'You cry and wail whene'er ye spy a cat, Starving or sick; I count it not a sin To hang it up, and flay it for its skin;'

from which it appears this gay free-thinker was not only somewhat sceptical in his religious notions, but, moreover, a hard-hearted, good-for-nothing fellow—one who, had he lived in our times, would unquestionably have brought himself within the sweep of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and the Duke of Beaufort's Humanity Act.

We learn from Herodotus that in his days it was customary, whenever a cat died, for the whole household at once to go into mourning, and this although the lamented decease might have been the result of old age, or other causes purely natural. In the case of a cat's death, however, the eyebrows only were required to be shaved off; but when a dog, a beast of more distinguished reputation, departed this life, every inmate of the house was expected to shave his head and whole body all over. Both cats and dogs are watched and attended to with the greatest solicitude during illness. Indeed, by the ancient Egyptians the cat was treated much in the same way as are dogs amongst us: we find them even accompanying their masters on their aquatic shooting-excursions; and, if the testimony of ancient monuments is to be relied on, often catching the game for them, although it may be permitted to doubt whether they ever actually took to the water for this purpose.

In modern Egypt the cat, although more docile and companionable than its European sister, has much degenerated; but still, on account of its usefulness in destroying scorpions and other reptiles, it is treated with some consideration—suffered to eat out of the same dish with the children, to join with them in their sports, and to be their constant companion and daily friend. A modern Egyptian would esteem it a heinous sin indeed, to destroy, or even maltreat a cat; and we are told by Sir Gardner Wilkinson, that benevolent individuals have bequeathed funds by which a certain number of these animals are daily fed at Cairo at the Cadi's court, and the bazaar of Khan Khaleel.

But a tender regard for the inferior animals is a prevailing characteristic of the Oriental races, and is inculcated as a duty by their various religions. At Fez there was, and perhaps is at this day, a wealthily-endowed hospital, the greater part of the funds of which was devoted to the support and medical treatment of invalid cranes and storks, and procuring them a decent sepulture whenever they chanced to die. The founders are said to have entertained the poetical notion that these birds are, in truth, human beings, natives of distant islands, who at certain periods assume a foreign shape, and after they have satisfied their curiosity with visiting other lands, return to their own, and resume their original form.

To return, however, not to our sheep, but our cats, we must remark that, in modern times, in spite of the kindness the cat habitually receives in Egypt, his morale is not in that country rated very high—the universal impression being that, although, like Snug the joiner's lion, he is by nature 'a very gentle beast,' still he is by no means 'of a good conscience;' that he is, in short, a most ungrateful beast; and that when, in a future state, it is asked of him how he has been treated by man in this, he will obstinately deny all the benefits he has received at his hand, and give him such a character for cruelty and hardness of heart as is shocking to think of. The dog, however, it is understood, will conduct himself more discreetly, and readily acknowledge the good offices for which he is indebted to the family of mankind.

Singular anecdotes have been related of the intense repugnance persons have been found to entertain to these, at worst, harmless animals. One shall be given in the very words of the Rev. Nicholas Wanley, who, in his authentic Wonders of the Little World, has recorded a number of other facts quite as marvellous, and sustained by testimony not one whit more exceptionable:—'Mathiolus tells of a German, who coming in winter-time into an inn to sup with him and some other of his friends, the woman of the house being acquainted with his temper (lest he should depart at the sight of a young cat which she kept to breed up), had beforehand hid her kitling in a chest in the same room where we sat at supper. But though he had neither seen nor heard it, yet after some time that he had sucked in the air infected by the cat's breath, that quality of his temperament that had antipathy to that creature being provoked, he sweat, and, of a sudden, paleness came over his face, and, to the wonder of us all that were present, he cried out that in some corner of the room there was a cat that lay hid.' Not long after the battle of Wagram and the second occupation of Vienna by the French, an aide-de-camp of Napoleon, who at the time occupied, together with his suite, the Palace of Schoenbrunn, was proceeding to bed at an unusually late hour, when, on passing the door of Napoleon's bedroom, he was surprised by a most singular noise, and repeated calls from the Emperor for assistance. Opening the door hastily, and rushing into the room, a singular spectacle presented itself—the great soldier of the age, half undressed, his countenance agitated, the beaded drops of perspiration standing on his brow, in his hand his victorious sword, with which he was making frequent and convulsive lunges at some invisible enemy through the tapestry that lined the walls. It was a cat that had secreted herself in this place; and Napoleon held cats not so much in abhorrence as in terror. 'A feather,' says the poet, 'daunts the brave;' and a greater poet, through the mouth of his Shylock, remarks that 'there are some that are mad if they behold a cat—a harmless, necessary cat.' Count Bertram would seem to have shared in this unaccountable aversion. When 'Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist, that had the whole theory of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger,' was convicted of mendacity and cowardice, Bertram exclaimed, 'I could endure anything before this but a cat, and now he's a cat to me.' The force of censure could no further go.

If Napoleon, however, held cats, as has been averred, in positive fear, there have been others, and some of them illustrious captains, that have regarded them with other feelings. Marshal Turenne could amuse himself for hours in playing with his kittens; and the great general, Lord Heathfield, would often appear on the walls of Gibraltar, at the time of the famous siege, attended by his favourite cats. Cardinal Richelieu was also fond of cats; and when we have enumerated the names of Cowper and Dr Johnson, of Thomas Gray and Isaac Newton, and, above all, of the tender-hearted and meditative Montaigne, the list is far from complete of those who have bestowed on the feline race some portion of their affections.

Butler, in his Hudibras, observes, in an oft-quoted passage, that

'Montaigne, playing with his cat, Complains she thought him but an ass.'

And the annotator on this passage, in explanation, adds, that 'Montaigne in his Essays supposes his cat thought him a fool for losing his time in playing with her;' but, under favour, this is a misinterpretation of the essayist's sentiment, and something like a libel on the capacity of both himself and cat. Montaigne's words are: 'When I play with my cat, who knows whether I do not make her more sport than she makes me? We mutually divert each other with our play. If I have my hour to begin or refuse, so also has she hers.' Nobody who has read the striking essay in which these words appear could for a moment misconceive their author's meaning. He is vindicating natural theology from the objections of some of its opponents, and in the course of his argument he takes occasion to dwell on the wonderful instincts, and almost rational sagacity of the inferior animals. We must, however, lament that, although he does full justice to the 'half-reasoning elephant,' to the aptitude and fidelity of the dog, to the marvellous economical arrangements of the bees, and even to the imitative capacity of the magpie, he pays no higher tribute to the merits of the cat than that she is as capable of being amused as himself, and like himself, too, has her periods of gravity when recreative sports are distasteful. Her social qualities he does not allude to, though he, so eminently social himself, could scarcely have failed to appreciate them.

In this country, at this time, cats have superseded parlour favourites decidedly less agreeable in their appearance, and infinitely more mischievous in their habits. Writing in the seventeenth century, Burton, in his Anatomy of Melancholy, remarks that 'Turkey gentlewomen, that are perpetual prisoners, still mewed up according to the custom of the place, have little else, beside their household business or to play with their children, to drive away time but to dally with their cats, which they have in delitiis, as many of our ladies and gentlewomen use monkeys and little dogs.' It is not the least merit of the cat that it has banished from our sitting-rooms those frightful mimicries of humanity—the monkey tribe; and as to the little dogs Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, although we are not insensible to their many virtues and utilities, we care not to see them sleeping on our hearth-rug, or reposing beside our work-tables.

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[Footnote 5: In the matter of fanaticism, the modern Egyptians, or rather the inhabitants of Alexandria, seem hardly to have degenerated from their ethnic 'forbears,' as we read in Mr J.A. St John's travels the account of a serious insurrection which broke out some years ago in that city, in consequence of certain Jews having taken up the butcher's trade, and having slain the meat with a knife having three instead of five nails in the handle!]



BEGGARS IN THE FAR EAST.

Bengal is blessed with a mild climate and a fertile soil. Provisions are consequently cheap; and as neither substantial houses nor expensive clothing is there essential to comfort, we might naturally expect to see less of misery and destitution than in this country. Such, however, is not the case. Our severe winter engenders habits of industry and forethought, which are unknown in India. The ease with which in most cases their few wants are supplied, renders the inhabitants of that country in the highest degree improvident; and nowhere do we see a greater number of beggars, and misery and destitution paraded through the streets in more revolting forms.

There are no poor-laws in any part of India. Relief, however, is not withheld, nor indeed sparingly bestowed. Many can afford to give a little; and where nothing is exacted, many give willingly. Little charity is bestowed by Europeans in the streets, as they generally ride in palanquins or carriages, and as, besides, they feel the weight even of a purse too much on a hot day. However, let it not be supposed that they, like Dives, wallow in wealth, and close their ears to the importunities of the heathen. The Baboo or Sircar gives weekly or monthly pensions to some patronised beggars; and on a Saturday in some large towns, the blind, lame, and halt come to the gates of the grandees, and receive from the trusty durwan or doorkeeper a handful of cowries and coarse rice, of which one, two, or three rupees' worth are mixed up, according to the circumstances of the master. But it is not to ordinary beggars I now propose to draw the attention of the reader—the infirm or the lazy, with whom we are all tolerably familiar. But in India there is another class of beggars—religious and professional beggars—who are proud of their calling. I do not mean that there are no religious mendicants to be found at home; but although the object to be attained in both countries may be similar, the agents employed in the East are so different, that a description of them will to many European readers have all the gloss of novelty.

The two principal sects in Bengal are known as Soneeassees and Byragees. The former exclusively worship Mahado. 'They are not to inhabit houses or temples,' say their scriptures; 'but to live in woods and forests, under the wide expanse of heaven, there to meditate upon the greatness of the Creator, and contemplate his beautiful works.' An infant who is to become a Soneeassee has from his birth the badge of Sheva upon him: no razor ever touches his hair, and his locks are matted and dishevelled, when other children's are neatly combed and anointed. When he approaches manhood, he takes the vow of celibacy, he receives from the hand of the Brahmin the muntra or mystical creed, the dried skin of an antelope, and a piece of coarse, unbleached cotton, stained yellow with ochre, which he can use as a plaid, it being seven feet long; upon the skin he is supposed to sit and sleep, and the cloth overshadows the shoulders of the young enthusiast. Even after these are worn out, as it is supposed that the devotee is pretty well broken in to the hardships of his situation, they on no account may be renewed. These Soneeassees seldom adhere to the letter of their religion in the present day, although it is said that in times gone by some of their class have sat absorbed and abstracted until their spirit held communion with the great god—their bodies wasting away from neglect, and their nails growing like claws. In the present day, prayer and meditation are given to the winds, and they may be seen fat and sleek, perambulating the streets of the towns and villages, smeared over with ashes and ochre, and great coils of matted hair, which some tastefully wind like a turban round their head. They take care also to display, in glaring red and white paint, upon their foreheads and arms, the various insignia or marks of Sheva, such as the trident. Occasionally one also flourishes about a steel trident, which the figure of Mahado always wields in his hand, and which is also placed on the summit of his temple. The Soneeassees are the most impudent and importunate of beggars. There came under my notice a band of three, who used regularly to visit the town twice a week. These men had made a vow to collect a certain number of rupees to build a temple, and for this purpose infested the doors of the wealthiest of the Hindoo community, and followed and persecuted them even in their drives with continued cries. It is astonishing how soon superstition enabled them to fulfil their vow, and how the extortioners were allowed to escape the punishment their impudence deserved.

The Byragees are not so intrusive a sect. They frequently live in the open air, though not prohibited from seeking other shelter. Their heads are differently treated from those of the Soneeassees, for both men and women have the crown shaved quite smooth. Both sexes wear a piece of cloth checked like shepherd's plaid. They have great strings of wooden beads, or malahs, turned out of the stalks of the holy toolsie, round their necks; and they generally collect their rice and cowries in a dried gourd-shell. Persons of this sect at their death are placed in an upright position in a deep grave, and so consumed with fire. In former times, the widows used to burn themselves with their lords. The Byragees, when they attain years of discretion, may choose their wives from any caste they please. Some of the Byragins, therefore, are said to be far cleverer than the everyday Hindoo women, having been selected from a class which are looked down upon by the others, but who are taught high accomplishments, and are devoted to the temples of the gods. In his begging excursions the Byragee carries a pair of cymbals or a small gong; and singing the songs of Krishna, and his courtships among the milkmaids, he delights the hearts of his Hindoo hearers, and makes them lavish of their gifts.

The English reader perhaps has never heard of a beggar such as I shall now depict. One may happen to be in a reflective mood, and aroused from his meditations by what he supposes to be a cow lowing close to his ear. He starts up and goes to the window, but instead of that quadruped he finds a man standing with a rope round his neck, and a woful countenance, holding out his palms, indicating that he wants charity. This man has had the misfortune to lose his cow; and as it died tethered, his religion imposes on him the penalty of begging from door to door without speaking, but imitating the cow, till he has realised enough to purchase one of these sacred animals, and to give something besides in charity to the Brahmins. This provision was perhaps made by the religion of the country in favour of the cow, to preserve so useful an animal from ill-treatment; and it is astonishing to see how implicitly the Hindoo submits himself to a mere convention, which he might easily evade.



A LATE PRISON REPORT.

In the Sixteenth Report on the state of the Prisons, by Mr Frederic Hill, lately laid before parliament, will be found some passages worthy of general attention. While speaking favourably of the system of discipline now ordinarily pursued towards prisoners, Mr Hill is obliged to admit that certain prisons are rendered much too attractive; in fact, that they create crime. It is important that this condition of affairs should be known. Good food and medical attendance are, it seems, the attractions. The following are Mr Hill's words, with the quotations he makes from the statements of prison officials:—

'Several of the prisons continue to be attractive, to certain classes of persons, instead of repulsive; owing, apparently in some instances, to the better dietary of the prison as compared with that of the workhouse; in others, to the good medical treatment generally provided in prisons; and in others, to a practice of giving prisoners clothing on their liberation, a practice which, did the law permit, might be replaced by a rule enabling prisoners to earn clothing by extra labour.

'The governor of the borough prison at Cambridge stated that many persons were reckless about committing offences, because they preferred being sent to the prison to going to the workhouse, owing chiefly (according to their statements) to their getting better food at the prison.

'The chaplain of the prison at Spilsby stated as follows:—"I am sorry to observe that the present system of discipline here does not deter people from the commission of crime. Several have said that they would rather come here than go to the Union workhouse." ...

'Mr Dunn, one of the surgeons of the prison at Wakefield, states—"I am convinced that many persons, especially females, get committed to the prison on purpose to be cured of attacks of disease. Many of them have admitted to me that it was so. A man from Bradford, who went out last week, told me that he had been here before, and that he had got committed again in consequence of his having a return of his disease, and that he came to be cured.... One man who was here for a month last autumn, and who came in a very diseased state, but who left cured, required, during nearly the whole time, a pint of wine per day, besides malt liquor. It was a case in which a very liberal diet is necessary to preserve life; and it was requisite to have a prisoner, acting as nurse, to sit up with him through the night. The cost to the West Riding of this single case, counting expenses of all kinds, could not have been less than L.6."

'The governor of the city prison at York said—"By the acknowledgments of the prisoners themselves, I know that the practice still continues of committing offences on purpose to get committed to this prison. Four prisoners were liberated this morning who had broken a street-lamp with the evident intention of being sent to this prison. They were sentenced to seven days' imprisonment, and on their liberation each prisoner was supplied with a coat, waistcoat, pair of trousers, and a pair of shoes, and one of them had a shirt also! Many times last winter gas-lamps and the windows of the police-office and vagrant-office were broken, in order to get admission to the prison. Out of eighteen male prisoners who were brought to trial at the last Quarter-Sessions, twelve in my opinion committed their offences for the direct purpose of being sent to prison. Most of the vagrants committed to the prison still pass their time in idleness; no prisoners except those sentenced to hard labour being set to work."

'The following is an extract from the visiting justices' minute-book at the same prison:—

"Dec. 12th, 1849.—The number of prisoners who commit offences with the object of being maintained during the winter increases yearly, and is deserving of serious consideration, as a serious expense is entailed thereby on the city. The imprisonment inflicted is not looked on as a punishment, but a reward."'

If such really be the case, it is evident that a wrong course has been pursued in making the prisons so comfortable. Some years ago, when society was seized with a paroxysm of humanity, prisons were got up in a style of palatial splendour, and criminals, the most worthless of the population, were treated with a degree of tenderness which was opposed to every principle of justice. Possibly the method of reclaiming by kindness was not bad in the abstract, and in numerous instances it was perhaps effective; but in the main it was unsuitable to a complicated condition of ignorance, poverty, vice, and wretchedness. It should have been borne in mind that there is a distinct class of persons to whom any kind of provision is desirable, and who, being sunk below all sentiments of self-respect, shame, and regret, would very willingly sell themselves into slavery for the sake of a momentary gratification. To think of a warm, comfortable prison being an object of dread to this utterly-abandoned class!

Another philosophical crotchet did no small mischief. It was alleged that hard labour on the tread-mill would do harm: knowing that the labour tended to no useful purpose but merely the turning of a wheel, prisoners would feel degraded, and this feeling would prevent their reclamation! The error here consisted in imagining that the criminal class possessed the feelings of gentlemen; whereas the real thing to be thought of, was to give them labour so excessively toilsome and irksome as to be remembered with salutary horror all the days of their life. For example, no kind of punishment, we believe, has proved so sure a terror as that of the shot-drill in the military prisons. This consists in lifting a cannon-ball of perhaps twenty pounds' weight; marching with it for a dozen yards; then laying it down; and so on, repeating the same thing for an hour. Now this is clearly a useless and most degrading species of labour; yet it is a terrible infliction, and we are told seldom fails in its effect—that is to say, it deters from the commission of crime.

The experience of the last few years would shew that much is still to be learned in the art of criminal discipline; and indeed the whole question of what is to be done with our criminal population is becoming daily more perplexing. Mere confinement is found to be of small avail. Transportation is exploded; for it improves the circumstances of criminals instead of making them worse. Capital punishment has also had its day, and, excepting for a very few offences, is abandoned as useless, independently of being revolting to humanity. One writer proposes to work convicts in gangs at out-door labour, such as mining, and making railways; but the public would never tolerate the spectacle of this worst species of slave-labour; and besides, the employment of honest workers would be ruined. We are inclined to think that imprisonment, in a severe form, is after all the only practicable means of dealing with criminals. If anything be urgently wanted, it is a plan for preventing the growth of the criminal class; and this probably is not so difficult as it may appear. Of course, till there be a far broader system of public education than now prevails, the criminal population will never want recruits. Nevertheless, even with our present imperfect educational arrangements, something might be done. The criminal class is discovered to be on the whole a narrow class. The practice of living by depredation runs in families, and clings to individuals. The police of any given town could put their hand on almost every person who lives by fraud, theft, and robbery. They could at a day's notice secure nearly every one of them. A knowledge of this fact has suggested to Mr Matthew Hill a plan for capturing the whole criminal class, and obliging them to give security for their good behaviour; failing which, they should suffer incarceration as notoriously dangerous and troublesome to society. A fear of trenching on the liberty of the subject may prevent this ingenious scheme of the Recorder of Birmingham from being carried into effect; but to something or other of the kind he proposes, society must come at last, if it wish to save itself from being everlastingly worried and plundered by a habitually predatory class. In the Prison Report to which we have above referred, mention is made of a single family of thieves, consisting of fifteen individuals, who cost the country L.26,000 before they were got rid of. Is not such a fact quite monstrous!



FRENCH BATTLE-PICTURES.

In an American work—Glances at Europe, by Mr H. Greeley—the following sound observations occur on the battle-pictures in the palace of Versailles: 'These battle-pieces have scarcely more historic than artistic value, since the names of at least half of them might be transposed, and the change be undetected by ninety-nine out of every hundred who see them. If all the French battles were thus displayed, it might be urged with plausibility that these galleries were historical in their character; but a full half of the story—that which tells of French disaster and discomfiture—is utterly suppressed. The battles of Ptolemais, of Ivry, of Fontenoy, of Rivoli, of Austerlitz, &c. are here as imposing as paint can make them; but never a whisper of Agincourt, Cressy, Poitiers, Blenheim, or Ramillies; nor yet of Salamanca, of Vittoria, of Leipsic, or Waterloo. Even the wretched succession of forays which the French have for the last twenty years been prosecuting in Algerine Africa, here shine resplendent; for Vernet has painted, by Louis-Philippe's order, and at France's cost, a succession of battle-pieces, wherein French numbers and science are seen prevailing over Arab barbarism and irregular valour, in combats whereof the very names have been wisely forgotten by mankind, though they occurred but yesterday. One of these is much the largest painting I ever saw, and is probably the largest in the world, and it seems to have been got up merely to exhibit one of Louis-Philippe's sons in the thickest of the fray. Last of all, we have the Capture of Abd-el-Kader, as imposing as Vernet could make it, but no whisper of the persistent perfidy wherewith he has been retained for several years in bondage, in violation of the express agreement of his captors. The whole collection is, in its general effect, delusive and mischievous—the purpose being to exhibit war as always glorious, and France as uniformly triumphant. It is by means like these that the business of shattering knee-joints and multiplying orphans is kept in countenance.'



NEW APPLICATIONS OF MANGEL-WURZEL.

A patent has been taken out for the following applications of mangel-wurzel:—1st, To prepare a substance which may be combined with, or employed in place of coffee, the mangel-wurzel roots are well washed, cut into pieces; about the size of peas or beans, and then dried and roasted in the same manner as coffee-berries. The product is ground after being roasted, and it is then ready for use. 2d, A substitute for tea is produced by cutting the leaves of mangel-wurzel into small strips or shreds, drying the same, and then placing them upon a hot plate, which is kept at a temperature sufficiently high to slightly char the leaves. The charred mangel-wurzel leaves are to be used in precisely the same way as tea. 3d, To manufacture a fermented liquor, the mangel-wurzel roots are well washed, cut into small pieces, and put into a vat, wherein they are permitted to ferment for two or three days, at a temperature of about 70 degrees, and water is added thereto. A fermented liquor is thus obtained similar to perry or cider. 4th, When the mangel-wurzel roots are to be employed in the preparation of wort, they are washed, and cut into small pieces, which are dried, or slightly charred, by the action of kilns or ovens, of the kind used for drying malt; and wort is prepared from this produce in the same manner as from malt.



THE MARTYRDOM OF FAITHFUL IN VANITY FAIR.[6]

I.

The great human whirlpool!—'tis seething and seething: On! No time for shrieking out, no time for breathing; All toiling and moiling—some feebler, some bolder, But each sees a fiend-face grin over his shoulder: Thus merrily live they in Vanity Fair!

The great human caldron—it boils ever higher; Some drowning, some sinking; while some, creeping nigher, Come thirsting to lean o'er its outermost verges, Or touch—as a child's feet touch trembling the surges: One plunge—Ho! more souls swamped in Vanity Fair!

'Let's live while we live, for to-morrow all's over. Drink deep, drunkard bold! and kiss close, thou mad lover! Smile, hypocrite, smile! it is no such hard labour, While each with red hand tears the heart of his neighbour All slyly.—We're strange folk in Vanity Fair!

'Hist!—each for himself, or herself, which sounds smoother, Though man's no upholder, and woman no soother, Both struggle alike here.—What, weeping?—what, raving? Pah!—fight out the battle all! No time for saving! Ha! ha! 'tis a wondrous place, Vanity Fair!'

The mad crowd divides, and then closes swift after; Afar, towers the pyre, lit with shouting and laughter; 'What new sport is this?' lisps a reveller, half turning;— 'One Faithful, poor wretch! who is led to the burning: He cumbered us sorely in Vanity Fair!

'A dreamer—who held every man for a brother; A coward—who, emit on one cheek, gave the other: A fool—whose blind truth aye believed all knaves' lying; Too simple to live, so most fitted for dying. Ha! such are best swept out of Vanity Fair.'

II.

Silence! though the flame-drifts wave and flutter; Silence! though the crowd their curses mutter; Silence! through this fiery purgatory God is leading up a soul to glory.

See, the white lips with no moans are trembling, Hate of foes, or plaint of friends' dissembling; If sighs come—most patient prayers outlive them: 'Lord, these know not what they do. Forgive them!'

Thirstier still the roaring flames are glowing, Fainter in his ear the laughters growing; Brief endures the fierce and fiery trial— Angel-welcomes drown the earth-denial.

Now the amorous death-fires, gleaming ruddy, Clasp him close. Down sinks the quivering body, While through harmless flames immortal flying Shoots the beauteous soul. This—this is dying!

Lo! the opening heavens with splendours rifted; Lo! the palms that wait those hands uplifted; And the fiery chariot cloud-descending, And the legioned angels close attending!

Let his poor dust mingle with the embers, While the crowd sweeps on, and none remembers; Saints and angels through the Infinite glory, Praising God, recount the martyr's story.

Thou, who through the trial-fires bewildering Of this cruel world, dost lead Thy children, With the purifying give the balm; Grant to martyr-pangs the martyr's palm!

* * * * *

[Footnote 6: Suggested partly by a sketch in David Scott's illustrations of the Pilgrim's Progress.]



VARIETY OF AMBER.

There is a variety of amber, of the opacity of white wax, with a very slight yellowish tinge. It is found intermixed with yellow amber, in thin bands of some breadth. When the magnificent pile of buildings called Fonthill Abbey was exhibited to the public, before the sale of its curious and costly furniture, it contained an amber cabinet, as beautiful in workmanship as material. It was quadrangular, and about fifteen inches by twelve at the base, standing on four legs, that raised it about half an inch from its pedestal. It was pyramidal in form, about fourteen inches high, and divided into eleven stages. These were separated by a ledge of yellow amber, about one-eighth of an inch in thickness, projecting a little over the under stage, like a cornice. The front of each stage was ornamented with recumbent figures in white amber, in relief. Some parts were at least one-eighth of an inch in thickness. The effect was much like that of the white figures on the purple ground of the well-known Portland Vase. Each stage had the appearance of opening as a drawer. The top was flat, and the whole of the yellow amber beautifully transparent.



HAVE SERPENTS TASTE?

Some naturalists have surmised that serpents have no sense of taste, because the boa-constrictor in the Zoological Gardens swallowed his blanket. Chemistry may, however, assist us in solving the mystery, and induce us to draw quite an opposite conclusion from the curious circumstance alluded to. May not the mistake of the serpent be attributed to the marvellous acuteness of his taste? Take this reason: All vegetable substances contain starch, all animal substances contain ammonia; now it is most probable that the snake detected the animal quality—the ammonia—in the wool of the blanket, and he therefore naturally enough inferred that his bed was something suitable to his digestive organs. It is certain that he committed an error of judgment, but that error may be traceable to the subtilty of his taste rather than to its obtuseness. We throw out this suggestion as a specimen, if nothing better, of what contradictory inferences may be drawn from a single fact, and as a hint of how much caution is necessary in arriving at absolute opinions, even when the evidence is apparently most unmistakable.



AN AMERICAN EDITOR.

He is a dangerous man to be trifled with. The grand hickory-stick he twirls in his hand would be enough, with his dare-devil look, to frighten most persons; but when we state that in the depth of the pocket of the remarkable check-coat that he wears he conceals one of the most beautiful 'persuaders' ever manufactured by Colt, we are satisfied he will be a terror to all evil-doers. We should also state that generally he is occupied doing out-door business, but that on every Saturday until one o'clock P.M. he is always at the office, perfectly ready and willing to give any and every satisfaction for the articles he publishes.—Boston Rouge Gazette.

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Printed and Published by W. and R. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh. Also sold by W.S. ORR, Amen Corner, London; D.N. CHAMBERS, 55 West Nile Street, Glasgow; and J. M'GLASHAN, 50 Upper Sackville Street, Dublin.—Advertisements for Monthly Parts are requested to be sent to MAXWELL & Co., 31 Nicholas Lane, Lombard Street, London, to whom all applications respecting their insertion must be made.

THE END