fingers of the workwomen could have brought this art to such perfection. Wonder followed wonder, as I thought on the fields of flax I had passed, and remembered that they were the origin, or rather foundation, of these fairy-like articles. The manufactory was very dark, and not well ventilated, so that a ramble on the Waterloo boulevards was quite necessary, before assist ing at the four o'clock table d'hôte, at the Hôtel de Flandre. Of this latter, it is necessary to say special words of commendation and recommendation. Be assured, oh reader, that it is first and foremost of all hotels in Brussels. The dinners are superb, and served in the best style; it is the custom to have the dishes placed before the admiring eyes of the guests for a few minutes; they are then carried off by the attendant garçons to a sideboard, cut up, and handed to each individual; the pâtisserie is of the most varied kind, and must be, not seen, but tasted, to be appreciated. The society is always, as I have heard and found, good, and parties, who have never met before, mingle cordially in the conversation of the dinner table. Brussels is a charming place for a short séjour retirement or gaiety may be equally enjoyed, and it is an easy distance from London on the one hand, and Paris and the principal German towns on the other. It is a mistake to suppose that it is a cheap spot to live in; the prices demanded by the shopkeepers are fully as high as those of the first houses in the west end of town, and it needs some acquaintance with the different localities to find out good and respectable, and, at the same time, moderate houses, where the necessaries of life may be purchased. The general temperature of the city is equable, and the many agrémens connected with it render it a very agreeable resort for the invalid, who seeks to combine amusement with a relaxation from all active duties.

ON THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OF PRAIRIES. Few of our readers can be unacquainted with the fact, that a vast portion of North America is occupied by level plains of extraordinary extent, called savannahs, or prairies. These prairies are of three kinds: first, the heathy or bushy prairies, which have springs of water, and are covered with small shrubs, grapevines, &c. These are very common in Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri. Second, the dry or rolling prairies, generally destitute of water, and almost of all vegetation but grass. These are the most common and extensive the traveller may wander for days in these vast and nearly level plains, without wood or water, and see no object rising above the horizon. Third, there are the alluvial, or wet prairies, which form the smallest division. These are covered with a rich vegetation of tall rank grass. The soil is deep, black, friable, and fertile, and abounding in pools without issue, left by the floodings of the rainy season.

There is this peculiarity in the scenery of North America, that forest and pasture land are seldom found intermixed. The country consists either of vast tracts of land, such as above described, and altogether destitute of timber; or it is covered with forests for many hundreds of miles. This remarkable difference between the features of American scenery, and all that we, as Europeans, are acquainted with, has led to various theories by which the circumstance is attempted to be explained. Decandolle states, that the right of prior occupation is sufficient to explain the fact;-that forests and prairies mutually exclude each other. He considers, that if by any cause a forest is established in a given place, the shade of the trees, and the eagerness with which their roots absorb nourishment, together with the interlacings of those roots, will prevent the

grasses from shooting up underneath. If, on the contrary, the prairie is first developed, then, supposing that the seeds of the trees do from time to time germinate, yet their young roots cannot easily pierce the close net-work of the grasses already existing on the spot, and, even if they do, they are starved by the voracity of the grass-roots, which are more numerous, and better developed than their own.

Not resting satisfied with this attempted solution, Dr. Daubeny, in his Lectures on Agriculture, inquires what has given to the forest in the one case, and to the meadow in the other, that prior occupancy, to which their power of maintaining entire possession of an extensive tract may perhaps justly be attributed.

The view of the subject, taken by the learned professor himself, appears so likely to present the real cause of the phenomenon in question, and his remarks on the exuberance of newly-peopled countries in general, are so interesting, that we make an abs ract of them for the benefit of our readers.

It is probable, that in the climate and latitude alluded to, forests would usurp dominion over the greater portion of the country, if no extraneous cause interfered to arrest them. It is only necessary, therefore, to explain why large tracts should be found wholly denuded of timber; and this it seems most reasonable to attribute to the practice that prevails amongst the Aborigines, of annually setting fire during summer to the plains, in order the more readily to take deer and other wild game.

In the dry season a fire, when once kindled, spreads in all directions, until it is stopped by the intervention of a river, or by meeting with a ridge or tract so destitute of vegetation as to afford no combustible materials. Hence those vast plains that lie to the west of the Mississippi, not being intersected by any barren range of hills, nor yet traversed by large rivers, have in the course of years been converted into prairies, the the cause assigned, until the luxuriant herbage at growth of timber being from time to time prevented by length so pre-occupies the soil, as itself to stifle all other ing along either side of that great stream, the numerous kind of vegetation; whereas, over a wide tract extendtributaries that pour their waters into it, oppose a limit to the progress of such fires as may occur, and thus enable the forests to maintain their ascendancy.

Be this as it may, the absence of timber in the prairie country is by no means an evidence of sterility: vegetable matter, which has resulted from the growth on the contrary, the immense accumulation of decayed of herbaceous plants during so many centuries, is found to constitute a soil of almost unrivalled productiveness.

The colonist, therefore, in settling down in such a region, has little room for the exertion of any extraordinary skill or industry, having around him an unaffords the richest pasturage, and which, whenever he limited extent of land, which in its actual condition takes the trouble of turning it up and scattering seed over it, will generally repay him largely for the labour expended. Harder, indeed, is the lot of him who takes up his abode within the precincts of the primeval forests of the western world; since, before he can reap any advantage from the land he calls his own, he must undertake the severe task of clearing it of the timber with which it is encumbered. This, however, being accomplished, it is seldom that he is disappointed of an ample return for his labour. Notwithstanding his rude and imperfect method of culture, his success is as great as that which follows the utmost exertion of skill and experience in older countries. This was even the case in parts of the Union which are by no means remarkable for their fertility at present; as, for instance, in the state of New England.

"When the tract on the green mountains in Massachusetts was first settled," says Dr. Dwight, "the same exuberant fertility was attributed to it, which has since

vator."

There is little reason to doubt, therefore, that the first Egyptian and Phoenician settlers in Greece, or the first Greeks who peopled the shores of Italy or of Spain, would find themselves in circumstances as favourable to husbandry, as the present emigrants in the far west. It would seem, indeed, that the extraordinary exuberance of newly-peopled countries, where the subsoil and climate allow of the spontaneous growth of timber, may have given countenance to some of those visions respecting the Golden Age, in which the teeming imaginations of the inhabitants of early Greece delighted to indulge. But, in the case of colonists, both ancient and modern, a period must at length arrive, when the soil, exhausted by unintermitted tillage, would cease to yield him a profitable return; in which case, so long as abundance of good land remained unoccupied, the most obvious course would be to abandon his present possessions, and to advance further into the vacant territory, until he lighted upon some tract better suited to his purpose.

This, accordingly, is often the practice in the United States, not only in the newly settled countries, but in the older states of Georgia and the Carolinas, where the cultivation of cotton, though profitable at first, soon exhausts the soil, and reduces it to sterility; so that estates, which once yielded an abundant return, are abandoned by their possessor, and become again a portion of the original wilderness. This is the only plan which presents itself to the settler in a new country, for restoring to the earth that fertility of which it has been deprived.

This is, in fact, a substitute for the method of fallowing, which constitutes the first step in an artificial system of culture; and it seems probable, that the early colonists in the Old World may have been led to introduce the latter practice, by observing the unfruitful soil, when abandoned to itself, gradually resuming its former productiveness. For although, for a certain period, they may have wandered from one territory to another, as the settlers in America now do, yet there must have been a limit to this unrestrained emigration: hostile tribes, in many cases, hemmed them in, and natural obstacles frequently prevented them from moving to a great distance.

Thus, being more generally confined to one spot, the colonists of old would be the sooner driven to adopt the system of fallowing, in order to restore to their land the fertility of which their mode of culture had deprived it. Accordingly we find, in the Hebrew law, every seventh year set apart as a period of entire resta command, it is to be observed, grounded not only on religious, but on political considerations; with the view, that is, of preventing the soil from being worn out by continual tillage. The practice of giving entire rest to the land at certain intervals, enjoined under the Mosaic dispensation as a religious duty, was also adopted in the early times of Greece and Rome.

A vivid idea of the nature of a prairie is conveyed by Catlin in the following passage:—

"Every rod of our way was over a continuous prairie, with a verdant green turf of wild grass, of six or eight inches in height; and most of the way enamelled with wild flowers, and filled with a profusion of strawberries. For two or three of the first days, the scenery was monotonous, and became exceedingly painful, from the fact that we were (to use a phrase of the country) 'out of sight of land,' i.e. out of sight of anything rising

above the horizon, which was a perfect straight line around us, like that of the blue and boundless ocean. The pedestrian, amid such a discouraging sea of green, without a landmark before or behind him, without a beacon to lead him on, or define his progress, feels weak and overcome when night falls; and he stretches his exhausted limbs, apparently on the same spot where he has slept the night before-with the same his head, and the same cheerless sea of green to start upon in the morning. It is difficult to describe the simple beauty and serenity of these scenes of solitude, or the feelings of feeble man, whose limbs are toiling to carry him through them, without a hill or tree to mark his progress, and convince him that he is not, like a squirrel in his cage, after all his toil, standing still. One commences on peregrinations like these with a light heart and a nimble foot, and spirits as buoyant as the very air that floats along by the side of him; but his spirit soon tires, and he lags on the way, that is rendered more tedious and intolerable by the tantalizing mirage, that opens before him beautiful lakes, and lawns, and copses; or by the looming of the prairie ahead of him, that seems to rise in a parapet, and decked with its varied flowers, phantom-like, flies and moves along before him."

HANNAH LAWRENCE.

A COUNTRY STORY:
BY ELIZABETH YOUATT.

"Come linger in our garden bower
A little while with me,
As closes the gum-cistus flower,
And homeward flies the bee.
I have a true sad tale to tell,

And you shall pause, and listen well."

AND now, gentle reader, we will tell you a country story;-one that actually took place far away, among green fields, and quiet woodlands, where it is related by the aged to this day, with a simple and solemn truthfulness at which you cannot choose but weep, although you will presently smile, and bless God, as they never fail to do when they tell it.

Once upon a time, (we love to commence thus, in memory of our happy childhood, whose pleasantest tales always began after this fashion)-Once upon a time there lived a young girl named Hannah Lawrence. She was an only child, and as good and sweet tempered as she was pretty. A little wilful to be sure,-it is said, most women are; but then, as her old father used to observe,, she had such a winning way with her, that one could not help loving her, do what she would. There was another beside Mr. Lawrence, who was much of the same opinion; and Hannah felt it, and was happier than she cared to let the world know of; while the knowledge, so far from tempting her to exercise the power she was conscious of possessing, made her humble, and meek-spirited. To be sure, she did contrive in general to get her own way, but it was so quietly that her lover yielded almost imperceptibly to her gentle guidance. The woman who loves, and is beloved, should feel her own responsibility, and be careful to blend the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove.

When Robert Conway told his mother that he believed smoking did not agree with him, and that he should give it up,-that he was weary of the debating club, which only led to drinking and quarrelling, and thought his evenings would be much better spent at home, she agreed, with a quiet smile, and blessed Hannah Lawrence in her heart. The aged woman was fondly attached to her intended daughter-in-law, and

had sufficient good sense to be pleased rather than jealous of the influence which she possessed over Robert. "So you do not like smoking?" said Mrs. Conway; casting at the same time a mischievous glance towards Hannah, who at that moment entered. "Do you hear that, Hannah?"

"Yes, mother," replied she very demurely, "and I cannot say that I am altogether sorry, for it certainly does make the breath smell very unpleasantly sometimes."

"But my breath does not smell now, Hannah, dear!" said Robert, kissing her. And, as the girl looked up into his frank open countenance, she longed to whisper —that smoke, or do what he would, she did not believe that there was his equal in the whole world. It was as well, perhaps, that she did not it will not do to humour ones lover too much. It is different with a husband.

Hannah sat between them, with a hand in each; she was very happy.

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Why should it not be always thus?" whispered Robert Conway. The girl looked timidly at his

mother.

"Answer him, Hannah," said she. "I also am impatient to have two children instead of one." But still she never spoke a word.

Mrs. Conway had been young herself, and she rose up to leave them together; but Hannah would not suffer her.

"Do not go, mother," said she, timidly.

"What is it you fear?" asked her lover, drawing her gently towards him.

"

'Only-only that this should be all a dream!" And she rested her head upon his bosom, and wept.

Robert Conway smiled as he soothed and kissed away her tears. As Hannah said even then, it was too great happiness to last.

That night she told her father and mother everything, with many blushes and a few tears, for she felt home-sick at the thought of leaving it for ever, although it was to live close by; however, the day was at length fixed for her marriage. And the old people blessed her again with joyful hearts, together with the lover of her youthful choice.

"Worthy! O, mother, he is too good for me!" Impossible!" replied the old man, "even if he were the king himself."

"Robert will not spoil me as you do," said the girl, stroking down the father's long white hair with playful fondness.

"I am not so sure of that, or how he will be able to help it."

Hannah laughed, but there were tears in her eyes as she bent down to kiss his withered brow. The conversation now turned upon the many things that were to be done and arranged before the wedding could take place. Hannah wished to have her young cousin Maude Hetherington sent for, who, with her ready invention, and nimble fingers, proved a great acquisition on the occasion. Besides which it was very pleasant for the girls to talk together in their leisure moments, or when they went to bed at night; and often until morning dawned; for Maude likewise expected to be married before another twelvemonth, and they had a thousand things to say to one another. Maude was older than her cousin, and sometimes took upon herself to play the monitress.

"Do you not humour Robert Conway almost too much?" said she one day.

"Oh! not half enough! If you did but know how kind, and good, and thoughtful he is!"

"Yes, just now; but take care, or by-and-bye he will be playing the husband and the tyrant."

"Are all husbands tyrants?" asked Hannah, archly. Well, I do not know about that; but it will not

do to let them have their own way too much beforehand."

"But I cannot help letting Robert have his own way, because, somehow, his way is always mine. We certainly do think strangely alike about everything." "Not strangely," said Maude, with a smile. "And so you have really consented to old Mrs. Conway's living in the same house?"

"It was my own suggestion. Robert is greatly attached to his mother; and so am I too, for the matter of that. The dear old lady seemed quite beside herself with joy when she heard that she was not to quit the home of her childhood, where she had seen so many pleasant days, and will again, please God; and blessed and thanked me, with the tears in her eyes; while Robert stood by, looking as happy as a prince. Dear Robert! he is so easily pleased, so easily made happy!" "Well, I only hope you may never have cause to be sorry for what you have done. For my own part, I would not live with a mother-in-law for all the world !" "But mothers-in-law are not always alike, Maude, dear!"

"True; and to be sure Mrs. Conway is very kind and good natured; only a little too grave to be a fit companion for a young girl like you.”

"But I mean to become grave too, when I am married," answered Hannah, with a smile.

About a week before the period fixed upon for the wedding to take place, Hannah complained of a sudden faintness, and looked so pale, that her mother and cousin were quite frightened.

Nay, it is nothing," said she, "but do not tell Robert, lest he should be uneasy about me."

Maude supported her to her chamber, and persuaded her to lie down on the bed for a few hours, after which she got better again; so that, by the time her lover came in the evening, all traces of her recent indisposition had entirely vanished. But she grew sad after he was gone, and observed to her cousin, that she feared she had not deserved such happiness.

"I thought so this morning," said Hannah, "when I was taken ill. Oh! Maude, if I were to die, what would become of Robert? We love one another so much!"

"Hush!" replied Maude, "I will not have you talk thus. God grant that there may be many years of happiness in store for my dearest cousin!"

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Forgive me," whispered Hannah, "I am very silly." "To be sure you are," said Maude, kissing her affectionately.

Every stitch in Hannah's simple wardrobe, even to her pretty white bridal dress, was of her own setting. Many said what an industrious little wife she would make; and there were not a few who envied Robert his good fortune, and could have wished themselves exactly in his place, although the girl herself would not have changed to have been made a queen. All the cakes, too, were of her making, assisted by Maude, and her old mother, who could not however do very much; and it was cheerful enough to hear them talking and singing over their pleasant tasks. As Maude said, “What was the use of being dull? for her part she could never see anything in a wedding to make one weep, unless, indeed, the bridegroom should be old or disagreeable, or going to take her away from all her kindred and friends; and even then she would not marry, unless she could love him well enough to go cheerfully."

"As for you, my dear cousin," added she, "about to be united to such a man as Robert Conway; with a sweet little cottage close by, so that you may see your father and mother every day, if you like- why I could almost envy you, if it were not for certain anticipations of a similar happiness in store for myself. Ah! you shall come to my wedding by-and-bye, and see how merry we will be !"

And help to make these nice cakes, eh, Maude?" said Mrs. Lawrence, laughingly. "But you are looking

pale, my child," added she, turning to her daughter, "and we must not have you tire yourself. There is another whole day yet."

Hannah smiled, or rather tried to smile; and, tottering as she walked, went and sat down by the door as though she felt faint.

"Are you not well, cousin?" asked Maude. The girl's lips moved fast, as they grew every moment more white and colourless, but no sound came.

"It is only a fainting fit," said Maude, endeavouring to appear calm. "You had better bathe her temples with a little cold water, while I run for Mrs. Conway. I will not be gone a moment, and she may advise us what to do."

She soon returned, followed at a distance by the feebler steps of her aged companion. Rendered utterly helpless by grief and terror, Mrs. Lawrence could only wail and wring her hands like a distracted thing, calling in passionate accents upon the name of her child; while Mrs. Conway, whose presence of mind never forsook her, directed Maude to send immediately for the doctor, applying in the mean time all the restoratives usual on such occasions; but her care was vain. Between them those aged women bore the stricken girl in their arms, and laid her on the bed, where she remained white and motionless, as though carved out of stone. Seeing that there was no more to be done, Mrs. Conway knelt down and prayed as we only pray at such times as these.

Maude returned with the doctor, and they tried to bleed her, without success. All their attempts to restore animation were in vain; the girl never spoke again, but died towards morning peacefully and without a struggle. Once only she opened her eyes, and looked around her with a wild agonizing glance that was never forgotten by those who witnessed it. Mrs. Conway closed them softly and shudderingly with her hand, and she never moved after that.

Pale and horror-stricken, Robert made one of the little group who stood weeping in their vain grief around the bed of death. And, when his mother rose at length from her knees, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, said in a solemn voice, half choked by tears,-" The Lord has given, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord!" his heart refused to utter, Amen!

Maude's grief was deep and passionate, but nothing in comparison to the wild lamentations of the bereaved parents: until at length, completely worn out, they both fell asleep by the bedside of their dead child, and dreamt that the wedding day was come. Mrs. Conway had taken her son home, thinking he would be more likely to recover his composure, away from that terrible scene; and poor Maude crept about the house, putting out of sight all the simple bridal finery, over which they had taken so much pains only the day before. "As for the cakes," thought she, "they must do for the funeral." And she began to weep afresh as she recalled to mind all the pleasant words and merry jests that had been uttered over them; almost the last words that Hannah was ever heard to speak being in playful anticipation of an event that was not to be. Of a truth it was very terrible! No wonder that poor Maude felt heart-stricken, and like one in a frightful dream. No wonder that she sobbed and cried, when even a strong man like Robert Conway wept. Every moment that Mrs. Conway could spare from the side of her half distracted son, was spent at the cottage, where she assisted Maude in performing those sad, but necessary offices, of which the poor old mother, in her deep affliction, seemed utterly incapable;-speaking words of comfort and consolation, and endeavouring to improve this melancholy event to the heart of her young companion, by teaching her the frailness of all earthly hopes.

Two days and nights had elapsed since the spirit of the young and beautiful betrothed had passed away without a word, or a prayer; and the two sorrowful

| mothers sat together in the dim twilight, exchanging now and then a few kind words, but more frequently remaining silent for long intervals, during which memory was no doubt busy enough. Maude was a little apart by the half-open casement, working on a black gown for Mrs. Lawrence to wear at her child's funeral, and pausing every now and then, to wipe away the blinding tears that hindered her from seeing what she was about; and thinking the while, perhaps, of a certain dress, over which she had taken so much pains for a far different occasion.

"It is too dark, I am sure, for you to see to work, Maude," said Mrs. Conway, at length; and her voice sounded strangely loud in that silent room. "Go into the field, dear child, and look for your uncle; it is late for him to be out alone."

The girl did as she was desired, and found him kneeling amid the long grass, with his white hairs uncovered, and the tears streaming down his withered cheeks. Not liking to intrude upon his grief, Maude stepped behind a large tree and waited, hoping that he would presently rise up of his own accord, and return home.

Meanwhile it grew quite dark, and so still that the inmates of that desolate cottage could almost hear the beating of their own hearts. Mrs. Conway arose at length to procure a light, and just at that moment a faint, moaning sound was heard, proceeding, as it seemed, from the bed where the corpse lay. Mrs. Lawrence clung fearfully to the side of her companion.

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she.

'Did you not hear something groaning?" whispered "Yes, I thought so; but it might have been only the wind."

"Hush! There it is again!"

"Let me go!" exclaimed Mrs. Conway, hastily disengaging herself from the terrified grasp of her companion. "It is Hannah's voice!" And tearing aside the curtain from the foot of the bed, there was Hannah, sure enough, sitting upright in the dim moonlight, and looking wildly around her, like one awakened from a heavy sleep.

With ready presence of mind, Mrs. Conway threw a large shawl over the dead-clothes in which she was wrapped, and spoke to her calmly and soothingly, motioning to the mother, at the same time, to go out quietly and call for assistance; but Mrs. Lawrence stood still and motionless, as though her feet were glued to the floor.

"How cold it is!" murmured Hannah, shuddering as she spoke. "But what is the matter? Have I been very ill, mother?"

Yes, yes; but keep quiet, dear child, you will be better soon!' And freeing her face, she laid her head gently back on the pillow, and went as fast as her tottering steps would carry her to summon medical assistance, and prepare Maude and Mr. Conway for what had happened, leaving the mother, still motionless and terror-stricken, in the darkness.

By the aid of heat, and restoratives constantly applied, Hannah soon began to rally, and by the morning was almost well, but for the weakness and exhaustion, and a strange feeling of weariness, beneath the influence of which she at length fell into a gentle slumber. How anxiously did they all listen to her calm regular breathing, and gaze upon that sweet face, once more coloured with the warm hue of life. How they longed to be able to get off the grave-clothes without her knowing it, fearing that the shock would be too great, but could not without disturbing her, which the doctor had strictly forbidden. How they wept, and prayed, and blessed God!

Presently Hannah opened her eyes, and fixing them upon the anxious faces that were watching over her, inquired of her mother if she had been long ill. "No, my child, not very."

"Ah! I remember now-I was taken ill while we

were making the cakes; but it is only a fainting fit. By the bye, Maude," added she, as the girl came forward, and bent down to kiss her, "I hope you looked after them, for the dough was just rising, and they promised to be excellent."

Her cousin tried in vain to keep down her struggling sobs, and answer calmly; while Hannah, mistaking the cause of her emotion, added kindly,

'Well, never mind, dearest! We can easily make more; it was my fault for frightening you.-And mother, do not say a word to Robert, please, about my being ill; it is past now."

"You must not get up, Hannah; indeed you are not strong enough;" exclaimed Mrs. Conway, trembling lest she should discover all.

"Oh, yes, I am so much better; and Maude and I have a thousand things to do. It was only the heat made me feel faint. But how came I by this shawl?" asked Hannah, as she endeavoured to unfasten it from about her shoulders. "It is Mrs. Conways!-Has she been here?"

"She is here now," replied the kind voice of her old friend, while a tear fell upon her uplifted brow; "but you must lie still, my child, and listen to what I am going to tell you."

"Please don't let it be a very long story, mother dear," said Hannah, as she flung her arms around her, and laid her head upon her bosom, like a playful and

weary child.

Who shall attempt to describe her feelings when she heard all? feelings expressed rather by tears than words. Mrs. Conway understood them best, when she motioned to the rest that they should kneel down and pray for her, that she might never forget that solemn hour in which God had restored her to them, as it were from the dead.

Robert Conway was half beside himself when he heard the joyful news; and could not rest until he had gone in softly, and kissed her hand, as she lay pale and tranquil upon the bed: for, somehow, he dared not touch her lips, although she was his own betrothed bride. After that, many of the neighbours came just to look upon her, and congratulate the old people on the restoration of their child. But none spoke above their breath, for fear of disturbing her.

In a few days, Hannah rose up, and went about among them all just as usual, only that she was paler and graver; but no one wondered at that. The wedding did not take place until some time afterwards; when Robert received his young bride as the gift of God; and truly she brought a blessing with her. Hannah lived many years, and was a happy wife and mother, and what is better still, a happy Christian; meekly trusting in the merits of her Redeemer, and ready whenever it shall please God to call her to Himself.

There are many instances on record, somewhat similar to the above; but not all ending so happily. It was only a few days since we heard of a poor woman, living in an obscure country place, who suddenly became insensible, and was supposed dead. On the night previous to the interment, her sister, who occupied the next chamber, was disturbed by a slight noise, and looking in, saw the corpse sitting erect, and attempting, as it seemed, to remove the grave clothes from about its face. The terrified woman caught up her sleeping child from its cradle, and fled away, half naked as she was, to the house of a neighbour nearly a mile off; where she remained all night, although they only laughed at her, and fancied she must have been dreaming. The following morning, however, the appearance of the corpse fully corroborated her statement; giving fearful evidence of the struggle that had been going on between life and death. The poor woman might have been alive to this very day, had her sister only possessed presence of mind enough to assist instead of deserting her in that dark hour of untold agony. And yet we are ready to make every allowance in a case where none of

us can be quite certain that we should have had the courage to act differently.

The story of the sexton and the ring must be familiar to most of our readers; and we could tell them many others equally wild and wonderful-melancholy histories, for the most part, but not without their warning lesson both to the aged and the young.

THE DISCOVERY OF THE STEAM-ENGINE.

If some of the greatest philosophers of antiquity, or of the middle ages, could re-appear and reside for a year amongst Europeans, travelling through England, France, and Belgium, they would perhaps see many of their own brilliant guesses and profound musings expanded into the sciences of modern times. Pythagoras might see his theory of the universe taught in every school, and illustrated in popular treatises; and Roger Bacon behold his anticipations verified in the beautiful discoveries of modern chemistry. They often saw in dim outline, and amid the glimmering of twilight, the truths which we calmly contemplate by the light of a bright noon: thus in some departments our knowledge differs

from that of former ages in degree rather than in kind; they had mounted one or two steps upwards, we have advanced a hundred.

may

But some of our discoveries are wholly modern, and never once, as far as we know, entered the minds of the ancient poets or sages. The steam-engine is one of these conquests of the world's old age, which its younger, that is, its past periods, did not even register as a be so," or a possibility; simply because the thing never entered their thoughts, never once projected its form along the horizon. Had it been proposed by some oracle or superior being as a problem to such men as Aristotle and Archimedes, they might have admitted the idea, but as a guess or speculation, it never once appears. This may reasonably excite some surprise, as one essential element of the steam-engine must have frequently presented itself to their notice. We allude to the force exerted by steam, which must have been observed whenever boiling water was covered.

We should have expected that some of the subtle intellects, then struggling to obtain clear views of the phenomena around, would have stooped from speculating on the sublimities of metaphysics, to examine so simple a fact, and one so close at hand, as steam. But as thousands have seen apples fall from the bough without thinking of gravitation, so many generations looked upon steam forcing itself from the vessel, without asking the question, "Cannot that power be made subservient to man, to lighten his labours and add to his joys!" Hard work and toilsome struggles were then, as now, the lot of men. What an amount of strength, and even of life, were expended on the pyramids! what efforts on the great Roman roads!--much of which steam power would have saved; but this mighty agent was allowed to remain unemployed, whilst the world toiled on, digging, building, and hauling navies through the deep, by the hand. Yet, during these periods, academies,-old, middle, and new, had risen, disputed, and departed; thousands of books had been written, even in those ages, and ten thousand curious speculations on things visible and invisible hazarded; but no man saw the sleeping giant, which in future ages should stretch his arms from the Thames to the Chinese sea, and make his voice to be heard at the poles. Thus the elements of power are often in the world, close at its doors, but the world sees them not. It is not our purpose to describe the steam-engine itself; such details are perhaps too technical for the pages of a magazine; we rather desire to note the successive steps by which men reached the full knowledge of this world-moving power.