the occasion upon which he said that.-He was saying, that he had painted a hundred and fifteen portraits since he began his career as an artist, out of which there were only three which had satisfied him. I said he had painted a hundred and sixteen, and I offered to recount the names of the sitters. He didn't wish me to do it; but I did, though, after the first twenty or so, I required a little reflection to bring each name to my remembrance. It was at a dinner-party, and, long before I finished, Thornton and I, and our good host, who was dozing in his arm-chair, were left quite alone; however, I went through the whole number, and it was as we crossed the hall to take our leave of the ladies, -for it was getting very late-that he made the remark which I have just now quoted." "You were correct, then," said Edith, politely. "Why, no, not exactly-that is to say, I was correct in remembering all the names, which was, after all, the great thing, you know, but there were only a hundred and fifteen of them; so Thornton was right there." "That gives a somewhat different colouring to his observation," observed Mrs. Dalton, in a very low tone of voice, to Edith, as she stooped over her flowers. "I found out afterwards," continued Mr. Delamaine, "how I had added that hundred and sixteenth. He had painted the same portrait twice;-you know that was a very satisfactory sort of thing-I must say that it gratified me, for I was altogether at a loss to know how I had contrived to make the confusion. I offered afterwards to give the names in the order in which they had really presented themselves; but Thornton wouldn't take the bet. I suppose he felt sure of losing." "Time or money," said Mrs. Dalton, with an arch look at Sir Mark Wyvil. "Ah! time," cried Lord Vaughan; "that brings us back to the diary, you know. Have you much waste of time to chronicle, Miss Kinnaird ?" "That is scarcely a fair question to ask a young lady," interposed Lady Selcombe, who was comfortably ensconced in a bay window, embroidering a spaniel on a footstool in livid and unearthly hues, which suggested that you were setting your feet on the discoloured corpse of a dog, whose profile, moreover, seemed to have been much battered by frequent crushing; "trifles, Iam afraid, generally make the sum of human things at that age." And Lady Selcombe glanced with goodnatured condemnation at the group round the table, and then looked complacently down upon her work, feeling convinced that embroidering dogs was a much fitter occupation for an immortal soul than contemplating flowers. " "My cousin Godfrey Thornton," said she, "is young, rich, of good family, handsome, and a genius." "And coming here !" added Edith; "that completes the list of his attractions. I heard Lord Selcombe tell Mr. Davis so, as they passed to the stables, while I was gathering my flowers." "But if he is rich and of good family," inquired Lord Vaughan," how comes he to be an artist?" Mrs. Dalton's eyes kindled into more than common brilliancy. "Oh, what an English observation!" exclaimed she. "He is an artist because God made him one, and he has neither the power nor the will to unmake himself." "Then he lives for art!" cried Edith, with a sudden burst of her old romance; "and has given up the world's life, though, with all the attractions which you have enumerated, it would have been to him nothing but triumph and enjoyment. He ought to have a tower like Balta's in Minstrel Love, where, in the midst of the grandeur and beauty of nature, he might be a true artist-hermit, and forget men and women altogether. How delightful! He must be quite an ideal character." "Quite!" responded Sir Mark Wyvil, coolly. "He lives for art' at No. 15, Green-street, Grosvenor-square, and studies nature from his drawing-room windows." 'My dearest Edith," said Mrs. Dalton, a little impatiently, "that is one of your pretty heresies of which I have not yet been quite able to cure you. You seem to have a sort of vague, unpractical idea, that a man must needs withdraw from the world in order to achieve any thing really great. Now I, on the contrary, believe that society is the very food and stimulus of genius, which droops without it, grows morbid, and loses both the creative power and the power of self-measurement." "Long may the idea continue unpractical," exclaimed Lord Vaughan, answering the only part of Mrs. Dalton's speech which was within the limits of his comprehension, "if Miss Kinnaird meditates achieving greatness in her own person!" "Why, yes," replied Edith, "I confess I have no inclination to shut myself up in a hermitage. That would be rather too high a price to pay for any sort of greatness." She did not speak exactly as she felt-but there was no discrepancy between the words and the manner in which she lived. How long would the world, which had already divorced the outer life from the inner thought, leave the thought unmolested? "There is only this difference," said Sir Mark, with studious sportiveness; "to shut Mr. Thornton up in a hermitage would be an act of cruelty to an individual, but to immure Miss Kinnaird would be punishing the world." (To be continued.) "I fear I must plead guilty," said Edith, looking from one of her admirers to the other with a playful ease very unlike penitence. "But before I begin my confession, do tell me who Mr. Thornton is, and whether it is the same Mr. Thornton who is coming here to-day." Thornton! coming here" cried Mr. Delamaine; "Good heavens, how extraordinary! My dear Miss Kinnaird, you could not have applied to a better person MORAL than myself to tell you all about Thornton; for I think I may venture to say that he is one of the most intimate friends I have in the world. If you will allow me, I will tell you his whole history." Edith looked imploringly at Mrs. Dalton, who instantly came to her rescue. "I protest against this!" cried she to Mr. Delamaine. "You are not to speak on the subject at all. Mr. Thornton is my cousin, and I claim the right of kindred as giving me precedence in the matter." But, my dear lady- cried the rebuked orator. Edith playfully held a rose against his lips, so as to stop the torrent of words. He accepted the flower with a bow and a gratified smile, as though he felt that the favour accorded was so great as to pledge him to observance of the terms on which it was granted; and Mrs. Dalton commenced her history at once, as fearing that the pause would not be of long duration. "WE have all been brought up without that," say the greater number of those who hear of any plan that will simplify or facilitate education. It is precisely because you have been brought up with means that were less easy and less advantageous that you should believe that in point of education every means are good to those who know how to make use of them. Methods of education are instruments in the hands of a good (1) Concluded from p. 302. workman; and what workman will complain of seeing the instruments of his trade increase, were it only that he might make a choice of them? It would, nevertheless, be a strange idea, to desire that the instruments should work by themselves; it is, however, what is expected by the greater number of inventors of methods. As soon as they have discovered one, the work of education is, in their opinion, completely finished, or rather is rendered useless. They look upon a child, armed with their method, as a machine which, once set in motion, will never stop until it has fulfilled the object of its destination, and would be tempted to say to the teacher who sought to aid the movement, "What business have you to interfere?" I certainly would interfere,-it would concern me to consider a little before I would put a pack of mythological cards into the hands of a child, in which they are taught the history of Venus and Adonis, and some other adventures of the mother of Love. I will not believe that with a pack of his torical cards they can by themselves learn the New Testament; for I will look, for instance, at the card which gives an account of the Sermon on the Mount, for some observation on those words so calculated to strike the minds of children,-"If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift." And in place of that, I shall simply find that in this sermon Jesus Christ recommends union and reconciliation. When I should see in the cards of Roman history, on the subject of the marriage of Tarquin and Tullia, that "from this monstrous alliance nothing but monsters could be born," I would endeavour to let the minds of my little readers dwell as shortly as possible on expressions of this kind, which, containing only ideas beyond their capacity, would present them with words without ideas; but by scarcely ever adopting the explanatory passages contained in those cards, I would take advantage of them to explain to the children what I wished them to know; they should be an itinerary of my route, in which I should reserve to myself the right of walking at what pace I pleased, without prohibition of either resting or rambling. A game, however simple it may be, can be made profitable in the hands of those who know how to make use of it; but I confess that it is thereto that, in my opinion, the pretensions of the greater number of the best combined methods should be limited. If they facilitate instruction, it is by pointing out the method of teaching rather than the method of learning; their object should be to assist the master rather than the pupil; if they assist the latter, it is by supporting the arm which leads him; and they will assist the former by affording him the means of doing better,-not of doing less. It is not to the mind,-it is not to the feelings of children that we should first apply; their imagination is the only one of their faculties of which you can really dispose; the others perpetually escape you by their inconstancy and tenuity. It is even to the unsteadiness of the imaginations of children that you are indebted for the power of directing them; nevertheless, without continual attention, what will indicate the point at which it is ready to escape you? What will teach you the right idea at which to stop and fix his attention, if an intimacy with every moment of the child's life, with his plays, his pleasures, his troubles, and all the little events of his day, does not enable you to seize that fit opportunity which the wisest method will not supply, but which the least skilful mother can turn to advantage? Of all the theories of education, I do not believe there is one that can be equivalent to the continual action of that gentle power, ever intent upon rectifying the wanderings before they become too difficult to repress, in proportioning the object that it may not be too difficult to attain, in assisting the little successes which en courage, in anticipating even to the fear of a fall, so that the pupil, supported before he feels himself in danger, learns to lean with confidence upon his guide, without being aware of all the weakness which renders the support so necessary. But in those cases which relate more especially to early childhood, the most vigilant mother requires to be guided, or, at least, to be assisted. Should her heart not require to be guarded, or her judgment to be enlightened, her mind will require to be aided, in order to furnish her with means to satisfy the multiplicity of ideas which consume childhood. If the duration of time be measured to us by the number of our ideas, if a fixed idea render this duration almost insensible, while, on the contrary, a variety and rapidity of ideas give it sometimes an intolerable length, then certainly nothing can appear longer than a child's day. Weak in comprehending ideas, quick in exhausting them, in a very few hours he has run through the whole circle of his employments; new ones must be incessantly provided for him ; we must incessantly labour to repel the weariness which produces impatience, caprice, and uneasiness, and weakens the bodily strength, by destroying the energy of the mind. Those who have never brought up children cannot comprehend of what importance it is to those who are engaged in such cares to be able to invent a quarter of an hour's additional amusement; but the importance is doubled, if from the amusement some instruction can be drawn. It has often been said that we ought not to make the lessons of children a play to them, and that of all the lessons they can be taught, the most important is that they should submit to necessity, and give up their will to that of others. As to that, we may make ourselves easy; opportunities enough will never be wanting. But if the lesson may not be a play, where would be the disadvantage of allowing the play to be a lesson, so that children might learn to attach to their amusements some serious idea? The danger of regular lessons is, that it places a wall of separation between the ideas of employment and pleasure, and attaches to the latter exclusively the idea of idleness, so that for children, the important time of their life-the only one that they can really call their own, is the time in which they do nothing; this is the only time to which they attach any interest, the rest belongs to others, they allow it to go as it will, and endeavour especially to lose it. We ought, on the contrary, to accustom children to look upon all their time as important to them, by forming them early to a regular course of life, to which recreation is an exception, and of which the customary pleasures are composed of more or less serious employments. A child should always be believed to be doing something useful, that he may imbibe the idea that it ought not to be otherwise; and nothing is more easy than to give him this idea. Seem to associate him with your employments, by sometimes joining in his; you will have done much to secure his attention when you have given him yours. That lack of ideas which continually torments him draws him incessantly towards those who are able to furnish him with new ones, and every point of contact between their mind and his, every employment which can be made mutual, is a benefit to both parties; but, it must be owned, that, as in many other cases, this aid is especially useful to those who are best qualified to dispense with it. COUNTRY SKETCHES. AN AUTUMN MORNING AT HAMPDEN. create vivid impressions, not easily to be forgotten, in THERE are many passages in English history which the minds and hearts of true Englishmen. It is not too much to say, that the perusal of these stirring occurrences has wrought many a wavering purpose The spot where the battle was fought has been recently indicated by a memorial, erected through the instrumentality of Lord Nugent and other of his admirers. into stability, and excited the reader of our national | soul." His death took place a few days after the battle chronicles to emulate our glorious predecessors in their of Chalgrove Field, in which engagement he was path of fame and well-doing. Who does not feel proud mortally wounded. of his countrymen when the brave deeds of days gone by rise up before him? Who can look back on many of those noble scenes, and not exult that England is his country? Not few nor far between, but constantly present in the annals of our ancestors, they present examples for all successive generations, and afford national illustrations of a people, ever recognised in the oldest traditions as courageous, and of a free and liberal spirit. Happily for these our later days, wars and rumours of wars are becoming less and less heard of. Peace reigns around us; and an increase of civilization has brought in the train of its many blessings one scarcely yet sufficiently esteemed, the power of settling all differences by gentler means than the destruction and desolation of inimical interests. With what feelings of gratitude and happiness so tranquil a consummation should be viewed, let those attest whose avocations have enlisted them in some foreign clime for their country's cause; or those who have made mankind their study, and traced the springs and aims of human actions to their starting point, from thence downwards to their end. Public opinion no longer speaks by the aid of fisticuffs; we have done with such things, and a new and happier era has come. In days gone by, let us hope for ever, a different feeling prevailed; the sword and the strong arm too frequently by their might overcame the justice of a good cause. Might and power then constituted right; as the old song expresses it "That they should take who have the power, So were manners and matters in those times. Gra- Save me, That all the memories of this great man will come crowding round the brain of him who wanders and who thinks in the leafy shades and woodlands of his last home, who muses in the old church of Hampden, in Buckinghamshire, or who treads the halls where Hampden lived and died, is but natural, and harmonises well with the ancient spirit of the place. It is truly a fair spot. The house, originally built in the Plantagenet fashion, has been altered and repaired from time to time. It stands on a fine eminence; is surrounded with lofty and noble trees, and adjoins the church, which is part and parcel of the domain. On one side are the Chiltern Hills, and the fields assessed for ship-money, which Hampden refused to pay. The view of the house opens through a vista, a mile and a quarter long. On either hand, stand elm, beech, and Spanish chestnut trees, of high dimensions. The estate comprises a boundary of nearly 5,000 acres; of this, there is a vast extent of arable land, and some beautiful woods, whose richness of foliage, seen in the fading autumn season, is suggestive of the life of a gentleman of eld, whose amusement and occupations alternated in an agreeable succession. Books and running brooks, the cares of a farmer, the duties of a magistrate, the pleasures of field-sports, the higher gratifications of taste, and the activities of charity; in this wise did the patriot pass a pleasant life for eleven years,—a happy existence broken only by the death of his wife. The stirring events which so soon after happened roused the spirit of this enthusiastic man, who could not witness his countrymen bearing the wrongs that pressed them down tamely and unmoved. It may be very easily believed that the whole surrounding scenery is associated with the name and fame of Hampden. The mansion itself has a peculiar character of its own, and, though almost deserted by its present proprietor, bears striking impress of its ancient greatness. The hall is gloomy, and disfigured by several paintings, which are not only of indifferent execution, but are totally inconsistent with the place. The suite of rooms consists of a library, two dining-rooms, drawing-room, presence chamber, and state bed-room, on the ground-floor. They are handsomely furnished, and contain a few pictures of merit, but most of them in a sad state of neglect. A view of Venice, by Canaletti, has suffered grievous damage at the hands of the cleaner, and an exquisite head of Lely's seems to have become much affected by damp. In the drawing-room there is a chimneypiece of white marble, with figures of rustics, executed in alto-relievo; this, which deserves more than a hasty glance, was the production of an Italian artist, and was brought from Rome by Viscount Hampden. In one of the apartments a large quarto Bible is shown as having been the property of Philip Cromwell, uncle of Oliver. It contains detailed entries of the names and births of many members of the Cromwell family. Elizabeth Cromwell, the Protector's aunt, married one of the ancestors of the patriot. The father of that Hampden was Griffith, high sheriff of Buckinghamshire, who entertained Queen Elizabeth in all costly style and splendour at Hampden, not only fitting up a room purposely for her reception, but employing an immense number of workmen to cut a passage through some very dense woods to allow her majesty to pass in the nearest possible direction. Such was the loyal homage and courtly devotion of the days of Queen Bess, who appears to have commanded respect, if she did not find love from all her subjects. This opening is still to be seen, and is known to all the neighbourhood as the Queen's Gap. There are a great many family portraits scattered through the mansion. On the staircase is a wholelength of Oliver Cromwell; he is accoutred in armour, with helmet and truncheon. There is no mistaking who the artist meant. The stern determination of purpose, the calm forethought, and the hard-lined features, are unmistakeable. It is to be regretted that the picture is in parts greatly injured by the damp. At no great distance is a fine portrait of one of the family, who is said to have destroyed himself in an adjoining chamber. This circumstance is alluded to in terms and tones of such solemn awe by the attending domestic, that the visitor is not surprised to be told afterwards that the room is believed to be haunted. In one of the principal apartments hangs a picture of a man about five or six-and-thirty, which was always said, though on assumption only, to be the resemblance of the great hero of his house. Some years back, Lord Nugent, when preparing his memorials of Hampden for the press, being in doubt upon a disputed point, caused the body of the patriot to be exhumed in his presence, permission having been accorded by the noble proprietor of this property. On unclosing the face, which was in fair preservation, two or three persons present were instantly struck with its resemblance to the picture in question. The grave has thus settled the identity, and it is therefore invariably looked upon as the likeness of Hampden. Roaming through the forsaken old hall, which seems to be drooping in its faded splendour, all things about serve to testify of a past age; and the melancholy feeling is heightened if the visit be made on an autumn day, when the wind blows through every cranny and crevice, and the leaves of the stately trees without, half golden and half sere, fall one by one on the dewy grass, to mingle with the remnants of the passing season. The church, like the house, is embosomed in trees, and is seldom visited by any beside its seventh-day occupants. The locality is perfectly secluded, lying some distance from the two principal roads, and about equidistant from the Great Northern and Western railways. The Tring station is the nearest, and even that is twelve miles off. All the adjacent lanes and villages, not to say towns, are of the most rural description, and convey the impression of a rich agricultural district. In the quietude of such a scene, it is well to have nothing to break the contemplation of its former lord, and the occurrences in which he took so active a part. It has been truly observed by one of the greatest writers of our time, that the history of Hampden's life is the history of England during the period in which he lived. Whatever difference of opinion may exist as to the effects of his memorable opposition to the increasing encroachments of the crown, there can be none to the conviction that he was actuated by an honest love for the welfare of his country, the prosperity and happiness of his fellow-countrymen, and an ardent love for the blessings of liberty and social progress. To think of him amidst the groves where he wandered, in the halls where so often his footsteps fell, or in the hallowed fane where he lies, uncenotaphed but not forgotten, is indeed a pleasure and a privilege. And few votaries ever sought a shrine more worthy of their seeking than the grave of this upright, conscientious man. Few excursions containing more of profit and pleasure combined can be taken than this, so picturesquely situate in one of the most retired districts of the county. THE TEMPERATURE OF INSECTS. In two former articles, on the temperature of the beehive in winter and in summer, it was shown, that bees Strange to say, there are no papers or documents of maintain a degree of heat in their dwellings considerably any interest relating to Hampden to be found in the above that of the external air. The same fact has been precincts of his dwelling-place,-nothing to assist in observed by Mr. Newport in the nest of the humble-bee the elucidation of any one point in his history. So, passing to the church where he lies, there is there, too, in its natural haunts. The nest examined was situated no indication of the spot. No tablet, no effigy, no in a shaded chalk bank, near the ground, and about monumental stone, or marble of any kind. There is a eight inches from the surface. At ten o'clock, A.M., the memorial to the last John Hampden. It is profusely temperature of the air in the shade, four feet from the decorated with armorial bearings. On an oval medal-ground, was nearly sixty-nine degrees; that of the lion is a representation of Hampden falling from his horse at the battle of Chalgrove Field. There is a morion with the Hampden crest, and an inscription setting forth the relationship of the deceased to the Trevor family. Far more to our purpose, infinitely more interesting, is the epitaph written by Hampden to the memory of his beloved wife. It is upon a black marble tablet, placed between the windows of the chancel, underneath a coat-of-arms. As it is fair to presume that this is the composition of the regretful husband himself, the gentle record acquires a twofold attraction. It runs thus: : "To the eternall Memory of the truly vertuous and pious Elisabeth Hampden, wife of John Hampden, of Great Hamp den, Esq., sole daughter and heire of Edmund Symeon, of Pyrton, in the county of Oxon, Esq. The tender mother of an happy offspring in 9 hopefull children. In her pilgrimage The staie and comfort of her neighbours, a loss unvaluable to each, yet herself blest, and they fully exterior of the chalk bank, near the entrance to the nest, sixty-six degrees. On introducing a small thermometer very carefully into the nest, without disturbing the inmates, a temperature of eighty-three degrees was indicated, and this in a few minutes rose to eighty-five degrees. Another nest, containing forty or fifty bees, was removed from the earth to Mr. Newport's residence, and placed in a small breeding cage. The bees were at first very irritable, and were therefore kept in close confinement, and fed with moistened sugar; but on the third day they became accustomed to their new abode, and were placed on a table in the sitting-room, near the window, which was left open, as was also the door of the cage, so that the bees might go abroad and return at pleasure, which they did with as much regularity as if the nest had been in its natural locality. temperature of this nest varied considerably at different times, but was highest when the bees were excited. In a third nest, which was caged like the second, the bees were at first greatly affected and agitated by the slightest noise, such as the removal of a chair, or a footstep in the room, or the passing of a carriage along the road, thirty feet distant; but they were not in the slightest degree affected by persons talking loudly in the room, whilst a tap with the finger on the table put them immediately into a state of the greatest agitation. In two or three days they became accustomed to their situation, and were not disturbed by slight noises. When the tem The "John Hampden, her sorrowful husband, in perpetuall testi-perature of the air was seventy and a half degrees, that mony of his conjugall love, hath erected this Monument." of the box and nest was seventy-three degrees; but when they were excited it rose to seventy-seven, but gradually subsided to seventy-three degrees as the bees became quiet. On another occasion, when greatly excited, a temperature of nearly twelve degrees above that of the air was observed. An ants' nest, examined in its natural haunts, afforded still more remarkable results. The temperature of the air in the shade at eleven o'clock, A.M., was seventy-six degrees; when the thermometer was passed into the nest to the depth of five inches, it rose to eighty-four degrees, and remained steadily at that point; but in about six or eight minutes, the insects becoming excited, and running about in every direction in a state of great agitation, the temperature of the nest rose to ninety-three degrees; and soon after, when the insects were still more excited, to ninety-five and a half degrees, and a little nearer the surface, where the commotion was greatest, to ninety-eight and a half degrees. During these observations the ant-hill was carefully shaded from the sun; but when exposed to its influence, the thermometer rose to 108 degrees. This was a temperature much too great for the insects to bear; they all retired beneath the covering of the nest, and scarcely a single ant was to be seen. These observations, which were made on a fine day in July, were repeated on a gloomy, wet day in September, when the temperature of the air at eleven o'clock, A.M., was only fifty-four degrees, that of the nest at the depth of one inch was sixty-five, at two inches, sixty-six degrees, below which it gradually diminished. In another nest, twice the size of the first, observed at the same time, the thermometer stood twenty degrees above the temperature of the air, when the insects were a little excited. It appears, then, that these communities of insects maintain a degree of heat in their dwellings considerably above that of the external air; such being the case, it would seem to follow, that every individual insect must maintain a separate temperature of body, higher than that of the surrounding atmosphere. In order to determine this point, Mr. Newport made an immense number of experiments upon insects in their different states and under various circumstances. The thermometers used in determining their temperature were of small size, with cylindrical bulbs, about half an inch in length. The method of taking the temperature of an insect was either by allowing it to remain with the soft ventral surface of the abdomen pressing against the bulb when in a state of rest, or by pressing the thermometer firmly against its body when in a state of excitement; and, in order that the heat of the hand might not interfere with the result, the insect was held during the observation between a pair of forceps covered with woollen, and the hand which held the thermometer was also covered with a glove. The temperature of the insect was always compared with that of the atmo- | sphere at the time of observation. The temperature of active flying insects was taken by enclosing them singly in a small phial. The number of inspirations per second was noted, as was also the degree of activity of the insect, so as to be able to compare the amount of respiration with the heat evolved. In examining insects in their different states it was found that the larva always evolved less heat than the perfect insect of the same species, supposing both to be similarly healthy and active. The larvæ of humble bees and some others were from two to four degrees above the temperature of the surrounding air, whereas the perfect insects were from three to eight or ten degrees higher, and when much excited the difference was even greater. The larva of the flesh-fly is seldom more than one and a half, and the perfect fly only two and a half degrees above the surrounding medium; but precise observations are difficult to be made on small insects, although easy enough on the large softbodied larvæ of sphynges. On applying the bulb to a full-grown larva of the death's-head moth, it showed a temperature of seven and a half degrees higher than that of the air, but the insect was much excited by being disturbed; its general temperature when feeding is not more than three degrees above the air, and, when perfectly quiet and apparently asleep, the temperature is exactly that of the air. From a variety of observations it was evident that individual insects possess a temperature of body above that of the surrounding medium; that the amount of heat is not constant in the same insect, but varies according to certain conditions, which will be noticed presently. In the nymph, or pupa state, the temperature of the insect is generally lower than at any other period of its existence, and is only equal to, or but very little above that of the surrounding medium; when disturbed their temperature rises somewhat above that of the air. The pupae part with their natural heat with much greater rapidity than the larvae, and this seems to be the reason why most hymenopterous insects select for their young those situations which are found to be the worst conductors of heat. This is why the mason-bee encloses its larvæ in cells constructed in the vertical sections of banks of earth which are exposed to the morning sun, and why hive and humble bees crowd over those cells which are about to produce the perfect insect, when the enclosed nymphs are most in need of increased warmth to invigorate them for the change they are about to undergo. In the imago, or perfect insect state, the insect has a higher temperature than at any other period of its life, and when in a state of activity is not so much influenced by sudden changes of atmospheric temperature as in the larva or pupa state. The imago has also greater power of generating as well as of maintaining heat; but it is not till some time after an insect has assumed a perfect state that it is able to support its full temperature. When a lepidopterous insect leaves its pupa case with its whole body soft and delicate, and its wings undeveloped, and hanging uselessly by its sides, it parts so rapidly with heat, that it appears to have a lower tempe. rature than at the time when it is about to pass from the larva to the pupa state; and it immediately seeks a retired situation where it may suspend itself vertically at rest, and complete the development of what are now to become its most important organs of locomotion. In doing this the insect first begins to breathe very deeply, and continues to do so for a considerable time. The inspired air passes from the large air-sacs in the abdomen into the base of the wings, and while the ramified air-tubes in the wings are becoming elongated and distended, and the wings in consequence developed, the temperature of the insect again begins to increase. But it is not till the wings have become firm and fitted for flight that the insect is enabled to generate its full amount of heat. Thus, in an observation on a pussmoth, half an hour after coming from the pupa, its temperature was only two-tenths of a degree above that of the atmosphere; an hour afterwards three-tenths; in an hour and a half six-tenths, when the insect was moderately active. In two hours and a half's time, when the insect was a little more active, its temperature was nearly one degree and a quarter above that of the atmosphere; and on the following day, when perfectly strong and excited, as during rapid flight, it was seven degrees above the temperature of the atmosphere. The hymenopterous insects which live in society, such as bees, have their heat increased artificially by the brooding of the nurse-bees over the cocoon or pupa case; but when the young bee comes forth it parts with its temperature most rapidly, unless immediately protected by warmth from the bodies of other individuals. But when the same insect, a few hours afterwards, has become fully able to perform all the duties of its existence, it sometimes has a temperature of perhaps twenty degrees above that of the surrounding air, while its temperature in the larva state is scarcely more than three degrees higher. The temperature of insects is influenced by various |