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adorn with becoming crowns, to the green plains beside the sea, where it arches over the pathways into bright, green, interlacing avenues, under whose grateful shadow the traveller may journey for miles, secure from the debilitation of the vertical sun. beautiful contrivance connected with the growth of the bamboo may be seen in these bamboo-walks, which affords a new illustration of the inexhaustibility of contrivance in every department of nature. ing at a dense bamboo clump we see polished, rigid stems standing but a foot, or less, apart, each bristling with stiff branches, shooting out horizontally in every direction, and proposing to us the puzzling question, How is it possible for fresh stems to rear themselves through such a labyrinth of crossed and re-crossed branches? The ways of nature, however, are extremely simple. The new stem shoots up from the earth and attains its lofty stature before a single lateral branch has budded. In this simple form its sharp top and polished surface find no difficulty in threading their crossed branches; and, when once its elevation is gained, the lateral branches find their horizontal course no less unresisted. There is not a pathway or a lofty peak, a bosky hollow or a woodland dimple, but which is adorned with its thousands of fringing ferns, sometimes choking up the way, sometimes clustering in the hollows of stones and beneath the roots of trees, many springing in feathery tufts from crevices in the bark, or fringing the hollow limbs and concealing the forks; and, the most curious of all, crawling up the trunks of the tall trees, their lengthened stems clinging fast to the bark, and their green fronds covered with golden hair, that shines like silk, curving over gracefully into arches of fairy beauty. The most beautiful of these are the treeferns, which reach a height of fifteen feet from the ground (it is said that in New Zealand this reaches forty), aud form, in their splendid expansions of nearly twenty feet in diameter, wide umbrellas of open fretwork of delicious greenness.

Not less wonderful-though sombre in hue, and vast in its dimensions-is the spreading fig. One of these Mr. Gosse describes as springing from the roof of a sugar-house at Bluefields, whence it sends down a huge network of roots-the chief of them as thick as a man's leg-spreading over the wall in all directions until they reach the earth. The growth of a tree in such a position is attributed to the accident of some vagrant bird having perched on the spot to devour the red berry of a fig-tree, and, after having finished its morsel, wiping its beak against its perch, where, in the rainy season, one of the minute seeds, thus left behind, germinated and produced the plant. Another fig-tree, which appeared to have originated in this way, had apparently taken root on the trunk of a cotton-tree, which, in its growth, it had crushed and stifled. The dead tree, removed by decomposition, eventually left the fig-tree perched on the very spreading roots which had suffocated it; and there it is, a flourishing fig-tree, the base of its great stem being thirty feet above the ground-a tree standing upon stilts. This curious mode of growth-accidental in the case of the fig-is natural in that of the mangrove. These strange trees belt the shore of the island in various parts, and stretch so far out into the mud of the shallows as to appear to spring directly out of the sea. The trunk of every tree springs from the union of a number of slender arches, each forming the quadrant of a circle, whose extremities penetrate the mud. The larger ones send out side shoots, which take the same curved form at right angles; and thus, by the crossing of the roots of neighbouring trees, a complex array of arches is produced, on which one may securely walk for hundreds of yards, probably in some places for miles, about eighteen inches above

the mud, or above the surface of the water when the tide is in. Another curious fact in the history of these mangroves is, that the long, club-shaped seeds germinate and grow before they fall from the branches, those which are produced near the mud striking their roots into it, and those which grow in the higher branches forming their roots before they fall, when, dropping into the mud beneath, they form individual trees, lifted on arched roots in the same way as their parents. Another curious plant found in the island is that called "the leaf of life," from its great tenacity of the vital principle. If a leaf of this plant be removed, and suspended before a window, it will soon strike out a number of white rootlets, and form an independant plant; nay, if only half a leaf be suspended, or even thrown into a dark drawer, it germinates in the same way, as if it were the very incarnation of the principle of life. The charm and wonder of these woods is completed by the numerous parasitic plants which throw their rope-like stems around the branches of the trees, or suspend their lovely perfumed blossoms from fissures in the bark. Numerous species of orchis and epiphyte root themselves in the forks of the trees, and curl and twine about the boughs. Great vines, and water-withes, and parasitic ferns, also cluster round the boles and jagged trunks, and form sheeted masses of verdure, or cable-like strands of vegetable cordage, flourishing, flowering, and fruiting, while rooted in the barks of the trees, and having no contact of any kind with the soil below.

In such a region of vegetable luxuriance we might expect animal life to display its wonders and varieties of being, and here the numerous tribes of gayplumaged and vocal birds, the brilliant, and sometimes huge reptiles, and the innumerable moths, flies, and leaping and bounding things, add the charm of animated and sensuous existence to wilds which, however beautiful, were otherwise but tame and unattractive. In the lonely dells of the forest, where the crystal brook brawls among the pebbles, the kildee plover wheels in swift flight around the traveller's head; in the rushy shallows the snowy gaulin is seen watching for its aquatic prey, and from the underwood, hard by, the soft cooing of the peadoves comes mournfully, yet soothingly, to the ear, while now and then the plump bird alights on the sward to pick the fallen fruit of the pimentotrees, or to look upon the observer with its full, liquid, gentle eyes. In the same spots may be heard the note of the pretty Jamaica sparrow, repeating"tichicro! chi-chi-tichicro," from his grassy cover; and where the orange-groves and pimento-trees fringe the way to the negro village the wild canary hops and twitters-an imported stranger, who has lost in song what he has gained in colour. Numerous pigeons and partridges are common in these woods, and the green tody, or robin redbreast of the colonists, is particularly abundant, and though with brighter colouring than our own robin, with much the same fearless habit-sitting on the roadside bush, and almost brushing the face of the traveller as he passes. Among the mountains of the Bluefields ridge there are few birds, but such as are found are of peculiar interest. The jabbering crow gives utterance to strange articulations, as, from the topmost branch of the highest tree, he calls to his fellows, or sails on labouring wing from one tree to another. This is the region, too, of the solitaire-a mysterious recluse-who, just before daybreak, ravishes the ear of the wanderer with his flute-like tones, which fall like the measured notes of a psalm. One, and another, and another, take up the strain, till the mellow tones come from all parts of the surrounding woods, startling the ear when not accustomed to it, and charming it when it is. The lovely humming

bird, too, is a frequenter of these regions, and flits and hovers about the flowering trees all day long, sipping with its long bill the honey from their blossoms, and peeping fearlessly under the broad hat of the wanderer, almost startling him with their matchless beauty of metallic plumage, changing into innumerable shades of lustre with the fitful motions of the bee-like bird. At night, every part of the island is vocal with the varied song of the mocking-bird--the nightingale of the tropics. Under the blue sky and the silver moonlight-which, in Jamaica, surpass in their beauty the brightest imaginings of northern poets-the soft cadences of the breeze sweeping over the grassy sward, or rustling through the embowered woods, is delightfully varied with the notes of this prince of songsters, who, taking his seat on the highest twig of an orange-tree, pours forth rich and solemn gushes of melody, as earnestly as if his soul were in his song. A rival from a neighbouring tree commences a similar strain, and now the two birds exert all their powers in rivalry, until the blue midnight rings with bursts, and swells, and tender cadences, as if the stars themselves were singing.

It is often said, that "in tropical climates, where brilliant and varied colours have been granted to the birds and flowers, song has been denied to the one, and fragrance to the other,"-a flippant generalization most conclusively set aside by these researches of Mr. Gosse. The groves and fields of Jamaica ring with the melody of birds as they breathe balm in the rich odour of innumerable flowers. In the mountain heights the glass-eye merle supplies a continuous song; the solitaire gives voice to the solitude; the black shrike and the cotton-tree sparrow enunciate their clear musical calls-four or five notes running up the scale so rapidly as to be fused together, and suddenly falling at the end. There, too, sings the hopping Dick-cousin-german to our own blackbird,—and, like him, possessed of the sweetest flute music; the flycatcher, with its reiterated cry of "John to whip! John to whip," as if it had been educated in the days of the task and whip; and the swallow, and the blue martin,--both more musical than their relatives in Britain, the latter, especially, having a soul full of melody as he sits on the tall palm-tree in the red mornings of autumn. An incident associated with the birds of the island must not, however, be forgotten, though not relating to the creatures of sweet song: Mr. Gosse frequently indulged, during the sultry heats, in bathing in a little pool formed by Bluefields' river, in a green nook overhung with trees and with shelving banks, adorned with festoons of the convolvulus. Lying motionless below the surface, to enjoy the coolness of the water, a vulture marked him from a distance, descended in a circle, swooping nearer at every turn, until his gaunt form almost swept the traveller's face, whom he mistook for a drowned corpse, and was deterred from the repast only by the motion of his open eyes, sufficient, however, to keep even a vulture at bay, for it seldom alights until the prey be dead.

Of large animals the island of Jamaica has very few. Wild deer are occasionally seen near Spanish Town, the descendants of a park of eight or ten pair that were introduced by Sir Charles Price some eighty years since, and afterwards escaped and led a wild life in the woods; they are the identical fallow deer of Great Britain. Rabbits, rats, and wild hogs are also common; the latter being occasionally shot in the sombre woods around Shrewsbury, though it is in the centre of the island, among the mountain peaks and ridges, that they have chiefly multiplied. The species is of the African variety, planted on the island by the Spanish discoverers; they are generally black, though red swine are occasionally caught in

the forests. The mode of hunting these hogs requires great expertness and address, and no small amount of self-possession in the dogs. The usual habit of the hunted beast is to take refuge within the buttresses of a silk-cotton tree, or to back his hind quarters into the hollows in the roots of large trees, and there, with his muzzle only protruding from his lurking-place, he fights desperately, and dies in his hold. Some young pigs of the blue variety, fresh from the mountain solitudes, had taken up with a black pig and some four young followers of the town breed. In tramping home, some of the town dogs made an assault upon them. The wild hogs took up their position in the angle of a wall, and there, protecting their citizen friends, they stood the charges of the dogs. curs barked and growled, the larger dogs rushed upon the boars in a line, six together, but the besieged stood their ground, and nothing could drive them from their vantage ground until the dogs were drawn off and the pigs enticed from their hold. This scheme of warfare evidences a larger share of intelligence in the swinish multitude than has usually been awarded them by naturalists.

The

Of its living inhabitants, the reptiles are not the least interesting of the productions of Jamaica. They are both numerous in species and striking in their respective characters. The most common is the black snake, which frequents the damp woods, lying coiled up ainong the dead leaves, or gliding swiftly through the weeds. It may often be seen hanging half out of the loose stone walls which are used as fences, enjoying the sunshine and watching for the lizards, which constitute its food. In drawings of snakes we usually see them represented as ascending trees in spiral coils, and they are frequently mounted for museums in this spiral embrace, whereas they always ascend in a straight line, finding no more difficulty in passing swiftly up the vertical trunk of a tree than in gliding over the ground, the tips of the expanded ribs affording them a sure means of locomotion. This black snake can cling so tightly by means of the tips of its ribs that it will allow the greater part of its body to hang down from a branch, and will remain thus, with little more than its tail clinging (not spirally, but longitudinally) to the upper surface of the branch. The bite of this snake is not deadly, though productive of swelling wounds that last several days. Another curious creature of this tribe is that called the two-headed snake, from the circumstance of its uniform thickness at both extremities, and its power of moving backwards and forwards with equal facility, as if furnished with a head at each end. It appears to be totally blind, and dependent on the sense of touch for its various movements and the play of its various instincts. It usually measures about thirteen inches in length, is bluish grey above, and yellowish white beneath. Its appearance is beautiful, and it is perfectly harmless. Around Bluefields the yellow boa is a common animal. It commonly attains the length of eight or ten feet, with a diameter of two inches and a half in the thickest part of the body. In colour it varies from a bright golden to a clay colour, marked with irregular black spots, a purple iridescence sometimes playing in the reflected light of its polished armour. This snake, though much feared by the inhabitants, seems to be only partially venomous, the worst results of its attacks arising from the liability of its teeth to break into the wounds which it inflicts. It frequently gains a stealthy admission into dwelling-houses, and sometimes coils itself under the pillow, or within the folds of the bed, to the no small alarm of the individual who, on waking in the morning, finds a huge serpent lying asleep by his side. Touching the fascinating power of serpents, Mr. Gosse's negro boy, Sam, related that

he had seen a boa ascend a mango-tree on one of whose branches a fowl was perched, and, when at some distance from the prey, the serpent began to dart and vibrate its tongue, its eyes fixed on the fowl, while it slowly drew near; the poor hen, all the while, intently watching the foe, but without stirring or crying. Fortunately, help came, and the fowl was rescued; the incident, nevertheless, illustrating that long disputed question of serpent fascination, about which, as a question of science, we may suppose that Sam had neither heard nor read. Two other snakes merit notice as inhabitants of the island. The first is the grey snake, a harmless creature, strangely called poison snake by the inhabitants. One of these was taken by Mr. Gosse while in the act of swallowing a lizard, and transferred to the British Museum, where it may be seen with a swelled neck, marking where the lizard had just disappeared in its passage to the stomach. The other is the crested snake, a remarkable reptile, having a red crest and wattles, and said to crow like a cock. Although fable seems mingled with the history of this creature, it is certain that it has a red crest like a guinea-fowl, and the negroes uniformly testify to its cock-like crow. It is frequently described as a frequenter of hen-roosts, into which it thrusts its head and deceives the young chickens by doing its best to crow, and succeeding in obtaining possession of the nest by its resemblance to chanticleer.

It

In addition to serpents, the fauna of Jamaica numbers in the class of reptilia several beautiful lizards, of which, perhaps, the venus lizard is the most beautiful. This creature measures about a foot in length, and may be easily captured by slipping a noose over its head, and beguiling it, at the same time, by whistling, a spell which it cannot resist. is very savage and exciteable, though incapable of harm. Its body changes in colour from a lovely green to blue, and from that to brown and black, according to the agitations of the animal. When taken, it always sloughs its skin, and sometimes casts off its tail, and seldom lives long in captivity. One of very ugly aspect is the smooth sheath-claw which frequents the mountain paths, and may be caught by merely placing a tin canister before it, and giving it a gentle tap behind, when it bobs into the trap, according to the natural propensity of the creature to take refuge in dark holes and crevices. Lizards of other species are found wherever they are sought; on the sea-beach, among the withered herbage of the forest, in the sugar-houses, where they cluster by dozens on the rafters, and keep up an incessant croaking, day and night; and in the dwelling-house, where they play about the window-sill, run up and down the walls, and even leap on to the table, then to the back of the visitor's chair, thence to the collar of his coat, and away again to wriggle and leap with its fellows, in incessant play, upon the plastered wall. If they are struck with a switch, and their tails cut off, they are soon supplied with new ones; they run along the smoothest vertical surfaces, and are of essential service in their association with man, in ridding his dwellings of the numerous insect pests which are common to tropical latitudes.

Seals,

Both land and aquatic turtles are common in Jamaica, and tortoises of first-rate flavour are frequently taken. The strange trunk turtle-a huge creature, measuring six or seven feet in length-is also an occasional visitant of the shore. alligators, and the cachelot whales, reside in, or visit its waters; the alligator being found in considerable numbers in some of the inland streams and pools, where it verifies that long-disputed point-never eating its food till in a state of putrescence-a fact which has been denied by Waterton, and other eminent naturalists.

Among the insect tribes which find a home in these luxuriant woods and pastures, the termites, or duck ants, swarm in thousands, building their strange, earthy habitations around the bolls of the largest trees. Bees without stings, jiggers (a kind of flea), which bore through the skin of the foot and raise most painful blisters; mosquitoes, which, indeed, are merely gnats, and annoy rather by their immense numbers than by an individual venom. Several gorgeously painted moths, and the firefly - of poetical reputation are among the chief insect productions of Jamaica. In the woods, at night, thousands of green lamps may be seen flitting to and fro; where the glow on the breast of the fly is hidden from the spectator, its reflection on the grass, over which the little gem is sailing, is clearly distinguishable. No language can convey the consummate beauty of those tropical nights; the air, softened in the breezes from the sea, fans the cheek with a refreshing coolness; the trees rock to and fro, and give out hollow murmurs; the night-birds trill out their madrigals and psalms, and, amid all the leafy garniture, the thousands of fire-flies sail perplexingly; and the forest, rising like a bounding wall, flashes from its million polished leaves the steady lustre of the moon and stars, and the fitful gleams of these glow-worms, sparkling on every hand like showers of fire. Poetry and science, again, go hand in hand; as the one reveals new truths the other weaves them into the warp and woof of its manifold creations. The one labours for the fact, the other for the idea; and the natural world supplies them both with food, and dresses each in its characteristic beauties.

MEMORY OF MUSIC-WHAT CAN MUSIC DO?

The readiness with which the memory lends itself to the service of music is another standing phenomenon peculiar to her. By what mysterious paradox does it come to pass that what the mind receives with the most passivity, it is enabled to retain with the most fidelity, laying up the choicest morsels of musical entertainment in its storehouses, to be ready for spontaneous performance without our having so much as the trouble of summoning them? For not even the exertion of our will is required; a thought,-ay, less than a thought, the slightest breath of a hint is sufficient to set the exquisitively sensitive strings of musical memory vibrating; and often we know not what manner of an idea it is that has just fluttered across our minds, but for the melody, or fragment of a melody, it has awakened in its passage. By what especial favour is it that the ear is permitted a readier access to the cells of memory, and a steadier lodging when there, than any of the other organs? Pictures, poetry, thoughts, hatred, loves, promises of course, are all more fleeting than tunes! These we may let lie buried for years; they never moulder in the grave, they come back as fresh as ever, yet showing the depth at which they have lain by the secret associa tions of joy or sorrow they bring with them. There is no such a pitiless invoker of the ghosts of the past as one bar of a melody that has been connected with them; there is no such a sigh escapes from the heart as that which follows in the train of some musical reminiscence. With all this array of natural advantages,-science to endow her, instinct to regulate, memory to help her,-what is it, after all, that Music can do? Is the result proportionate to her means? Does she enlighten our views, or enlarge our understandings? Can she make us more intelligent, or more prudent, or more practical, or more moral? No, but she can make us more romantic, and that is what we want now-a-days more than anything else. She can give us pleasures we cannot account for, and raise

feelings we cannot reason upon; she can transport us into a sphere where selfishness and worldliness have no part to play; her whole domain, in short, lies in that much-abused land of romance, the only objec tion to which in real life is, that mankind are too weak and too wicked to be trusted in it. This she offers unreservedly to our range, with her attendant spirits, the feelings and the fancy, in every form of spiritual and earthly emotion, of fair and fantastic vision, stationed at the portals to beckon and welcome us in. But if she cannot captivate us by these means, she tries no other; she appeals neither to our reason, our principles, nor our honour. She can as little point a moral as she can paint a picture. She can neither be witty, satirical, nor personal. There is no Hogarth in music; Punch can give her no place on his staff. She cannot reason, and she cannot preach; but, also, she cannot wound, and she cannot defile. She is the most innocent companion of the Loves and Graces,--for real romance is always innocent. Music is not pure to the pure only, she is pure to all. We can only make her a means of harm when we add speech to sound; it is only by a marriage with words that she can become a minister of evil. An instrument which is music, and music alone, enjoys the glorious disability of expressing a single vicious idea, or inspiring a single corrupt thought. It is an anomaly in human history how any form of religion can condemn an organ, for it could not say an impious thing if it would.-Quarterly Review.

Ours is a loftier faith,-with many a hallowed thought Is the scented breath of evening and day's last moments fraught;

And that Spirit-Voice is heard as it passeth gently by,

Over city, wave, and woodland, with a low and murmured sigh.

Ye may hear it whispering solemnly amid the dusky pines,

When on stream and mountain-brow the fitful moonlight shines;

And through the untracked purple depths, with starry watch-fires bright,

Swelleth its tuneful melody upon the queenly night.

It is the voice that Nature sends through Earth's sinclouded bowers,—

Pure strains of joy from sea and shore, and incense from sweet flowers;

It is the praise that riseth up at evening and at morn, Through the golden gates of Heaven on seraph pinions borne.

It reacheth Him who decked the world with every glorious thing,

Who tips with gold the harvest-sheaves, and bids the valleys sing,

Whose hand, e'en on the wilderness, a robe of beauty throws,

Making the desert waste rejoice, and blossom as the

rose.

LUCINDA ELLIOTT.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF DROWNING. Man is the only animal that drowns naturally. He does so because he is endowed with reason, that is to say, with a large spherical brain with a skull on it, which rises above his nose. If he falls into deep water, in spite of his great brain, he has not presence of mind enough to stick his nose out, and keep it out, as he easily might do; but his heavy head, like a stone, presses his nose under water. In this position he inhales and fills his chest with water, so that he becomes on the whole so much heavier than water as to sink. While the lungs are filled with air, the body is lighter than its bulk of water, and of course swims, just as an iron vessel does; all, therefore, which is necessary to keep a person from drowning in deep water is to keep the water out of the lungs. Suppose yourself a bottle; your nose is the nozzle of the bottle, and must be kept out of the water. If it goes under, don't breathe at all till it comes out; then, to prevent its going down again, keep every other part under, head, legs, arms, all under water but your nose; do that, and you can't sink in any depth of water. All you need to do to secure this is to clasp your hands behind your back, and point your nose at the top of the heavens, and keep perfectly still. Your nose will never go under water to the end of time, unless you raise your brain, hand, knee, or foot higher than it. Keep still, with your nose turned up in perfect impudence, and you are safe. This will do in tolerably still water; in boisterous water you will need a little of the art of swimming.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

FAMILY MANIAS.

THERE is a friend whose acquaintance we make only in progress of time. Whatever disposition we may entertain to become more familiar with him, is to little purpose: he refuses to be known, except day by day, and year by year. From his valuable friendship result a store of maxims and counsels, which are piled gradually up in our hearts; and when old age comes, the category is complete. We have a perfect set of rules whereby to guide our youth, our manhood, and our later years. But they are ours too late. We have lived, perhaps, without attending to one hint or counsel, because we knew not whither they tended. In lieu, however, of ourselves acting on these suggestions, we try to bequeath the golden rules taught by experience, to those that are pressing on behind to follow in the same train; to listen to the whisper of our friend as an inheritance. But it is thanklessly received. Our grey hairs, our seared hearts, our disappointments, are nothing to those who stand on the verge of life; and, therefore, talk as we will, walk as we may, they have a smile for every rule, an incredulous look for every piece of advice.

We are not, however, on the present occasion, about to make use of our own experience to propound any very solemn warning to the young. That is not our humour; but whether we are destined to meet with any degree of attention or not, we will venture to make an observation or two upon what has generally arrested our attention.

When we were ourselves young, no doubt much of the same thing took place, but fewer facilities were afforded, and various causes combined, to prevent us from being carried away from the contemplation of our settled and chosen pursuits. We are not of the number of those who affect to decry the present generation in opposition to those who have gone before, to call the past superior, and the time being decidedly bad; but we do venture to assert that there is much frivolity in these days, much wasteful consumption of time, much wavering, much unsettledness of purpose.

Hundreds and thousands of families of this generation are, we do not for a moment doubt, progressing in a very proper manner. Little time is wasted, the proper degree of relaxation is permitted, and the young mind strengthens at the same time that it is

[PRICE 14d.

allowed refreshing ease and indulgence. But there are a great many, on the other hand, who having received a superficial education, being bound down by no particular object in life, who are tied to no profession, languish away in domestic inaction, turning from one thing to another with greedy haste. Another state of things is, where the members, suppose, of a large family, are employed during the day, and assemble at meals, or in the evening, and have a large stock of time unoccupied. Now we are strong advocates for the recreation of youth; nothing is more injurious than for the body or mind to be in a continual state of tension; fatigue prolonged engenders lassitude-lassitude constitutional weakness. What surprises us is, that when relieved from labour, the generality of young people instead of giving free expression to their tongue by joining in a universal conversation-instead of strengthening the bonds of union by interchange of thought and ideas, they generally assemble together, but shrink back into themselves, each intent upon some peculiar occupation, oblivious of his companion, and silent and dull himself. Sometimes, for want of something better, the superabundant energies of the family expend themselves in certain violent affections, all of a sudden, for some particular pursuits, to which we have given the name-we think not undeservedlyof Family Manias; manias they are, and nothing else, and those who look on and are not sharers in them, become infinitely provoking.

We are arrived at an age when we love quiet; but it consists in social quiet-not silence perpetual and unbroken as the gloom of a Trappist convent. One hour of thought and study in our own room is necessary. It constitutes our delight; but old age requires some little epanchement,-loves to talk, perhaps too much. However this may be, we will relate some few of the trials to which this susceptibility of oursthe love of social and domestic intercourse-has subjected us. We were staying some time since in the country, at the house of a near relative, as a sort of experimental trial whether the place was suited to our quiet retired habits. Our room was delightful; our books commodiously disposed of; the sunshine of a bright winter streaming through the window; a blazing fire; our desk at hand; everything ready for comfort. For some days all went on well: the meal times were a sort of holiday; and we conceived we