British expeditions to the northern islands of the Pacific, to Nootka Sound and the north-west coast of America; but the Russians already had possession of the tract which they now hold, and had arranged a trade for the sea-otter with the Roudek tribes. They do not engross the trade, however; the American north-west trading ships procure them, all along the coast, from the Indians.

At one period the fur seats formed no inconsiderable item in the trade. South Georgia, in south latitude fiftyfive degrees, discovered in 1675, was explored by Captain Cook in 1771. The Americans immediately commenced carrying seal-skins thence to China, where they obtained the most exorbitant prices. One million two hundred thousand skins have been taken from that island alone, and nearly an equal number from the island of Desolation, since they were first resorted to for the purposes of commerce.

The discovery of the South Shetlands, sixty-three degrees south latitude, in 1818, added surprisingly to the trade in fur seals. The number taken from the South Shetlands in 1821 and 1822, amounted to three hundred and twenty thousand. This valuable animal is now almost extinct in all these islands, owing to the exterminating system adopted by the hunter. They are still taken on the Lobos Islands, where the provident government of Montevideo restrict the fishery, or hunting, within certain limits, which insures the annual return of the seals. At certain seasons, these amphibia, for the purpose of renewing their coat, come up on the dark frowning rocks and precipices, where there is not a trace of vegetation. In the middle of January, the islands are partially cleared of snow, where a few patches of short straggling grass spring up in favourable situations; but the seals do not resort to it for food. They remain on the rocks not less than two months, without any sustenance, when they return much emaciated to the

sea.

Bears of various species and colours, many varieties of the fox, the wolf, the beaver, the otter, the marten, the racoon, the badger, the woolverine, the minx, the lynx, the musk rat, the wood chuck, the rabbit, the hare, and the squirrel are natives of North America.

The beaver, otter, lynx, fisher, hare, and racoon are used principally for hats, while the bears of several varieties furnish an excellent material for sleigh linings, and other military equipments. The fur of the black fox is the most valuable of any of the American varieties, and next to that the red, which is exported to China and Smyrna. In China, the red is employed for trimmings, linings, and robes, the latter being variegated by adding the black fur of the paws in spots or waves. There are many other varieties of American fox, such as the gray, the white, the cross, the silver, and the dun coloured. The silver fox is a rare animal, a native of the woody country below the falls of the Columbia river. It is a long thick deep lead-coloured fur, intermingled with long hairs, invariably white at the top, forming a bright lustrous, silver gray, esteemed by some more beau tiful than any other kind of fox.

The skins of the buffalo, of the rocky mountain sheep, of various deer, and of the antelope are included in the fur trade with the Indians and trappers of the north and west.

Fox and seal-skins are sent from Greenland to Denmark. The white fur of the arctic fox and the polar bear is sometimes found in the packs brought to the traders by the most northern tribes of Indians, but is not particularly valuable. The silvertipped rabbit is peculiar to England, and is sent thence to Russia and China.

Other furs are employed and valued according to the caprices of fashion, as well in those countries where they are needed for defences against the severity of the seasons, as among the inhabitants of milder climates, who being of Tartar or Sclavonian descent, are said to inherit an attachment to furred clothing. Such are the inhabitants of Poland, of Southern Russia, of China, of Persia, of Turkey, and all the nations of Gothic origin in the middle and western parts of Europe. Under the burning suns of Syria and Egypt, and the mild climes of Bucharia and independent Tartary, there is also a constant demand, and a great consumption, where there exists no physical necessity. In our own temperate latitudes, besides their use in the arts, they are in request for ornament and warmth during the winter

Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawnning life

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

ed in the corridors of a German hotel, or at the table of some licensed house of swindling for the benefit of the state. The marking event of the first of

foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick-(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,' Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)

Balmy, and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its

star,

(I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

It is known to all those who are au fait of the "seasons" of London that there are three. The first is when London, reviving from its summer doze, stretches its huge proportions, yawns, and begins to give signs of life. This occurs annually about the beginning of November. The second is when it is fairly on its legs, and plunges into business. This occurs about the beginning of February. The third is when, tired of business, it begins to think of pleasure, and its legs are employed in dancing, promenading, and running to shows. This begins in May. Two months of quadrilling are enough to exhaust the reluctant vivacity of the great metropolis-the magnates glide away to their counties, to feed themselves into popularity against the next election, or shut themselves up in their town mansions, and are invisible, on pretence of being a thousand miles off; or steam their way over to Paris, Aix-la-Chapelle, and Baden, to learn foreign morals, live at their ease with principessas and la baroness, leave a daughter or two behind in the care of some dancingmaster, or discharged valet, or professional gambler, who call themselves counts, and import into England the corruption that they have so rapidly learn.

tomime. Parliament takes up the next; and the Duke of Devonshire, the Grand Master of the Ceremonies to the exclusive world, steward of the supreme bon ton, and as upright in his waltzing as he is prostrate in his politics, opens the third, by opening his huge house, at the rate of a thousand pounds and a thousand frivolities, in the shape of men and women, anight, until the doors revolve again, and universal languor, shuts up the lordly folly for the year.

Covent-Garden has a hereditary renown for pantomime. A genius suddenly flashed upon the worn-out exploits of the Italian arlequino, in the shape of Rich, about a century ago. Nature made him for the restorer of the art of jumping through windows, conquering all the obstacles of nature and art with a dagger of lath, and making the most persevering love to Columbine. The power of Rich has descended without a cloud to the theatre which he raised from beggary to opulence; and while dynasties have perished, thrones been turned into bonfires, and nations been trampled by the heels of Cossacks and Hulans, let the Covent-Garden pantomime pride itself in the constancy of its fame. The present performance is founded on the play of George Barnwell, called in the bills, for fondness' sake, Georgey. This play was customarily performed at Christmas and Easter, with the well-meant intention of warning the young traders of London against lending too ready an ear to the temptations of the town. But as it was probably found that the exhibition of pilfering tills and shooting uncles began to be more strongly impressed on the apprentice generation than the hanging that followed, and especially now that hanging is merely a matter of history, the managers have laid its moral aside, and Covent-Garden has had the vigour to farcify it for the merriment of mankind.

George Barnwell is preceded by a mystification of the kingdom of Sloth. The lubber-fiend exhibits himself surrounded by a coterie of genii, bearing the name of Gluttony, Laziness, &c. He announces the forthcoming ruin of

the most promising of all apprentices, and the genii, delighted at the prospect, vanish in a blaze, with a strong smell of sulphur. George is then seen at his ledger; he is posting with a marvellous industry, and is evidently in a fair way of being a millionaire. But Millwood comes, buys some tea and sugar, gives him her card-a square of pasteboard a foot long-and invites him to an evening party. George shuts up his windows, dresses himself en beau, and sallies forth. The party are dancing quadrilles. Millwood asks whether he has brought his uncle's money with him, and the story proceeds in the old style to the end. Then comes the fairy queen, turns all the characters into the dramatis persone of harlequinade, and the tumblings and transformations begin. Some of the scenery is striking, and, among the rest, the Parliament-House, after Barry's ́ design, produces a forcible effect. Then come satirical touches at public life. Something expressive of the newspaper regulations turns into a boiling-pot, inscribed a mess of rice.

The papers are next measured by his "superficial inch" rule; and each is vying with the other in size. But Harlequin touches the Weekly Despatch, and, by a very clever contrivance, it instantly spreads over the whole scene. Wyatt's masterly equestrian statue of George the Third is transformed into a man, which goes off firing a salute in honour of William the Fourth. Then comes an imitator of Rice, the American Jim Crow. If this be the specimen of native talent which our brothers on the other side of the Atlantic send as their representative, we can have no great wish for new importations. Jim Crow is a miserable, ragged negro, who sings a horrid tune to the lowest and most unmeaning of all possible jargons. If there were humour of any kind in it, the vulgarity might, perhaps, be pardoned from the mouth of the wretch who roars; but it is utterly dull, and is merely a string of negro slang. The pantomime closes with an extraordinary exhibition of strength, steadiness, and courage, yet one of the most painful exhibitions possible. A Madame Irvine walks up a rope from the back of the stage to the upper gallery. The rope is scarcely thicker than a man's wrist. The ascent is at an elevation of nearly forty-five de

grees. It would be difficult to ascend a stair at such an angle; yet this young person, night after night, walks up the terrific ascent, when the slightest false step, giddiness of head, or accidental agitation, must be her death. If she fell she must be dashed to pieces. The gazers in the pit, too, are in rather an uncomfortable position; for, in its present crowded state, she would probably kill several persons in her fall. This feat is regarded as the ne plus ultra of the profession, and which no one has accomplished since Madame, a short, thick, little lump of activity, who was the glory of Vauxhall some years ago. But the peril takes off all the pleasure, and no one who saw it once would probably ever desire to see it again.

VALENTINE'S DAY.

Он, love! terrific, tender love,

What plaguey work you make! From New-year's Day to New-year's Day No rest you seem to take.

And yet you're such a tiny thing,

To wise men it seems odd
That earth should truckle thus to thee,
Thou demi-semi-god.

The day, of all the livelong year,
On which you brightest shine,
Is February's fourteenth day,
Delicious Valentine.

O, then, what heaving of young hearts,
What smiles, what swoons, and cries,
And rhymes of every kind and sort,

And sighs of every size!

No day makes such a stir as this,

Not even King William's natal; Of all the fêtes, to Valentine

Thy fête is the most fatal. All other feasts are sinking fast,

But yours shall ne'er decline; And, oh! among read-letter days,

What day can match with thine? All now to love their homage pay,

From him that guides the plough,
To him that guides the state: the King
Himself's a courtier now.

Love leads poor mortals such a dance
O'er hill, and vale, and plain :
The world seems all one vast quadrille-
The figure, ladies' chain.

This day is nature's grand court day,

Where high and low you meet,
The noble with his lady gay--
The beggar with his suite.

There's not a trade or mystery

But love finds means to bind ; The oldest blacksmith at his forge Feels hammerously inclined.

Jack Ketch himself now dreads a noose

Surpassing his own art;

The butcher feels, with strange surprise,
That he has got a heart.

The beasts are all in the same plight,
The horse, the ass, the steer;
The lion finds his own true love,
The stag has got his deer.
The little mouse, though small he be,
Courts after his own fashion;
The very mite's oblige to own

That love's a mity passion.

And while Miss Grace invites her beau
With her to-day to wander,
The very goose whose quill she wields
Is gone to meet her gander.

Since birds and beasts don't die for love,
I think it were inhuman
If woman's heart I fail to move,
To dangle after woman.
But, Cupid, if on me you shine,
I'm young, and yours for life;
I've done with fickle Valentine,
And anchor with a wife.

The subject of dreams is one of the problems which continually attract and continually baffle human investigation. Every one dreams, yet no man solves the phenomena. Every man is conscious that the strangest imaginable deviations from the common things and thoughts of life pass before him in sleep, yet the most philosophical are still totally at a loss to discover the cause, the instrument, or the law of those most singular, exciting, and perpetually recurring motions of the mind. All attempts to account for them by peculiar actions of the brain are idle. Who can see or know the actual state of the organ? All attempts to account for them by association of ideas are equally idle. What does any man know even of the nature of that association? Every theory which hopes to determine them by external impulses has equally failed. That external impulses will often influence the dream is notorious; but this seems to occur only in an imperfect condition of slumber, when the senses are partly awake.

That

bodily pain will influence them also there is no doubt. Still this is an imperfect condition, and on the verge of waking. No theory hitherto ac

counts for the simplest state of the dream-that in which the mind, undisturbed by either bodily pain or external impulse, follows its own free course of enjoyment; flies all round the world; lives in the moon, the sun, the stars; plunges in the depths of ocean; gives serandas under the wall of China, or sits under the perfumed groves of Ceylon. No theory accounts for the existence of images to the full as vivid as those of the waking senses, and much more vivid than those of memory, when the senses are wholly closed, and the body represents but a mass of helpless inaction. If memory is the sole agent, why is it that the images of dreams have such superior clearness? If invention be the sole agent, why is it that multitudes who, in their waking hours, have not the power of combining halfa-dozen ideas together in the shape of a story, and who would no think of fabricating an adventure than they would of fabricating a palace, yet follow idea after idea in all the windings of story every night of their lives, and wander in the wildest and most curious adventure through every region of the globe.

more

In casting contempt on the usual theories, we have none of our own to replace them. The subject seems to be totally beyond human knowledge, and if we are to derive any conclusion from it, it is as to its evidence of the power which the mind is capable of exercising when the view of external things is totally shut out, when the mind is as completely as possible left to its own workings, and when its delights, pains, and actions, must proceed almost wholly from its own constitution.

Thus, if we find that the inactivity of the body in sleep has no effect on the activity of the mind, if it does not absolutely contribute to it, what is to prevent us from conceiving that a still more extreme state of inactivity, even death, would only free and invigorate the movement of the mind in a superior degree? That the body is no more the man than the clothes are the man, or than the house is the inhabitant, there can be no doubt whatever. The body is necessary to our communication with the material world, and with our fellow men. But when the individual shall have run his course in the

world, and the law of nature, which is but the will of Providence, removes