BON HOMME RICHARD.

The time sped merrily away in la belle France, and months passed, leaving us still in port. In fact, when our craft came to be surveyed, it was found that her hull was so rotten, as to make it dangerous for us to put to sea in her, until she had been thoroughly overhauled. This occasioned some delay. Having but little to do, and finding society thrown freely open to them, the officers spent most of their time in the interchange of courtesies with their affable entertainers. There was beside a good number of French naval officers in the place, and many a wild meeting took place betwixt our mess and them. At length, however, I tired of this, and hearing that Paul Jones was in Paris, I set off for the capital.

That singular individual was, at this time, engaged in fitting out the Bon Homme Richard and her accompanying squadron, preparatory to a cruise off the English coasts. He was all enthusiasm as to the success of the expedition, but found great difficulty in procuring a fitting crew. He received me warmly, recognizing me at once, and flatteringly calling to mind several of the affairs in which I had been engaged, and my conduct in which he thought proper to commend. I was gratified by his notice, and spoke in reply something, I know not what, respecting his own career. His eye kindled as he answered—

“Aye! but that is not all—we will make our name a terror to the whole English coast. Had it not been for some knavish foes of ours here, who throw every impediment they can in our way, we should have done deeds before this at which the cheeks of his majesty of England would have blanched. But our time has come. We have the ‘Good-man Richard,’ a sturdy old Indiaman, for our own craft, beside the Pallas, a smart ship, the Vengeance brig, and the Cerf, a cutter of metal. They tell me the Alliance is to go with me, under the command of that fellow Landais. So at least Franklin has said—God help his knowledge of naval warfare! However,” he continued, with a shrug of his shoulders, “there is no help for it, and the frigate would be quite a God-send if it were not for the commander.”

“I understand you have some difficulty in getting a crew—is it so?”

“Yes! And, by the bye, why can’t you join me? Come, you are the very man I want.”

Flattered as I was by this offer, I could not persuade myself to leave the Fire-Fly; beside, as the officers in the squadron were to take precedence according to the dates of their commission in the American service, and as I had always served under the commonwealth of New York, I foresaw that my acceptance of this offer would either place me under those who were really my juniors in service, or else occasion jealousies among the parties I should supplant. Moreover, I knew not what might be the eventual determination respecting my craft, and I felt unwilling, in case she should again go to sea, to desert her. I stated my objections frankly to the commodore. He hesitated a moment, and then replied,

“I believe you are right. Yet I am sorry I cannot have you. We sail in a week from L’Orient. Come, at least, and see us off.”

I accepted his invitation, and it was with a heavy heart I saw them put to sea. By the end of the month, however, I heard at Paris that the squadron had returned to the roads at Groix, and that difficulties had already occurred between the commodore and Landais. I hurried down at once to L’Orient, and found both the Richard and Alliance undergoing repairs. The commodore gladly received me, and renewed again his offer, telling me that he had heard that my craft was to be dismantled; and, sure enough, that afternoon I received a letter from my captain, informing me that the schooner had been found unworthy of repair, and been condemned. There was now nothing to detain me, except the difficulty respecting my rank in the squadron. This I soon removed by going as a volunteer. I accordingly wrote to my captain, obtained leave of absence, and on the 14th of August, 1779, went with my traps on board the Bon Homme Richard. The same day we put to sea.

The events of that extraordinary cruise are matter of history, and I need not dwell on them at length in this hurried autobiography. We soon parted company with our consorts, and were forced to seek them at the rendezvous; but, during the whole voyage, our plans were continually frustrated by occurrences of this character, sometimes accidental, and sometimes, I believe, designed, especially on the part of Captain Landais. After taking three or four prizes, we bore up for the north of Scotland, when having been at sea about a month, we made the Cheviot Hills, vast blue landmarks, lying, like a thunder-cloud, along the western horizon.

Learning that two or three armed cutters, together with a twenty gun ship, were lying off Leith, the commodore planned a descent on that place; but in consequence of the absence of the Alliance, was forced to delay his project for several days. At length we beat into the Frith of Forth; and when just out of gun-shot of the town, the boats were ordered out and manned. But at this critical moment a squall struck our squadron, and we soon had enough on our hands, for the puff settling down into a regular North Sea gale, we had to fill away, and bear up under a press of canvass for an offing. The storm lasted so long that we were forced to give over our attempt, as the country had now become alarmed, and beacon lights, to rouse the yeomanry, were burning on every headland. We bore away, therefore, for the south.

We had kept on this course for several days, until one calm evening, off Flamborough head, when, the sea being nearly as smooth as a lake, and a light southwardly wind dallying playfully with our sails, we discerned the headmost vessels of a fleet of merchant ships, stretching out on a bowline from behind the promontory. Every man of us was instantly on the qui vive. The commodore’s eye kindled, and he shouted,

“Signal the squadron for a general chase.”

“Aye! aye!” answered the signal officer, and the next moment the order was passed through our fleet. It had scarcely been done, however, before the merchant ships hurriedly tacked, fired alarm-guns, let fly their top-gallant sheets, and, huddling together like a flock of frightened partridges, went off to leeward.

“There’s a frigate in yonder, convoying, with a smaller man-of-war,” hailed the look-out, as the hostile ships shewed their head-sails around the promontory. “They haul up, sir, and are coming out.”

“Let them come,” said the commodore enthusiastically, “and we’ll have them for our own before midnight. Shew the signal to form a line—cross royal-yards—keep boldly on.”

“There goes the Alliance,” said the first lieutenant, at my side, “see how gallantly she passes the Pallas—but in God’s name what does she mean? Surely she is not flying.”

“Curses on the craven Landais,” muttered Paul Jones betwixt his teeth, as he saw his consort haul suddenly off from the enemy, and then turning to the helmsman, he thundered, “keep her on her course—steady, steady.”

Meanwhile the crew had been ordered to quarters, and the tap of the drum brought every man to his station at once. Unmoved by the cowardice of our consort, the men appeared to long for the unequal conflict as eagerly as their daring commander. Silently they stood at the guns, awaiting the order to open their fire, and endeavouring to pierce through the fast gathering gloom, in order to detect the manœuvres of the foe. Paul Jones stood on the quarter deck watching the enemy with a night-glass. As we drew nearer, we detected, in our antagonists, a frigate of fifty guns, attended by a twenty gun ship a little to leeward. The sight would have appalled any hearts but those on board our daring craft,—for our armament, all told, did not exceed forty-two guns, only six of which were eighteens; while, from the lower gun deck of the frigate alone, might be seen frowning through her lighted ports, a battery of ten eighteens to a side. Yet not an eye quailed, not a cheek blanched, as we drew up towards the foe; but each man stood calmly at his post, confident in his leader and in the righteousness of his cause. My own station was near the commodore. We were now near enough to hail.

“What ship is that?” came slowly sailing on the night wind, from a dark form on the quarter of the frigate.

“You shall soon know,” answered Paul Jones, and on the instant the word was given simultaneously by both commanders to fire, and the two ships poured in their batteries with scarcely the delay of an instant betwixt the broadsides. I had no time to observe the effect of our discharge, for scarcely had the commodore spoken, when I heard a tremendous explosion in the direction of our gun-room; the deck above it was blown bodily up, and as the smoke swept away from the spot, I beheld two of the eighteens shattered and dismounted, and surrounded by a crowd of wretches, maimed and dying from the accident. I rushed to the place, and a more awful sight never before or since have I beheld. There lay our poor fellows, dismembered and bleeding, groaning in agony such as no pen can picture, and crying aloud, with their dying breath, for “water—water—water.” Here one, horribly mangled, hung over a gun that had burst—there another was stretched on the deck, with no marks on him except a black spot by the eye, from which the blood was trickling slowly. I shuddered and turned away. It would have been madness to have attempted to work the other eighteens, so the men were called away, and we began anew the action, with our chances one-third lessened by this horrible calamity. But the death of their messmates fired the rest of the crew with a thirst for revenge, which soon told in the murderous fire we poured in upon the enemy. For nearly an hour we kept up the conflict, working our lighter guns with the utmost vigor, and attempting to manœuvre so as to rake the enemy, but at every new endeavor we were foiled by the superior working qualities of our opponent. Meantime the moon had risen, and we could see that the Pallas had got alongside of the enemy’s consort, and was gallantly engaged yard-arm to yard-arm with her—the Alliance hovering out of range in the distance, and occasionally discharging a random broadside which did no execution. How our brave fellows cursed the cowardice of her captain!

“Ay! there she is,” said one, “afraid to come within range even of a twenty gun ship, lest the lace of her coxcomb captain’s uniform might be ruffled. But never mind—we’ll win the battle without her—bowse away, my hearties, and give it to the Englisher with a will.”

Meanwhile the enemy’s frigate doggedly kept her luff, and her masts were now seen, for the hull was completely shrouded in a thick canopy of smoke, shooting ahead, as if it was her intention to pay broad off across our forefoot. Paul Jones saw the manœuvre, and determined to avail himself of it to run afoul of his antagonist; for, with our vast inferiority of metal, there was not the remotest chance of success in a regular combat. The attempt, however, was in itself almost as desperate; but it afforded a hope, though a slight one, of victory. Whatever might be the fate of this daring proceeding, however, we were all actuated by but one impulse, and that was, a determination to conquer or die. When, therefore, the frigate forged ahead, we kept our sails trimmed and bore steadily on. The result was as we had expected. Finding that she could not effect her purpose, the frigate put her helm hard down, making a desperate attempt to clear us. It was in vain. With a crash that shook both vessels to their centre, we ran aboard of the foe, bows on, a little on her weather quarter. With chagrin, we saw that it was impossible to board our antagonist—an intention so well understood among our men, that they had ceased firing on the moment. At this instant the smoke swept partially away, and the English captain was seen near the mizen rigging, shouting to know whether we had struck. The inquiry brought the red blood in volumes into the face of Paul Jones, as he thundered hoarsely,

“I have not yet begun to fight;” and then turning to his men, he said, “out with your guns and have at them. Will you, by your silence, be thought to have surrendered?”

“Never,” answered back the captain of a gun before him; “Huzza for the brave thirteen—down with the tyrants—give it to ’em one and all—huzza.”

An answering shout rose up from the crew, the guns that could be brought to bear were jerked out, and simultaneously the whole of our forward larboard side was a sheet of flame, while the old craft trembled from kelson to cross-trees, and heeled back with the recoil, till the yard-arms almost touched the water.

“Brace back the yards,” shouted the commodore, as soon as his voice could be heard above the din, and obedient to the press of the wind, our vessel fell slowly astern.

“They are laying aback their forward, and shivering their after sails, on board the frigate,” said Dale.

“Box-hauling her, by St. Andrew,” said the commodore; “the knaves are for luffing up athwart our bows, in order to rake us. But it takes two to play at that game—we’ll drop astern a little more, fill on the opposite tack, and luff up against her as she comes to the wind. Let us once lay her athwart hawse, and the battle’s won.”

Rapidly and steadily our daring leader gave his orders to execute this manœuvre, but the smoke had settled down so thick around us, shrouding the moon almost entirely from sight, that we could only now and then catch a glimpse of the approaching enemy, and miscalculating our distance, instead of meeting her as we had expected, we were run into by the frigate, her bowsprit crashing over our high towerlike poop.

“Parker,” said Paul Jones, quickly, “get some lashings and help me to fasten her head-gear to the mizzen mast. That’s it—we have her now.”

“Aye, and the frigate feels the strain already,” said I, as we finished our hasty work; “see how she swings around by our side—something has given way on board of her, by that crash.”[[1]]

“You’re right, but lash fast yonder anchor that’s hooked in our quarter—we’ll not let them escape now—but yonder come their fellows as if to board us. Boarders ahoy! beat back the villains,” and springing from my side, our ever ready leader, himself led the party to repulse the foe. I followed. Dark masses of seamen, clustered on the sides of the frigate, were endeavoring to effect an entrance on our deck; thrusting with their long pikes, cutting and slashing with their cutlasses, and cheering each other on to the attack, with shouts and imprecations. For an instant, our crew, fearfully outnumbered, seemed to waver; but at this moment Paul Jones leaped into the midst of the fray, and, with one stroke of his weapon bringing a foe to the deck, shouted, “Down with the miscreants—strike home one and all—bravely my lads,” and accompanying each word with a blow, he cleared a space before him in less time than I have taken to narrate the event. For an instant the enemy faltered, but a huge boatswain the next moment rallied them, and aiming a pistol at Paul Jones, the fellow shouted,

“Hurl the pirates to perdition—come on, hearts of oak—”

I was luckily by, and as the villain spoke, I struck up his arm, and his ball glanced harmlessly over the Commodore’s head. The boatswain did not live to take vengeance on me for my interposition—he did not even survive to finish his sentence; for scarcely had the words left his mouth, before Paul Jones drove his boarding pike deep into the Englishman’s heart. There was a dull gurgling sound, as he fell back without a groan, dropped heavily to the water, and sank like lead. His companions were aghast, and struck with a sudden panic, retreated. The next moment not one was left attempting to board.

During the last few minutes, my attention had been so occupied by the sharp conflict, in which I was personally engaged with the boarders, that I had lost sight altogether of the general battle; and I now cast a hurried glance around to see what other advantages, if any, we had gained over the enemy.

The sight that met my eye, almost blanched my cheek with apprehension. Crowds of our men from the main deck were hurrying up the gangways, and the thought instantly flashed across my mind that they had mutinied. The guns, too, below, were all silenced, and only three or four twelves, with a couple of pieces on the quarter deck, were being worked; while the fire of the enemy was still kept up with unremitting fury. At this juncture, a midshipman from the main deck passed me hurriedly.

I caught him by the arm.

“In God’s name,” I said, “what is the matter?”

“They are ripping us to pieces below, with their cursed eighteens,” was the hurried response. “We kept it up as long as we could, often thrusting our rammers into their ports, as we loaded, so close were we to them. But it’s no use. They’re beating in our timbers as if our good stout oak was no better than pasteboard. I am taking my men forward and aloft, it is sheer murder to keep them below; they must fight now with muskets and hand grenades,” and hurrying breathlessly away, he was the next instant engaged in directing his men with an energy only second to that of the Commodore, and which seemed to have diffused itself amongst all.

The combat, which had paused a moment, now raged again with redoubled fury. Crowding into the tops, and thronging on the forecastle, our brave fellows kept up such a galling contest, with musketry and grenades, that, in less than five minutes, every man of the enemy was driven below, and his quarter deck was left tenanted only by the dead. But fearfully did the foe return our fire from his heavy guns on the main deck. Broadside after broadside was poured into us without intermission—the old craft quivering like wounded flesh, at every discharge, until it seemed as if each successive fire would end the contest, by sending us to the bottom. Yet our men never flinched. No cry for quarter, no murmur even, was heard. Manfully they stuck to their new posts, keeping up their deadly warfare through the ports of the foe, and though now and then an eye was turned around the horizon, to see whether the Alliance was not coming to our aid, not a man displayed any signs of fear. One of our fellows, even bolder than the rest, provided with a bucket of grenades and a match, lay out on the yard, and coolly dropped his combustibles on the deck of the frigate. One he threw with such precision, that it went down the main hatchway. In an instant a slight explosion took place, and we could hear, notwithstanding the uproar of the guns, a whizzing sound running aft on board the enemy—while almost simultaneously, the most thrilling shrieks of anguish rose up on the air, succeeded by a stunning explosion, which drowned every other sound in its fierce uproar.

“Their loose cartridges must have been fired,” I exclaimed, “God help the poor wretches.”

“The day’s our own—huzza!” sung out a warrant officer beside me, “but, in the name of heaven,” he said suddenly, “what means the Alliance?—she is firing into us.”

I looked to windward, and no words can express my astonishment, when I saw, in the hazy distance, the ship which ought to have been engaged at our side with the foe, now heading to the westward, and firing hotly in our direction, at the very moment that she was crossing our larboard quarter, and when her shot could not reach the foe without passing directly through us. The discharge, indeed, dismounted two of our guns, beside damaging us aloft. She was by this time nearing us fast, and directly abeam.

“You’re firing into a friend,” shouted fifty voices in a breath.

“What does he mean?” said Dale, “surely he can see that we haven’t yellow sides like the foe—shew him the signal of recognition.”

The three lanterns, in a line, were instantly let down on the off side, when the Alliance ceased firing.

“Lay the enemy aboard,” shouted the officer of the deck.

No answer was returned, and our consort kept coolly on her course.

“Did you hear the order?” thundered the now exasperated commodore; “lay the enemy aboard, I say.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Perdition take the cowardly traitor,” muttered Paul Jones betwixt his teeth, as he turned from the recreant ship.

I watched, however, the course of the frigate until she had hauled off some distance, and was almost lost in the shadowy gloom to larboard, when suddenly a cry of “fire” startled me, and turning hastily around I saw that the lower deck was a mass of flame. The confusion, for a moment, baffled description. Men were hastening to and fro for buckets; some shouted one thing and some another; a general consternation seemed to be spreading among the crew, and all discipline, for an interval of several minutes, was lost. To add to the disorder, the ship was perceptibly settling, and a rumour spread through the decks that we would sink in less than ten minutes. While everything was still plunged in chaos, the Alliance again appeared, edging down on our larboard beam, and hauling up athwart our bows, she poured in a fire of grape, which took effect on our crowded forecastle, instead of on the enemy—if indeed it was ever intended for the foe—and killed several of our own men. Never shall I forget the fate of one of our best officers—poor Creswell! who fell a victim to this discharge. I held his head in his last moments, and with his eye already glazing in death, and his tongue faltering in its accents, he prayed God to forgive his countrymen for his wanton murder. My blood boiled with indignation against the scoundrel who commanded the gallant Alliance, and, at that moment, I would have given ten years of my life to have crossed swords with Landais.

But I had no time for thoughts of revenge. Louder and louder swelled the cry ‘that we were sinking,’ and, as I laid the dead man’s head on the deck, I saw the carpenter hurry to the commodore with consternation depicted on every feature of his face. Instantly the cry arose, that he had sounded the pump-wells, and that all was over. The wildest confusion followed. More than a hundred of our prisoners were let loose by the master-at-arms, who imagined that all was over, and in a few minutes the deck was crowded with them. Had they then known their power, we should have been overpowered with ease, and, as I looked on their fierce faces, I trembled for the first time. To add to all, the gunner rushed, at this crisis, on deck, and not perceiving the commodore or the lieutenant, would have hauled down our flag, and failing in this—for the staff had been shot away—he cried out for quarter. Another second would have decided our fate, but springing aft, I shouted that we had not surrendered, and, at the same instant, the commodore re-appeared, and confirming my assertion, rallied his men hastily around him, and led them to repel a party of boarders, which taking advantage of our disorder, was, at this moment, clustering on our gunwale. The conflict here was short, but decisive. Fired anew by the words and example of their commodore, our brave fellows redeemed their momentary vacillation, and, aided by the men in the tops, hurled back the foemen, as if an avalanche had struck them, on the decks of their frigate. Meantime, the first lieutenant, availing himself of the fears of the prisoners, had mustered them at the pumps, and, arming another party with buckets, had succeeded in extinguishing the fire. The re-action, on the part of our crew, was decisive. The men now fought with a fury that nothing could suppress, for they knew over what a mine they hung, and that victory must be soon theirs, or they would lose all. Several guns were dragged over to the side against the foe, and the fire of our battery re-commenced with treble vigor. The top-men hailed down grenades on the frigate’s decks, and deafening volleys of musketry incessantly rattled from our forecastle. The enemy could hold out no longer. A man darted up the frigate’s hatchway, dashed aft, and the next moment the cross of Britain was at our feet. A cheer, that shook the very welkin, and which, dying away, was renewed and renewed again, burst from our brave tars, and rolling down to leeward announced our hard bought victory.

[1] The jib boom of the Serapis gave way, somewhere about this time. Perhaps this was the moment. Ed.

ISRAFEL.[[2]]

———

BY EDGAR A. POE.

———

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell,

“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell)

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon

The enamoured moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

Pauses in Heaven,

With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

That Israfeli’s fire

Is due unto that lyre

By which he sits and sings—

That trembling living lyre

With those unusual strings.

But the Heavens that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty—

Where Love is a grown God—

Where Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in the star—

The more lovely, the more far!

Thou art not, therefore, wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song.

To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest.

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit—

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervor of thy lute.

Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours—

Our flowers are merely—flowers;

And the shadow of thy bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I did dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing one half so well,

One half so passionately,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky!

[2] And the angel Israfel, or Israfeli, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who is the most musical of all God’s creatures.—Koran.

BYE-GONE HOURS.

WORDS BY THE

HON. MRS. NORTON.

MUSIC BY

MRS. PRICE BLACKWOOD.

———

Philadelphia: John F. Nunns, 184 Chesnut Street.

———

’Tis sad, ’tis sad to think upon

The joyous days of old—

When ev’ry year that wearies on,

Is number’d by some friendship gone!

Some

kindly heart grown cold!

Could those days but come again

With their thorns and flowers!

I would give the hopes of years!

For those by-gone hours!

’Tis sad—’tis sad to number o’er

The faces glad and gay,

Which we have loved! Some smile no more,

Around us as they did of yore!

And some have turn’d away!

Could those days, &c.

’Tis sad—’tis sad to come again,

With changed heart and brow,

To our youth’s home, where none remain

Of those who made it blessed then—

Who leave it lonely now!

Could those days, &c.

Oh! little things bring back to me

The thoughts of by-gone hours.

The breath of kine upon the lea,

The murmur of the mountain bee,

The scent of hawthorn flow’rs!

Could those days, &c.

Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE.

A book presents to the shot an elastic body, like down, through which large shot does not penetrate much farther than small, because it has to displace and carry with it a larger mass of paper. Fur and feathers of game do not present such a resisting body to the shot as the leaves of a book do; therefore, although large shot will bear the above test, a much fairer way of trying it would be to fire at thin pieces of wood fixed upright, (a pile of cigar boxes would answer the purpose). The latter trial would, we think, convince any one of the great difference in momentum between the two charges. At forty yards, not more than three No. 7 pellets could be calculated on to strike a partridge, and those from a light gun would necessarily be weak; whereas, at that distance, with our charge, two No. 2 pellets might be calculated upon, and with what effect we leave the experimentalist to decide, when he has tried it at a target composed of pieces of wood one eighth, one third, and one half of an inch thick.

It is not so much the velocity as the momentum of a shot that renders it effective. The momentum of a shot increases in a direct ratio with its weight. The momentum of a No. 2 shot much more than compensates for the diminished weight of powder and additional weight of lead that we have recommended.

The structure of a bird or quadruped not protected by feathers or fur—and we contend that game is very slightly so protected as against shot—may be compared with that of a ship. It is a well ascertained fact that a 64 lb. ball, moving with only half the velocity of a 32 lb. ball, would produce more than double the effect; the larger, but slowly-flying ball, would split a much thicker mast or beam, and do more damage to the frame-work of a ship, than the small one. Upon the same principle, we think large shot is more effective for shooting the stronger species of game.

But assuming that game is right well fortified with a covering of fur, feathers or down, that circumstance would not induce us to resort to small shot; quite the reverse, because we know that small shot cannot be fired through down effectively from a large gun at thirty yards, much less from a light fowling-piece. No stanchion-gun will shoot No. 7 effectively at ducks, geese, and the larger wild-fowl—the birds killed would be chiefly such as were struck in the head; not one would be stopped by a body blow. Yet large shot from the stanchion-gun, after passing through down, strikes an effective body blow. No doubt No. 7 may be shot through down, but after overcoming the resistance, it would scarcely injure the bird, certainly not break a bone.

Thus we find that small shot, fired from any gun, is totally inadequate to kill birds protected with down by a body blow; but that large shot, flying from a large gun with not half the velocity of the ineffectual small shot, achieves what is desired. It is the momentum that effects the object.

A collateral advantage arising from the use of large shot should not be overlooked. In order to kill in good style with small shot, the aim must be such that the bird fired at shall be near the centre of the charge as thrown; for if the bird be near the outer circle of the charge, it is ten to one that it is only slightly wounded; but if near the outer circle of a charge of large shot, it is ten to one that it is brought down; for it must not be lost sight of, that when large shot is used, a single pellet will mostly be sufficient to bring a bird down. There is a stunning effect produced by large shot, which throws the bird off its balance at once. Small shot has not the same immediate effect. Hares, rabbits, grouse, pheasants, and full-grown partridges, will carry it off, though they fall within a hundred yards. It is very seldom, indeed, that a bird towers after being fired at with large shot.

The term friction implies a gradual contraction of the barrel towards the muzzle, which retards the progress of the shot, that more time may be allowed to the powder to burn. Relief accelerates the progress of shot through the barrels. What is the proper degree of relief or friction for different descriptions of barrels, is a subject fruitful of controversy; as is also the form of the breech. The best breech is that which will cause the greatest quantity of powder to consume in the barrel, and give the least recoil. The percussion system of firing has simplified the boring of guns. We think that short barrels intended to be fired by percussion, should be bored perfect cylinders, and the breech should be conical or nearly so, and capable of holding a little more than half a charge of powder. Long barrels should be bored true cylinders throughout the greater part of their length, a little relief being allowed near the muzzle.

A barrel, which recoils from being light, or from not being held firmly when fired, throws shot very weakly. So, on the other hand, barrels which have sufficient weight to break the recoil, or which are placed against something solid when fired, have their shooting power amazingly increased. The reason is, that when the gun is allowed to recoil, a portion of that power which should be employed in expelling the shot is uselessly expended on a yielding surface in a contrary direction: whereas, when the barrel is firmly fixed, or is of sufficient weight to break the recoil, that portion of the explosive force which strikes against the breech rebounds and is forced back upon the shot, and consequently becomes a portion of the available strength of the charge. This explains why the weight of the gun rather than a difference in length or bore regulates the shooting power. In what follows, Mr. Greener,[[3]] whose book contains a lucid exposition of the nature of projectile force, shows this more clearly:—

“The fact that the shooting powers of a gun are increased by its being fixed in an immoveable frame, is proved with the practice of mortars. Mortars on iron beds, and these firmly embedded in the earth, will throw a shell farther when on the ground than when placed on a platform, or on board a ship. It is for the purpose of destroying the recoil, that mortars for sea service, though of the same calibre as those intended for land-service, are made three times the weight. Dr. Hutton states, that he found no advantage by retarding the recoil in practice with artillery. He means, that no advantage is gained by stopping at three feet a gun accustomed to recoil to the distance of six. The statement is perfectly true. If he were to allow a gun to recoil only an inch, and then to strike against a solid substance, he would gain nothing. For if it recoil ever so little, the shooting force is as much weakened as if it recoiled twice as far.

“To increase that force, a steady fixed resistance is required. The velocity of the projectile depends on the force of the immediate impulse. Before a gun, suffered to recoil, could rebound from striking some solid substance in its recoil, the charge would be gone, and could, therefore, receive no additional impetus from that rebound. The truth of this fact may be illustrated by throwing a hand-ball against any loose body with sufficient force to displace it. However hard or elastic that body might be, the ball would not rebound from it, but would fall perpendicularly down. Fix and secure that same body, and then the ball will rebound with little less force than that with which it was thrown against it. So it is with gunpowder. If it meet with a firm resistance, it will rebound and project the ball or shot with additional force.”

[3] The Gun, by William Greener. London, 1835.

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