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my return. Nay, care not for your chymicals, we have a deeper stake to win; farewell!"

And the cold grey dawn of morning was breaking over Chertsey and its abbey, as Herrick crossed the Thames in the ferry boat, and flying over the wide range, turned his horse's bridle towards London.

A day of keen anxiety to Blanche and her lover, followed the young villager's departure. As soon as he had left Redwynde Court, she returned to the monastery, and endeavoured as well as her state of mind would allow, to cheer Neville with the anticipation of a certain pardon from Edward. But as afternoon advanced, and Herrick returned not, her spirits drooped. Every time she heard the sound of footsteps approaching the abbey, she rushed to the gate, in the hope of greeting her messenger, and each time she came back with a saddened heart to Neville's chamber. The shadows of the old stained win-which, keeping the central pillar for her guide, she rapidly dows crept along the chequered floor of the aisles, in increasing length, as the sun went down, and yet there were no tidings of Herrick; and when the monks assembled for the vespers, at six o'clock, the suspense of the young couple became painfully acute. Neither spoke, for they had exhausted their mutual consolation, and a few stifled sobs from Blanche alone broke the silence, except when the chimes from the bell tower announced the progress of the day; at which periods she clung closer to Neville, and uttered some subdued exclamations of despair. Seven! the hours flew like seconds; it was already dusk, and the monks were again entering the chapel for the compline, or concluding service of the day. Lights appeared one by one in the windows of the village houses the candles at the altars threw back the reflection of the armour and scarfs of those who slept below the pavement, in glimmering shadows upon the walls; and the Yorkists began to assemble in the mead, waiting the surrender of their prisoner.

sanctuary, without a word of explanation either to Neville or the abbot, Blanche flew across the piece of ground that separated the monastery from the church, and arrived at the foot of the tower. As Father Angewin had stated, there were several soldiers loitering about the spot, and a light in the belfry reflected one or two of their forms, in gigantic stature, upon the ceiling. Entering a doorway in the western wall of the tower, Blanche passed the steps leading to the lower belfry, wherein the ropes of the bells hung down, and came to a low stone arch that led to the winding staircase, by which part of the tower was ascended. She was now in total darkness, but her energy increased with her progress. Old Master Evenden had once taken her up when a child, to see the prospect, and she still retained a confused recollection of the localities. She felt her way before her, and gained the bottom stair, from wound up the flight. The steps were crumbling with time and wear; noisome insects clung to the walls, and the bats, disturbed by the intrusion, flapped their sleepy wings against her as she passed. But still Blanche kept on her breathless way, and in a few seconds more had reached the first platform of the tower. A faint light through a loop-hole in the wall, showed her the situation of the rude ladder by which she climbed to the second floor, but here it was again quite dark. She felt about for the second ladder, and after some little difficulty, succeeded in reaching the bell chamber, where some open gothic windows once more permitted a dim light to enter, and revealed the indistinct outline of the bells, as they hung in sullen power from their frameworks. Seizing the ladder by which she had ascended, with a strength that appeared superhuman for her delicate form, she contrived to turn it over, and throw it down upon the floor beneath; by which she knew a delay of a few minutes would be gained, in the event of pursuit. As she achieved this effort, the bell nearest her-it was the old Saxon onebegan to move! Its woodwork creaked, and the large wheel to which the rope was attached turned half round; at the same instant, Blanche saw through the window, a light shining in the distance, and apparently moving at a rapid pace, across the wild tract of ground between the church and the river. Heedless of the large dark mass of

The bell tower of the abbey commanded an extensive view over the surrounding flat; it was the same prospect which we now see from the church, only there were no enclosures, but a few rough bridle-roads running towards various points over the open country. To the summit of this tower Blanche had frequently ascended during the day, with the expectation of catching a distant sight of Herrick as he approached the river, but even this consola-metal that was beginning to swing back wards and forwards tion was now precluded by the increasing darkness.

The three-quarters had sounded some minutes when footsteps were approaching the chapel. Neville started up at the sound, and prepared to receive his enemies, when the Abbot Angewin entered.

"One of our brethren," said the good father, "has descried a light moving in the direction of the ferry. It is probably Master Evenden-pray heaven that he may arrive quickly."

"And the hour, father-the hour?" cried Neville, anxiously.

"In five minutes the curfew will toll," replied the abbot, with solemn emphasis. "Should this be Herrick, my son, your fate hangs on a few seconds."

"But can we not delay the bell ?" demanded Blanche, as, trembling with horror, she rose from the stone bench on which she was seated.

"It is impossible," returned the abbot; "the church is surrounded by soldiers, and who could hinder their

determination ?"

"I will!" cried Blanche, struck with a sudden inspiration. "Neville, if this is Herrick Evenden, you will still be saved. Delay me not," she added, as she darted across the chapel, "each moment is of untold value. Holy Virgin-succour and protect me!"

Hurriedly bending to one of the altars as she quitted the

with fearful and threatening impetus, she crouched down beneath it, and clung to its iron tongue with the grasp of a drowning creature. The motion of the bell increased, as its timbers groaned and quivered with the strain; and Blanche's arms, torn and bleeding from the rough walls she had passed in her ascent, were contused and beaten against the sides. But she still kept her hold, and a deadened sound, like a cathedral bell at an extreme distance, was all that arose, as she was thrown violently from side to side, with the rocking of the frame work. It swung higher and higher-it was evident that additional hands were assisting the bell-ringer below! Now she was dragged from the floor, and again dashed violently down, but to be once more caught up on the other side; yet still she flinched not, hanging to the clapper with unwearying power.

Suddenly the motion of the bell ceased-it was plain that the people had relinquished their task, and were about to ascend the tower to see what was amiss; the ladder might delay them a minute or two, and then all would be lost! But as the bell ceased to vibrate, a sound arose from the street that threw fresh courage into Blanche's almost failing heart; it was the cry of voices rejoicing. She reached the window, and looked down upon the abbey; an hundred torches, borne by the monks, shed their light around, and in the centre of them a figure on

horseback was waving his cap above his head, with a gesture of triumph. Neville was saved!

Little now remains to be told. Delayed by various unforeseen difficulties, Herrick had at length obtained an audience with Edward, and delivered the ring, which proved to be the gift of Lord Beaufort, who had commanded one of the divisions of his army, at Tewkesbury. That nobleman had implored the pardon from the king, and the messenger would have arrived at the monastery in the afternoon, had not his steed foundered from sheer fatigue. But now all was fairly accomplished, and as Neville clasped his fair Blanche to his heart, they forgot all that had passed, in the thrilling joy of the present. As for Herrick Evenden, he rushed to the Rose Hostelric, and distributed so much sack to the villagers there assembled, including the sexton of the church, that the curfew was not rung that evening until nearly midnight, when the merry party all marched off to the belfry together, and each seizing a rope, performed a concert of their own, of so extraordinary a nature, that even the worthy old alchymist started from his furnace, and listened at his door, in the firm belief that a troop of evil spirits were fighting with the bells.

A short time afterwards, before the May-pole flowers had well faded, a joyous peal sounded from Chertsey church, as Neville Audeley, having obtained her father's consent, led his young bride from the altar. And when, at last, Sir Mark Heriot died—when the old mansion was put in order, and the times became more peaceable, the happy pair gathered their friends around them, in the old hall at Christmas, and, by the blazing wood fire, that crackled and sparkled on the large iron dogs of the ample hearth, Neville would tell the story of his flight down the same chain that still hung from the roof; and Blanche recounted her struggle with the old bell, until its sounds warned them that the night was far advanced, and reminded them, ere they retired to rest, of the pious orison that was graven around it-which the curious visitor may still see in unimpaired freshness.

The response of the prayer ran thus:-
Dra mente pia pro nobis, Uirgo Maria.

A. S.

ORIGIN OF "THE PRINCE OF WALES'S FEATHERS." (To the Editor.)

Now that the magnates of Heralds' College are determining the arms to be borne by the Prince of Wales, it may be interesting to inquire into the long-disputed origin of the famous "Prince of Wales's Feathers."

The earliest known appearance of feathers, worn in this fashion, is on a seal appended to a grant of Prince Edward to his brother, John of Gaunt, dated 1370, twentyfive years after the battle of Cressy; where Edward is seen seated on a throne, a sovereign prince of Aquitaine, with a single feather and a blank scroll on each side of him; and the same badge occurs again upon the seal to another grant, in 1374. The popular tradition ascribes the assumption of the three feathers to Edward the Black Prince, who took this crest, arms, or badge, from John, King of Bohemia, slain at the battle of Cressy; but this tradition is not traceable to any credible authority. It is first mentioned by Camden, in his Remains, who says: "the victorious Black Prince, his (Edward III.'s) sonne, used sometimes one feather, sometimes three, in token, as some say, of his speedy execution in all his services, as the poets in the Roman times, pterophori, and wore feathers to signifie their flying post haste; but the truth is, that he wonne them at the battle of Cressy, from John, King of

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Bohemia, whom he there slew." Yet Camden does not state his authority for this "truth ;" and neither Froissart, Walsingham, Knighton, nor any contemporary historian, alludes to so interesting an incident. Barnes, in his Life of Edward III., quotes Sandford's Genealogical History; Sandford quotes Camden, and Camden quotes nobody; but admits that, even in his time, it was a disputed point, by giving another, and not very improbable derivation, circulated at that period.

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"The German motto, 'Ich Diene,' generally rendered I serve,' first seen upon the tomb of Prince Edward, at Canterbury, has, perhaps, helped to give currency, if not give birth, to the belief of the Bohemian origin of the feathers; but Camden himself did not credit this part of the story, for he goes on to state, though still without quoting his authority, that to the feathers the prince himself adjoined the old English word ic dien (thegn), that is, I serve;' according to that of the apostle, the heir, while he is a childe, differeth nothing from a servant." Mr. Planché, from whose History of British Costume I quote these details, considers there to be no reason for Edward's selecting a German motto, (for it is absurd to call it old English), to express his own service to his father. Again, the crest of John of Bohemia was the entire wing or pinion of an eagle, apparently from its shape, (as may be seen on his seal, engraved in Olivarius Vredius,) and not one or three distinct ostrich feathers. In the same work, however, we meet with crests of wings or pinions, surmounted by distinct feathers; now, one or three such might have been plucked from the crest of the King of Bohemia, as a symbol of triumph, and granted as a memorial of victory and heraldic distinction by Edward III. to his gallant son; but the silence of contemporary historians on the subject, and the fact of the feathers being borne singly by all the descendants of Edward III., induce Mr. Planché to regard the three feathers as a fanciful badge, adopted by the prince from caprice, or suggested by some very trivial circumstance, or quaint conceit, no longer recollected; as were hundreds of devices of that period, to account for which stories have been ingeniously invented in after ages, and implicitly believed from the mere force of repetition. Mr. Planché then hazards some conjectures: as, ostrich feathers being a symbol of equity among the Egyptians; next, the vulgar belief of the extraordinary digestive powers of the ostrich, has afforded a remarkable simile to a writer of Prince Edward's own time, one who claims, indeed, to have been his companion in arms at the battle of Poictiers, where he says: "many a hero, like the ostrich, was obliged to digest both iron and steel, or to overcome in death the sensations inflicted by the spear and the javelin." Hence, the ostrich feather may have been assumed in allusion to the bearer's mastery over iron or steel. The German for ostrich, also, is strauss, (der strauss vogel,) which anciently signified "a fight, combat, or scuffle"-another sufficient reason for the adoption of an ostrich feather by the Prince, as a general allusion to his warlike propensities; or by the whole family of Edward III., as a type of their determination to fight in support of his French claim.

The motto, Ich Dien, probably, had no connexion with the badge, but was associated with it accidentally. It certainly appears on the scrolls attached to the tomb at Canterbury; but, in the Prince's will, the word "Houmont," (high spirit,) is directed to be placed as the motto. Ich Dien does not appear on the scrolls of the feathers on the seals of the Black Prince, of Thomas, Duke of Gloucester, or of Richard II., or Henry V., when Prince of Wales; or on the monumental tablet of John, Duke of Bedford: but it does appear on the seal of Edward Plantagenet, Duke of York, slain at Agincourt, and who was

no way connected with Wales-a sufficient proof that it can have no relation to that principality.

Lastly, in no case does the Black Prince, in his bequests, mention the motto Ich Dien; and the feathers singly, as already observed, appear with blank scrolls upon the seals or tombs of nearly all the princes of the houses of York and Lancaster, down to Arthur, Prince of Wales, son of Henry VII., upon whose monument at Worcester they first appear as a plume in a coronet, as well as singly; plumes having come into fashion towards the close of the fifteenth century.

ANTIQUARIUS.

"KATHLEEN" OF GLENDALOUGH.* As we were returning from "the bed" (the far famed “bed" of St. Kevin, at Glendalough), where we had, of course, "left our names," Kathleen gave "the good morrow kindly" to a poor woman, who curtseyed as we passed, and her pale cheek and the remains of beauty made us inquire who she was. "That, Madam, that poor woman is me, when I'm not in it." This we did not comprehend, so Kathleen spoke again. "When the rale Kathleen's not in it, that poor, heart-broken, God-fearing woman acts Kathleen for Saint Kevin. The saint, Ma'am, ye understand, would be nothing without Kathleen." And how long have you been Kathleen?" we naturally inquired, glancing at the weather-beaten, and not juvenile, features of our guide, a short, thick-set, bustling little body, whose white cap boasted a multiplicity of deep, full borders, which contrasted with her sun-burnt complexion. "Ever since I left soldiering on the Peninsular and the Western Ingees, and got upon the pace establishment," she smilingly replied. "I've been tramping all my days, and shall until, maybe, I'll grow wake in myself, and tumble off the rock, like the rale Kathleen." We, of course," hoped" this might not be the case. Ah, lady! what does it signify? water and land are all the same to an ould soldier-it's all luck, as I have good right to know, and the worst of luck has been hunting me, as the hounds hunt the hare, the whole of this summer."

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The woman spoke this with deep feeling, and tears gathered in her eyes. It was only kind, to inquire what ill luck had followed her." 66 Ah, sure, wasn't Mrs. Putland herself here, with ever so many fine ladies and gentlemen, only last week; and when she, who never forgets the poor or distressed-let alone those who live over her own land-asked for her poor Kathleen,' I wasn't in it, and that was as good as a pound-note out of my pocket." "And is that all your ill luck?" "No, indeed; that's throuble, but not heart-throuble-only I don't like to be making ye dull, and you out pleasuring. Sure the quality have mighty quare notions of pleasuring, and it's well for us who live here they have. If I was a lady," she continued, and the spirit of the soldier's wife roused within her, "I'd take pleasure in the sunny country of Portingale, or the gay town of Paris, and not among ould walls and-but it's a wonderful holy place, that's for certain, and so any one may tell. The heart-trouble I had and have is about my son! My boy! my own boy! that I carried for scores of miles, in an ould drum, strapped on my back. Oh! sure the more trouble we have with a thing, the more we love it. Oh, my! to think of his being in jail, he that was like a young eagle in the sun! my brave, handsome boy!" Poor Kathleen burst into tears, and sobbed so bitterly, that our distant followers heard her, and set up a sympathizing murmur of "God look down upon ye, Kathleen! poor craythur! Holy Mary,

From Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall's Ireland.

comfort her!-hear to that now!-Och hone!" At last, she rolled her stocking round the needles, put them into her pocket, dried her eyes with her apron, and proceeded with her story in right earnest.

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"My boy grew up-it isn't that I say it, because I'm his mother-but every one admired him; as a child, he had as many divartin' tricks as a monkey, and they grew with him, until no sport of any kind went on through the place as it ought, without him. I'd have got him a trade; but, somehow, he never seemed to take to any thing but being a soldier, like his father, and people thought it was owing to my having carried him in the drum, that he had such a wonderful taste for music. I wanted to get him a bugle, which would be a trate to the quality, on the lake and in the mountains. Ah! he fancied nothing but the red coat.-Now when he had so much war in his head, I at last made up my mind to lose him, the first time a recruiting sargint came in his way; when, heavy on my heart." one day- Mother,' he says, there's something weighs What is it, darlin'?' I says; and taking a thought, started up on my feet, and had hardly breath to say, You're listed!' For life,' he says, grow ing completely scarlet in the face; for life, mother; and my commanding officer is little Ally, of Roundwood." Well, the first thought I had was to knock him down with child he had brought into trouble not fifteen years of age; a spade-handle, a boy not nineteen, and the purty innocent but I couldn't touch him-he looked so like his father. It's done now, mother,' he says; and when I see you, and the house full of brothers and sisters, my heart's like to burst; but I'll list, mother, at once, and then I'll be able says to him; your father was one of those who'd spend to support her, as my father did you.'- God help you,' I half-a-crown out of sixpence a day.'-His poor father, Ma'am, kept himself, and I had to keep myself and the children, ever and always. Yet, on parade, he was as fine forgot all but the pride I took in his beauty. a picture as ever you saw; and when I looked at him I

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"But to my trouble. When it begins, one keeps follow ing the other; and the end of it was, that her people turned little Ally out, and she was shivering with the could, under the hedge; and what could I do, when my passion was over, but to bring her in, and let her stay, as wisp of straw, with a log of wood for his pillow, and his my own? When I looked at the two, sleeping upon a faces, hers the gentlest I ever blessed, I thought I'd have arm for hers, and saw the young, innocent, handsome broken my heart; for what was before them but starvation, and trouble, and early death? She would work, if there he had fastened on us all struck him so deep, that he was work to be had; but there was not; and the trouble listed in earnest, and sent us the bounty. Poor Ally! she grew ill, so ill, that, before I came down to the Churches, to be ready for the quality, every morning, I used to lift her into the sun, at the door, and leave a child to watch her, as I would an infant.

she'd live to be a mother, and knowing that he was in "At last, poor thing, her time came. I never thought Wexford, like a fool as I was, I sent to him to get leave, and come and see if his wife was living or dead. Oh, my! I might have known the deep love of his heart; he could not get leave, he took it; he deserted. The first cry was hardly out of his child's lips, when he stood forenint me, as white as chalk, and the next instant he was mother, not sixteen till Martinmas! You might have on his knees, by her side, poor thing! and she to be a knocked me down with a feather, I grew so wake, and didn't dare ask him if he had leave. But I wasn't long till I knew how it was without the asking, for at every step that came nigh the door he changed colour. Oh!

the panting struggle that was in me, between love for my boy, and shame that one I nursed at my breast, who woke with the reveille, and went to sleep with the last roll of the drum, should disgrace his colours. He stayed with us all that night; but, at the dawn of day, one of the neighbours told me that my poor fellow was 'set;' so all I had for it was to put him on his guard.-Oh! how I prayed of him to go to head-quarters, deliver himself up, and tell the truth about his young wife and his foolish mother!-but, no, he would not. All I could say or do, he could not bring himself to that, but went out and hid in the mountains all day, and would steal in some time in the night to get a look at the wife, until he found himself closely watched, and then he couldn't come near us at all; and for six weeks he was hunted about like a wild animal, not daring to set foot in a house, in rain, hail, or sunshine, and would have been starved to death but for his sisters and the neighbours, who, God bless them! would leave a bit of food, a couple of potatoes, or half a cake, where he'd be likely to get them.

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"But they took him!-they took him at last, and he asleep under a rock just beyant. Oh, the disgrace of that bitter day! My fine boy, handcuffed like a thief, and all from love of his wife, and minding a foolish mother. I thought poor Ally would have died; but she went with me to the officer, all the way to Wexford town, a long and weary way; and then it was that Lady Putland came, and I not in it; and we waylaid the officer, when he was walking with his wife and children. "That's our time,' says I to Alice, 'when his heart is soft with his own children;' and I did my best to wind her up, but she had no heart to speak, only fell trembling like a leaf on her knees, before his lady, holding up her innocent babby, as if it could speak for her, while I beat up my best. Noble commander,' I says, and I flattered him, and spoke of my husband's service and my own, with a firm voice, and held on wonderful, until I came to tell him of my poor boy, and his fault, and its cause, and then I failed intirely, and was forced to surrender, and fall on my knees for mercy. The lady cried like a child herself, and slipped a crown-piece, God bless her! to Ally; and the officer got into a passion with us all three; but I saw his heart was tender, and then he gave us leave to see him, and every one pitied the two young craythurs, and nothing could draw Ally from the prison-gate, when the time was up.-Leave me here, mother, jewel,' she says: I'm among Christians, who won't see me want a bit of food, and go you back to St. Kevin, and maybe some of your good quality friends will ask to have his pardon. He'll make none the worse soldier for her Majesty, God bless her! if she'll forgive him. She's young herself, with a husband and a child,' she says; and though I know the grate differ, yet I don't think the Queen of England could love her husband and child more than I love mine.' Ally's a sweet-spoken girl and well-reared," quoth poor Kathleen; "and, sure, if ye have any friends in the army, you'll mind and say a good word for poor Kathleen's son.'

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We cannot doubt that the poor boy's first error, originating in such a cause, was lightly punished; and we may readily believe, that the son of an old soldier, and an old soldier's wife, will not repeat it. Some visitors to Glendalough, however-and all visitors will be sure to encounter Katty Haly-may question her on the subject; and, if her story touches them as it touched us, we shall have been the means of putting many an extra shilling into her pocket; and verily, we think it will be well bestowed; for a kinder, more attentive, or more affectionate-hearted woman, we have rarely met, although two-thirds of her life have been passed in the unsoftening school of the camp, and her hard

features may be very different from those of the hapless lady whose name she assumes; for we may, without offence, repeat her own words, and say, "Bedad, it's a queer Kathleen I am, sure enough!"

LITERARY AND MORAL GEMS.-No. IX. SELECTED BY A LADY.

NO BAD RULE.

I NEVER go late to a friend's dinner, (said Boileau,) for I have observed that when a company is waiting for a man, they make use of the interval to load him with abuse.

LONG YARNS.

Amongst those long-winded and generally marvellous stories, with which seamen delight to while away the dreary "mid-watch," to the astonishment of the greenhorns, very astonishing is that called "the Merry Dun of Dover." This was a vessel of such magnitude, that she has been known to be receiving a cargo of coals at her bow-port in Sunderland harbour, and discharging them out of her stern-port at the same time, into the coal lighters below London bridge. Such was the height of her masts, that a little boy being sent aloft to clear the pendant, returned upon deck a grey-headed man. Working out of the Downs, this amazing vessel was of such a length, that in tacking, her flying jib-boom knocked down Calais steeple, at the very instant that the tail of her ensign swept a flock of sheep off the summit of Dover cliff!

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sixteen hours of each day to business; often paying visits He was in the habit during many years of devoting frame was not so strong as his resolution, and the sword to his patients until a late hour at night. His physical began to wear out the sheath. An irritability of mind sometimes involuntarily contended against his natural kindness of heart. He frequently came to his own table after a day of fatigue, and held up his hands to the family circle, eager to welcome him home, saying, “Don't speak and when the transitory cloud had cleared away from his to me;" and then presently after, drank a glass of wine; brow, looking around with a smile of affection, he would exclaim, “Now you may speak to me!"

THE SOUL.

The material part of man, though "fearfully and wonderfully made," is a mere atom when held in comparison with his immortal, boundless, fathomless soul. In the mind of man is not only a new and ever-changing creation-a paradise of imagination-an eternal world of fancy -an endless chain of thought,—but all the kingdoms of the earth-all the mountains, forests, rivers, and oceans therein. Far greater! all the visible suns and systems of worlds have room to roll at large-more than room; they occupy but a small part of the soul!

*

What

In the mind of man there is a heaven-a hell-a universe without limits;-endless as eternity-boundless as infinity;-for ever increasing-for ever expanding its infinitude over new creations, even in this mortal state, when it is fettered down to the clay. * must it be when life no longer entombs it in this house of dust? What must it be when it soars into the wide heavens, and expands in bliss and boundless beatitude? when it spreads itself over all space-the universe which the telescope cannot discover-spreads itself in light, and love, and glory, and sublimity; with creation below it-eter

nity before it-infinity around it—and the ever-loving God above it! Surely, then, the poet hath rightly said, "An honest man's the noblest work of God!"

Further, I have long been of opinion that death is the true birth of man. As the bird is not born till the egg is broken, so the soul is not born till it bursts its tenement of clay. At the birth of the body, and while it "lives, and moves, and has its being," the soul is in a state of formation. Life," says the poet, "is a dream;" we behold all things indistinctly," we see through a glass darkly;" all around is imperfection, for we are imperfection ourselves.

The butterfly sporting in the golden light of day was once an egg, then a worm, then a chrysalis, and now a butterfly. Death destroys the chrysalis that enshrines the immortal soul; it is then only born-bursts into eternity, and beholds all things around distinctly, and as they really exist. This life, then, I call the birth of the body;-death, the birth of the soul."-Charles Doyne Sillery.

THE POWER OF ELOQUENCE.

From Knowles's Bride of Messina.
I had read and heard of eloquence before,
How 'tis despotic; takes the heart by storm
Whate'er the ramparts, prejudice or use,
Environ it withal; how, 'fore its march,
Stony resolves have given way like flax;
How it can raise, or lay, the mighty surge
Of popular commotion; as the wind
The wave that frets the sea; but till to-day
I never proved its power.

A boly man, and brigand, near me stood,
Wedged by the press together; churlishly
They first endured their compelled neighbourhood,
And shrank from contact they would fain escape;
The one with terror, and with scorn the other,
Who blazed with life and passion like a torch
Beside a taper; such the man of prayer
Appeared, in contrast with the freebooter;
But lo, the change! soon as the orator
That universal chord, with master skill
Essayed, the love of country-like two springs,
Ravines apart, whose waters blend at last
In some sweet valley leaning cheek to cheek,
Attracted by resistless sympathy,

Their tears together ran, one goodly river!

"WHAT'S IN A NAME ?"

A

The real name of the Emperor of China is seldom or never known. Upon ascending the throne, he assumes a name by which, when spoken of, he must be called; for to pronounce or write his proper one, whether by accident or intention, is death to the divulger of the secret; and if a rich man, the confiscation of his property ensues. literary man having accidentally used the word "Ming," (which happened to be the reigning monarch's name,) in his work, suffered, with his sons, the extreme penalty of the law; his wife and daughters, with other members of his family, were banished, and his estates confiscated. So much for the mild, inoffensive Chinese, and the humane government of the celestial empire!

THE LAST CENSUS.

Lists of this kind, taken at regular intervals and with proper precautions, are of great importance for the purpose of ascertaining the advance or decrease of the national resources; the effects of public measures on the population; the operation of the laws affecting the poor, the influence and value of emigration; and the general capabilities of sustaining the burthens of the state. A declining population is always a clear evidence that there is something wrong in the public machinery; and an increasing population awakens the legislature to the necessity of providing

for their employment and support. In all cases, the Census puts the legislature in possession of the clearest knowledge of the most important element of the welfare of the people.

The total population of England, according to the Census just completed, is 7,321,875 males, 7,673,633 females; total, 14,995,508.

That of Wales, 447,533 males; 463,788 females; total, 911,321. That of Scotland, 1,246,427 males; 1,382,530 females; total, 2,628,957: and that of the islands of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, Sark, Heron, Jethon, and Man, 57,598 males, 66,481 females; total, 124,079. These numbers, including 4003 males and 893 females ascertained to have been travelling by railways and canals on the night of June 6, 1841, make the grand total 9,077,436 males, and 9,587,325 females. The popula tion, therefore, of Great Britain, amounts to 18,664,761 persons.

The returns include only such part of the army, navy, and merchant seamen, as were at the time of the Census within the kingdom on shore. If it be the multitude of the people which forms the strength of a nation, no country upon earth-except perhaps China, and of that but httle is known-can exhibit eighteen and a half millions of souls, and with Ireland, twenty-five,-within such narrow boundaries as those of the British Isles.

CURIOSITIES OF SCIENCE.

Breath of Plants.-Plants breathe like ourselves, but differently by day and night. In the sunshine, they decompose the carbonic acid gas of the atmosphere; the carbon of which they absorb; while the oxygen, which is the other constituent, is thrown off. In the dark, no oxygen is produced by plants, and no carbonic acid absorbed.

How the Diamond cuts Glass.- Dr. Wollaston ascertained that the parts of the glass to which the diamond is applied are forced asunder, as by a wedge, to a most minute distance, with out being removed; so that a superficial, continuous crack is made from one end of the intended cut to the other. After this, any small force applied to one extremity is sufficient to extend this crack through all the whole substance, and across the glass; for, since the strain at each instant in the progress of the crack is confined nearly to a mathematical point at the bottom of the fissure, the effort necessary for carrying it through is proportionally small.

Dr. Wollaston found by trial that the cut caused by the mere passage of the diamond, need not penetrate so much as the two-hundredth part of an inch. He found also that other mineral bodies recently ground into the same form, are also capable of cutting glass; but they cannot long retain that power, from want of the requisite hardness.

Light from the Juice of a Plant.-In Brazil, has been observed a plant, conjectured to be an Euphorbium, very remark able for the light which it yields when cut. It contains a milky juice, which exudes as soon as the plant is wounded, and appears luminous for several seconds.

Rapid Vegetation.-In the neighbourhood of Rio Janeiro, the common garden pea has been sown, flowered, gathered, and the haulms removed, within the short space of twenty-one days.

In India, bamboos, when very young, may almost be seen to grow; they sometimes attain the height of sixty feet, and have been known to spring thirty inches in six days.

Destructive Aroma.-Volatile or odorous substances are par

ticularly destructive to the animalcules that prey upon vege tation. Thus, thousands of aphides may be seen in the stalkleaves of the rose; but none are ever observed in the flower, which contains an aromatic oil.

Exhalation from the Earth.-From two thousand to three thousand gallons of water are exhaled in a day from an acre of land.

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