gular when we remember how largely lead enters into its composition. Various other effects follow the use of this metal, one being the superior density of the glass, in consequence of which it refracts the rays of light with great power, and this quality is clearly of the highest value for all glass used in telescopes. The lead also acts as a flux, and thus aids in fusing the various materials, while it imparts transparency and richness to the product. Care must, however, be taken not to use an excess of the litharge (oxide of lead) or the glass will be too soft for many purposes. These various substances, being mixed in the proportion desired, are put in the crucibles, and as the melting proceeds fresh ingredients are added, until the melted matter fills the crucibles. An intense and long-continued heat is required in the glass furnaces on two accounts; in the first place nothing short of such heat will bring into perfect fusion all the substances used; and it is also necessary for the expulsion of many impurities, the presence of which would inevitably spoil the glass. For in the alkaline matter employed are certain salts which will not unite with the silicious matter, but rising to the top of the crucible, form there a whitish froth over the liquid mass. Sometimes a little carbonaceous matter is found in the melted fluid, and this is destroyed by a due admixture of nitre with the other ingredients. Certain foreign substances will often become mingled with the sand, causing a discoloration of the glass, which must wholly destroy its value if not neutralized. This is effected by throwing in a small quantity of a dark powder, called the black oxide of manganese, which is in fact a metal combined with oxygen. The manganese may therefore be called a glass purifier, and was once termed "glass soap" from its cleansing qualities. But this soap will itself tarnish the glass unless care be taken not to introduce too much into the crucible, otherwise the whole mass will assume a purplish or even black hue. When the former of these results happens, that is when the purple tinge is produced, the evil is remedied in a singular and most simple manner. No elaborate processes are called in to neutralize the stain, a piece of wood dipped into the boiling glass restores it to the transparency required. How is this effect produced? The purple discoloration is caused by the manganese absorbing much oxygen, for which this metal has so strong an affinity that it is never found without it. The object of the workman is to remove this oxygen from the manganese, when the colour will instantly disappear. Now carbon or charcoal has a strong attraction for oxygen, and when the wood is thrust into the heated glass it becomes carbonized (made into charcoal), upon which the oxygen departs from the manganese to the wood, and is in this manner drawn away from the contents of the crucible. Thus, by a knowledge of natural affinities, means are suggested which accomplish the purification of the glass with the utmost ease and certainty. It is this wide acquaintance with nature which enables the modern natural philosopher to advance with such speed along the path of physical discovery; for, without this comprehensive knowledge, the most important operations and experiments would be brought to a close every day. Thus, suppose our glass manufacturers were ignorant of the affinities between manganese and carbon, whole tons of glass would frequently be spoiled, and instead of the transparent vessels now in use, we should be compelled to drink from stained and impure glasses. Such results would lead to the abandonment of manganese as a purifier, and thus one means of controlling the action of his crucibles would be removed from the manufacturer. But all is made easy by knowing the nature of the two substances, manganese and carbon; though the majority, whose pleasures are increased by the abundance of pure and cheap glass, may never think much of the nice adaptations necessary to the creation of such enjoyments.

When all the impurities have been expelled, and

the melted glass brought to the required condition, it is allowed to cool until the whole acquires the consistency of paste, in which state it will bear the requisite handling without cracking or losing the shape impressed. The furnace is not, however, allowed to cool until the contents of the crucible have become transparent, which generally happens in about two days and nights from the commencement of the process. In this short period the sandy and alkaline substances have been so transformed in their natures, as to exhibit the appearance of a pearly paste, which may be blown, drawn into every variety of shape, pulled out into wire, or formed into elegant vases. Thus the sand, which was last year washed by the waves of each returning tide, is now wrought into graceful forms and beautiful designs, on which the cultivated taste may speculate with delight. To rule the waters with power and skill, to read the past histories of the starry host, and to see with clear vision the wonderful workings of Divine laws in the far extended universe, are great advantages. But the facility with which grains of sand and the ashes of vegetables are moulded into servants for human benefit, is not the least amongst the prized endowments of our race, and such a reflection is naturally suggested by the creation of yon sparkling vase from a heap of dust.

2. Plate glass. The production of this costly material demands and receives the highest care, both in the selection of the materials from which it is formed, and in the careful fusion of the mass, and rolling of the bright plates. To make 1,200 lbs. of plate glass, 1,700 lbs. of five different substances must be mixed in the following proportions:

The reader will perceive that exactly one fourth of the whole material employed is old glass, without which the crucible will not yield the quality required. Soda is also preferred to pearlash, as the fusion is thereby promoted. When all these materials are reduced to a liquid mass, the whole is ladled from the crucible into a vessel called a cuvette, from which, after some further heating, it is poured on the surface of a long table, and spread by a roller. This spreading of the plate is an extremely beautiful sight, for as the rollers press and smooth the transparent and gelatine-like glass, we see the most vivid colours wave to and fro along the burnished plate, as if some distant Aurora were being reflected in a mirror. As soon as each plate sets in its mould, it is passed into an annealing oven, in which all the plates remain for about fourteen days, being allowed to cool but very slowly. This annealing process is necessary for all glass, which would otherwise possess such brittleness that the gentlest variations in temperature would cause the largest pieces to fly into fragments. Suppose a piece of plate glass, which had not undergone this operation, fixed in a window on some warm day; the first change in the thermometer would most probably cause its destruction, and, whilst gazing at surrounding objects through the crystalline substance, we should be startled by hearing the whole plate crack and shiver into a hundred pieces. This result is prevented by stopping the rapid cooling of the glass, which, being placed in an oven, and passed through successively diminishing degrees of heat, is prepared to resist the usual changes of the atmosphere. To what the brittleness of unannealed glass must be ascribed is a disputed point, but it is generally referred to some peculiar arrangement of the atoms, which the prolonged and gradually diminishing heat of the annealing oven alters. Thus after all the manufacturer's labour and skill have been employed, he is compelled to acknow

were, of the history of our country, we find inscribed the name of the city whose annals I have undertaken to make known. Indeed, it is worthy of remark, that we have no British records to which to refer, and that the earliest notice of the first occupiers of the soil is to be found in the history of their conquest. Still, though the mists of ages envelope those far distant times, and though history lends not her wonted light to enable us to see them as they were--still fancy can penetrate the gloom, and recall, how here in rude magnificence the Prince of the Cassii held his court; how here the smoke from many an altar laden with human sacrifice, rose foul incense to the skies;-and how through the now silent hills, resounded from many a "sacred oak," the death cries of the prisoners taken in savage warfare by the British Cassibelaun !—But death was at hand for the destroyers; Cæsar, who never came but conquering and to conquer, led his proud legions to the Druid's haunts, and the strong-hold of the British prince. -Cæsar gave the word, and Cassibelaunus was no more! its very name perished, and scarce one stone remained upon another to tell what it had been. From its ruins, Verulam arose; which speedily became a place of note and of importance, being one of the chief cities situated on the great Roman highway—the still existing Watling-street. Of its flourishing state under its founders and first governors there can be no doubt, as Tacitus calls it a "municipium," or town privileged to have a corporation or local government, which was granted only to places of magnitude and importance. Coins are also still extant with the name of Verulam inscribed upon them, which were struck there by the Romans, in commemoration of their victories. Encompassed with walls and a moat, adorned by temples, palaces, and forums; abundantly supplied with money, and every comfort and luxury then known, and the seat of a powerful and enlightened local government, Verulam had probably reached the zenith of its glory and prosperity, when, in the time of the Emperor Dioclesian, that fearful persecution of the Christians began, which "raged," we are told, "with merciless fury throughout Britain for ten years, and in which many illustrious persons fell in testimony of their faith."

It was in the beginning of the year of our Lord 293, that a British monk, travel-worn and foot-sore, flying from the destroyers of his home, (the stately monastery of Caerleon in Wales,) craved a refuge and protection, at the hands of a Roman and a Pagan.

That monk was Amphibalus,-and the Roman-he was Alban,-"a citizen of no mean city," but one nobly born in Verulam. The old man prays for pity, with all the earnestness of one who sues for life,-still Alban hesitates. To harbour a Christian, if discovered, was certain death to him who dared to do so; should he then risk his life, to save that of a stranger to himself-an enemy to his nation, and an alien to the faith of his fathers? But hark! he hears the savage yells of the infuriated populace, who, having heard that a Christian has been traced to their city, and is even now "within their gates," are thirsting for his blood !-nearer and nearer the sounds approach, and Alban no longer hesitates. He extends the right hand of protection and support to the outcast, and proves that, though a Pagan, he has a Christian's heart.

Of a hidden chamber in the Roman's house, Amphibalus became an inmate, and there, day by day, he was visited by his host. Meanwhile, the calm aspect, the dignified yet humble demeanour, of the monk, his unaffected piety, and the mildness with which he spoke of the persecutors who had turned him homeless and friendless upon the world, and who would willingly have drained the last drop of life-blood from his heart, all won upon the noble-minded Alban, and he conversed freely with his guest, for whom he soon entertained an esteem amounting to veneration. From reverencing the lowly monk, Alban came at length to venerate the

master whom he loved, and in whose service he had become a "man of many griefs."

The Christian's faith and hope were no longer forbidden subjects of conversation, but loved and cherished themes, and, ere many weeks had flown, at the name of Jesus Alban had bowed the knee. Rumour, however, had meanwhile been busy in the city, “given up unto idols,"-it had reached the ears of the Pagan Governor of Verulam that Alban was harbouring a Christian, and he ordered that strict search should instantly be made, and summary judgment be executed. Alban, hearing of the threatened storm, hastened to Amphibalus, made him change garments with himself, and bidding him, "God speed," sent him forth from the city. The monk's after fate no pen has recorded, but, it is more than probable, that, like his "son in the faith," in his own blood, shed "by wicked hands," his name is inscribed on the muster roll of "the noble army of Martyrs."

Meanwhile, the Centurion, and his band of soldiers, sent to search for the "accursed thing" in Alban's house, hasten to fulfil their merciless errand with blood-thirsty avidity, and, finding the supposed monk in the little chamber lately inhabited by Amphibalus, they fell on him with yells of savage triumph, and led him with mock honours to the Governor. He was at the time sacrificing to his gods, (or devils, as they are called by ancient chroniclers,) and, turning from the altar, he gazed on the victim of his bigotry. His altered dress could not hide from the discerning eye of the Roman, the noble form and countenance of Alban, and with an oath of awful import he exclaimed, "Whom have we here? this is no monk!" and looking on the prisoner, he asked in a voice of thunder, "Art thou not Alban? the enemy of Cæsar and the friend of the accursed Christian?" "I am a Christian," was the mild yet firm reply, and to all the questions put to him this was the only answer he ever gave. When straitly charged to tell what had become of the monk, he opened not his mouth, and, boiling with indignation and inflamed by religious bigotry, the Governor condemned him to die the death the other should have suffered, and gave orders for his immediate execution.

Alban, bedecked as a victim for the sacrifice, robed in purple, and adorned with flowers, was led with the sound of music, and the shouts of brutal triumph, beyond the walls of Verulam, and, on the opposite hill to the one on which the city stood, on the 17th day of June, in the year of man's redemption 293, Alban exchanged this life for a better, and won a martyr's crown. Of the wonders attending the suffering of England's proto-martyr, there are many monkish legends, of which, those that have been handed down to us by local tradition, are the following:

To reach the place appointed for the execution, Alban and the people who followed in his train, had to cross the river Vir, and, as there was only a narrow bridge of planks thrown across it, much time must necessarily have been lost, whilst the multitude were passing over. Alban, longing for the glorious moment when he should seal his noble profession with his blood, and impatient of any delay, prayed that the waters might divide, and (so says tradition) Heaven heard his cry. As with Jordan of old, the waters stood upon an heap, on either side, and the people walked forth in the midst dry-shod. Awe-struck at this wonderful manifestation of Divine favour towards the saint, the executioner appointed to do the bloody deed refused to fulfil his office, and another was substituted in his place. But the height of Holmehurst was not yet gained, and as Alban toiled up the weary hill leading to it, he thirsted; praying for water, a spring gushed out at his feet, which still bears the name of the Holy Well.

Of the miracles performed by the blood of the martyr, nor how, as his head was severed from his body, the eyes of his executioner fell from their sockets and rolled upon the ground, it matters not to tell;

from these traditionary tales, I must return to matters of fact, and hasten to relate, how, ere half a century had flown, his remains were enshrined with all the honours due unto his memory.

In the year of our Lord 306, Constantine the Great assumed the Imperial Purple, and days of peace and of prosperity dawned upon the hitherto proscribed and persecuted Christians. The religion of the Cross became the religion of Rome and its dependencies, and Pagan supremacy was no more. How true it is that times of prosperity are the times of greatest danger to the Church, and that, when no enemies menace it from without, then do foes to its peace usually arise within

its bosom.

Hardly was it established in Britain, ere its peace was disturbed by the Pelagian Heresy, which divided its councils and embroiled its members. Two learned bishops, (the one, Germanus of Auxerre, the other, Lupas of Croyes,) were sent from France to compose these differences, which they effected, we are told, at a Synod held in Verulam.

This painful duty performed, they turned their thoughts to one of a more pleasing nature, namely, that of doing honour to England's proto-martyr. His remains were collected by the pious Germanus, and that was a day of public rejoicing in Verulam, on which they, with the relics of other saints departed in the faith, were placed by him with due solemnities in a fitting shrine. For rather more than eighty years after this event, the city was blessed with prosperity and peace; but at the end of that time the clouds, which began to shroud the setting sun of Rome, cast over its satellites dark shadows, ominous of coming gloom. The frozen north poured forth, like a mountain torrent, hordes of her hardy children over the fertile plains of Italy; and the degenerate successor of the Caesars, fearing lest the imperial city should be inundated and swept away, and that the whole empire would share with it a common ruin, recalled all the troops from the distant colonies, and Rome was no longer mistress of the world! The last Roman legion quitted this island A. D. 440, and Britain became once more the land of the Britons! But they, alas! were then no longer, what Julius Cæsar found them, brave, hardy, and impatient of the yoke! Accustomed to be protected, they knew no longer how to protect themselves; and, having been well content, while clothed in purple and fine linen, to fare sumptuously with the yoke upon their necks, they mourned over the day when they were loosed from the burden, and became once more free men! Hardly had the highprowed vessels, which bore the Romans from the land of their adoption, been lost to the sight of the hundreds who watched their departure with fond regret, mingled with anxious forebodings, and bitterly expressed fears for the future, than those fears were realized, and the northmen were upon them! Their track was marked by fire, and each footstep was traced in blood! The resistance met by the Picts and Scots was feeble in the extreme, until they neared the proud city of Verulam. There the faithful few who still bore British hearts within their breasts had flocked to the standard of the last scion of their native princes, and under Peter Pendrayn they fought with intrepidity worthy their warlike ancestors. It was a well-contested field, a bloody fight; but the invaders had the force of superior numbers in their favour, and ere the sun had set the Picts were lords of Verulam. The groans which arose that day from the field of the dying and the dead, sounded as it were the death-knell of the glory of Verulam-it had departed, and for ever! From the Saxons, in the times of the Heptarchy, it suffered even more than from the Scots; by them it was levelled to the ground, and the insignificant little town, which afterwards occupied its site, bore not the time-honoured name of the city of the Roman, but that of Watlingeester,-one unknown to fame, and hardly to be found upon the page of written history!

Thus have we seen arise, flourish, and perish, the British Cassibelaunus, and the Roman Verulam : let us now hasten to the arising of the city of the martyr, the Christian St. Albans ! It was in the year A. D. 796, (about 296 years after the battle fought at Verulam, between the British and the Scots, and soon after the sacking and demolition of that city during the wars of the Heptarchy,) that Offa, the founder of the monastery and town of St. Albans, ascended the throne of Mercia. He was an able and warlike prince, and finding the people he had to govern both brave and enterprising, he waged war in turn with the kings of all the surrounding states, some of whom he forced to pay tribute and acknowledge him their lord. Each acquisition of authority or territory, instead of satisfying his ambition, only inflamed it the more, and he determined to possess himself of the neighbouring and flourishing kingdom of East Anglia. The means for effecting this were suggested and acted upon by his queen, a bold bad woman, whose character history has loaded with crimes of the darkest hue. For some heinous crime, she was condemned by the King of France to be sent afloat in the open sea, in a small boat, and with a few provisions. Quite at the mercy of the winds and waves, she was drifted to the shores of Britain, and, having landed in Offa's dominions, she was brought into his presence, when her beauty and romantic adventures so won upon his compassion, and captivated his heart, that, forgiving or forgetting her crimes, he made her his wife. From the hand of the executioner, and a watery grave, she had been saved to fill up the measure of her guilt, and to suffer a still more dreadful punishment ! "Swift to do evil," she no sooner heard that the king had set his heart on his neighbour's inheritance, than, like Jezebel of old, she determined to gratify him, at the expense of breaking all laws, both human and divine. Had the "powers of darkness," in infernal conclave, formed a plan for compassing the ruin of one hateful to their prince, it could not have been more inhuman in design, nor terrific in execution, than was that purposed against the youthful Ethelbert by the Lady Macbeth of British history, the blood-stained Drida! The young king of East Anglia was 'making court," to the beautiful Elfrida, her youngest child, who, we are told, far from "like a misbehaved and sullen wench" pouting on her fortune and her lover, returned his affection, "with that excellence that angels love good men with." Indeed history describes them to have been equally virtuous, amiable, and devoted. And this very circumstance, which should have called forth every tender feeling in the mother's heart, she determined to "wrest to the destruction of the young prince, the ruin of her daughter's happiness, and to her own eternal shame." She made ready a marriage feast, and invited Ethelbert to her own chamber, there to wed the lovely and beloved Elfrida. He came ! then did her project gather to a head! Pretending to send her attendants to call the bride, the perfidious Drida bade him, whilst awaiting her coming, to sit on a "right royal" seat, which she had prepared for him beneath a sumptuous canopy. Those words of sweetness from the lips of the deceiver, were as "A knell,

66

That summoned him to heaven or to hell.”

Guileless and unsuspecting, the prince reclined on the fatal seat-in an instant the floor gave way beneath him, and in a low dark chamber far below, he fell into the hands of hired assassins, who quickly dispatched him, by smothering him with pillows. Picture the dismay-the anguish- of the bride elect, on hearing of the murder of her "own true love," and being told that her mother was the cause and instrument thereof! With "a heart full of sorrow as the sea of sand," Elfrida sought the cloister, and, as a veiled nun

"A most unspotted lily did she pass,
And all the world did mourn her."