NAPOLEON.

Founding of the Bell.

With his passions, and in spite of his errors, Napoleon was, taking him all in all, the greatest warrior of modern times. He carried into battle a stoical courage, a profoundly calculated tenacity, a mind fertile in sudden inspirations, which, by unlooked-for resources, disconcerted the plans of his enemy. Let us beware of attributing a long series of success to the organic power of the masses which he set in motion. The most experienced eye could scarcely discover in them any thing but elements of disorder. Still less, let it be said, that he was a successful captain because he was a mighty Monarch. Of all his campaigns, the most memorable are the campaign of the Adige, where the general of yesterday, commanding an army by no means numerous, and at first badly appointed, placed himself at once above Turenne, and on a level with Frederick; and the campaign in France in 1814, when, reduced to a handful of harrassed troops, he combated a force of ten times their number. The last flashes of Imperial lightning still dazzled the eyes of our enemies; and it was a fine sight to see the bounds of the old lion, tracked, hunted down, beset—presenting a lively picture of the days of his youth, when his powers developed themselves in the fields of carnage.

Napoleon possessed, in an eminent degree, the faculties requisite for the profession of arms; temperate and robust; watching and sleeping at pleasure; appearing unawares where he was least expected: he did not disregard details, to which important results are sometimes attached. The hand which had just traced rules for the government of many millions of men, would frequently rectify an incorrect statement of the situation of a regiment, or write down whence two hundred conscripts were to be obtained, and from what magazine their shoes were to be taken. A patient, and an easy interlocutor, he was a home questioner, and he could listen—a rare talent in the grandees of the earth. He carried with him into battle a cool and impassable courage. Never was mind so deeply meditative, more fertile in rapid and sudden illuminations. On becoming Emperor he ceased not to be the soldier. If his activity decreased with the progress of age, that was owing to the decrease of his physical powers. In games of mingled calculation and hazard the greater the advantages which a man seeks to obtain the greater risks he must run. It is precisely this that renders the deceitful science of conquerors so calamitous to nations.

Napoleon.

Napoleon, though naturally adventurous, was not deficient in consistency or method; and he wasted neither his soldiers nor his treasures where the authority of his name sufficed. What he could obtain by negotiations or by artifice, he required not by force of arms. The sword, although drawn from the scabbard, was not stained with blood unless it was impossible to attain the end in view by a manoeuvre. Always ready to fight, he chose habitually the occasion and the ground: out of fifty battles which he fought, he was the assailant in at least forty. Other generals have equalled him in the art of disposing troops on the ground; some have given battle as well as he did—we could mention several who have received it better; but in the manner of directing an offensive campaign he has surpassed all. The wars in Spain and Russia prove nothing in disparagement of his genius. It is not by the rules of Montecuculi and Turenne, manoeuvring on the Renchen, that we ought to judge of such enterprises: the first warred to such or such winter quarters; the other to subdue the world. It frequently behoved him not merely to gain a battle, but to gain it in such a manner as to astound Europe and to produce gigantic results. Thus political views were incessantly interfering with the strategic genius; and to appreciate him properly, we must not confine ourselves within the limits of the art of war. This art is not composed exclusively of technical details; it has also its philosophy.

To find in this elevated region a rival of Napoleon, we must go back to the times when the feudal institutions had not yet broken the unity of the ancient nations. The founders of religion alone have exercised over their disciples an authority comparable with that which made him the absolute master of his army. This moral power became fatal to him, because he strove to avail himself of it even against the ascendancy of material force, and because it led him to despise positive rules, the long violation of which will not remain unpunished. When pride was bringing Napoleon towards his fall, he happened to say, "France has more need of me than I have of France." He spoke the truth: but why had he become necessary? Because he had committed the destiny of France to the chances of an interminable war: because, in spite of the resources of his genius, that war, rendered daily more hazardous by his staking the whole of his force and by the boldness of his movements, risked, in every campaign, in every battle, the fruits of twenty years of triumph: because his government was so modelled that with him every thing must be swept away, and that a reaction, proportioned to the violence of the action, must burst forth at once both within and without. But Napoleon saw, without illusion, to the bottom of things. The nation, wholly occupied in prosecuting the designs of its chief, had previously not had time to form any plans for itself. The day on which it should have ceased to be stunned by the din of arms, it would have called itself to account for its servile obedience. It is better, thought he, for an absolute prince to fight foreign armies than to have to struggle against the energy of the citizens. Despotism had been organized for making war; war was continued to uphold despotism. The die was cast—France must either conquer Europe, or Europe subdue France. Napoleon fell—he fell, because with the men of the nineteenth century he attempted the work of an Attila and a Genghis Khan; because he gave the reins to an imagination directly contrary to the spirit of his age; with which, nevertheless, his reason was perfectly acquainted; because he would not pause on the day when he felt conscious of his inability to succeed. Nature has fixed a boundary, beyond which extravagant enterprises cannot be carried with prudence. This boundary the Emperor reached in Spain, and overleaped in Russia. Had he then escaped destruction, his inflexible presumption would have caused him to find elsewhere a Bayleu and a Moscow.

General Foy.

Rome.

I am in Rome! Oft as the morning rayVisits these eyes, waking at once, I cry,Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me?And from within a thrilling voice replies—Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughtsRush on my mind—a thousand images;And I spring up as girt to run a race!Thou art inRome!the city that so longReign'd absolute—the mistress of the world!The mighty vision that the Prophet sawAnd trembled; that from nothing, from the least,The lowliest village (what, but here and thereA reed-roof'd cabin by a river side?)Grew into everything; and, year by year,Patiently, fearlessly working her wayO'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea;Not like the merchant with his merchandise,Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring;But hand to hand and foot to foot, through hosts,Through nations numberless in battle array,Each behind each; each, when the other fell,Up, and in arms—at length subdued them all.Thou art inRome!the city where the Gauls,Entering at sun-rise through her open gates,And through her streets silent and desolateMarching to slay, thought they saw gods, not men;The city, that by temperance, fortitude,And love of glory tower'd above the clouds,Then fell—but, falling, kept the highest seat,And in her loveliness, her pomp of woe,Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild,Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age,Its empire undiminish'd. There, as thoughGrandeur attracted grandeur, are beheldAll things that strike, ennoble; from the depthsOf Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece—Her groves, her temples—all things that inspireWonder, delight! Who would not say the forms.Most perfect most divine, had by consentFlock'd thither to abide eternallyWithin those silent chambers where they dwellIn happy intercourse?Rogers.

I am in Rome! Oft as the morning ray

Visits these eyes, waking at once, I cry,

Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me?

And from within a thrilling voice replies—

Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts

Rush on my mind—a thousand images;

And I spring up as girt to run a race!

Thou art inRome!the city that so longReign'd absolute—the mistress of the world!The mighty vision that the Prophet sawAnd trembled; that from nothing, from the least,The lowliest village (what, but here and thereA reed-roof'd cabin by a river side?)Grew into everything; and, year by year,Patiently, fearlessly working her wayO'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea;Not like the merchant with his merchandise,Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring;But hand to hand and foot to foot, through hosts,Through nations numberless in battle array,Each behind each; each, when the other fell,Up, and in arms—at length subdued them all.

Thou art inRome!the city that so long

Reign'd absolute—the mistress of the world!

The mighty vision that the Prophet saw

And trembled; that from nothing, from the least,

The lowliest village (what, but here and there

A reed-roof'd cabin by a river side?)

Grew into everything; and, year by year,

Patiently, fearlessly working her way

O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea;

Not like the merchant with his merchandise,

Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring;

But hand to hand and foot to foot, through hosts,

Through nations numberless in battle array,

Each behind each; each, when the other fell,

Up, and in arms—at length subdued them all.

Thou art inRome!the city where the Gauls,Entering at sun-rise through her open gates,And through her streets silent and desolateMarching to slay, thought they saw gods, not men;The city, that by temperance, fortitude,And love of glory tower'd above the clouds,Then fell—but, falling, kept the highest seat,And in her loveliness, her pomp of woe,Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild,Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age,Its empire undiminish'd. There, as thoughGrandeur attracted grandeur, are beheldAll things that strike, ennoble; from the depthsOf Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece—Her groves, her temples—all things that inspireWonder, delight! Who would not say the forms.Most perfect most divine, had by consentFlock'd thither to abide eternallyWithin those silent chambers where they dwellIn happy intercourse?

Thou art inRome!the city where the Gauls,

Entering at sun-rise through her open gates,

And through her streets silent and desolate

Marching to slay, thought they saw gods, not men;

The city, that by temperance, fortitude,

And love of glory tower'd above the clouds,

Then fell—but, falling, kept the highest seat,

And in her loveliness, her pomp of woe,

Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild,

Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age,

Its empire undiminish'd. There, as though

Grandeur attracted grandeur, are beheld

All things that strike, ennoble; from the depths

Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece—

Her groves, her temples—all things that inspire

Wonder, delight! Who would not say the forms.

Most perfect most divine, had by consent

Flock'd thither to abide eternally

Within those silent chambers where they dwell

In happy intercourse?

Rogers.

Letter I.

Is that a rookery, papa?

Mr. S.It is. Do you hear what a cawing the birds make?

F. Yes; and I see them hopping about among the boughs. Pray, are not rooks the same with crows?

Mr. S.They are a species of crow. But they differ from the carrion crow and raven, in not feeding upon dead flesh, but upon corn and other seeds and grass, though, indeed, they pick up beetles and other insects and worms. See what a number of them have alighted on yonder ploughed field, almost blackening it over. They are searching for grubs and worms. The men in the field do not molest them, for they do a great deal of service by destroying grubs, which, if suffered to grow to winged insects, would injure the trees and plants.

F. Do all rooks live in rookeries?

Mr. S.It is their nature to associate together, and they build in numbers of the same, or adjoining trees. They have no objection to the neighbourhood of man, but readily take to a plantation of tall trees, though it be close to a house; and this is commonly called a rookery. They will even fix their habitations on trees in the midst of towns.

F. I think a rookery is a sort of town itself.

Mr. S.It is—a village in the air, peopled with numerous inhabitants; and nothing can be more amusing than to view them all in motion, flying to and fro, and busied in their several occupations. The spring is their busiest time. Early in the year they begin to repair their nests, or build new ones.

Crow.

F. Do they all work together, or every one for itself?

Mr. S.Each pair, after they have coupled, builds its own nest; and, instead of helping, they are very apt to steal the materials from one another. If both birds go out at once in search of sticks, they often find at their return the work all destroyed, and the materials carried off. However, I have met with a story which shows that they are not without some sense of the criminality of thieving. There was in a rookery a lazy pair of rooks, who never went out to get sticks for themselves, but made a practice of watching when their neighbours were abroad, and helping themselves from their nests. They had served most of the community in this manner, and by these means had just finished their own nest; when all the other rooks, in a rage, fell upon them at once, pulled their nest in pieces, beat them soundly, and drove them from their society.

F. But why do they live together, if they do not help one another?

Mr. S.They probably receive pleasure from the company of their own kind, as men and various other creatures do. Then, though they do not assist one another in building, they are mutually serviceable in many ways. If a large bird of prey hovers about a rookery for the purpose of carrying away the young ones, they all unite to drive him away. And when they are feeding in a flock, several are placed as sentinels upon the trees all round, to give the alarm if any danger approaches.

F. Do rooks always keep to the same trees?

Mr. S.Yes; they are much attached to them, and when the trees happen to be cut down, they seem greatly distressed, and keep hovering about them as they are falling, and will scarcely desert them when they lie on the ground.

F. I suppose they feel as we should if our town was burned down, or overthrown by an earthquake.

Mr. S.No doubt. The societies of animals greatly resemble those of men; and that of rooks is like those of men in the savage state, such as the communities of the North American Indians. It is a sort of league for mutual aid and defence, but in which every one is left to do as he pleases, without any obligation to employ himself for the whole body. Others unite in a manner resembling more civilised societies of men. This is the case with the heavers. They perform great public works by the united efforts of the whole community—such as damming up streams and constructing mounds for their habitations. As these are works of great art and labour, some of them probably act under the direction of others, and are compelled to work, whether they will or not. Many curious stories are told to this purpose by those who have observed them in their remotest haunts, where they exercise their full sagacity.

F. But are they all true?

Mr. S.That is more than I can answer for; yet what we certainly know of the economy of bees may justify us in believing extraordinary things of the sagacity of animals. The society of bees goes further than that of beavers, and in some respects beyond most among men themselves. They not only inhabit a common dwelling, and perform great works in common, but they lay up a store of provision, which is the property of the whole community, and is not used except at certain seasons and under certain regulations. A bee-hive is a true image of a commonwealth, where no member acts for himself alone, but for the whole body.

Evenings at Home.

A Heronry.

These beautiful trees may be ranked among the noblest specimens of vegetation; and their tall, slender, unbranched stems, crowned by elegant feathery foliage, composed of a cluster of gigantic leaves, render them, although of several varieties, different in appearance from all other trees. In some kinds of palm the stem is irregularly thick; in others, slender as a reed. It is scaly in one species, and prickly in another. In thePalma real, in Cuba, the stem swells out like a spindle in the middle. At the summit of these stems, which in some cases attain an altitude of upwards of 180 feet, a crown of leaves, either feathery or fan-shaped (for there is not a great variety in their general form), spreads out on all sides, the leaves being frequently from twelve to fifteen feet in length. In some species the foliage is of a dark green and shining surface, like that of a laurel or holly; in others, silvery on the under-side, as in the willow; and there is one species of palm with a fan-shaped leaf, adorned with concentric blue and yellow rings, like the "eyes" of a peacock's tail.

Palms of Arimathea.

The flowers of most of the palms are as beautiful as the trees. Those of thePalma realare of a brilliant white, rendering them visible from a great distance; but, generally, the blossoms are of a pale yellow. To these succeed very different forms of fruit: in one species it consists of a cluster of egg-shaped berries, sometimes seventy or eighty in number, of a brilliant purple and gold colour, which form a wholesome food.

South America contains the finest specimens, as well as the most numerous varieties of palm: in Asia the tree is not very common; and of the African palms but little is yet known, with the exception of the date palm, the most important to man of the whole tribe, though far less beautiful than the other species.

Letter I.It waved not through an Eastern sky,Beside a fount of Araby;It was not fann'd by Southern breezeIn some green isle of Indian seas;Nor did its graceful shadow sleepO'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew,'Midst foliage of no kindred hue:Through the laburnum's dropping goldRose the light shaft of Orient mould;And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.Strange look'd it there!--the willow stream'dWhere silv'ry waters near it gleam'd;The lime-bough lured the honey-beeTo murmur by the Desert's tree,And showers of snowy roses madeA lustre in its fan-like shade.There came an eve of festal hours—Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers;Lamps, that from flow'ring branches hung,On sparks of dew soft colours flung;And bright forms glanced—a fairy show,Under the blossoms to and fro.But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,Seem'd reckless all of dance or song:He was a youth of dusky mien,Whereon the Indian sun had been;Of crested brow, and long black hair—A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there.And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,Glittering athwart the leafy glooms:He pass'd the pale green olives by,Nor won the chesnut flowers his eye;But when to that sole Palm he came,Then shot a rapture through his frame.To him, to him its rustling spoke;The silence of his soul it broke.It whisper'd of his own bright isle,That lit the ocean with a smile.Aye to his ear that native toneHad something of the sea-wave's moan.His mother's cabin-home, that layWhere feathery cocoos fringe the bay;The dashing of his brethren's oar,The conch-note heard along the shore—All through his wak'ning bosom swept:He clasp'd his country's tree, and wept.Oh! scorn him not. The strength wherebyThe patriot girds himself to die;The unconquerable power which fillsThe foeman battling on his hills:These have one fountain deep and clear,The same whence gush'd that child-like tear!—Mrs. Hemans.

It waved not through an Eastern sky,Beside a fount of Araby;It was not fann'd by Southern breezeIn some green isle of Indian seas;Nor did its graceful shadow sleepO'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew,'Midst foliage of no kindred hue:Through the laburnum's dropping goldRose the light shaft of Orient mould;And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.Strange look'd it there!--the willow stream'dWhere silv'ry waters near it gleam'd;The lime-bough lured the honey-beeTo murmur by the Desert's tree,And showers of snowy roses madeA lustre in its fan-like shade.There came an eve of festal hours—Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers;Lamps, that from flow'ring branches hung,On sparks of dew soft colours flung;And bright forms glanced—a fairy show,Under the blossoms to and fro.But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,Seem'd reckless all of dance or song:He was a youth of dusky mien,Whereon the Indian sun had been;Of crested brow, and long black hair—A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there.And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,Glittering athwart the leafy glooms:He pass'd the pale green olives by,Nor won the chesnut flowers his eye;But when to that sole Palm he came,Then shot a rapture through his frame.To him, to him its rustling spoke;The silence of his soul it broke.It whisper'd of his own bright isle,That lit the ocean with a smile.Aye to his ear that native toneHad something of the sea-wave's moan.His mother's cabin-home, that layWhere feathery cocoos fringe the bay;The dashing of his brethren's oar,The conch-note heard along the shore—All through his wak'ning bosom swept:He clasp'd his country's tree, and wept.Oh! scorn him not. The strength wherebyThe patriot girds himself to die;The unconquerable power which fillsThe foeman battling on his hills:These have one fountain deep and clear,The same whence gush'd that child-like tear!—

It waved not through an Eastern sky,Beside a fount of Araby;It was not fann'd by Southern breezeIn some green isle of Indian seas;Nor did its graceful shadow sleepO'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.

It waved not through an Eastern sky,

Beside a fount of Araby;

It was not fann'd by Southern breeze

In some green isle of Indian seas;

Nor did its graceful shadow sleep

O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.

But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew,'Midst foliage of no kindred hue:Through the laburnum's dropping goldRose the light shaft of Orient mould;And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.

But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew,

'Midst foliage of no kindred hue:

Through the laburnum's dropping gold

Rose the light shaft of Orient mould;

And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,

Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.

Strange look'd it there!--the willow stream'dWhere silv'ry waters near it gleam'd;The lime-bough lured the honey-beeTo murmur by the Desert's tree,And showers of snowy roses madeA lustre in its fan-like shade.

Strange look'd it there!--the willow stream'd

Where silv'ry waters near it gleam'd;

The lime-bough lured the honey-bee

To murmur by the Desert's tree,

And showers of snowy roses made

A lustre in its fan-like shade.

There came an eve of festal hours—Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers;Lamps, that from flow'ring branches hung,On sparks of dew soft colours flung;And bright forms glanced—a fairy show,Under the blossoms to and fro.

There came an eve of festal hours—

Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers;

Lamps, that from flow'ring branches hung,

On sparks of dew soft colours flung;

And bright forms glanced—a fairy show,

Under the blossoms to and fro.

But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,Seem'd reckless all of dance or song:He was a youth of dusky mien,Whereon the Indian sun had been;Of crested brow, and long black hair—A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there.

But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,

Seem'd reckless all of dance or song:

He was a youth of dusky mien,

Whereon the Indian sun had been;

Of crested brow, and long black hair—

A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there.

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,Glittering athwart the leafy glooms:He pass'd the pale green olives by,Nor won the chesnut flowers his eye;But when to that sole Palm he came,Then shot a rapture through his frame.

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,

Glittering athwart the leafy glooms:

He pass'd the pale green olives by,

Nor won the chesnut flowers his eye;

But when to that sole Palm he came,

Then shot a rapture through his frame.

To him, to him its rustling spoke;The silence of his soul it broke.It whisper'd of his own bright isle,That lit the ocean with a smile.Aye to his ear that native toneHad something of the sea-wave's moan.

To him, to him its rustling spoke;

The silence of his soul it broke.

It whisper'd of his own bright isle,

That lit the ocean with a smile.

Aye to his ear that native tone

Had something of the sea-wave's moan.

His mother's cabin-home, that layWhere feathery cocoos fringe the bay;The dashing of his brethren's oar,The conch-note heard along the shore—All through his wak'ning bosom swept:He clasp'd his country's tree, and wept.

His mother's cabin-home, that lay

Where feathery cocoos fringe the bay;

The dashing of his brethren's oar,

The conch-note heard along the shore—

All through his wak'ning bosom swept:

He clasp'd his country's tree, and wept.

Oh! scorn him not. The strength wherebyThe patriot girds himself to die;The unconquerable power which fillsThe foeman battling on his hills:These have one fountain deep and clear,The same whence gush'd that child-like tear!—

Oh! scorn him not. The strength whereby

The patriot girds himself to die;

The unconquerable power which fills

The foeman battling on his hills:

These have one fountain deep and clear,

The same whence gush'd that child-like tear!—

Mrs. Hemans.

Letter N.

Newfoundland Dogs are employed in drawing sledges laden with fish, wood, and other articles, and from their strength and docility are of considerable importance. The courage, devotion, and skill of this noble animal in the rescue of persons from drowning is well known; and on the banks of the Seine, at Paris, these qualities have been applied to a singular purpose. Ten Newfoundland dogs are there trained to act as servants to the Humane Society; and the rapidity with which they cross and re-cross the river, and come and go, at the voice of their trainer, is described as being most interesting to witness. Handsome kennels have been erected for their dwellings on the bridges.

There is a breed of very handsome dogs called by this name, of a white colour, thickly spotted with black: it is classed among the hounds. This species is said to have been brought from India, and is not remarkable for either fine scent or intelligence. The Dalmatian Dog is generally kept in our country as an appendage to the carriage, and is bred up in the stable with the horses; it consequently seldom receives that kind of training which is calculated to call forth any good qualities it may possess.

Dalmatian Dog.

The Terrier is a valuable dog in the house and farm, keeping both domains free from intruders, either in the shape of thieves or vermin. The mischief effected by rats is almost incredible; it has been said that, in some cases, in the article of corn, these little animals consume a quantity in food equal in value to the rent of the farm. Here the terrier is a most valuable assistant, in helping the farmer to rid himself of his enemies. The Scotch Terrier is very common in the greater part of the Western Islands of Scotland, and some of the species are greatly admired. Her Majesty Queen Victoria possesses one from Islay—a faithful, affectionate creature, yet with all the spirit and determination that belong to his breed.

Head of the Scotch Terrier.

The modern smooth-haired Greyhound of England is a very elegant dog, not surpassed in speed and endurance by that of any other country. Hunting the deer with a kind of greyhound of a larger size was formerly a favourite diversion; and Queen Elizabeth was gratified by seeing, on one occasion, from a turret, sixteen deer pulled down by greyhounds upon the lawn at Cowdry Park, in Sussex.

Head of the Greyhound.

The dog we now call the Staghound appears to answer better than any other to the description given to us of the old English Hound, which was so much valued when the country was less enclosed, and the numerous and extensive forests were the harbours of the wild deer. This hound, with the harrier, were for many centuries the only hunting dogs.

Head of the Old English Hound.

Instinct and education combine to fit this dog for our service: the pointer will act without any great degree of instruction, and the setter will crouch; but the Sheep Dog, especially if he has the example of an older one, will, almost without the teaching of his master, become everything he could wish, and be obedient to every order, even to the slightest motion of the hand. If the 's dog be but with his master, he appears to be perfectly content, rarely mingling with his kind, and generally shunning the advances of strangers; but the moment duty calls, his eye brightens, he springs up with eagerness, and exhibits a sagacity, fidelity, and devotion rarely equalled even by man himself.

Head of the Shepherds Dog.

Of all dogs, none surpass in obstinacy and ferocity the Bull-dog. The head is broad and thick, the lower jaw generally projects so that the under teeth advance beyond the upper, the eyes are scowling, and the whole expression calculated to inspire terror. It is remarkable for the pertinacity with which it maintains its hold of any animal it may have seized, and is, therefore, much used in the barbarous practice of bull-baiting, so common in some countries, and but lately abolished in England.

Head of the Bull-dog.

A Chapter On Dogs.

Letter I.

In those prescient views by which the genius of Lord Bacon has often anticipated the institutions and the discoveries of succeeding times, there was one important object which even his foresight does not appear to have contemplated. Lord Bacon did not foresee that the English language would one day be capable of embalming all that philosophy can discover, or poetry can invent; that his country would at length possess a national literature of its own, and that it would exult in classical compositions, which might be appreciated with the finest models of antiquity. His taste was far unequal to his invention. So little did he esteem the language of his country, that his favourite works were composed in Latin; and he was anxious to have what he had written in English preserved in that "universal language which may last as long as books last."

It would have surprised Bacon to have been told that the most learned men in Europe have studied English authors to learn to think and to write. Our philosopher was surely somewhat mortified, when, in his dedication of the Essays, he observed, that, "Of all my other works, my Essays have been most current; for that, as it seems, they come home to men's business and bosoms." It is too much to hope to find in a vast and profound inventor, a writer also who bestows immortality on his language. The English language is the only object, in his great survey of art and of nature, which owes nothing of its excellence to the genius of Bacon.

He had reason, indeed, to be mortified at the reception of his philosophical works; and Dr. Rowley, even, some years after the death of his illustrious master, had occasion to observe, "His fame is greater, and sounds louder in foreign parts abroad than at home in his own nation; thereby verifying that Divine sentence, 'A Prophet is not without honour, save in his own country and in his own house,'" Even the men of genius, who ought to have comprehended this new source of knowledge thus opened to them, reluctantly entered into it: so repugnant are we to give up ancient errors, which time and habit have made a part of ourselves.

D'Israeli.

Statue of Lord Bacon.

Syrian Lily.Flowers! when the Saviour's calm, benignant eyeFell on your gentle beauty; when from youThat heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew.Eternal, universal as the sky;Then in the bosom of your purityA voice He set, as in a temple shrine,That Life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you byUnwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine.And though too oft its low, celestial soundBy the harsh notes of work-day care is drown'd,And the loud steps of vain, unlist'ning haste,Yet the great lesson hath no tone of power,Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hush'd hour,Than yours, meek lilies, chosen thus, and graced.Mrs. Hemans.

Syrian Lily.

Flowers! when the Saviour's calm, benignant eyeFell on your gentle beauty; when from youThat heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew.Eternal, universal as the sky;Then in the bosom of your purityA voice He set, as in a temple shrine,That Life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you byUnwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine.And though too oft its low, celestial soundBy the harsh notes of work-day care is drown'd,And the loud steps of vain, unlist'ning haste,Yet the great lesson hath no tone of power,Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hush'd hour,Than yours, meek lilies, chosen thus, and graced.

Flowers! when the Saviour's calm, benignant eye

Fell on your gentle beauty; when from you

That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew.

Eternal, universal as the sky;

Then in the bosom of your purity

A voice He set, as in a temple shrine,

That Life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by

Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine.

And though too oft its low, celestial sound

By the harsh notes of work-day care is drown'd,

And the loud steps of vain, unlist'ning haste,

Yet the great lesson hath no tone of power,

Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hush'd hour,

Than yours, meek lilies, chosen thus, and graced.

Mrs. Hemans.

Letter T.

The earliest and one of the most fatal eruptions of Mount Vesuvius that is mentioned in history took place in the year 79, during the reign of the Emperor Titus. All Campagna was filled with consternation, and the country was overwhelmed with devastation in every direction; towns, villages, palaces, and their inhabitants were consumed by molten lava, and hidden from the sight by showers of volcanic stones, cinders, and ashes.

Pompeii had suffered severely from an earthquake sixteen years before, but had been rebuilt and adorned with many a stately building, particularly a magnificent theatre, where thousands were assembled to see the gladiators when this tremendous visitation burst upon the devoted city, and buried it to a considerable depth with the fiery materials thrown from the crater. "Day was turned to night," says a classic author, "and night into darkness; an inexpressible quantity of dust and ashes was poured out, deluging land, sea, and air, and burying two entire cities, Pompeii and Herculaneum, whilst the people were sitting in the theatre."

Pompeii—Apartment in "the House of the Hunter".

Many parts of Pompeii have, at various times, been excavated, so as to allow visitors to examine the houses and streets; and in February, 1846, the house of the Hunter was finally cleared, as it appears in the Engraving. This is an interesting dwelling, and was very likely the residence of a man of wealth, fond of the chase. A painting on the right occupies one side of the large room, and here are represented wild animals, the lion chasing a bull, &c. The upper part of the house is raised, where stands a gaily-painted column—red and yellow in festoons; behind which, and over a doorway, is a fresco painting of a summer-house perhaps a representation of some country-seat of the proprietor, on either side are hunting-horns. The most beautiful painting in this room represents a Vulcan at his forge, assisted by three dusky, aged figures. In the niche of the outward room a small statue was found, interra cotta(baked clay). The architecture of this house is singularly rich in decoration, and the paintings, particularly those of the birds and vases, very bright vivid.

Portable Kitchen, Found at Pompeii.

At this time, too, some very perfect skeletons were discovered in a house near the theatre, and near the hand of one of them were found thirty-seven pieces of silver and two gold coins; some of the former were attached to the handle of a key. The unhappy beings who were perished may have been the inmates of the dwelling. We know, from the account written by Pliny, that the young and active had plenty of time for escape, and this is the reason why so few skeletons have been found in Pompeii.

In a place excavated at the expense of the Empress of Russia was found a portable kitchen (represented above), made of iron, with two round holes for boiling pots. The tabular top received the fire for placing other utensils upon, and by a handle in the front it could be moved when necessary.

A Nightingale that all day longHad cheer'd the village with his song,Nor yet at eve his note suspended,Nor yet when even-tide was ended—Began to feel, as well he might,The keen demands of appetite:When, looking eagerly around,He spied, far off upon the ground,A something shining in the dark,And knew the glowworm by his spark:So stooping down from hawthorn top,He thought to put him in his crop.The worm, aware of his intent,Harangued him thus, right eloquent:—"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,"As much as I your minstrelsy,You would abhor to do me wrong,As much as I to spoil your song;For 'twas the self-same power DivineTaught you to sing and me to shine,That you with music, I with light,Might beautify and cheer the night."The songster heard his short oration,And, warbling out his approbation,Released him, as my story tells,And found a supper somewhere else.Cowper.

A Nightingale that all day long

Had cheer'd the village with his song,

Nor yet at eve his note suspended,

Nor yet when even-tide was ended—

Began to feel, as well he might,

The keen demands of appetite:

When, looking eagerly around,

He spied, far off upon the ground,

A something shining in the dark,

And knew the glowworm by his spark:

So stooping down from hawthorn top,

He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent,Harangued him thus, right eloquent:—"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,"As much as I your minstrelsy,You would abhor to do me wrong,As much as I to spoil your song;For 'twas the self-same power DivineTaught you to sing and me to shine,That you with music, I with light,Might beautify and cheer the night."

The worm, aware of his intent,

Harangued him thus, right eloquent:—

"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,

"As much as I your minstrelsy,

You would abhor to do me wrong,

As much as I to spoil your song;

For 'twas the self-same power Divine

Taught you to sing and me to shine,

That you with music, I with light,

Might beautify and cheer the night."

The songster heard his short oration,And, warbling out his approbation,Released him, as my story tells,And found a supper somewhere else.

The songster heard his short oration,

And, warbling out his approbation,

Released him, as my story tells,

And found a supper somewhere else.

Cowper.

A fact not less startling than would be the realisation of the imaginings of Shakespeare and of Milton, or of the speculations of Locke and of Bacon, admits of easy demonstration, namely, that the air, the earth, and the waters teem with numberless myriads of creatures, which are as unknown and as unapproachable to the great mass of mankind, as are the inhabitants of another planet. It may, indeed, be questioned, whether, if the telescope could bring within the reach of our observation the living things that dwell in the worlds around us, life would be there displayed in forms more diversified, in organisms more marvellous, under conditions more unlike those in which animal existence appears to our unassisted senses, than may be discovered in the leaves of every forest, in the flowers of every garden, and in the waters of every rivulet, by that noblest instrument of natural philosophy, the Microscope.

Larva of the Common Gnat.

Larva of the Common Gnat.The body and head of the larva (magnified).The respiratory apparatus, situated in the tail.Natural size.

To an intelligent person, who has previously obtained a general idea of the nature of the Objects about to be submitted to his inspection, a group of living animalcules, seen under a powerful microscope for the first time, presents a scene of extraordinary interest, and never fails to call forth an expression of amazement and admiration. This statement admits of an easy illustration: for example, from some water containing aquatic plants, collected from a pond on Clapham Common, I select a small twig, to which are attached a few delicate flakes, apparently of slime or jelly; some minute fibres, standing erect here and there on the twig, are also dimly visible to the naked eye. This twig, with a drop or two of the water, we will put between two thin plates of glass, and place under the field of view of a microscope, having lenses that magnify the image of an object 200 times in linear dimensions.

Upon looking through the instrument, we find the fluid swarming with animals of various shapes and magnitudes. Some are darting through the water with great rapidity, while others are pursuing and devouring creatures more infinitesimal than themselves. Many are attached to the twig by long delicate threads, several have their bodies inclosed in a transparent tube, from one end of which the animal partly protrudes and then recedes, while others are covered by an elegant shell or case. The minutest kinds, many of which are so small that millions might be contained in a single drop of water, appear like mere animated globules, free, single, and of various colours, sporting about in every direction. Numerous species resemble pearly or opaline cups or vases, fringed round the margin with delicate fibres, that are in constant oscillation. Some of these are attached by spiral tendrils; others are united by a slender stem to one common trunk, appearing like a bunch of hare-bells; others are of a globular form, and grouped together in a definite pattern, on a tabular or spherical membranous case, for a certain period of their existence, and ultimately become detached and locomotive, while many are permanently clustered together, and die if separated from the parent mass. They have no organs of progressive motion, similar to those of beasts, birds, or fishes; and though many species are destitute of eyes, yet possess an accurate perception of the presence of other bodies, and pursue and capture their prey with unerring purpose.

Mantell'sThoughts on Animalcules.

Foot of Common House-fly.

Hair, Greatly Magnified.Hair, Greatly Magnified.Hairs of the Bat.Of the Mole.Of the Mouse.

This bird, which is now kept and reared throughout the whole of Europe, and even in Russia and Siberia, on account of its pretty form, docility, and sweet song, is a native of the Canary Isles. On the banks of small streams, in the pleasant valleys of those lovely islands, it builds its nest in the branches of the orange-trees, of which it is so fond, that even in this country the bird has been known to find its way into the greenhouse, and select the fork of one of the branches of an orange-tree on which to build its nest, seeming to be pleased with the sweet perfume of the blossoms.

Canary.

The bird has been known in Europe since the beginning of the sixteenth century, when a ship, having a large number of canaries on board destined for Leghorn, was wrecked on the coast of Italy. The birds having regained their liberty, flew to the nearest land, which happened to be the island of Elba, where they found so mild a climate that they built their nests there and became very numerous. But the desire to possess such beautiful songsters led to their being hunted after, until the whole wild race was quite destroyed. In Italy, therefore, we find the first tame canaries, and here they are still reared in great numbers. Their natural colour is grey, which merges into green beneath, almost resembling the colours of the linnet; but by means of domestication, climate, and being bred with other birds, canaries may now be met with of a great variety of colours. But perhaps there is none more beautiful than the golden-yellow, with blackish-grey head and tail. The hen canary lays her eggs four or five times a year, and thus a great number of young are produced.

As they are naturally inhabitants of warm climates, and made still more delicate by constant residence in rooms, great care should be taken in winter that this favourite bird be not exposed to cold air, which, however refreshing to it in the heat of summer, is so injurious in this season that it causes sickness and even death. To keep canaries in a healthy and happy state, it is desirable that the cage should be frequently hung in brilliant daylight, and, if possible, placed in the warm sunshine, which, especially when bathing, is very agreeable to them. The more simple and true to-nature the food is, the better does it agree with them; and a little summer rapeseed mixed with their usual allowance of the seed to which they have given their name, will be found to be the best kind of diet. As a treat, a little crushed hempseed or summer cabbage-seed may be mixed with the canary-seed. The beautiful grass from which the latter is obtained is a pretty ornament for the garden; it now grows very abundantly in Kent.

The song of the canary is not in this country at all like that of the bird in a state of nature, for it is a kind of compound of notes learned from other birds. It may be taught to imitate the notes of the nightingale, by being placed while young with that bird. Care must be taken that the male parent of the young canary be removed from the nest before the young ones are hatched, or it will be sure to acquire the note of its parent. The male birds of all the feathered creation are the only ones who sing; the females merely utter a sweet chirrup or chirp, so that from the hen canary the bird will run no risk of learning its natural note.

Diligence, industry, and proper improvement of time are material duties of the young. To no purpose are they endowed with the best abilities, if they want activity for exerting them. Unavailing, in this case, will be every direction that can be given them, either for their temporal or spiritual welfare. In youth the habits of industry are most easily acquired; in youth the incentives to it are strong, from ambition and from duty, from emulation and hope, from all the prospects which the beginning of life affords. If, dead to these calls, you already languish in slothful inaction, what will be able to quicken the more sluggish current of advancing years? Industry is not only the instrument of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. Nothing is so opposite to the true enjoyment of life as the relaxed and feeble state of an indolent mind. He who is a stranger to industry, may possess, but he cannot enjoy. For it is labour only which gives the relish to pleasure. It is the appointed vehicle of every good man. It is the indispensable condition of our possessing a sound mind in a sound body. Sloth is so inconsistent with both, that it is hard to determine whether it be a greater foe to virtue or to health and happiness. Inactive as it is in itself, its effects are fatally powerful. Though it appear a slowly-flowing stream, yet it undermines all that is stable and flourishing. It not only saps the foundation of every virtue, but pours upon you a deluge of crimes and evils.

It is like water which first putrefies by stagnation, and then sends up noxious vapours and fills the atmosphere with death. Fly, therefore, from idleness, as the certain parent both of guilt and of ruin. And under idleness I include, not mere inaction only, but all that circle of trifling occupations in which too many saunter away their youth; perpetually engaged in frivolous society or public amusements, in the labours of dress or the ostentation of their persons. Is this the foundation which you lay for future usefulness and esteem? By such accomplishments do you hope to recommend yourselves to the thinking part of the world, and to answer the expectations of your friends and your country? Amusements youth requires: it were vain, it were cruel, to prohibit them. But, though allowable as the relaxation, they are most culpable as the business, of the young, for they then become the gulf of time and the poison of the mind; they weaken the manly powers; they sink the native vigour of youth into contemptible effeminacy.

Blair.

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