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and illustrating which, Mr. Cooper mentioned that Hunter fed a sea gull (naturally a bird of prey) with grain, and after twelve months he destroyed the bird, and, upon examination, found that its normally membranous stomach


Fair and peaceful daisies!
Smiling in the grass;
Who hath sung your praises?
Poets by you pass,

had become much thickened; and so changed And I, alone, am left to celebrate your mass.

in character, as to resemble in appearance the gizzard of the graminivorous fowl rather than that of a carnivorous bird.

Another striking instance of the periodical modification of the digestive apparatus, was

In the summer morning,

Through the fields ye shine,
Joyfully adorning

Earth with smiles divine,

found by Hunter in the crop of the pigeon And pour from sunny hearts fresh gladness into

during the period of incubation. This crop, which at other times was similar to that of birds in general, during incubation assumes a glandular character, which enables it, in addition to its ordinary function, to secrete


Lying in the meadows,
Like the milky way,
From nocturnal shadows
Glad to fall away,

a milky fluid, which is ejected, and affords a And live a happy life in the wide light of day. nourishment for its young progeny; rendering the crop, in fact, a kind of mammary gland.


WE beg most cordially to commend to our readers' notice, the following advice, given by an American orator. At no season could it be more appropriate than at the

Bees about you humming,

Pile their yellow store;
Winds in whispers coming,
Teach you love's sweet lore-

For your reluctant lips still worshipping the more

Birds with music laden,

Shower their songs on you;
And the rustic maiden,
Standing in the dew,-

present:-"Gentlemen aud ladies, open your By your alternate leaves tells if her love be true.

windows-let in the fresh air. Light, physical or moral, is not more essential to vision than air is to health and happiness. Yet how careful are most of us to exclude it!

Little stars of glory,

From your amber eyes

No inconstant story
Of her love should rise;

You close up the windows, nail list around And yet "He loves me not!" is oft the sad sur

the doors, and appear to do all in your power to exclude Heaven's free gift of fresh air; and the reason why people are not smothered

is that the air is so subtle, it works its way through every little crevice, so that it is


Crowds of milk-white blossoms,

Noon's concentrated beams

Glowing in your bosoms;

So, by living streams

almost impossible to get it shut out alto- In Heaven, I think the light of flowers immortal

gether. But, if people do not get themselves quite suffocated, they continue to get pale, stupid, nervous, and heavy headed for want of pure air, which is so anxious to force itself into their rooms, but which they contrive to keep barred out.


When your date is over,
Peacefully ye fade,
With the fragrant clover,

And sweet grasses laid

In odors for a pall, beneath the orchard shade.

Happy, happy daisies!
Would I were like you-
Pure from human praises,
Fresh with early dew,

What would you think of a man, coming down the river, on a raft, who would get a basin of water and keep it for weeks to wash himself every day, when the broad river was running level with his feet? You would he was a fool. Are you any wiser, who have And ever in my heart to Heaven's clear sunshine


miles deep of fresh air above you, and yet do not allow yourself more than a few square feet to be used over and over again hundreds of times? I wish every one of you knew what a curious piece of machinery your lungs and hearts are, and how well the atmosphere is adapted to our use.

If you are afraid to have the fresh air blow upon you while you are asleep, break a pane of glass out of the top of the window until you get used to fresh air; and then a stream of it hard enough to blow the quilts off the bed will not hurt you.



"Life, long and happy, to English beauty!” says Mrs. S. C. Hall. Amen! say WE. Despite all that has been or ever will be said of its fragility, its dangers, its destruction, it is a blesssed thing to look upon and live amongst.

Talk of its fading! it never fades. It is but transferred from face to face. The bud comes forth as the blossom is perfected; and

the bud bursts into blossom but to hide the falling leaves, fragrant amid the decay of the parent flower.

Then the beauties of our country are so

susceptibility which so pitiful a person as WILLIAM SMITH of Norwich could rouse into passionate indignation; the whole sensitive nature which, even in so quiet a sphere as the library at Keswick, at how could these have stood the judicial browbeatlast yielded its possessor a prey to insanity,

varied! The peasant girl, gifted with pearl like modesty, and the courtly maiden, set, as her birthright, in a golden circlet-the intel-ings and professional exasperations and wear and tear of metropolitan legal existence? lectual face beaming intelligence, and the English matron, proud as Cornelia of her living jewels.

Nor is the perfection of English beauty confined to any class. In summer-time you meet it everywhere; by the hedge-rows, in the streets, in the markets, in the parks, at watering places; at home, and abroad. At every turn, one meets some fair specimen of living beauty. We are reflected in it, and we get rude health by the contact.


THE MISERABLE OUTCRY of certain literary men about their "hardships," and their ignoble attempts to be admitted to pensions (!) are truly contemptible.

Whatever may have occurred in earlier times, when the claims of literature were not properly recognised and rewarded, can have no reference to the sums now paid for mental labor. A recent pension granted to a public literary man, reminds us, although he is a sad grumbler, that he has in his time rolled in money. Few persons have been better remunerated, or better enabled to live in complete affluence. If his expenditure was unduly extravagant,-which it was, who but himself can be to blame? This whining, puling, outcry, we repeat, is disgusting; and we hope to hear no more of it. Meantime, let us append the very sensible remarks of a contemporary (the Critic), bearing hard upon the same subject :

A great deal of exaggeration and absurdity has been vented, especially in a certain recent "Autobiography," with respect to the "calamities" of authorship by profession. Much of the pain which is said to attach exclusively to that condition of life, is mitigated by counterbalancing advantages or pleasures; while still more of it will be found, on close inquiry, to be no necessary concomitant of literary pursuits, but, in a greater or less degree to accompany all the forms of industry cultivated in a state of society so highly complex and artificial as is our own.

When, towards the close of his laborious literary life, ROBERT SOUTHEY, indulging in a train of retrospective meditation, endeavored to sum up what literature had done for him, he chronicled the result of his reflections in the question, "Would I have been a happier man had I been all my life arguing in Westminster Hall?" and it needs no great acquaintance with the character or temperament of men like SOUTHEY to enable any one to answer for him "No!" The temper which was ruffled by the sarcasms of BYRON; the

Let any literary man, with the gifts and sentiments of the genuine student, and who is disposed to grumble at the chagrins of his lot, ask himself whether these would be fewer or less keen were he a surgeon or a merchant,-were he a competi tor of Mr. Pecksniff's, or doomed to be pitted against the learned and eloquent Serjeant Buzfuz?

This is well said; quite to the point. If rigid inquiry be made, it will be found that no really deserving man, now-a-days, needs perish for want of support, simply because he is an author. Let him work with his hands, as do other men equally worthy with himself; and let him bear in mind the trite but true saying,—Aide toi, et le Ciel t'aidera.

We are quite of the old school; and consider that "if a man will not work, neither should he eat." This is good law, and should be equally dealt out to all but those who are "incapables."


The following graphic sketch, from the pen of a traveller in the East, cannot fail to interest our readers. It bears the impress of truth throughout :

Our Eastern land is a gorgeous one, but it is a artist-the" tesselated pages of an album," than picture land. It better suits the portfolio of an the personal contest of hand and foot, or constitution. It is fair to look upon, but let us see it in a diorama. It has all the capabilities of producing a superb and showy painting, or series of paintings; but it will not do to tread those sunny tracts, to wander among those glittering scenes, that look so well on canvas. The sunbeams that impart life to the picture, give death or delirium to the traveller who dares their influence; and those grotesque groups of trees and depths of jungle— bright with flowers and birds, whose very plumage seems a flower-bed-afford shelter to beasts of prey, and reptiles whose venom is as powerful and deadly as their colors are beautiful.

There are squirrels sporting before my door. I love those graceful little creatures-so wild, so boldly shy, so untameably-regardless of the endearments of man! Parroquets, with green feathers and roseate bills, are fluttering noisily among the cocoa-trees, with a mad sort of rompishness allied to intoxication. They are delighted, no doubt, with the sudden shower which has so refreshingly cooled the air; or perhaps they have been banquetting on the seeds of the cotton-plant; which if Pomet, a botanist of other years, is to be credited, "fuddle the parroquets."

The oleander scents and beautifies the little garden plot before me, and the wild plants, that spring profusely around, are full of beauty,

Would that I were enough of a botanist to describe them! But there, in the hedge, is the singular tree of the Three Dresses! First it cometh forth like a fairy, all in a garb of green, covered from top to toe, with a leafy robe of that loveliest color; presently, ere many weeks have passed, it suddenly droppeth its emerald raiment, and, all leafless and barren, appeareth in deep mourning, a black and funereal thing: by-and-bye, however, buds of unseen flowers deck the squalid branches, and lo! all at once, in one night, arrayed in a stole of scarlet glory, our cardinal of trees-a vegetable Proteus-blazes forth upon the sight, a tree of harmless lightning! It has just assumed its third costume; and that hedge looks, in the distance, like an avenue of fire. There is not a green leaf nor brown bud to vary the crimson splendor of its pride; for every capsule has burst forth into a blossom of unexampled brilliancy. This tree is the Butea frondosa.

flutes and Flageolets occasionally filled the whole room with their naive, childish strains.

a sudden, the morose Contra-basso, accomAll appeared very comfortable; when, on panied by a couple of kindred Violoncellos, burst into the room, and threw himself passionately into the director's chair. Then did the Pianoforte, together with all the catgut instruments present, involuntarily sound in accord from terror.

"It were enough," he exclaimed, "to play the deuce with me, if such compositions were to be given daily. Here am I, just of our newest composers; and, although, as come from the rehearsal of a symphony of one is known, I possess a pretty powerful nature I could scarce hold it out longer. The strings of my body ran a risk of being torn for ever! If any more such work goes on, I will positively turn Kit, and gain my livelihood by the performance of Muller and Kauer's dances!"

Yonder, in the corner, near the margin of the neglected bowry (reader, bowry is not a little bower, but a large well), are the apples of the racy tomata. Beside them, in dangerous proximity, droop the superb corollæ of the deadly stramonium-so nearly neighbored are the useful and the hurtful in this world! Here, close to the verFirst Violoncello (wiping the perspiration anda, is another poisonous plant of extreme beauty; from his brow) -"Certainly, old dad is it is thorny, its leaves resembling those of a thistle; right; I am so fatigued that, since the opera but they are of a delicate sea-green, and each of Cherubini, I don't recollect any such stalk is surmounted by a flower, which is a per-èchauffement!" fect gem of elegance. It is of bright yellow, looking like a golden chalice; has six petals surrounding many stamens and pistils, for the plant is polyandrous; while a pyramidal germen is crowned by a ruby-colored stigma. It is the Argemone Mexicana, and it is said that the Bheels and wild septs of our Northern Circars poison their kreeses and arrows with a preparation from its viscid juice In spite of its winning beauty, the weed exhales a fetid odor, indicative of its hurtful propensities.



COMPLETELY SATISFIED with the performance of a symphony which I had just heard as well as with an excellent dinner, I fell asleep; and beheld myself, in a dream, suddenly transported back into the concert room. Here I found the whole of the instruments in motion-holding grand council, under the presidency of the sweet-breathed Hautboy.

To the right, a party had arranged themselves; consisting of a Viol d'amour, Viol di Gamba, Flute, &c. Each of these sounded melancholy complaints as to the degeneracy of the present era of music. To the left, the Lady Hautboy was haranguing a circle of Clarionettes and Flutes, both young and old, with and without keys. In the centre was the courtly Pianoforte, attended by several graceful Violins, who had formed themselves after Pleyel and Gironetz. The Trumpets and Horns formed a drinking conclave in the corner; while the Piccolo

All the instruments together.-"Explain! explain!"

Second Violoncello. "What! the symphony? It is inexplicable, and unendurable. According to the principles my divine master, Romberg, instilled into me, the production we have just executed is a sort of musical monster, which can boast of no other merit than originality! Why, it makes us climb up aloft like violins."

First Violoncello (interrupting him pettishly)." As if we could not do it as well!' A Violin." Let each class keep within its due bounds."

Bass Viol.-" Aye, or what will remain for me to do? I who stand between the two?"

First Violoncello.-" Oh, you are out of the question! Your ability is only to support us, or to produce a few quavers and turns; as, for instance, in the Pelican; but as to what regards fine tone-"

Oboe. "None can compete with me, in that respect."

Clarionet. "Madam, you will surely allow us to notice our talents!"

Flute.-"Yes; for marches and festivals." Bassoon." Who resembles the divine tenore more than I?"

Horn. "Why, you surely won't pretend to so much delicacy and power as I have?"

Pianoforte (with dignity).—“ And what is all this, compared to the body of harmony possessed by me? Whilst you are, severally, parts of a whole,' I am all-sufficient."

All the others (vociferously)." Hold your tongue! you cannot even hold a single note."

Trumpets and Kettle Drums (noisily).-. "Silence! hear us. What, pray, would be the effect of any composition without OUR assistance? Unless we spoke, there would be no one to applaud."


Flutes. "Noise suits the vulgar souls: but the true sublime consists in warbling." First Violin." And but for my conducting, in what a mess would the whole of you be!

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Contra-Basso.-"But, I flatter myself, I sustain the entire effect. All would be dull and vapid, otherwise."

Omnes (all starting up).-"I alone am the soul! without me, no harmony would be worth hearing!"

At this moment, the Maitre de Chapelle entered the room; and the several instruments, alarmed (for they knew whose powerful hand could call forth and combine their powers), suddenly went out of tune.

"What!" cried he, " quarrelling again? The Symphonia Eroica of Beethoven is about to be performed; and every one who can move key or member will then be called upon." "Oh! anything but that!" exclaimed they.

“ Rather," said the Bass Viol, "give us an Italian opera. There, one may occasionally nod."

"Nonsense!" replied the Maitre de Chapelle. "Do you imagine that, in these enlightened times, when all rules in art are neglected, a composer will, out of compliment to you, cramp his divine, gigantic, highflying fancies? Regularity and perspicuity are no longer studied, as by the old masters, Gluck, Handel, and Mozart. No! hear the elements of the most recent symphony that I have received from Vienna; and which may serve as a prescription for all future ones. First-a slow movement, full of short, broken ideas, no one of which has the slightest connection with the other. Every ten minutes or so, a few striking chords; then a muffled rumbling on the kettle-drums, and a mysterious passage or two for the bass viols-all worked up with a due proportion of pauses and stops. Finally, when the audience has just entered into the spirit of the thing, and would as soon expect the archfiend himself as an allegro, a raging tempo; in managing which, the principal consideration is, to avoid following up any particular idea-thus leaving more for the hearer to make out for himself."

Whilst the learned Maitre de Chapelle was thus declaiming, suddenly a string of the guitar (which in reality hung over my head), snapped, and I awoke, to my no small


I was, at that time, on the high-road towards becoming a great composer of the NEW SCHOOL! J. D. HAAS.


THOU Goddess, May! thrice welcome here;
This is thy natal day,
When floral beauties all
Clad in their bright array.

Each busy insect on the wing
Flies forth to meet the Sun,
To sip the honied sweets ye bring,
For winter's reign is done.

The mind of man still seems to sleep,
Nor heeds these roseate hours!
Creation's Lord forgets to keep

The Birth-day of the Flowers!

"Tis said that in the olden times,
This had not wont to be;
May then came in 'mid Village chimes,
And sounds of Minstrelsy.

The fairest daughters of the land
Went forth to hail the day;
With floral Emblems in their hand,
They met and welcomed May.
May always brought the rural Queen
A Chaplet for her brow,

And strewed sweet Cowslips o'er the Green,
Where still she strews them now.

Bright Buttercups, of golden hue,
She scatters o'er the dale-
The Primrose and the Harebell blue,
And Lily in the Vale.

And bids the Hawthorn bloom and blush,
Each tree put on its vest;
Then shows the Linnet and the Thrush
Where they may hide their nest.
The infant buds of hope appear

In May's maternal hand,
And blooms that make a fruitful year,
To gladden British land.

Then wherefore is the May-pole bare?
No Flow'rets there are found,
No garlands waving high in air,

No milkmaids dancing round!
No more are rustic children drest,

In wreaths of Flow'ry May,
Nor Youths nor Maidens in their best,
To keep glad holiday.

How sadly changed is now the scene!
No merry bells are rung;
They never crown a Village Queen-
No songs of May are sung!
But May is not forgotten quite-
The Cuckoo yet is true!
And the Nightingale still sings at night,
As he was wont to do;

And still the Village May-pole stands,
Just where it stood before;
Still, as of old, with Flow'ry bands,
It may be wreathed o'er.

Again let rustic music play,

To serenade the hours;
And welcome the return of May,
The Jubilee of Flowers!


AT THE PRESENT MOMENT, it may not be uninteresting to give our readers a graphic sketch of the men who have so long been a terror to us, but who now have good reason to fear us. The description is furnished by the Rev. Francis Fleming, M.A.

their national character, and has usually to be found out by some dear-bought experience, does not at first sight impress a stranger.

The common color of the eye is black, or dark brown, somewhat in harmony with that of their skins, which are however darker in some tribes than in others, especially in the In personal appearance and formation, Amampondo and more northerly ones. The the Kaffirs are a race of the most manly and nose also varies in form-in the T'Slambie handsome people known among savages, tribes being broader and more of the negro and in many of their points resemble the shape, than in the Gaikas or Galekas, while New Zealanders. In stature they are gene- among the Abatembu and Amampondo, it rally tall, their height varying from five feet assumes more of the European character. eight or nine inches to upwards of six feet. In many of them, the perfect Grecian and Their muscular frame is remarkable for Roman noses are discernible. These latter symmetry and beauty, as well as great tribes appear, in all other respects, to strength; but their arms, from want of retain their original nationality of appearproper exercise to develop the muscles ance. (owing probably to their usual indolent mode of life), appear small and disproportioned in size to the legs and body.

In all of them the lower limbs are strikingly robust and fine, and cases of deformity are very rarely to be noticed amongst them. Their carriage is stately and upright-in many even majestic; and this is particularly observable in their chiefs, whose habitual attitudes of ease, and abrupt yet graceful actions in giving their commands, are truly elegant and imposing. They are haughty and proud in their bearing, and carry the head erect and thrown back. The left arm is usually laid across the chest, to support the blanket or kaross, which, carelessly slung over the left shoulder, is their only covering or article of clothing. This, when moving quickly, they gather closer around them; and then, throwing the second corner of it over the right shoulder, they leave it to hang in negligent folds across their fine expansive chests, reminding the beholder much of the Roman toga of old.


IN EVERYTHING WE DO WELL," FAITH must be the ladder that raises us up. If we would progress, let us resolve to please. Nothing is more easy, if we set rightly about it. In all that we undertake, towards whatever object we direct our ambition-to please is to succeed, and the art of succeeding is no other than the art of pleasing.

What is it that pleases? Is it a little man, or a tall man? Is it a bountiful share of embonpoint, or a slender form? Is it a black moustache, or a blonde one with large whiskers, if one is not in the army, or a face carefully shorn of every hair? Is it a timid look, or a tempting eye? an air of confidence, or of modesty? the candor of a young Englishman, or the petulance of a Frenchman, a simple attire, or a dress of magnificence?

To render a woman pleasing, must she appear a goddess to our eyes? Ought she to have ebon locks, or golden tresses? the nose of Roxalana, or of Aspasia? a passionless languor, or an impetuous vivacity? Shall we prefer the warm tint of the Spanish woman, or the delicate complexion of the English woman?

Their shoulders are square and firmly set, and, like the chest, very broad. Their heads are large, but not disproportioned to their bodies; the forehead being elevated and intellectually formed, and in many cases very high, and finely developed in a phrenological point of view. Their hair is woolly, although The reply to all these questions is, that not so thick and matted as in either the every thing pleases in its kind, when you negro or Hottentot races, from whom the find in it that je ne sais quoi which cannot Kaffirs widely differ in all points of personal be expressed, and which makes an impresappearance. Their ears are large, but well sion we know not how. That which pleases, made, and seem generally to have become is not always regular beauty; but never elongated by the weight of their pendant ugliness. It is often maliciousness, but never ear-rings and ornaments. Their features, wickedness; it is at times good-nature, although much varied, are fine-particularly never silliness; it is a modest reserve and the eyes, which are keen and piercing; and, not affected prudery; the abandon of an although always unsteady, wandering and affectionate heart, and not the artful advances stealthy, yet from their large size and great of a coquette; ingenious sallies, and not brightness, and from their being well set pedantic bon-mots. It is sometimes the under their broad deep brows, the idea of self-love of a giddy youth, never the precunning and deceit, which undoubtedly is sumption of a man vain of his learning. We

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