that within were the offices of the "Grand | Meanwell a greater anguish than their own, Marine Joint-Stock Mining Company," and one by one they ceased their mocking. and that the hours at which the officers They told him then that Bamford and Bilof the company were to be found there, ling were known to have sailed for Boulogne, were from ten o'clock till four. Around and that Parker had not been seen for two its unopened doors stood some dozen, or days. The rage of the wretched man *core men, whose gestures and tones seemed to grow greater every moment, and showed they were not in the calmest of knew no bounds when it was whispered to moods, or the best of tempers. They had him that Parker was supposed to have been apparently engaged in trying to force taken with him a large amount in gold the door, or windows, but desisted suddenly which belonged to the company. when they saw Meanwell, against whom their fury was now turned, for they recognised him as one of the active promoters of the company, in connexion with the secretary, Parker. On he came, taking no notice of the insulting charges, gibes, demands, and threats, which the angry crowd vociferated, but went right to the door, against which he dashed himself in desperation, when he found it closed against him. Again and again he tried to burst the fastenings; a wave might as well have hoped to shatter a rock. The crowd insultingly laughed at the poor success of his efforts. One of them, more daring, or more desperate than the rest, seized him by the coat and inquired "Where are your swindlings?-Don't kill yourself till you tell us that." "What bank holds the scoundrel's gold?" screamed another, pressing upon him. "Seize him, search him before he joins his friends across the channel," said a third. "Back! back! from a desperate man,' shouted Meanwell, savagely shaking off his persecutors. "Stand back, lest my fury vent itself upon you who least deserve it. The adder that has stung you has stung me also. I am a ruined man," he added in a mournful voice, "a ruined man!" Expressions of ironical sympathy were the only answers he received. "Yes, I am a ruined man," he repeated, passing his hand across his forehead as if searching for something he could not find. "No one can ever tell. I risked my all, more than my all, at the advice of Bamford, and that miscreant Parker. Where are they?" he shouted again, as his sorrow was overcome by his anger; "Where are they?" Again he dashed himself with insane fury against the solid and immovable barrier, and ground his teeth in mental anguish. The crowd were human, and saw in "I'll hunt the world," exclaimed he in his wrath, "but I will find the villains. Heartless swindlers! I'll find this Parker first, and wrench his secret from him, though I tear his heart out by the deed. Come along!" With these words he sprang from the midst of those who pressed around him, and like a madman strode away again, beckoning to them as he went, but never looking back to see if any followed. Some of the crowd essayed, impelled by various motives of revenge or curiosity, or both, to follow him, but they were unable to keep up with his pace, and presently relinquished the attempt, and turned their steps back again towards the city. On, on he strode alone, with that same dreadfully purposed expression which he bore on his way into the city! On, on, on, amidst the living stream upon the snowy pavement! On, on where the houses were less closely packed, and frost-bound gardens lay by the road-side! The smoke and din of the city grow more distant, and the snow-flakes lie less trodden and more pure upon the pathway. On, on, breasting the piercing wind, with his fixed face, he strides away. Frank and his mother sit before the fireplace, in which the embers moulder low. The candles flicker in the sockets, and throw strange beckoning shadows upon the walls and ceiling. The curly-headed boy, seeing his mother weep and sob, has wept also, and clasping her knees, sits sleeping, with tears upon his long lashes, while his cheek is pillowed on his mother's lap. The snow-laden wind makes a hollow whine round the house, and ever and anon shakes the casements dismally, then goes sighing in its white shroud amidst the leafless boughs of the stunted trees, or comes back moaning like a desolate spirit in search of kindly shelter. The dull tread of muffled footsteps grows less frequent on the causeway; the lights from the shop windows gleam out only here and there; vehicles have ceased to rumble along the deserted streets; the roar of the great thoroughfares is less and less heard; and then the great city sleeps. Still the watcher sits. The clock strikes one! No footmarks are upon the snow that lies on the steps of Meanwell's house. The ticking of the clock upon the mantel-piece, and the beating of her own sinking heart, are the only sounds heard by the anxious watcher. Two-three-four o'clock sound from the distant chime! The pale mother lays her sleeping boy upon the bed, and looks out into the night. The pitiless snowstorm howled around the house more mournfully than before; no star shot hopeful rays through the falling flakes, whose whiteness seemed to have stolen all the light from heaven. Five-six o'clock lazily sound from the church tower! The watcher counts each stroke upon the bell, and fears to hear another. The night is weary and chill, but she trembles to think that it is so far advanced. The snow still lies untrodden on the step. The pale face looks out into the night more tearless, but more hopeless. Seven o'clock! The long weary night is gone. The snow makes a shadow against the greying sky, and the outlines of things about begin to regain distinctness. With a gradual hum the tide of life begins to flow along the thoroughfares, the gloomy morning dawns, and the great city wakes. Still the snow on the step of Meanwell's house bears no record of approaching footsteps. The pale watcher still is at the window; but she sits with her head bowed upon her clasped hands—she cannot bear the light, with the dreadful forebodings which have come upon her. The hope that, an hour or two before, would have welcomed the sounds of coming feet, was changed into a strange and inexplicable fear. From room to room the children come and of the heart; the cold winds of disappoint- (Continued at page 33.) GRANDFATHER WHITEHEAD'S LECTURES TO LITTLE-FOLK. BALLOONS, PARACHUTES, ETC. MY DEAR BOYS AND GIRLS.-I did not give you so long a lecture on balloons without an ulterior object; and I propose to-day to refer again to the subject, for the purpose of explaining certain matters which have been exciting very much interest. a While we are rejoicing in the genial warmth which makes the earth into teeming garden-while we are saluted with perfume which rises like incense from the grateful earth, as a thank-offering to heaven-while our eyes are charmed with the endless variety in which Nature robes herself to meet the summer-while our ears are delighted with the flood of song which pours from every shady covert, as if the very leaves were vocal-while we have so many and such inspiring pages of the vast Had she dreamed? or has she really seen volume of the beautiful open before us,—— her husband's haggard face in the street there is a devoted band of men, whose pobelow? Why does she shudder, and start-sition presents a strong contrast, which ing up, as if to avoid some dreadful sight, faint and fall? Beneath a hundred roofs that yesterday held merry hearts, there is gloom. Around a hundred hearths, where smiling faces gathered then, there is mourning now. ought to fill all our hearts with sympathy for their sufferings, and our eyes with tears of thankfulness, for the myriad blessings showered upon us. For them no sunny heat calls forth bright early blossoms; no flowery perfume floats upon the air; no sweet variety of colour charms their sight; no song of birds gives music to the breath of evening: all is one white, wide blank! Nature is locked in the arms of winter, and seems dead. No budding spring, with hopeful thoughts-no genial summer, with her spangled train-no golden autumn, with her gathered stores, is known in the Frigid zone. The sun barely rises above the horizon of those scenes in the warmest season, and is absent for months together during the coldest. I need hardly say that the band of devoted men to which I have alluded is that composed of Sir John Franklin and his followers, of whom nothing has been heard for several years, and on whose behalf so much interest is felt; two expeditions having been recently despatched to discover the missing vessels. Katie and George are both looking as if to ask-Why did these men go into such a place, and risk their lives by being frozen to death? The question I shall be very glad to explain in a simple way, but shall be able to make you understand it better, if we refer to the maps of the world, and of North America; or examine the terrestrial globe. [The children ran away for their atlases, and then came and sat down round Grandfather Whitehead.] For nearly three hundred years merchants and navigators have sought to discover a passage from the northern parts of Europe, in two different directions, to the Pacific Ocean. That called the North-East Passage was supposed to afford facilities of communicating with India by a route along the northern coast of Europe; but the extent of Asia was then unknown. The project has long since been abandoned, and is now almost forgotten. A more favoured project has been the discovery of the North-West Passage, or the route by which vessels sailing north-west from Europe could get into the Pacific Ocean, lying between Asia and America. This route has been explored for a considerable distance, and only 200 miles of coast remained to be examined when Sir John Franklin's expedition went into these frozen realms. Turn now to the map of North America. The Erebus and Terror (for so were named the vessels in which the lost expedition went out), were to proceed up Davis's Straits into Baffin's Bay, and through Lancaster Sound. They are supposed to be locked up in the frozen seas beyond Prince Regent's inlet. If not crushed by the enormous rocks of ice which dash like mountains together when the sea is loosened from its frozen bondage in the less frigid season-if saved from wreck thus, the crews are probably alive, but are feared to be suffering extreme privations for want of provisions. To relieve them, or to communicate to the sufferers where they can obtain relief, is the object of the expeditions recently sent out, and one of the most hopeful means adopted depends upon the floating power of balloons, of which I spoke in my last lecture. The ingenuity of the various devices can hardly be sufficiently commended; they are very simple, nevertheless. If you take a piece of ordinary string, and dip it into a strong solution of saltpetre (the chemical name of which is nitrate of potash), you will find that when it is dried it will slowly burn without flame, upon being touched with a red-hot ember or match. We will take some string so prepared, and fix at different points packets of slips of paper, with writing or printing upon each slip, The string being fixed to the ceiling, the lower end may be touched with a red cinder, or red-hot match; it will slowly burn upwards, and as it comes to each packet of paper, will set it free, as the band which confined it is destroyed in the combustion. But how is the plan proposed to be used to convey information to Sir John Franklin's crews? A balloon, to which thousands of slips of paper, each containing a brief statement where the searchers are, and where provisions have been deposited, &c., are fastened by fusees, or burning cords, which are lighted when the balloon is sent up (filled with gas). The papers are so fastened to the fusees as to be loosened at long intervals, during which time, the balloon may be carried over hundreds of miles of country, upon the face of which the documents, scattered by Fig. 1. the wind, will gradually fall. The purpose of this plan will be answered, should one out of the many thousands of these slips fall into the hands of the missing expedition. As balloons, when high above the earth, can be seen at great distances, various fireworks, moreover, are proposed to be affixed to them, which, being ignited by the fusee, as it smoulders away, will burn with a bright light, so as to attract the attention of the crews if the balloon in its airy course passes within a range of many miles. These fireworks are made to fall slowly-burning brightly the while-to the earth, by a contrivance which you will easily understand by the examination of a common but beautiful natural object. All of you know the round head of the dandelion when run to seed. Many a silly school-boy has lingered on his truant path to puff its feathered seeds, fancying that he could discover by the number which remained attached to the receptacle, what o'clock it was, or how many stripes there were in prospect for him! This globular head of the dandelion is a very curious object, and worthy of your attentive consideration - indeed, what is not? Each seed is fixed to a thin stalk, at the top of which a hairy expansion (like an umbrella turned the wrong way) is gracefully the little seed balances the tiny machine, as it is borne along upon the summer air! This provision for the seed of the dandelion has been imitated by man, and a machine constructed, called a parachute. The word is derived from the French, and is composed of two terms, signifying, a guard against falling (parer chute). It is an apparatus somewhat resembling the common umbrella, but of much greater size. It was intended to enable an aëronaut (or air-sailor), in case of alarm, to drop from his balloon to the ground without sustaining injury. When the parachute is detached from the balloon, and abandoned with its little car and contents to the atmosphere, its top is expanded by the air through which it rushes, and the machine descends with comparative slowness to the earth. One of the most remarkable instances of descent from a great height, with a parachute, was that related of Garnerin, a French aeronaut, in 1802. A model of a parachute upon a small scale may be made by any of you, without much trouble. Take a square piece of cap, or tissue paper, and to each of the corners attach a piece of thread twice as long as the paper is broad. Tie the ends of the strings evenly in a knot together, and affix to the knot a cork of moderate size. Let the whole be dropped from an upper window, and you will see the paper Fig. 3. expand, and that its resistance will allow the piece of cork to come only slowly to the earth. As a contrast, it will be worth while to drop a piece of cork, without the paper, out of the window at the same time, to observe how much more rapidly it will come to the ground. A similar plan to that I have endeavoured to explain to you, and to illustrate by the head of the dandelion, is adopted upon a large scale in the signals proposed by the expedition sent out to endeavour to discover and save Sir John Franklin and his crews. The fireworks which I mentioned, are attached to little parachutes, very like those which I have taught you how to construct, just in the same way as you fastened the cork. It is hoped that the burning light, gradually descending to the earth, may be observed by the missing crews, and that they may thus be attracted to seek for the falling body, and hence be led to find the documents which are attached to the parachute, and which will inform them where provisions and assistance may be obtained. The gas with which these signal balloons are to be filled is the lightest known; and is (together with oxygen)-strange to relate -what water is composed of. But I have lectured as long as usual, and so I will reserve this part of the subject for next time. In the mean while, do not forget the beauty of the head of the dandelion, with its seeds and parachutes; and while you playfully puff it to see what o'clock it is, remember that both you and those little seeds are each adapted to fulfil a purpose in the world. Beware that you do not sit puffing the little parachutes too long-lest, while you are helping the seeds of the dandelion to fulfil their mission, you forget your own! NOURISHMENT IN BREAD. THE superior nutritious qualities of bread have been doubted; but the question has been set at rest in France, by some chemical researches into the comparative nutriment of various edible substances. Messrs. Percy and Vanguelin have ascertained that bread contains 80 nutritive parts in 100; meal, 34 in 100; French beans, 92; common beans, 89; peas, 93; lentils, 94; cabbages and turnips (the most aqueous of the bodies compared) produce only 8 parts of solid matter in 100 pounds; carrots and spinach produce only 14 pounds in the same quantity; whilst 100 pounds of potatoes contain 25 pounds of dry substance. It must be recollected that the solid parts, when separated from the aqueous or moist parts, may contain a small quantity of liqueous or extractive matter probably unfit for food; and next that the same substances do not act uniformly on all stomachs, and are relatively more or less nutritious. But as a general result the scientific reporters estimate that 1 pound of good bread is equal to 2 or 3 pounds of good potatoes. STREET FINDINGS.-No. VI. Two lads had quarrelled in a narrow lane connecting two principal streets, and in the comparative seclusion which the spot afforded, the feud had for some time been prosecuted without interruption. Keeping a respectable distance apart, the more malicious of them threw stones at the other, and twice or thrice nearly struck him a severe blow. It was remarkable that the younger boy, at whom these stones were thrown, returned no missiles to his enemy, but contented himself with dexterously jumping up, or sinking down, to avoid an injury-laughing merrily at every lucky escape. Passing the boy who was hurling the stones, I quietly said to him— "If you will let that poor lad alone, I will thank you!" The simplicity and moderation of this request seemed instantly to un-demonise him-it acted like chloroform on his passions. I chose this mode of intervention because I have noted that those who interfere to promote peace oft put on a hostile spirit, and commit themselves to the error they profess to condemn. And certainly it proved very successful. The offender slunk away with a faltering step -his feet seemed to tell the pavement that his head had suddenly become conscious of having perpetrated a wrong. "Why didn't 'e pitch into 'im?" exclaimed a companion of the good-tempered lad. "I think I could fight him," said the latter, contemplatively eyeing his antagonist, and apparently estimating his dimensions, as he receded down the lane "I think I could fight him; but I didn't like toWHAT'S THE GOOD of fighting anybody?!" FOUND-That princes may sometimes gather instruction from peasants. BENEFITS OF SENSIBILITY. Ir may appear at first view, that our condition would have been improved had we not been endowed with the sensibility which often renders disease so great an evil; but in the same proportion that our ease would have been consulted our danger would have been increased. It is by the quick sensibility of our frame that we are warned of a thousand dangers, and enabled to guard against them. |