The iguanas which are occasionally taken in the savannahs adjacent to this district are considered by Mr. Hill (an energetic correspondent of the Zoological Society who resides in Spanish Town, and who has paid great attention to the natural history of the island) to be only stray visitants which have wandered from the hills. The allied species of Cyclura, which are found on the American continent, occur in situations of a very different character, for they affect forests on the bank of rivers, and woods around springs, where they pass their time in trees and in the water, living on fruits and leaves. This habit is preserved by the specimen in the Zoological Society's Gardens, which we have seen lying lazily along an elevated branch. Its serrated tail is a formidable weapon of defence, with which, when alarmed or attacked, it deals rapid blows from side to side. When unmolested it is harmless and inoffensive, and appears to live in perfect harmony with the smaller species of lizards which inhabit the same division of the house.

* * * * *



HENRY IV.'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP.

How many thousands of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness; Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull God! why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case to a common larum-bell? Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, Seal up the shipboy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge; And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf'ning clamours in the slipp'ry shrouds, That with the hurly Death itself awakes: Can'st thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose To the wet seaboy in an hour so rude, And in the calmest and the stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a King? Then, happy lowly clown! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

SHAKSPEARE

* * * * *



ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.



The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds Mind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!



Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Pow'r, And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour— The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull, cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,



Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dew away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt' ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless lore.

"One morn, I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."



Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth— Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had—a tear; He gain'd from Heav'n, 'twas all he wish'd—a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode; (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God.

GRAY.

* * * * *



THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH.



Marvellous indeed have been the productions of modern scientific investigations, but none surpass the wonder-working Electro-magnetic Telegraphic Machine; and when Shakspeare, in the exercise of his unbounded imagination, made Puck, in obedience to Oberon's order to him—

"Be here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league."

reply—

"I'll put a girdle round the earth In forty minutes"—

how little did our immortal Bard think that this light fanciful offer of a "fairy" to "the King of the Fairies" would, in the nineteenth century, not only be substantially realised, but surpassed as follows:—

The electric telegraph would convey intelligence more than twenty-eight thousand times round the earth, while Puck, at his vaunted speed, was crawling round it only ONCE!

On every instrument there is a dial, on which are inscribed the names of the six or eight stations with which it usually communicates. When much business is to be transacted, a boy is necessary for each of these instruments; generally, however, one lad can, without practical difficulty, manage about three; but, as the whole of them are ready for work by night as well as by day, they are incessantly attended, in watches of eight hours each, by these satellite boys by day and by men at night.

As fast as the various messages for delivery, flying one after another from the ground-floor up the chimney, reach the level of the instruments, they are brought by the superintendent to the particular one by which they are to be communicated; and its boy, with the quickness characteristic of his age, then instantly sets to work.

His first process is by means of the electric current to sound a little bell, which simultaneously alarms all the stations on his line; and although the attention of the sentinel at each is thus attracted, yet it almost instantly evaporates from all excepting from that to the name of which he causes the electric needle to point, by which signal the clerk at that station instantly knows that the forthcoming question is addressed to him; and accordingly, by a corresponding signal, he announces to the London boy that he is ready to receive it. By means of a brass handle fixed to the dial, which the boy grasps in each hand, he now begins rapidly to spell off his information by certain twists of his wrists, each of which imparts to the needles on his dial, as well as to those on the dial of his distant correspondent, a convulsive movement designating the particular letter of the telegraphic alphabet required. By this arrangement he is enabled to transmit an ordinary-sized word in three seconds, or about twenty per minute. In the case of any accident to the wire of one of his needles, he can, by a different alphabet, transmit his message by a series of movements of the single needle, at the reduced rate of about eight or nine words per minute.

While a boy at one instrument is thus occupied in transmitting to—say Liverpool, a message, written by its London author in ink which is scarcely dry, another boy at the adjoining instrument is, by the reverse of the process, attentively reading the quivering movements of the needles of his dial, which, by a sort of St. Vitus's dance, are rapidly spelling to him a message, via the wires of the South Western Railway, say from Gosport, which word by word he repeats aloud to an assistant, who, seated by his side, writes it down (he receives it about as fast as his attendant can conveniently write it); on a sheet of; paper, which, as soon as the message is concluded, descends to the "booking-office." When inscribed in due form, it is without delay despatched to its destination, by messenger, cab, or express, according to order.

SIR F.B. HEAD.



* * * * *



THE RAINBOW.

How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast— A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam.

For faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor let the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man.

CAMPBELL.



The moon sometimes exhibits the extraordinary phenomenon of an iris or rainbow, by the refraction of her rays in drops of rain during the night-time. This appearance is said to occur only at the time of full moon, and to be indicative of stormy and rainy weather. One is described in the Philosophical Transactions as having been seen in 1810, during a thick rain; but, subsequent to that time, the same person gives an account of one which perhaps was the most extraordinary of which we have any record. It became visible about nine o'clock, and continued, though with very different degrees of brilliancy, until past two. At first, though a strongly marked bow, it was without colour, but afterwards became extremely vivid, the red, green, and purple being the most strongly marked. About twelve it was the most splendid in appearance. The wind was very high at the time, and a drizzling rain falling occasionally.

* * * * *



HOPE



At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey, The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus from afar each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been; And every form that fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden, grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe. Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; Then, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms th' Eolian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious care away! Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds and ocean's wildest shore. Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields His bark, careering o'er unfathom'd fields; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor-standard to the winds unfurl'd, Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world. Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds the shatter'd bark delay— Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep. Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul. His native hills that rise in happier climes; The grot that heard his song of other times; His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossom'd vale, Rush in his thought; he sweeps before the wind, And treads the shore he sigh'd to leave behind!

Pleasures of Hope.

* * * * *



LIGHTHOUSES.



Hartlepool Lighthouse is a handsome structure of white freestone—the building itself being fifty feet in height; but, owing to the additional height of the cliff, the light is exhibited at an elevation of nearly eighty-five feet above high-water mark. On the eastern side of the building is placed a balcony, supporting a lantern, from which a small red light is exhibited, to indicate that state of the tide which will admit of the entrance of ships into the harbour; the corresponding signal in the daytime being a red ball hoisted to the top of the flag-staff. The lighthouse is furnished with an anemometer and tidal gauge; and its appointments are altogether of the most complete description. It is chiefly, however, with regard to the system adopted in the lighting arrangements that novelty presents itself.

The main object, in the instance of a light placed as a beacon to warn mariners of their proximity to a dangerous coast, is to obtain the greatest possible intensity and amount of penetrating power. A naked or simple light is therefore seldom, if ever employed; but whether it proceed from the combustion of oil or gas, it is equally necessary that it should be combined with some arrangement of optical apparatus, in order that the rays emitted may be collected, and projected in such a direction as to render them available to the object in view; and in all cases a highly-polished metal surface is employed as a reflector.



In the Hartlepool Lighthouse the illuminative medium is gas. The optical apparatus embraces three-fourths of the circumference of the circle which encloses the light, and the whole of the rays emanating from that part of the light opposed to the optical arrangement are reflected or refracted (as the case may be), so that they are projected from the lighthouse in such a direction as to be visible from the surface of the ocean.

* * * * *



INTEGRITY.



Can anything (says Plato) be more delightful than the hearing or the speaking of truth? For this reason it is that there is no conversation so agreeable that of a man of integrity, who hears without any intention to betray, and speaks without any intention to deceive. As an advocate was pleading the cause of his client in Rome, before one of the praetors, he could only produce a single witness in a point where the law required the testimony of two persons; upon which the advocate insisted on the integrity of the person whom he had produced, but the praetor told him that where the law required two witnesses he would not accept of one, though it were Cato himself. Such a speech, from a person who sat at the head of a court of justice, while Cato was still living, shows us, more than a thousand examples, the high reputation this great man had gained among his contemporaries on account of his sincerity.



2. As I was sitting (says an ancient writer) with some senators of Bruges, before the gate of the Senate-House, a certain beggar presented himself to us, and with sighs and tears, and many lamentable gestures, expressed to us his miserable poverty, and asked our alms, telling us at the same time, that he had about him a private maim and a secret mischief, which very shame restrained him from discovering to the eyes of men. We all pitying the case of the poor man, gave him each of us something, and departed. One, however, amongst us took an opportunity to send his servant after him, with orders to inquire of him what that private infirmity might be which he found such cause to be ashamed of, and was so loth to discover. The servant overtook him, and delivered his commission: and after having diligently viewed his face, breast, arms, legs, and finding all his limbs in apparent soundness, "Why, friend," said he, "I see nothing whereof you have any such reason to complain." "Alas! sir," said the beggar, "the disease which afflicts me is far different from what you conceive, and is such as you cannot discern; yet it is an evil which hath crept over my whole body: it has passed through my very veins and marrow in such a manner that there is no member of my body that is able to work for my daily bread. This disease is by some called idleness, and by others sloth." The servant, hearing this singular apology, left him in great anger, and returned to his master with the above account; but before the company could send again to make further inquiry after him, the beggar had very prudently withdrawn himself.

3. Action, we are assured, keeps the soul in constant health; but idleness corrupts and rusts the mind; for a man of great abilities may by negligence and idleness become so mean and despicable as to be an incumbrance to society and a burthen to himself. When the Roman historians described an extraordinary man, it generally entered into his character, as an essential, that he was incredibili industria, diligentia singulari—of incredible industry, of singular diligence and application. And Cato, in Sallust, informs the Senate, that it was not so much the arms as the industry of their ancestors, which advanced the grandeur of Rome, and made her mistress of the world.

DR. DODD.

* * * * *



RAFT OF GAMBIER ISLANDERS

The group in the Pacific Ocean called the Gambier Islands are but thinly inhabited, but possess a good harbour. Captain Beechey, in his "Narrative of a Voyage to the Pacific and Behring's Straits," tells us that several of the islands, especially the largest, have a fertile appearance. The Captain gives an interesting account of his interview with some of the natives, who approached the ship in rafts, carrying from sixteen to twenty men each, as represented in the Engraving.



"We were much pleased," says the Captain, "with the manner of lowering their matting sail, diverging on different courses, and working their paddles, in the use of which they had great power, and were well skilled, plying them together, or, to use a nautical phrase, 'keeping stroke.' They had no other weapons but long poles, and were quite naked, with the exception of a banana leaf cut into strips, and tied about their loins; and one or two persons wore white turbans." They timidly approached both the ship and the barge, but would upset any small boats within their reach; not, however, from any malicious intention, but from thoughtlessness and inquisitiveness. Captain Beechey approached them in the gig, and gave them several presents, for which they, in return, threw him some bundles of paste, tied up in large leaves, which was the common food of the natives. They tempted the Captain and his crew with cocoa-nuts and roots, and invited their approach by performing ludicrous dances; but, as soon as the visitors were within reach, all was confusion. A scuffle ensued, and on a gun being fired over their heads, all but four instantly plunged into the sea. The inhabitants of these islands are stated to be well-made, with upright and graceful figures. Tattooing seems to be very commonly practised, and some of the patterns are described as being very elegant.

* * * * *



CHRISTIAN FREEDOM.

"He is the freeman whom the truth makes free," Who first of all the bands of Satan breaks; Who breaks the bands of sin, and for his soul, In spite of fools, consulteth seriously; In spite of fashion, perseveres in good; In spite of wealth or poverty, upright; Who does as reason, not as fancy bids; Who hears Temptation sing, and yet turns not Aside; sees Sin bedeck her flowery bed, And yet will not go up; feels at his heart The sword unsheathed, yet will not sell the truth; Who, having power, has not the will to hurt; Who feels ashamed to be, or have a slave, Whom nought makes blush but sin, fears nought but God; Who, finally, in strong integrity Of soul, 'midst want, or riches, or disgrace Uplifted, calmly sat, and heard the waves Of stormy Folly breaking at his feet, Nor shrill with praise, nor hoarse with foal reproach, And both despised sincerely; seeking this Alone, the approbation of his God, Which still with conscience witness'd to his peace. This, this is freedom, such as Angels use, And kindred to the liberty of God!

POLLOCK.

* * * * *



THE POLAR REGIONS.

The adventurous spirit of Englishmen has caused them to fit out no less than sixty expeditions within the last three centuries and a half, with the sole object of discovering a north-west passage to India. Without attempting even to enumerate these baffled essays, we will at once carry our young readers to these dreary regions—dreary, merely because their capabilities are unsuited to the necessities which are obvious to all, yet performing their allotted office in the economy of the world, and manifesting the majesty and the glory of our great Creator.



Winter in the Arctic Circle is winter indeed: there is no sun to gladden with his beams the hearts of the voyagers; but all is wrapt in darkness, day and night, save when the moon chances to obtrude her faint rays, only to make visible the desolation of the scene. The approach of winter is strongly marked. Snow begins to fall in August, and the ground is covered to the depth of two or three feet before October. As the cold augments, the air bears its moisture in the form of a frozen fog, the icicles of which are so sharp as to be painful to the skin. The surface of the sea steams like a lime-kiln, caused by the water being still warmer than the superincumbent atmosphere. The mist at last clears, the water having become frozen, and darkness settles on the land. All is silence, broken only by the bark of the Arctic fox, or by the loud explosion of bursting rocks, as the frost penetrates their bosoms.

The crews of exploring vessels, which are frozen firmly in the ice in winter, spend almost the whole of their time in their ships, which in Sir James Ross's expedition (in 1848-49) were well warmed and ventilated. Where there has not been sufficient warmth, their provisions—even brandy—became so frozen as to require to be cut by a hatchet. The mercury in a barometer has frozen so that it might be beaten on an anvil.

As Sir James Ross went in search of Sir John Franklin, he adopted various methods of letting him know (if alive) of assistance being at hand. Provisions were deposited in several marked places; and on the excursions to make these deposits, they underwent terrible fatigue, as well as suffered severely from what is termed "snow blindness." But the greatest display of ingenuity was in capturing a number of white foxes, and fastening copper collars round their necks, on which was engraved a notice of the position of the ships and provisions. It was possible that these animals, which are known to travel very far in search of food, might be captured by the missing voyagers, who would thus be enabled to avail themselves of the assistance intended for them by their noble countrymen. The little foxes, in their desire to escape, sometimes tried to gnaw the bars of their traps; but the cold was so intense, that their tongues froze to the iron, and so their captors had to kill them, to release them from their misery, for they were never wantonly destroyed.

The great Painter of the Universe has not forgotten the embellishment of the Pole. One of the most beautiful phenomena in nature is the Aurora Borealis, or northern lights. It generally assumes the form of an arch, darting flashes of lilac, yellow, or white light towards the heights of heaven. Some travellers state that the aurora are accompanied by a crackling or hissing noise; but Captain Lyon, who listened for hours, says that this is not the case, and that it is merely that the imagination cannot picture these sudden bursts of light as unaccompanied by noise.

We will now bid farewell to winter, for with returning summer comes the open sea, and the vessels leave their wintry bed. This, however, is attended with much difficulty and danger. Canals have to be cut in the ice, through which to lead the ships to a less obstructed ocean; and, after this had been done in Sir James Ross's case, the ships were hemmed in by a pack of ice, fifty miles in circumference, and were carried along, utterly helpless, at the rate of eight or ten miles daily, for upwards of 250 miles—the navigators fearing the adverse winds might drive them on the rocky coast of Baffin's Bay. At length the wind changed, and carried them clear of ice and icebergs (detached masses of ice, sometimes several hundred feet in height) to the open sea, and back to their native land.

With all its dreariness, we owe much to the ice-bound Pole; to it we are indebted for the cooling breeze and the howling tempest—the beneficent tempest, in spite of all its desolation and woe. Evil and good in nature are comparative: the same thing does what is called harm in one sense, but incalculable good in another. So the tempest, that causes the wreck, and makes widows of happy wives and orphans of joyous children, sets in motion air that would else be stagnant, and become the breath of pestilence and the grave.



* * * * *



THE CROWN JEWELS.



All the Crown Jewels, or Regalia, used by the Sovereign on great state occasions, are kept in the Tower of London, where they have been for nearly two centuries. The first express mention made of the Regalia being kept in this palatial fortress, occurs in the reign of Henry III., previously to which they were deposited either in the Treasury of the Temple, or in some religious house dependent upon the Crown. Seldom, however, did the jewels remain in the Tower for any length of time, for they were repeatedly pledged to meet the exigences of the Sovereign. An inventory of the jewels in the Tower, made by order of James I., is of great length; although Henry III., during the Lincolnshire rebellion, in 1536, greatly reduced the value and number of the Royal store. In the reign of Charles II., a desperate attempt was made by Colonel Blood and his accomplices to possess themselves of the Royal Jewels.

The Regalia were originally kept in a small building on the south side of the White Tower; but, in the reign of Charles I., they were transferred to a strong chamber in the Martin Tower, afterwards called the Jewel Tower. Here they remained until the fire in 1840; when being threatened with destruction from the flames which were raging near them, they were carried away by the warders, and placed for safety in the house of the Governor. In 1841 they were removed to the new Jewel-House, which is much more commodious than the old vaulted chamber in which they were previously shown.



The QUEEN'S, or IMPERIAL CROWN was made for the coronation of her present Majesty. It is composed of a cap of purple velvet, enclosed by hoops of silver, richly dight with gems, in the form shown in our Illustration. The arches rise almost to a point instead of being depressed, are covered with pearls, and are surmounted by an orb of brilliants. Upon this is placed a Maltese or cross pattee of brilliants. Four crosses and four fleurs-de-lis surmount the circlet, all composed of diamonds, the front cross containing the "inestimable sapphire," of the purest and deepest azure, more than two inches long, and an inch broad; and, in the circlet beneath it, is a rock ruby, of enormous size and exquisite colour, said to have been worn by the Black Prince at the battle of Cressy, and by Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt. The circlet is enriched with diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. This crown was altered from the one constructed expressly for the coronation of King George IV.: the superb diadem then weighed 5-1/2 lb., and was worn by the King on his return in procession from the Abbey to the Hall at Westminster.



The OLD IMPERIAL CROWN (St. Edward's) is the one whose form is so familiar to us from its frequent representation on the coin of the realm, the Royal arms, &c. It was made for the coronation of Charles II., to replace the one broken up and sold during the Civil Wars, which was said to have been worn by Edward the Confessor. It is of gold, and consists of two arches crossing at the top, and rising from a rim or circlet of gold, over a cap of crimson velvet, lined with white taffeta, and turned up with ermine. The base of the arches on each side is covered by a cross pattee; between the crosses are four fleurs-de-lis of gold, which rise out of the circle: the whole of these are splendidly enriched with pearls and precious stones. On the top, at the intersection of the arches, which are somewhat depressed, are a mound and cross of gold the latter richly jewelled, and adorned with three pearls, one on the top, and one pendent at each limb.



The PRINCE OF WALES'S CROWN is of pure gold, unadorned with jewels. On occasions of state, it is placed before the seat occupied by the Heir-Apparent to the throne in the House of Lords.



The QUEEN'S DIADEM was made for the coronation of Marie d'Este, consort of James II., it is adorned with large diamonds, and the upper edge of the circlet is bordered with pearls.

The TEMPORAL SCEPTRE of Queen Victoria is of gold, 2 feet 9 inch in length; the staff is very plain, but the pommel is ornamented with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. The fleurs-de-lis with which this sceptre was originally adorned have been replaced by golden leaves, bearing the rose, shamrock, and thistle. The cross is variously jewelled, and has in the centre a large table diamond.



Her Majesty's SPIRITUAL SCEPTRE, Rod of Equity, or Sceptre with the Dove, is also of gold, 3 feet 7 inches long, set with diamonds and other precious stones. It is surmounted by an orb, banded with rose diamonds, bearing a cross, on which is the figure of a dove with expanded wings.

The QUEEN'S IVORY SCEPTRE was made for Maria d'Este, consort of James II. It is mounted in gold, and terminated by a golden cross, bearing a dove of white onyx.



The ampulla is an antique vessel of pure gold, used for containing the holy oil at coronations. It resembles an eagle with expanded wings, and is finely chased: the head screws off at the middle of the neck for pouring in the oil; and the neck being hollow to the beak the latter serves as a spout, through which the consecrated oil is poured into



The ANOINTING SPOON, which is also of pure gold: it has four pearls in the broadest part of the handle, and the bowl of the spoon is finely chased within and without; by its extreme thinness, it appears to be ancient.



The ARMILLAE, or BRACELETS, are of solid fine gold, chased, 1-1/2 inch in breadth, edged with rows of pearls. They open by a hinge, and are enamelled with the rose, fleur-de-lis, and harp.



The IMPERIAL ORB, or MOUND, is an emblem of sovereignty, said to have been derived from Imperial Rome, and to have been first adorned with the cross by Constantine, on his conversion to Christianity. It first appears among the Royal insignia of England on the coins of Edward the Confessor. This orb is a ball of gold, 6 inches in diameter, encompassed with a band of gold, set with emeralds, rubies, and pearls. On the top is a remarkably fine amethyst, nearly 1-1/2 inch high, which serves as the foot or pedestal of a rich cross of gold, 32 inches high, encrusted with diamonds; having in the centre, on one side, a sapphire, and an emerald on the other; four large pearls at the angles of the cross, a large pearl at the end of each limb, and three at the base; the height of the orb and cross being 11 inches.

The QUEEN'S ORB is of smaller dimensions than the preceding, but of similar materials and fashion.



The SALT-CELLARS are of singular form and rich workmanship. The most noticeable is—the Golden Salt-cellar of State, which is of pure gold, richly adorned with jewels, and grotesque figures in chased work. Its form is castellated: and the receptacles for the salt are formed by the removal of the tops of the turrets.

In the same chamber with the Crowns, Sceptres, and other Regalia used in the ceremonial of the Coronation, is a very interesting collection of plate, formerly used at Coronation festivals; together with fonts, &c. Amongst these are

The QUEEN'S BAPTISMAL FONT, which is of silver, gilt, tastefully chased, and surmounted by two figures emblematical of the baptismal rite: this font was formerly used at the christening of the Royal family; but a new font of more picturesque design, has lately be n manufactured for her Majesty.



There are, besides, in the collection, a large Silver Wine Fountain, presented by the corporation of Plymouth to Charles II.; two massive Coronation Tankards, of gold; a Banqueting Dish, and other dishes and spoons of gold, used at Coronation festivals; besides a beautifully-wrought service of Sacramental Plate, employed at the Coronation, and used also in the Chapel of St. Peter in the Tower.

* * * * *



WHAT IS TIME?



I ask'd an aged man, a man of cares, Wrinkled and curved, and white with hoary hairs: "Time is the warp of life," he said; "Oh tell The young, the fair, the gay, to weave 't well!" I ask'd the ancient, venerable dead— Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled: From the cold grave a hollow murmur flow'd— "Time sow'd the seed we reap in this abode!" I ask'd a dying sinner, ere the tide Of life had left his veins: "Time?" he replied, "I've lost it! Ah, the treasure!" and he died. I ask'd the golden sun and silver spheres, Those bright chronometers of days and years: They answer'd: "Time is but a meteor's glare," And bade me for Eternity prepare. I ask'd the Seasons, in their annual round, Which beautify or desolate the ground; And they replied (no oracle more wise): "'Tis Folly's blank, and Wisdom's highest prize!" I ask'd a spirit lost, but oh! the shriek That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak. It cried, "A particle! a speck! a mite Of endless years—duration infinite!" Of things inanimate, my dial I Consulted, and it made me this reply: "Time is the season fair of living well— The path of glory, or the path of hell." I ask'd my Bible, and methinks it said: "Time is the present hour—the past is fled: Live! live to-day; to-morrow never yet On any human being rose or set." I ask'd old Father Time himself at last, But in a moment he flew swiftly past— His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind. I ask'd the mighty Angel who shall stand One foot on sea, and one on solid land; "By Heaven!" he cried, "I swear the mystery's o'er; Time was," he cried, "but time shall be no more!"

REV. J. MARSDEN.

* * * * *



SIMPLICITY IN WRITING.



Fine writing, according to Mr. Addison, consists of sentiments which are natural without being obvious. There cannot be a juster and more concise definition of fine writing.

Sentiments which are merely natural affect not the mind with any pleasure, and seem not worthy to engage our attention. The pleasantries of a waterman, the observations of a peasant, the ribaldry of a porter or hackney-coachman; all these are natural and disagreeable. What an insipid comedy should we make of the chit-chit of the tea-table, copied faithfully and at full length! Nothing can please persons of taste but nature drawn with all her graces and ornament—la belle nature; or, if we copy low life, the strokes must be strong and remarkable, and must convey a lively image to the mind. The absurd naivete of Sancho Panza is represented in such inimitable colours by Cervantes, that it entertains as much as the picture of the most magnanimous hero or softest lover.

The case is the same with orators, philosophers, critics, or any author who speaks in his own person without introducing other speakers or actors. If his language be not elegant, his observations uncommon, his sense strong and masculine, he will in vain boast his nature and simplicity. He may be correct, but he never will be agreeable. 'Tis the unhappiness of such authors that they are never blamed nor censured. The good fortune of a book and that of a man are not the same. The secret deceiving path of life, which Horace talks of—fallentis semita vitae—may be the happiest, lot of the one, but is the greatest misfortune that the other can possibly fall into.

On the other hand, productions which are merely surprising, without being natural, can never give any lasting entertainment to the mind. To draw chimaeras is not, properly speaking, to copy or imitate. The justness of the representation is lost, and the mind is displeased to find a picture which bears no resemblance to any original. Nor are such excessive refinements more agreeable in the epistolary or philosophic style, than in the epic or tragic. Too much ornament is a fault in every kind of production. Uncommon expressions, strong flashes of wit, pointed similes, and epigrammatic turns, especially when laid too thick, are a disfigurement rather than any embellishment of discourse. As the eye, in surveying a Gothic building, is distracted by the multiplicity of ornaments, and loses the whole by its minute attention to the parts; so the mind, in perusing a work overstocked with wit, is fatigued and disgusted with the constant endeavour to shine and surprise. This is the case where a writer over-abounds in wit, even though that wit should be just and agreeable. But it commonly happens to such writers, that they seek for their favourite ornaments even where the subject affords them not; and by that means have twenty insipid conceits for one thought that is really beautiful.

There is no subject in critical learning more copious than this of the just mixture of simplicity and refinement in writing; and, therefore, not to wander in too large a field, I shall confine myself to a few general observations on that head.

First, I observe, "That though excesses of both kinds are to be avoided, and though a proper medium ought to be studied in all productions; yet this medium lies not in a point, but admits of a very considerable latitude." Consider the wide distance, in this respect, between Mr. Pope and Lucretius. These seem to lie in the two greatest extremes of refinement and simplicity which a poet can indulge himself in, without being guilty of any blameable excess. All this interval may be filled with poets, who may differ from each other, but may be equally admirable, each in his peculiar style and manner. Corneille and Congreve, who carry their wit and refinement somewhat farther than Mr. Pope (if poets of so different a kind can be compared together), and Sophocles and Terence, who are more simple than Lucretius, seem to have gone out of that medium wherein the most perfect productions are to be found, and are guilty of some excess in these opposite characters. Of all the great poets, Virgil and Racine, in my opinion, lie nearest the centre, and are the farthest removed from both the extremities.

My second observation on this head is, "That it is very difficult, if not impossible, to explain by words wherein the just medium betwixt the excesses of simplicity and refinement consists, or to give any rule by which we can know precisely the bounds betwixt the fault and the beauty." A critic may not only discourse very judiciously on this head without instructing his readers, but even without understanding the matter perfectly himself. There is not in the world a finer piece of criticism than Fontenelle's "Dissertation on Pastorals;" wherein, by a number of reflections and philosophical reasonings, he endeavours to fix the just medium which is suitable to that species of writing. But let any one read the pastorals of that author, and he will be convinced, that this judicious critic, notwithstanding his fine reasonings, had a false taste, and fixed the point of perfection much nearer the extreme of refinement than pastoral poetry will admit of. The sentiments of his shepherds are better suited to the toilets of Paris than to the forests of Arcadia. But this it is impossible to discover from his critical reasonings. He blames all excessive painting and ornament, as much as Virgil could have done had he written a dissertation on this species of poetry. However different the tastes of men may be, their general discourses on these subjects are commonly the same. No criticism can be very instructive which descends not to particulars, and is not full of examples and illustrations. 'Tis allowed on all hands, that beauty, as well as virtue, lies always in a medium; but where this medium is placed is the great question, and can never be sufficiently explained by general reasonings.

I shall deliver it as a third observation on this subject, "That we ought to be more on our guard against the excess of refinement than that of simplicity; and that because the former excess is both less beautiful and more dangerous than the latter."

It is a certain rule that wit and passion are entirely inconsistent. When the affections are moved, there is no place for the imagination. The mind of man being naturally limited, it is impossible all his faculties can operate at once; and the more any one predominates, the less room is there for the others to exert their vigour. For this reason a greater degree of simplicity is required in all compositions, where men and actions and passions are painted, than in such as consist of reflections and observations. And as the former species of writing is the more engaging and beautiful, one may safely, upon this account, give the preference to the extreme of simplicity above that of refinement.

We may also observe, that those compositions which we read the oftenest, and which every man of taste has got by heart, have the recommendation of simplicity, and have nothing surprising in the thought when divested of that elegance of expression and harmony of numbers with which it is cloathed. If the merit of the composition lies in a point of wit, it may strike at first; but the mind anticipates the thought in the second perusal, and is no longer affected by it. When I read an epigram of Martial, the first line recalls the whole; and I have no pleasure in repeating to myself what I know already. But each line, each word in Catullus has its merit; and I am never tired with the perusal of him. It is sufficient to rim over Cowley once; but Parnel, after the fiftieth reading, is fresh as at the first. Besides, it is with books as with women, where a certain plainness of manner and of dress is more engaging than that glare of paint and airs and apparel which may dazzle the eye but reaches not the affections. Terence is a modest and bashful beauty, to whom we grant every thing, because he assumes nothing, and whose purity and nature make a durable though not a violent impression upon us.

But refinement, as it is the less beautiful, so it is the more dangerous extreme, and what we are the aptest to fall into. Simplicity passes for dulness when it is not accompanied with great elegance and propriety. On the contrary, there is something surprising in a blaze of wit and conceit. Ordinary readers are mightily struck with it, and falsely imagine it to be the most difficult, as well as most excellent way of writing. Seneca abounds with agreeable faults, says Quinctilian—abundat dulcibus vitiis; and for that reason is the more dangerous and the more apt to pervert the taste of the young and inconsiderate.

I shall add, that the excess of refinement is now more to be guarded against than ever; because it is the extreme which men are the most apt to fall into, after learning has made great progress, and after eminent writers have appeared in every species of composition. The endeavour to please by novelty leads men wide of simplicity and nature, and fills their writings with affectation and conceit. It was thus that the age of Claudius and Nero became so much inferior to that of Augustus in taste and genius; and perhaps there are at present some symptoms of a like degeneracy of taste, in France as well as in England.

HUME.

* * * * *



JOHN HAMPDEN.

The celebrated patriot, John Hampden, was descended from an ancient family in Buckinghamshire, where he was born in 1594. On leaving the University, he entered the inns of court, where he made considerable progress in the study of the law. He was chosen to serve in the Parliament which assembled at Westminster, February, 1626, and served in all the succeeding Parliaments in the reign of Charles I. That Monarch having quarrelled with his Parliament, was obliged to have recourse to the open exercise of his prerogative in order to supply himself with money. From the nobility he desired assistance; from the City of London he required a loan of L100,000. The former contributed but slowly; the latter at length gave a flat denial. To equip a fleet, an apportionment was made, by order of the Council, amongst all the maritime towns, each of which was required, with the assistance of the adjoining counties, to furnish a certain number of vessels or amount of shipping. The City of London was rated at twenty ships. And this was the first appearance in the present reign of ship-money—a taxation which had once been imposed by Elizabeth, on a great emergency, but which, revived and carried further by Charles, produced the most violent discontent.



In 1636, John Hampden became universally known by his intrepid opposition to the ship-money, as an illegal tax. Upon this he was prosecuted, and his conduct throughout the transaction gained him great credit and reputation. When the Long Parliament began, the eyes of all were fixed upon him as the father of his country. On the 3rd of January, 1642, the King ordered articles of high treason, and other misdemeanours, to be prepared against Lord Kimbolton, Mr. Hampden, and four other members of the House of Commons, and went to the House to seize them, but they had retired. Mr. Hampden afterwards made a celebrated speech in the House to clear himself from the charge brought against him.

In the beginning of the civil war Hampden commanded a regiment of foot, and did good service at the battle of Edgehill; but he received a mortal wound in an engagement with Prince Rupert, in Chalgrave-field, in Oxfordshire, and died in 1648. Hampden is said to have possessed in a high degree talents for gaining and preserving popular influence, and great courage, industry, and strength of mind, which procured him great ascendancy over other men.

* * * * *



OTHELLO'S HISTORY.



Her father loved me; oft invited me; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year: the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have past. I ran it through, even from my boyish days To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving incidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And 'portance in my travels' history; Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak—such was the process; And of the cannibals that each other eat— The Anthropophagi—and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to bear Would Desdemona seriously incline: still the house affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse; which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage relate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard But not intentively: I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs; She swore—in faith 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful; She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd That Heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me; And bade me if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake; She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used: Here comes the lady; let her witness it.

SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *



FILIAL LOVE.



Verily duty to parents is of the first consequence; and would you, my young friends, recommend yourselves to the favour of your God and Father, would you imitate the example of your adorable Redeemer, and be made an inheritor of his precious promises; would you enjoy the peace and comforts of this life, and the good esteem of your fellow-creatures—Reverence your parents; and be it your constant endeavour, as it will be your greatest satisfaction, to witness your high sense of, and to make some returns for the obligations you owe to them, by every act of filial obedience and love.

Let their commands be ever sacred in your ears, and implicitly obeyed, where they do not contradict the commands of God: pretend not to be wiser than they, who have had so much more experience than yourselves; and despise them not, if haply you should be so blest as to have gained a degree of knowledge or of fortune superior to them. Let your carriage towards them be always respectful, reverent, and submissive; let your words be always affectionate and humble, and especially beware of pert and ill-seeming replies; of angry, discontented, and peevish looks. Never imagine, if they thwart your wills, or oppose your inclinations, that this ariseth from any thing but love to you: solicitous as they have ever been for your welfare, always consider the same tender solicitude as exerting itself, even in cases most opposite to your desires; and let the remembrance of what they have done and suffered for you, ever preserve you from acts of disobedience, and from paining those good hearts which have already felt so much for you, their children.

The Emperor of China, on certain days of the year, pays a visit to his mother, who is seated on a throne to receive him; and four times on his feet, and as often on his knees, he makes her a profound obeisance, bowing his head even to the ground.

Sir Thomas More seems to have emulated this beautiful example; for, being Lord Chancellor of England at the same time that his father was a Judge of the King's Bench, he would always, on his entering Westminster Hall, go first to the King's Bench, and ask his father's blessing before he went to sit in the Court of Chancery, as if to secure success in the great decisions of his high and important office.

DR. DODD.

* * * * *



QUEEN MARY'S BOWER, CHATSWORTH.



When the widowed Mary, Queen of Scots, left France, where she had dwelt since her fifth year—where she had shared in the education of the French King's own daughters, in one of the convents of the kingdom, and been the idol of the French Court and people, it is said that, as the coast of the happy land faded from her view, she continued to exclaim, "Farewell, France! farewell, dear France—I shall never see thee more!" And her first view of Scotland only increased the poignancy of these touching regrets. So little pains had been taken to "cover over the nakedness and poverty of the land," that tears sprang into her eyes, when, fresh from the elegant luxurious Court of Paris, she saw the wretched ponies, with bare, wooden saddles, or dirty and ragged trappings, which had been provided to carry her and her ladies from the water-side to Holyrood. And then the palace itself; how different from the palaces in which she had lived in France! Dismal and small, it consisted only of what is now the north wing. The state-room and the bed-chamber which were used by her yet remain, with the old furniture, and much of the needle-work there is said to have been the work of her hands. During her long and melancholy imprisonment in England, the art of needle-work and reading were almost her only mode of relieving the dreary hours.

From the moment Mary of Scotland took the fatal resolution of throwing herself upon the supposed kindness and generosity of Elizabeth, her fate was sealed, and it was that of captivity, only to be ended by death. She was immediately cut off from all communication with her subjects, except such as it was deemed proper to allow; and was moved about from place to place, the better to ensure her safety. The hapless victim again and again implored Elizabeth to deal generously and justly with her. "I came," said she, in one of her letters, "of mine own accord; let me depart again with yours: and if God permit my cause to succeed, I shall be bound to you for it." But her rival was unrelenting, and, in fact, increased the rigours of her confinement. Whilst a prisoner at Chatsworth, she had been permitted the indulgence of air and exercise; and the bower of Queen Mary is still shown in the noble grounds of that place, as a favourite resort of the unfortunate captive. But even this absolutely necessary indulgence was afterwards denied; she was wholly confined to the Castle of Fotheringay, and a standing order was issued that "she should be shot if she attempted to escape, or if others attempted to rescue her."



Burns, in his "Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots," touchingly expresses the weary feelings that must have existed in the breast of the Royal captive:—

"Oh, soon to me may summer suns Nae mair light up the morn! Nae mair to me the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn! And in the narrow house of death, Let winter round me rave; And the next flowers that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave."

* * * * *



TUBULAR RAILWAY BRIDGES.

In the year 1850, a vast line of railway was completed from Chester to Holyhead, for the conveyance of the Royal mails, of goods and passengers, and of her Majesty's troops and artillery, between London and Dublin—Holyhead being the most desirable point at which to effect this communication with Ireland. Upon this railway are two stupendous bridges, which are the most perfect examples of engineering skill ever executed in England, or in any other country.

The first of these bridges carries the railway across the river Conway, close to the ancient castle built by Edward I. in order to bridle his new subjects, the Welsh.

The Conway bridge consists of a tube, or long, huge chest, the ends of which rest upon stone piers, built to correspond with the architecture of the old castle. The tube is made of wrought-iron plates, varying in thickness from a quarter of an inch to one inch, riveted together, and strengthened by irons in the form of the letter T; and, to give additional strength to the whole, a series of cells is formed at the bottom and top of the tube, between an inner ceiling and floor and the exterior plates; the iron plates which form the cells being riveted and held in their places by angle irons. The space between the sides of the tube is 14 feet; and the height of the whole, inclusive of the cells, is 22 feet 3-1/2 inches at the ends, and 25 feet 6 inches at the centre. The total length of the tube is 412 feet. One end of the tube is fixed to the masonry of the pier; but the other is so arranged as to allow for the expansion of the metal by changes of the temperature of the atmosphere, and it therefore, rests upon eleven rollers of iron, running upon a bed-plate; and, that the whole weight of the tube may not be carried by these rollers, six girders are carried over the tube, and riveted to the upper parts of its sides, which rest upon twelve balls of gun-metal running in grooves, which are fixed to iron beams let into the masonry.

The second of these vast railway bridges crosses the Menai Straits, which separate Caernarvon from the island of Anglesey. It is constructed a good hundred feet above high-water level, to enable large vessels to sail beneath it; and in building it, neither scaffolding nor centering was used.

The abutments on either side of the Straits are huge piles of masonry. That on the Anglesey side is 143 feet high, and 173 feet long. The wing walls of both terminate in splendid pedestals, and on each are two colossal lions, of Egyptian design; each being 25 feet long, 12 feet high though crouched, 9 feet abaft the body, and each paw 2 feet 1 inches. Each weighs 30 tons. The towers for supporting the tube are of a like magnitude with the entire work. The great Britannia Tower, in the centre of the Straits, is 62 feet by 52 feet at its base; its total height from the bottom, 230 feet; it contains 148,625 cubic feet of limestone, and 144,625 of sandstone; it weighs 20,000 tons; and there are 387 tons of cast iron built into it in the shape of beams and girders. It sustains the four ends of the four long iron tubes which span the Straits from shore to shore. The total quantity of stone contained in the bridge is 1,500,000 cubic feet. The side towers stand at a clear distance of 460 feet from the great central tower; and, again, the abutments stand at a distance from the side towers of 230 feet, giving the entire bridge a total length of 1849 feet, corresponding with the date of the year of its construction. The side or land towers are each 62 feet by 52 feet at the base, and 190 feet high; they contain 210 tons of cast iron.



The length of the great tube is exactly 470 feet, being 12 feet longer than the clear space between the towers, and the greatest span ever yet attempted. The greatest height of the tube is in the centre—30 feet, and diminishing towards the end to 22 feet. Each tube consists of sides, top and bottom, all formed of long, narrow wrought-iron plates, varying in length from 12 feet downward. These plates are of the same manufacture as those for making boilers, varying in thickness from three-eighths to three-fourths of an inch. Some of them weigh nearly 7 cwt., and are amongst the largest it is possible to roll with any existing machinery. The connexion between top, bottom, and sides is made much more substantial by triangular pieces of thick plate, riveted in across the corners, to enable the tube to resist the cross or twisting strain to which it will be exposed from the heavy and long-continued gales of wind that, sweeping up the Channel, will assail it in its lofty and unprotected position. The rivets, of which there are 2,000,000—each tube containing 327,000—are more than an inch in diameter. They are placed in rows, and were put in the holes red hot, and beaten with heavy hammers. In cooling, they contracted strongly, and drew the plates together so powerfully that it required a force of from 1 to 6 tons to each rivet, to cause the plates to slide over each other. The weight of wrought iron in the great tube is 1600 tons.

Each of these vast bridge tubes was constructed on the shore, then floated to the base of the piers, or bridge towers, and raised to its proper elevation by hydraulic machinery, the largest in the world, and the most powerful ever constructed. For the Britannia Bridge, this consisted of two vast presses, one of which has power equal to that of 30,000 men, and it lifted the largest tube six feet in half an hour.

The Britannia tubes being in two lines, are passages for the up and down trains across the Straits. Each of the tubes has been compared to the Burlington Arcade, in Piccadilly; and the labour of placing this tube upon the piers has been assimilated to that of raising the Arcade upon the summit of the spire of St. James's Church, if surrounded with water.

Each line of tube is 1513 feet in length; far surpassing in size any piece of wrought-iron work ever before put together; and its weight is 5000 tons, being nearly equal to that of two 120-gun ships, having on board, ready for sea, guns, provisions, and crew. The plate-iron covering of the tubes is not thicker than the hide of an elephant, and scarcely thicker than the bark of an oak-tree; whilst one of the large tubes, if placed on its end in St. Paul's churchyard, would reach 107 feet higher than the cross of the cathedral.



* * * * *



THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye mariners of England! Who guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze, Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe, And sweep through the deep While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave; Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep: With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor-flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

CAMPBELL.

* * * * *



KAFFIR LETTER-CARRIER.

"I knew" (says the pleasing writer of "Letters from Sierra Leone") "that the long-looked-for vessel had at length furled her sails and dropped anchor in the bay. She was from England, and I waited, expecting every minute to feast my eyes upon at least one letter; but I remembered how unreasonable it was to suppose that any person would come up with letters to this lonely place at so late an hour, and that it behoved me to exercise the grace of patience until next day. However, between ten and eleven o'clock, a loud shouting and knocking aroused the household, and the door was opened to a trusty Kroo messenger, who, although one of a tribe who would visit any of its members in their own country with death, who could 'savey white man's book,' seemed to comprehend something of our feelings at receiving letters, as I overheard him exclaim, with evident glee, 'Ah! massa! here de right book come at last.' Every thing, whether a brown-paper parcel, a newspaper, an official despatch, a private letter or note is here denominated a 'book,' and this man understood well that newspapers are never received so gladly amongst 'books' from England as letters." The Kaffir, in the Engraving, was sketched from one employed to convey letters in the South African settlements; he carries his document in a split at the end of a cane.



It is a singular sight in India to see the catamarans which put off from some parts of the coast, as soon as ships come in sight, either to bear on board or to convey from thence letters or messages. These frail vessels are composed of thin cocoa-tree logs, lashed together, and big enough to carry one, or, at most, two persons. In one of these a small sail is fixed, and the navigator steers with a little paddle; the float itself is almost entirely sunk in the water, so that the effect is very singular—a sail sweeping along the surface with a man behind it, and apparently nothing to support them. Those which have no sails are consequently invisible and the men have the appearance of treading the water and performing evolutions with a racket. In very rough weather the men lash themselves to their little rafts but in ordinary seas they seem, though frequently washed off, to regard such accidents as mere trifles, being naked all but a wax cloth cap in which they keep any letters they may have to convey to ships in the roads, and swimming like fish. Their only danger is from sharks, which are said to abound. These cannot hurt them while on their floats; but woe be to them if they catch them while separated from that defence. Yet, even then, the case is not quite hopeless, since the shark can only attack them from below; and a rapid dive, if not in very deep water, will sometimes save them.

* * * * *



THE SEASONS.



SPRING.



Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come, And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud, While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.

* * * * *

Hail! Source of Being! Universal Soul Of heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail; To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thought Continual climb; who, with a master hand. Hast the great whole into perfection touch'd. By Thee the various vegetative tribes, Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves, Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew: By Thee disposed into congenial soils, Stands each attractive plant, and sucks and swells The juicy tide—a twining mass of tubes. At thy command the vernal sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wintry winds, that now in fluent dance, And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innumerous-colour'd scene of things. As rising from the vegetable world My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend My panting Muse! And hark! how loud the woods Invite you forth in all your gayest trim. Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh, pour The mazy running soul of melody Into my varied verse! while I deduce From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, The symphony of spring, and touch a theme Unknown to fame, the passion of the groves.



SUMMER.



From bright'ning fields of ether fair disclosed, Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes, In pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth: He comes attended by the sultry hours, And ever-fanning breezes on his way; While from his ardent look the turning Spring Averts his blushing face, and earth and skies, All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.

* * * * *

Cheer'd by the milder beam, the sprightly youth Speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal depth A sandy bottom shows. Awhile he stands Gazing the inverted landscape, half afraid To meditate the blue profound below; Then plunges headlong down the circling flood. His ebon tresses, and his rosy cheek, Instant emerge: and through the obedient wave, At each short breathing by his lip repell'd, With arms and legs according well, he makes, As humour leads, an easy-winding path; While from his polish'd sides a dewy light Effuses on the pleased spectators round.

This is the purest exercise of health. The kind refresher of the Summer heats: Nor, when cold Winter keens the brightening flood, Would I, weak-shivering, linger on the brink. Thus life redoubles, and is oft preserved By the bold swimmer, in the swift elapse Of accident disastrous.



AUTUMN.



Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn nodding o'er the yellow plain Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more, Well pleased, I tune. Whatever the wintry frost Nitrous prepared, the various-blossom'd Spring Put in white promised forth, and Summer suns Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view, Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.

* * * * *

Hence from the busy, joy-resounding fields In cheerful error let us tread the maze Of Autumn, unconfined; and taste, revived, The breath of orchard big with bending fruit. Obedient to the breeze and beating ray, From the deep-loaded bough a mellow shower Incessant melts away. The juicy pear Lies in a soft profusion scatter'd round. A various sweetness swells the gentle race, By Nature's all-refining hand prepared; Of tempered sun, and water, earth, and air, In ever-changing composition mix'd. Such, falling frequent through the chiller night, The fragrant stores, the wide projected heaps Of apples, which the lusty-handed year, Innumerous, o'er the blushing orchard shakes.



WINTER.



See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train— Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme, These—that exalt the soul to solemn thought And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms; Congenial horrors, hail: with frequent foot, Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life, When nursed by careless solitude I lived, And sung of nature with unceasing joy; Pleased have I wander'd through your rough domain, Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst, Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew'd In the grim evening sky.

* * * * *

Nature! great parent! whose unceasing hand Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year, How mighty, how majestic are thy works! With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul, That sees astonish'd, and astonish'd sings! Ye, too, ye winds! that now begin to blow With boisterous sweep, I raise my voice to you. Where are your stores, ye powerful beings, say, Where your aerial magazines reserved To swell the brooding terrors of the storm? In what far distant region of the sky, Hush'd in deep silence, sleep ye when 'tis calm?

* * * * *

'Tis done; dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. How dead the vegetable kingdom lies! How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends His desolate domain. Behold, fond man! See here thy pictured life! Pass some few years Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength, And sober autumn fading into age, The pale concluding winter comes at last The shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes Of happiness? those longings after fame? Those restless cares? those busy bustling days? Those gay-spent festive nights? those veering thoughts, Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life? All now are vanish'd; virtue sole survives, Immortal, never-failing friend of man— His guide to happiness on high.

THOMSON.



* * * * *



ON MUSIC.



There are few who have not felt the charms of music, and acknowledged its expressions to be intelligible to the heart. It is a language of delightful sensations, that is far more eloquent than words: it breathes to the ear the clearest intimations; but how it was learned, to what origin we owe it, or what is the meaning of some of its most affecting strains, we know not.

We feel plainly that music touches and gently agitates the agreeable and sublime passions; that it wraps us in melancholy, and elevates us to joy; that it dissolves and inflames; that it melts us into tenderness, and rouses into rage: but its strokes are so fine and delicate, that, like a tragedy, even the passions that are wounded please; its sorrows are charming, and its rage heroic and delightful. As people feel the particular passions with different degrees of force, their taste of harmony must proportionably vary. Music, then, is a language directed to the passions; but the rudest passions put on a new nature, and become pleasing in harmony: let me add, also, that it awakens some passions which we perceive not in ordinary life. Particularly the most elevated sensation of music arises from a confused perception of ideal or visionary beauty and rapture, which is sufficiently perceivable to fire the imagination, but not clear enough to become an object of knowledge. This shadowy beauty the mind attempts, with a languishing curiosity, to collect into a distinct object of view and comprehension; but it sinks and escapes, like the dissolving ideas of a delightful dream, that are neither within the reach of the memory, nor yet totally fled. The noblest charm of music, then, though real and affecting, seems too confused and fluid to be collected into a distinct idea.

Harmony is always understood by the crowd, and almost always mistaken by musicians. The present Italian taste for music is exactly correspondent to the taste for tragi-comedy, that about a century ago gained ground upon the stage. The musicians of the present day are charmed at the union they form between the grave and the fantastic, and at the surprising transitions they make between extremes, while every hearer who has the least remainder of the taste of nature left, is shocked at the strange jargon. If the same taste should prevail in painting, we must soon expect to see the woman's head, a horse's body, and a fish's tail, united by soft gradations, greatly admired at our public exhibitions. Musical gentlemen should take particular care to preserve in its full vigour and sensibility their original natural taste, which alone feels and discovers the true beauty of music.

If Milton, Shakspeare, or Dryden had been born with the same genius and inspiration for music as for poetry, and had passed through the practical part without corrupting the natural taste, or blending with it any prepossession in favour of sleights and dexterities of hand, then would their notes be tuned to passions and to sentiments as natural and expressive as the tones and modulations of the voice in discourse. The music and the thought would not make different expressions; the hearers would only think impetuously; and the effect of the music would be to give the ideas a tumultuous violence and divine impulse upon the mind. Any person conversant with the classic poets, sees instantly that the passionate power of music I speak of, was perfectly understood and practised by the ancients—that the Muses of the Greeks always sung, and their song was the echo of the subject, which swelled their poetry into enthusiasm and rapture. An inquiry into the nature and merits of the ancient music, and a comparison thereof with modern composition, by a person of poetic genius and an admirer of harmony, who is free from the shackles of practice, and the prejudices of the mode, aided by the countenance of a few men of rank, of elevated and true taste, would probably lay the present half-Gothic mode of music in ruins, like those towers of whose little laboured ornaments it is an exact picture, and restore the Grecian taste of passionate harmony once more to the delight and wonder of mankind. But as from the disposition of things, and the force of fashion, we cannot hope in our time to rescue the sacred lyre, and see it put into the hands of men of genius, I can only recall you to your own natural feeling of harmony and observe to you, that its emotions are not found in the laboured, fantastic, and surprising compositions that form the modern style of music: but you meet them in some few pieces that are the growth of wild unvitiated taste; you discover them in the swelling sounds that wrap us in imaginary grandeur; in those plaintive notes that make us in love with woe; in the tones that utter the lover's sighs, and fluctuate the breast with gentle pain; in the noble strokes that coil up the courage and fury of the soul, or that lull it in confused visions of joy; in short, in those affecting strains that find their way to the inmost recesses of the heart,

Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.—Milton.

USHER.

* * * * *



THE AFFLICTED POOR.

Say ye—oppress'd by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose, Who press the downy couch while slaves advance With timid eye to read the distant glance; Who with sad pray'rs the weary doctor tease, To name the nameless, ever new disease; Who with mock patience dire complaint endure, Which real pain, and that alone, can cure: How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?

Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between, Save one dull pane that coarsely patch'd gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: There, on a matted flock with dust o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head! For him no hand the cordial cup supplies, Nor wipes the tear which stagnates in his eyes; No friends, with soft discourse, his pangs beguile. Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

CRABBE.



* * * * *



MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS.



Thou, who didst put to flight Primeval silence, when the morning stars, Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball: O Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul; My soul which flies to thee, her trust her treasure, As misers to their gold, while others rest: Through this opaque of nature and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten and to cheer. Oh, lead my mind, (A mind that fain would wander from its woe,) Lead it through various scenes of life and death, And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song; Teach my best reason, reason; my best will Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear; Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss; to give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours. Where are they? with the years beyond the flood! It is the signal that demands dispatch: How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down—on what? A fathomless abyss! A dread eternity! How surely mine! And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man! How passing wonder He who made him such! Who center'd in our make such strange extremes— From different natures, marvellously mix'd: Connexion exquisite! of distant worlds Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity; A beam ethereal—sullied and absorpt! Though sullied and dishonour'd, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm! a god! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home a stranger. Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels! Oh, what a miracle to man is man! Triumphantly distress'd! what joy! what dread Alternately transported and alarm'd! What can preserve my life, or what destroy? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can't confine me there. 'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof. While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread, What though my soul fantastic measures trod O'er fairy fields, or mourn'd along the gloom Of pathless woods, or down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool, Or scaled the cliff, or danced on hollow winds With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain! Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence than the trodden clod: Active, aerial, towering, unconfined, Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. Even silent night proclaims my soul immortal: Even silent night proclaims eternal day! For human weal Heaven husbands all events; Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain.

YOUNG.

* * * * *



FAREWELL.



Nay, shrink not from that word "Farewell!" As if 'twere friendship's final knell— Such fears may prove but vain: So changeful is life's fleeting day, Whene'er we sever, Hope may say, We part to meet again!

E'en the last parting earth can know, Brings not unutterable woe To souls that heav'nward soar: For humble Faith, with steadfast eye, Points to a brighter world on high, Where hearts, that here at parting sigh, May meet—to part no more!

BARTON.



* * * * *



VOCABULARY OF WORDS USED IN THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON READING BOOK.

* * * * *

[We have considered that it would be useful to the young reader to have a ready means of reference, in the READING BOOK itself, to all unusual words of one syllable, and all the words of two syllables and above, that occur in the various lessons. In the following pages will be found, properly accentuated, all the more difficult polysyllables, with their meanings, derived from Johnson, Walker, and other competent authorities.]

* * * * *



ABA'NDON, v.a. give up; resign, or quit; forsake; leave

ABI'LITY, s. capacity; qualification; power

A'BJECT, a. mean; being of no hope or regard; destitute

ABLU'TION, s. the act of cleansing or washing clean; water used in washing

ABO'LISH, v.a. make void; put an end to; destroy

ABO'UND, v.n. have in great plenty; be in great plenty

ABRE'AST, ad. side by side

ABRU'PTLY, ad. hastily; suddenly; without the due forms of preparation

A'BSOLUTE, a. positive; certain; unlimited

A'BSTRACT, s. the smaller quantity containing the virtue or power of the greater

ABSTRU'SE, a. hidden; difficult

ABU'NDANT, a. plentiful

ABU'TMENT, s. that which borders upon another

ACA'DEMY, s. (from Academus, an Athenian, who founded a public school at Athens, which after him was called Academia, Latin), place of education; an assembly or society of men, uniting for the promotion of some art

A'CCENT, s. the sound of a syllable; a modification of the voice expressive of the passions or sentiments; the marks made upon syllables to regulate their pronunciation

A'CCIDENT, s. that which happens unforeseen; chance

ACCO'MPANY, v.n. associate with; become a companion to

ACCO'MPLICE, s. an associate; partner

ACCO'MPLISHMENT, s. ornament of mind or body; acquirement

ACCO'ST, v.a. speak to; address; salute

ACCO'UNT, s. the state or result of a computation—as, the account stands thus between us; narrative; value

ACCO'UTRE, v.a. dress; equip

A'CCURACY, s. exactness; nicety

ACCU'STOM, v. to habituate; to inure

ACQUI'RE, v.a. gain; obtain; attain

A'CRID, a. having a hot biting taste; bitter

A'CRIMONY, s. sharpness; severity; bitterness of thought or language

ACRO'POLIS, s. a citadel; the highest part of a city

ACTI'VITY, s. quickness; nimbleness

ACU'TE, a. sharp, not blunt; sharp, not dull; not stupid; vigorous; powerful in operation

ADAMA'NTINE, a. made of adamant; having the qualities of adamant, viz. hardness, indissolubility

ADA'PT, v.a. admit, justify; yield; permit

ADIEU', ad. used elliptically for a Dieu je vous commende, at the parting of friends; farewell

A'DMIRABLE, a. to be admired; of power to excite wonder

ADMIRA'TION, s. wonder

ADMI'T, v.a. suffer to enter; allow

ADO'PT, v.a. take a son by choice; make him a son who is not so by birth; place any person or thing in a nearer relation than they have by nature or something else

ADRO'ITNESS, s. dexterity; readiness

ADU'LT, s. a person above the age of boyhood or girlhood

ADVA'NCE, v.a. improve; forward; propose

ADVA'NTAGE, s. superiority; opportunity

ADVE'NTURE, s. chance; hazard; an enterprise in which something must be left to hazard

ADVE'NTURER, s. he that puts himself into the hands of chance

ADVE'NTUROUS, a. bold; daring; courageous; inclined to adventures

ADVE'RSITY, s. affliction; calamity; misfortune; the public misery

ADVE'RTISEMENT, s. something advertised; the public notice of a thing

A'DVOCATE, s. he that pleads a cause

AE'OLIAN, a. an epithet applied to lyric poetry, because Sappho and Alcaeus were natives of Lesbos in Aeolia, and wrote in the Aeolic dialect

AE'RIAL, a. belonging to the air; lofty

AFFABI'LITY, s. civility; condescension; easiness of manners

AFFE'CT, v.a. act upon; produce effect in any other thing; move the passions; aim at; aspire to

AFFECTA'TION, s. an elaborate appearance; false pretence

AFFE'CTION, s. state of being affected by any cause or agent; love; kindness; good-will to some person; passionate regard

AFFE'CTIONATE, a. full of affection; fond; tender; warm; benevolent

AFFI'NITY, s. connection with

AGGRE'SSION, s. first act of injury

A'GONY, s. the pangs of death; any violent pain in body or mind

AGRE'EABLE, a. suitable to; pleasing

A'GRICULTURE, s. the science of making land productive

A'LABASTER, s. a kind of soft marble, easier to cut and less durable than the other kinds

ALA'RUM, s. notice of any approaching danger; any tumult or disturbance

A'LIEN, s. foreigner; stranger

A'LKALI, s. any substance which, when mingled with acid, produces effervescence and fermentation

ALLEGO'RY, s. a figurative discourse, in which something is contained other than is literally understood

ALLE'VIATE, v.a. make light; ease; soften

ALLO'W, v.a. permit; give leave

A'LPHABET, s. the order of the letters, or elements of speech

ALTERA'TION, s. the act of changing; the change made

A'LTITUDE, s. height of place; space measured upward

AL'TOGETHER, ad. completely; without exception

AMA'LGAMATE, v.a. to unite metals with silver

AMA'ZEMENT, s. height of admiration; astonishment

AMBI'GUOUS, a. using doubtful expressions; doubtful; having two meanings

AMBI'TION, s. the desire of preferment or honour; the desire of anything great or excellent

AMBI'TIOUS, a. fond of power; desirous of power

AME'RICAN, s. native of America

A'METHYST, s. a precious stone of a violet colour

A'MIABLE, a. kind; gentle; good natured; loving; not selfish

AMMUNI'TION, s. military stores, applied to artillery

AMPHITHE'ATRE, s. a building in a circular or oval form, having its area encompassed with rows of seats one above another

AMPU'LLA, s. (pronounced am-poo-la) a vessel of pure gold, used for containing the holy oil at coronations

AMU'SE, v.a. entertain with tranquillity; draw on from time to time

ANA'LOGY, s. resemblance between things with regard to some circumstances or effects

ANATO'MICAL, a. relating or belonging to anatomy

ANA'TOMY, s. the art of dissecting the body; the doctrine of the structure of the body

A'NCESTOR, s. one from whom a person descends

A'NCIENT, a. old; past; former

A'NECDOTE, s. something yet unpublished; biographical history; personal history

ANEMO'METER, s. an instrument to measure the force of the wind

ANGE'LIC, a. resembling angels; belonging to angels

A'NIMAL, s. a living creature

ANIMA'LCULE, s. a small animal, generally applied to those which cannot be seen without a microscope

ANIMO'SITY, s. vehemence of hatred; passionate malignity

ANNIHILATE, v.a. reduce to nothing; destroy

ANNO'Y, v.a. incommode; vex; tease; molest

A'NNUAL, a. that comes yearly

A'NTELOPE, s. a goat with curled or wreathed horns

ANTHROPO'PHAGI, s. man-eaters; cannibals

ANTI'CIPATE, v.a. take an impression of something which is not yet as if it really was

A'NTIQUARY, s. a man studious of antiquity

ANTI'QUE, a. ancient; old; odd; of old fashion

ANTI'QUITY, s. old times; remains of old times

A'NTRE, s. a cavern

ANXI'ETY, s. perplexity; lowness of spirits

ANXIOUS, a. disturbed about some uncertain event

A'PATHY, s. exemption from feeling or passion

APO'CALYPSE, s. the Book of Revelations

APO'LOGY, s. defence; excuse

APO'STLE, s. a person sent with commands, particularly applied to those whom our Saviour deputed to preach the Gospel

APOSTO'LIC, a. delivered or taught by the Apostles

APPARA'TUS, s. tools; furniture; show; instruments

APPE'AR, v.n. be visible; in sight

APPEARANCE, s. the act of coming into sight; phenomenon; apparition; presence

APPE'NDAGE, s. something added to another thing without being necessary to its essence

A'PPETITE s. hunger; violent longing

APPLA'USE s. approbation loudly expressed; praise

APPLICATION, s. close study; intenseness of thought; attention; the act of applying; the act of applying anything to another.

APPORTIONMENT, s. dividing into portions

APPRECIATE, v.a. set a price on anything; esteem

APPRO'ACH, v n. draw near; somewhat resemble

APPROBATION, s. the act of approving, or expressing himself pleased, or satisfied; support

APPRO'PRIATENESS, s. a fitness to be appropriated

APPROPRIATION, s. the application of something to a certain purpose

AQUA'TIC, a. that inhabits the water; that grows in the water

A'QUEDUCT, s. a conveyance, tunnel, or way made for carrying water

ARA'TOO, s. a bird of the parrot kind

AR'BALIST, s. a naturalist who make trees his study

A'RBITRABY, o. despotic; absolute; depending on no rule

ARBU'TUS, s. a strawberry tree

ARCA'DE, s. a continued arch; a walk arched over

ARCHBI'SHOP, s. a bishop of the first class, who superintends the conduct of other bishops

ARCHITE'CTURE, s. the art or science of building

A'RCTIC, a. northern; lying under the Arctos or Bear

A'RDUOUS, a. lofty; difficult

ARI'SE, v.n. mount upward; get up; proceed

ARMI'LLA, s. a bracelet, or jewel worn on the arm

A'RMY, s. collection of armed men; a great number

AROMA'TIC, a. spicy; fragrant; strong-scented

ARRI'VE, v.n. reach any place; happen

ARRA'NGE, v.a. put in the proper order for any purpose

ARRA'NGEMENT, s. the act of putting In proper order, the state of being put in order

ARRA'Y, s. order, chiefly of war; dress

A'RROGANCE, s. the act or quality of taking much upon one's self

A'RROW, s. the pointed weapon which is shot from a bow

A'RTICLE, s. a part of speech; a single clause of an account; term

ARTI'CULATE, v.a. form words; speak as a man; draw up in articles; make terms

A'RTIFICE, s. trick; fraud; stratagem; art; trade

ARTIFI'CIAL, a. made by art; not natural

ARTI'LLERY, s. weapons of war; cannon; great ordinance

A'RTISAN, s. professor of any art

ASCE'NDANCY, s. influence; power

ASPE'RSE, v.a. bespatter with censure or calumny

A'SPIC, s. the name of a small serpent

ASSA'ILANT, s. one that assails

ASSE'MBLY, s. a company met together

ASSE'RT, v.a. to declare positively; maintain; to defend either by words or actions; claim

ASSIDU'ITY, s. diligence

ASSI'MILATE, v.a. bring to a likeness; turn to its own nature by digestion

ASSISTANCE, s. help

ASSISTANT, s. a helper

ASSI'ZE, s. a jury; any court of justice; the ordinance or statute

ASSO'CIATE, s. a partner; a confederate; a companion

ASSU'RE, v.a. give confidence by a firm promise

ASTO'NISHMENT, s. amazement

ASTRO'NOMY, s. the science of the motions, distances, &c. of the stars

A'THEISM, s. the disbelief of a god

ATHE'NIAN, s. a native of Athens

A'TMOSPHERE, s. the air that encompasses the solid earth on all sides