peasantry in the remote districts. Near the towns, of course, such superstitions have dwindled away, and the present general diffusion of education through the land will probably tend to banish them completely from the minds of the rising generation. Even now it is often difficult to draw from the mountaineer a candid confession of his faith in such matters. Does he suspect that you are quizzing him— and his perception of the slightest approach to badinage