1. Abstinence. When long deprived of food, the insect's power of generating and maintaining its natural heat is diminished. When food is supplied the respiration is restored to its original condition, and they again evolve a full amount of heat. The same remarks apply to the larvæ.

2. During inactivity the respiration, and consequently the temperature, is diminished. Many insects which have a comparatively high temperature in a state of active exertion in the early part of summer, have their temperature greatly reduced when they become inactive at the end of autumn; and even during summer, when an insect passes from a state of inactivity into that of natural sleep, its temperature subsides even during summer very nearly to that of the surrounding air.

3. Sleep. All insects enjoy a periodical state of repose or natural sleep. They are endowed with this privilege of life in common with other animals for the renovation of their energies. During sleep, respiration, circulation, digestion, and the evolution of animal heat, are all diminished until a fresh amount of voluntary power is again generated, and the animal is aroused to the enjoyment of it either by its superabundance, or through the agency of external stimuli. It is no small amount of this privilege that is enjoyed by insects. Mr. Newport has witnessed sleeping in almost every order of insects, and is satisfied that they enjoy as great a proportion of rest as any other animals. Many insects will remain in a state of rest during ten, twelve, or twenty hours at a time, even in their seasons of activity. "Every one is aware that the common May chaffer (Melolontha vulgaris) will often continue sleeping on the leaves of the lime-tree throughout the whole of a fine summer's day, and not become active until near sunset. The case is the same with nearly the whole tribe of sphynges and moths, while many butterflies, which are active during sunshine, will often remain for two or three days, when the weather is gloomy, affixed to the very same spot. The common honey-bee, notwithstanding the bustle and activity of the hive, enjoys its share of repose as well as other insects even amidst the apparent commotion of its own dwelling. Heber observed that his bees often inserted their heads and part of their bodies into the empty combs, and remained there for a considerable time. They were then quietly sleeping in the cell. At other times they appear to sleep for short intervals on the surface of the combs. I have seen them towards the latter end of summer in the cells in great numbers for many hours together. It is there also where many of them pass a portion of their winter, doubtless in a state of hybernation, or most profound sleep; and it is an interesting fact, that this inactivity of the inhabitants of the hive during winter is accompanied by a diminution of heat in their dwelling."

4. Hybernation differs from natural rest in some of its exciting causes. "There are reasons for believing that this disposition to pass into a profound sleep bears some relation to the changes which take place at certain periods in the capacity of the respiratory organs, which seem to become oppressed and their full expansion prevented by the remarkable accumulation of fat which always exists in the bodies of insects, before passing into the true hybernating condition."

It is well known to the cottager, that when the flowers have not yielded an abundance of honey in the latter part of the summer, the bees in his hives will have less chance of existing through the winter than when the produce of honey was plentiful. This latter circumstance may, perhaps, be said to arise from a deficiency in the quantity of honey stored up by the bees; but Mr. Newport has strong reasons for believing that it chiefly arises from the bees being in a worse bodily condition, and having but a small quantity of nutriment stored up within their own system, which alone

5. Inordinate excitement. The temperature of a single insect is only a few degrees above the medium in which it is living, and the actual heat of the insect is increased in proportion to the amount of its respiration. When an insect is at rest, its temperature is comparatively low, and it becomes greatly increased during violent activity. Thus a female bee was enclosed in a stopped phial: during five minutes it was very active, and its temperature rose six and a half degrees above that of the air in the bottle previously examined. In another case, a humble bee was put into a phial, and the insect was greatly excited during six or eight minutes. When it had become quiet, the thermometer was carefully introduced without touching the insect, and the mercury rose nearly six degrees above the temperature of the air in the phial at the commencement of the observation. The insect then became excited, and the thermometer was held near enough to touch the tips of its wings. The temperature immediately sunk two and one-fifth degrees. This result was obtained several times, thus showing the interesting fact, that the vibration of the wings tends to cool the body of the insect during flight, and to moderate its temperature. From the numerous and varied observations of Mr. Newport, it is clear that a very large proportion of heat evolved by insects in all their states passes off into the surrounding medium, and that the amount of heat evolved is in proportion to the degree of excitement and consequent amount of respiration. And since the temperature of insects is higher than that of the surrounding atmosphere, it is clear that they ought, not to be considered as cold-blooded animals.

Respecting the temperature of different tribes of insects, it appears that volant insects, in their perfect state, have the highest temperature, while those species which have the lowest are constantly located on the earth. Among the former, those hymenopterous and lepidopterous species have the highest temperature which pass nearly the whole of their active condition on the wing in the open air, either busily engaged in collecting honey, or flitting wantonly from flower to flower, and breathing the largest amount of atmospheric influence. The hive-bee, and numerous insects allied to it, and the elegant and sportive butterflies, have the highest amount of heat. Next to these are probably their predatory enemies, the hornets and wasps, and others of the same order; and, lastly, a tribe which is generally located on the ground, but sometimes winged-the ants. Next below the diurnal insects are the crepuscular, or those which fly in the twilight, the highest of which are the sphynges and moths.

A SKETCH OF DOMESTIC LIFE.1

CHAP. I. THE FATHER'S RETURN.

ONE golden evening in June, 1832, a travelling carriage was rolling along the highroad which led to the pleasant valley of Koran. Within the coach sat, with folded arms, a strong and powerfully-built man of sixty, but fresh-looking as if scarcely fifty years had passed over him. He was simply clad in black, with a hunting cap drawn over his forehead. Danielis was the traveller's name: he was an elder of the church, and was returning from a tour which he usually took every summer, either for health or recreation. The country lay before him, bathed in the purple glow of sunset; meadows, woods, and villages, mingled together in

(1) From the German of Heinrich Zchokke.

undulating luxuriance; but Danielis hardly noticed it. His heart was with the scenes he had just quitted; his thoughts hovered over the bare table-lands of the Saubian Alps, or the ruins of the Abbey Kirtchan; and memory conjured up the pleasant conversations he had held in the shady walks of Rippolstan with dear and intimate friends.

Quickly the images of the past melted into thoughts of the present; and his mind turned to those dearest to him, their interests and welfare. He beheld at a short distance, opposite the town of Koran, his modest but happy dwelling. It was built in the Italian style on the slope of a wooded hill. As the carriage drove on, he saw the gigantic willow, planted beside a little stream which bounded his garden; its wide branches stretched over to the opposite meadow, and the pendant stems waved in the evening breeze. Then the poplars by the fountain, and the dove-cot,―his children's delight,-rose before the father's eyes.

He stood up in the carriage, with emotions more of anxiety than pleasure. His eyes wandered right and left, as if asking every passer-by, "Is all well in that house?" Though far from being superstitious, Danielis sometimes allowed his imagination to play him tricks, for which his reason reproached him. He tried to divine from the countenances of the casual passengers who recognised him the welfare of those beloved ones whom he had left behind.

The Elder might well dread any interruption to his felicity. His family, numerous as it was, formed one of those happy households so seldom seen. Riches were not the cause of their happiness; for, possessing but a moderate fortune, they lived as economically as a mechanic or husbandman's family, and yet had more at their command than many a nobleman. The simplicity, piety, and high principle which Danielis had inculcated in each member of his family, his own fatherly kindness, and the tender love of his wife, the best of mothers, combined to render all the household truly happy.

"Most men," said Danielis once, in a letter to a friend, a portion of which we quote to display the character of a man whom his neighbours considered as rather eccentric,-"most men lead an unreal life because they live only for appearances. In the world there is an equal portion of joy and sorrow; and I would as little part with the one as with the other. Both contribute to beautify existence; both incite us to improvement. Our happiness or misery depends not on chance; for the unseen hand of God, which men call fate, brings neither bliss nor woe but to work out a good end towards us. Riches, power, and honour, are often blessings only in appearance; yet how great sacrifices will men make to obtain them! He who, having been prosperous, is satisfied with an easy competence, and devotes the rest to do good to others; and he who, poor himself, is yet a helping angel to those poorer still; these two depend not on the smile or frown of Fortune. Happiness and peace are theirs. The world obtains no evil influence over them, they are righteous instruments in the hand of God."

But now let us return to him who thus wrote. The coach stopped at the entrance-gate which led by a side path to the home of Danielis. Joyous sounds from well-known voices arose throughout the garden. A merry troop rushed to meet the father; first the elder children, and after them the merry little ones. Scarcely had he embraced them all, when his loving wife Anna threw herself into his arms, and he fondly kissed her clear open brow, on which forty-five years had not imprinted a single wrinkle. Near her stood Joseph, the eldest son, with his young wife, whom he had lately married. Then came Else, the favourite of the family, a village girl who had been taken into the household. She carried in her arms her young charge, the little Christian, of four years old, who was struggling to reach is father. The happy parent entered his home in the

midst of a body-guard more faithful, loving, and devoted, than ever surrounded a king.

CHAP. II-IMPORTANT COMMUNICATIONS.

IN a few days, the first excitement of joy being over, every thing in the house of the Elder returned to its usual routine, which was so simple, and free alike from display and annoyance, that no habitation within many miles could vie with it. This quiet uniformity was one source of happiness; the history of a day was the history of a year. Before the dwellers in the neighbourhood had shaken off their slumbers, every one in the house of Danielis was up and busy; the father among his books and papers in an upper chamber, or instructing his elder children; the mother in the lower part of the house, superintending her domestics, or teaching the younger branches of the family.

After the morning, which was spent in a cloister-like silence, all assembled round the table to a very simple meal. From that moment merry laughter, noise, and jesting, were heard throughout the house, and resounded in the garden, the meadow, and even to the neighbouring heights, while the parents in summer-time sat in the garden conversing with friends and relatives. At evening time, the children raised their voices in united song, which rung through the stillness of the country all around, and was repeated by the woodland echoes. This uniform life was seldom broken.

One morning as Danielis was seated at the writingtable of the study, Mother Anna entered the room with serious looks. Before she uttered a word, the expression of her face announced to her husband that she had something important to disclose.

"What is the matter, my dear wife?" asked he, laying down his pen.

"You see it now," she said, in a tone that foreboded ill; "you see it now, I was quite right."

"When were you ever wrong?" replied the husband, smiling. "But in what particular thing are you right now?"

"In what I have feared so long, and what you would not believe. Our Jacob and Else have fallen in love with each other, and, I doubt not, are secretly betrothed, or will be soon."

"Secretly betrothed!" repeated Danielis, much astonished; and, though yet doubting the fact, unable to conceal the uneasiness it caused him.

To explain this affair, our readers should be acquainted that "our Jacob" was one of the eldest sons of this worthy couple; he was a young man of twenty, and a curate in the town of Zollingen.

"How and from whom have you learnt this?" asked Danielis, after a momentary silence.

"By mere chance. I went into Else's apartment, and found on the ground an open letter in Jacob's handwriting. Fancying it was one of his, which I had dropped by accident, I took it up and read the contents. It was full of exhortations to piety and obedience to us; and then came a confession of the most tender love for Else herself."

As his wife spoke, the countenance of the Elder softened; because perhaps he had gained much selfcommand in the course of a life of trial, or perhaps from the confidence he had in his son's pure and manly character. "And Else?" asked he.

"She came into the room, and saw the letter in my hand with apparent indifference. When I advised her in future to be more careful of his papers, and not to leave them about, she coloured deeply, and looked anxious. But when I inquired into the particulars, she confessed all with innocent frankness, though with much timidity; and it was easy to perceive that she saw nothing wrong in the affair. 'Jacob bad always been so kind to her-she owed him so much;-it was no wonder that every one loved Jacob, for he deserved

A smile passed over the Elder's face. "And Mother Anna-what did she say to all this?"

"I did not reproach her, I could not ;-and besides it would only have blown an insignificant spark into a flame. I advised her not to say a word about this circumstance, as it might do her harm. Else knows nothing of the world; she is as inexperienced as it is possible for a girl of sixteen to be; and the more a young maiden is talked about, the more is her fair fame sullied. I told her not to answer Jacob's letter, and promised to reply to it myself."

66

Wisely said and wisely done," exclaimed Danielis. "By this means, you keep Else's secret, and we gain time for the future. A word of motherly warning does much. Let there be no secrets between us and our children. I can easily forgive the impetuous boy. Else is lovely and good, enough to set on fire a heart and imagination like our Jacob's."

"Yes, she is certainly pretty," answered the mother; "rather too delicate looking, but modest and humble; and she has made the most of the little education she has received. Let us watch both the young people. Jacob cannot and must not think of marriage yet. It will be some time before he obtains a living, and love affairs like this are soon forgotten."

"Hum! not always, dear child," added Danielis, with a cheerful, meaning smile. "Think of ourselves! Each of my children, like myself, shall be at liberty to make his own choice as soon as he is capable of so doing. In such matters, parents should neither command nor forbid."

"You are quite right, my dear husband; but it is their duty to advise. 'Love,' says the proverb, 'blinds '—" "True," interrupted the Elder; and pressing his wife's hand, with an affectionate smile, he added, "but you cannot deny that in my case love made me see the clearer. And Else, though inferior in birth, seems one of those rare beings who can not only confer true happiness on a good husband, but even improve a bad one, -praise which I would not bestow on many of our high-born belles."

"I quite agree with you; and I would receive Else as my daughter without any scruple as to her person or mind. But appearances-gossip; think, my dear husband-on one side a clergyman, son of an elder of the church, on the other a village girl !"

Danielis interrupted her, somewhat irritated in his manner, "What! shall we adopt the folly of Cousin Maultasch as our rule of life? Never! Whether princess or beggar, a woman bears no rank in society but what she borrows from her husband. In the eyes of men, peeresses and peasants are alike, while equal in virtue and beauty. They see the woman only, whether clothed in silk or in homespun cotton. This is the sempstress's creation, not God's. Woman is worthy of love for herself; for her loveliness, the gift of nature; for her talent, acquired by education; for her virtuous qualities; rank and wealth are not essential to her. Therefore it is no marvel that a peasant girl became empress of Russia, nor that a queen left the throne for the arms of a soldier. Now, my dear wife, let us drop the subject; only let us watch the conduct of Jacob and Else."

CHAP. III. THE MOTHER'S LETTER.

AFTER this conversation it was in vain for the Elder to try to resume his occupation when his wife had left the apartment. An event like the preceding is one of deep moment to one to whom domestic ties are dear and holy. Danielis paced the study, gazing abstractedly on the "regiment of his dead," as he was wont to entitle the books arranged along the walls, in different bindings, according to the subjects on which they treated. Then the Elder fixed his eyes on the portraits of friends whom death had taken from him-treasures which he

vain were all his attempts to divert his mind from the one engrossing topic. What he had said to his wife was what he really felt. But he had not expressed all his mind, which, if spoken, would have been this:"The boy is wrong to think of a wife before he is able to support her. He is wrong, if he seeks to gratify his feelings, and by stealing her affections to destroy the peace of a poor and innocent maiden. He is wrong to be wanting in confidence to his parents. This last, however, I can excuse, for there are two things which are usually closely concealed, and which shun all witnesses but God ;- first love and heartfelt religion. No, I will not blame the young man. Did I not do the same in my own youth?"

While these thoughts passed through the Elder's mind, Mother Anna wrote her opinion to her son in the following manner :

"Chance, my dear Jacob," wrote she, "has thrown into my hands a letter to Else from you. Its contents have not surprised me; but I am grieved that you should have placed yourself and this excellent girl in a painful situation. I spoke immediately to Else; and even if I had not loved her before, she would have gained my affection by her rational, modest, and simple-minded conduct on this occasion. The result of our conversation proves to me that she does not fully understand your letter, and is not aware of the seriousness of your intentions. She has allowed me to answer you, for in her simplicity she knows not whether she prefers you to another, and therefore does not write to you herself, but deputes me to do so. The best answer I can give is to repeat, word for word, our conversation.

"Else,' said I, 'I know Jacob well. He is goodexcellent; but so full of impulse that he is frequently led away by his feelings, and a reaction then quickly takes place. I love you too well to suffer you to become the sacrifice of his impetuosity. But I shall not require you to refuse his hand should his affection stand the test of time; especially if you feel for him that love which is necessary to resign yourself and your fate unto a husband, to bear calmly all the changes and trials of life, and to find your own happiness in that of your husband and in his love. Should time enable Jacob to provide for a wife, and he then should ask your hand, you shall be welcomed as a much-loved daughter. That time may be very near or very distant. Jacob was certainly in the wrong to write you this letter, and I think you are wise in not answering it. Behave as though he had not written; continue good, modest, and industrious; I will instruct you in every domestic occupation, and you must cultivate your mind, so as to accommodate yourself to every situation in life."

Thus, dear Jacob, did I speak to Else. Your father agrees with me in all, and we expect from your filial affection that your conduct towards this young girl will be extremely prudent, though kind. If you wish to become worthy of respect, respect yourself; and to this end, keep a guard over your own heart. Farewell. With most heart-felt love, "YOUR MOTHER."

(To be continued.)

ON THE THEORY OF LIGHT. FROM the most primitive days of speculative philosophy, the origin and composition of light has been involved in doubtful obscurity, and has given rise in all ages to a vast deal of theoretical controversy and discussion.

The views of the earliest philosophers were so extremely limited, that they could scarcely be said to have entertained any correct ideas upon the subject; their knowledge being restricted to the laws which

govern the phenomena of light when propagated through a vacuum, or uniform uncrystallized medium, with a very slight insight into the laws of reflection. In elucidation of the sensation of sight, they reasoned, that, as in our knowledge of all tangible bodies we arrive at a true perception of their form and qualities by the sense of touch, so it must be with respect to sight; for, assuming that no two distant bodies could communicate without a connecting medium, they directly concluded that rays, or emanations, must be constantly emitted from the eye, and, by their impulse upon distant bodies, cause our perceptions of their colour and form; which proved to be a singularly unfortunate idea, not only on account of the formation of the optic axis, but likewise because it gave no reason why objects should not be equally discernible in the dark.

Although glimpses of more advanced ideas were given forth by Descartes and Hooke in the earliest part of the seventeenth century, it was not until the mighty genius of Newton arose, that anything approaching a comprehensive theory was adduced; but even his hypothesis upon this subject was not marked by that simple majesty of plan, otherwise so highly characteristic of his discoveries; for in the place of comprehensiveness and mathematical arrangement he substituted mere elegance of style. He supposed, that all luminous bodies gave forth particles of an inconceivable minuteness, which, darting along with extreme velocity, fell upon the eye, and were thence depicted upon the retina, thus producing a perception on the system of nerves; that each particle of matter had its pole of attraction and repulsion, and, turning on its centre as it advanced on its course, alternately presented its positive or negative pole; so that, arriving at the surface of a body, it was either repelled (i. e. reflected) or attracted, so as to enter the surface, according to the pole in advance.

This, although generally termed the Newtonian Theory, was never positively advanced by him, but was so carefully given forth in such general terms, that, let the real principles be what they may, they will, when discovered, be sure to have many coincident ideas in the theory of Newton; thus showing, that, if we really possess any new or peculiar views on a subject to which we wish to lay an undisputable claim, we should be especially careful in the perspicuity of our language and in the avoidance of all ambiguity of expression. Contemporaneous with this philosopher was Huyghens, a most rigid mathematician, and one who, by his originality of conception, will always retain a distinguished place in the annals of science. He immediately saw the fallacies of Newton, and in the place of particles of matter, substituted undulatory vibrations of an elastic ether, universally diffused through nature; to illustrate which, nothing can be more fitting than the following extract from one of the elegant memoirs of Sir W. Hamilton:

"This is the theory of Huyghens, who compared the gradual propagation of light, not to the motion of a projectile, but to the spreading of sound through air, or of waves through water. It was, according to him, no thing in the ordinary sense, no body which moved from the sun to the earth, or from a visible object to the eye; but a state, a motion, a disturbance, which was first in one place, and then in another, as, when we hear a cannon which has been fired at a distance, no bullet, no particle, even of air, makes its way from the cannon to the ear, but only the aerial motion spreads; the air near the cannon is disturbed first, then that which is a little farther, and, last of all, the air that touches us. Or, like the waves that spread and grow upon some peaceful lake, when a pebble has stirred its surface the floating waterlilies rise and fall, but scarcely quit their place, while the enlarging wave passes on, and moves them in succession. So that great ocean of ether, which bathes the farthest stars, is ever newly stirred by the waves that spread and grow

from every source of light, till they move and agitate the whole with their minute vibrations; yet, like sounds through air, or waves on water, these multitudinous disturbances make no confusion, but freely mix and cross, while each retains its identity, and keeps the impress of its proper origin."

This, then, is a fundamental view of a theory which has shown itself peculiarly felicitous in its adaptation to the various phenomena of light, and which won from Herschell the observation, that, "if not true, it fully deserved to be so." Still the supposition that light is but a continuous series of ethereal vibrations will scarcely accord with our conceptions of its influence on chemical combinations, or with the manner of its affecting both animal and vegetable life. Up to the present day, the subject has continued to receive the strictest attention and research from men of the highest talent and industry; the whole of Huyghens' theory has been carefully analysed and considered by Young, Fresnal, and Cauchy, who have, in fact, remodelled many of its primary elements, thus causing it to bear upon many important points where it was previously highly defective.

Having thus briefly reviewed the abstract theory of light, from the earliest period to the present time, we conclude with the full impression on our mind, that the real secret has still eluded our search, and that it will be found at a fitting time; possibly as a subtle fluid, pervading all space and matter, bearing a strong similarity in its laws and action to the mysterious electric fluid. E. G.

EXTRACTS FROM NEW BOOKS.

THE PEASANT-LIFE OF GREECE.

"HERE poverty seems actually unknown. Not that the simple Greek peasant is rich, unless it be that negative richness which they may be said to find in their security from all material wants, produced by the benign climate and the abundant nature. In the summer they greatly prefer, as I have said, their couch in the open air to the most sumptuous dwelling which their fancy could picture. They gather beneath the olive-trees, which shed their ready fruits upon their very head, the greater part of their simple food. The light clothing they require is an hereditary possession descending from father to son; and thus having food and raiment, they are therewith abundantly content. The result of this is, that I believe there is no country in the world where beggary is so little known. Systematic begging does actually not exist, excepting in the case of one blind old mendicant, certainly the richest man of my acquaintance, who sits all day in the portico of the Temple of Theseus at Athens, and majestically receives the alms which every one hastens to bestow on himtoo happy to find a legitimate object on whom to exercise the duty of charity, so strictly enjoined by their church."-Wayfaring Sketches among the Greeks and the Turks. By a Seven Years' Resident in Greece.

TIGER SHOOTING.

"THE ravine was extensive, and there was a good deal of cleared ground in it, so that we could see up and down it a good way. We were in the act of descending half way down the bank when we heard frequent loud yelps approaching us fast. Jack now told me to drop down, keep close, and the gun ready; he did the same, his dark expressive eyes dancing with half-concealed eagerness. We had not long to wait, for in two or three minutes a beautiful young wild black horse came tearing along the clear part of the ravine, in the direction of our concealment; he was going at his utmost speed, and closely pursued by two splendid tigers that ran much quicker, and whose bounds we could distinctly

"As the poor horse came up nearly to where we now were (for we crawled deeper into the ravine) he seemed to be nearly exhausted, and slipped down on his knees, about thirty yards from where we kneeled down ready for them. One of the tigers crouched with all the twisting motion of a huge cat, and made a spring of about twenty feet right on the back of the horse, and seized him by the neck with a fearful growl; the other animal trotted round the horse, lashing his tail about, and roaring with terrific ferocity; they were too busy now with their victim to scent us out. Are you ready now?' said Jack. 'I am,' said I. By agree ment I covered the tiger on the horse, my guide the other; at a signal both guns went off together.

"The one I had covered rolled kicking off the horse, the other fell down and tumbled about in all directions, evidently badly wounded. Now for the knife,' said Jack; and we rushed up to where they lay. Mine was dead, but the other was still active, though unable to move any distance. I went up to him with the intention of firing my second barrel through his head, when my guide insisted upon me letting him alone, and drew his long knife. The tiger had yet great vitality, and I was much alarmed lest he might yet injure the man, and kept the gun ready for an immediate shot.

"Jack went boldly up to him; the infuriated animal grinned horridly and writhed rapidly about, throwing up a good deal of dust from the dry ground. One plunge of the knife, a roar, into him again, a hideous grin and a tumble about, some blood scattered on the ground, at him again, a miss stroke of the knife, try once more, both down, and nearly covered with dust. I was now determined to put an end to this dangerous conflict, if I could; but the rapid motion of both man and beast prevented me firing, lest one should receive what was intended for the other.

Greek superstition, which supposes that for three days and nights the disembodied spirit lingers mournfully round its tenement of clay, the garment of its mortality, wherein, as a pilgrim and a stranger on the earth, it lived and loved, it sinned and suffered! As soon as the first symptom of decay announces that the curse of corruption is at work, they believe that the purer essence departs to purer realms. Before the grave was closed, whilst for the last time the warm radiance of the sunset cast a glow like the mockery of life over the marble face of the poor young girl, her friends, as a last precaution, took measures to ascertain that she was actually dead, and not in a swoon. The means they always take in such instances to ascertain a fact, which elsewhere would be ensured by a doctor's certificate, is touching in the extreme: the person, whom, whilst alive, it was known the deceased loved best, the mother, or it may be the young betrothed, who had hoped to place on her head the gay bridal crown instead of the green laurel garland of death, advances and calls her by her name, repeating after it the word ella (come) several times, in a tone of the most passionate entreaty; if she is mute to this appeal, if she is deaf to the voice that was dearest to her on earth, then they no longer doubt that she is dead indeed; they cover up the grave, lift their eyes to the heaven where they believe her to be, for the Greeks do not hold the doctrine of purgatory, and, having made the sign of the cross, they depart in silence to their homes."-Wayfaring Sketches among the Greeks and Turks. By a Seven Years' Resident in Greece.

Poetry.

[In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of the Author, is printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selections, it is

THE EXILES.

BY A. H. I.

A GRECIAN BURIAL.

66 WHEN a soul departs, their lamentations are terrible, but they sorrow for the survivors only;-as for the dead, they count him in all things a conqueror; so they place the laurel garland on his brow, and in his hand the palm of victory! They uncover the face, that all may see what a majesty of most serene repose is stamped thereon, and they sing a hymn of thanksgiving as they bear him away to his rest. I remember when they buried that bright-eyed Greek maiden, snatched suddenly from earth, when her young heart was light as her face was fair, they arrayed her, so rigid and motionless, in the gay dress she had never worn but for some great fête or gala, as though this more than any were a day of rejoicing for her; and thus attired, with her long hair spread out over her still bosom, all decked with flowers, they laid her uncoffined in her grave. At her feet they placed a small flask of

A SOUND arose from the golden sea,
From its breast of glittering flame-
The voice of melody, deep and free,
From a stately vessel came;

And the waters whispered in glittering play
With the joyous sound as it died away.

The wanderers from a distant land
Exultingly saw their own;

They marked the gleam of its shining strand,
Where the sunlight broadly shone,
And the shadowy hills stretching far away,
Where the golden glory of evening lay.

They sang how the land they loved so well,
Through many a burning scene,

Would softly circle them, like a spell,
Even with a golden green;

Would show them beneath the still waters clearly
The soft green fields they had loved so dearly-

The soft green fields where they used to lie,
And gaze on the distant sea,

And bury within them the idle sigh

When they thought of what must be. But the trial is past, and the triumph is comeOne shout! it shall reach to the hearts at home.

The song has ceased; and that happy band Lie tranced in dreaming sleep, Wandering still on their own sweet land,

Feeling its loveliness creep

Into their slumbering senses, and stealing Like music to all their sources of feeling.