sun's chemical intensity, which can be registered as well as ordinary meteorological phenomena. This is likely to be found of great use by agriculturists and all who are interested in the vegetable products of a country; for it appears that mere observations of temperature are not sufficient to enable us to estimate the true climatology of a place, or of its plant and animal producing capabilities. For this purpose,' says Professor Roscoe, we require to have not only the amount of solar heat directly or indirectly reaching the spot, but likewise the amount of chemically active solar light which falls there.' This is strikingly shewn by a comparison of the mean annual temperature of Thorshavn, in the Faroe Islands, with that of Carlisle, which is pretty nearly equal. But though there is so little difference in the temperature, the difference of sunlight falling upon the two places is great. At the Islands, it is intercepted by almost constant moisture and cloud, which even the chemical rays cannot penetrate; hence the flora is scanty, there are no trees, and none but the hardiest kinds of shrubs. But how different at Carlisle! there woods and gardens flourish, and grain grows abundantly. A somewhat similar state of things prevails between Rejkiavik, the capital of Iceland, and Edinburgh; yet what a difference in the vegetation of the two places! These examples make it clear that a ready means for measuring the sun's light and heat cannot fail to be valuable. As Professor Roscoe remarked in his lecture delivered at the Royal Institution, it is only in the presence of the sunlight that the true function of plant-life can be exercised. It is the sunlight which, acting on the green colouring matter of leaves, decomposes the carbonic acid of the air into its constituent elements . . and only those of the solar rays which vibrate most rapidly are able thus to tear the particles of carbon and oxygen asunder, or to effect chemical change; and these most refrangible or violet rays have, therefore, been called the chemical rays.'

In his annual address to the Board of Visitors, the astronomer-royal communicates some interesting particulars of terrestrial magnetism. The observations shew that on the occurrence of aurora there is disturbance of the magnetic phenomena; and with respect to disturbances in the vertical direction, which are very rare, but very violent, producing what are called magnetic storms, he is of opinion that the idea of attraction should be abandoned. In its place, he suggests, as a general theory of magnetic storms, that they are to be referred to currents of a magnetic ether whose movements are closely analogous to that of air.' Ingenious as this theory may appear to be, Mr Airy yet takes care to mention that much remains to be done before it can be established. As regards practical applications of magnetism, we are informed that the time-ball at Deal is dropped every day automatically by a clock in the Observatory at Greenwich, and that time-signals are sent daily to various places, of which the two most distant are Glasgow and Cardiff. Pursuing this subject, Mr Airy states: 'I have heard that the companies, through whose offices the wires pass, have begun to distribute branch-signals to private factories. The clocks of the General Post-office are connected as formerly with the Observatory, each of four clocks being adjusted by current from our motorclock once every day, and reporting itself to us twice every day. The clock of Westminster Palace has also been brought into connection, the attendant receiving a signal from us once every hour, and the clock reporting its state twice every day,' as in the former instance. All who dwell within sight of the great clock of Parliament House will learn with satisfaction that it does not vary one second per week from the true time.

6

The last number of Proceedings of the Royal Society contains a paper by Lieutenant-colonel Clerk of the Royal Arsenal, Woolwich, On the Change of Form assumed by Wrought Iron and other Metals when heated and then cooled by partial Immersion in

Water,' which presents curious and remarkable results as to the behaviour of metal under the circumstances stated. It was one of these results which gave rise to the series of experiments detailed in the paper. A tire, to which it was needful to give a bevel of ths of an inch, was to be fitted to a wheel. One of the workmen employed at the Arsenal mentioned that by heating the tire red hot and immersing it to one-half of its depth in cold water, the desired bevel would be produced without the labour of hammering. Trial was consequently made: the tire, four feet diameter, three inches wide, and half an inch thick, was taken from the furnace, and placed in its bath, when the portion out of the water shrunk, and by reducing the diameter, produced the bevel. After this, a number of experiments were made with rings and cylinders of wrought iron, steel, and brass of various dimensions, the results of which are shewn by engravings. The general effect on cylinders appears to be to draw in the metal to the form of a waist at the water-line, or a little above it. The effect on solid cylinders, three inches diameter, is shewn by a bulging out of the metal at each end, and in some instances by cracks. With cylinders of zinc and tin, the effect was still more remarkable.

An explanation of these curious phenomena is given in a postscript to the paper by one of the secretaries of the Royal Society, which perhaps may be of importance to workers in metal. He shews that there is a contest going on between that part of the metal under water and the part out of water, in which contest the cooler metal being the stronger, prevails, and so the upper part gets pulled in, a little above the water-line, while still hot. Besides this, it has to contract in cooling, and the sum of the effect is to leave a permanent contraction a little above the waterline;' and the thinner the metal, the nearer will the contraction be to the water-line. In the case of the hoop or tire, there is not room for more than a general inclination of the surface; hence the hoop becomes bevelled. As regards the solid cylinders, the rapid cooling forms a sort of tough skin on the surface, which, as it shrinks, compresses the softer metal within, and so causes the bulging of the ends. Professor Stokes-for it is his initials which are signed to the postscript-concludes his explanation with the remark, that should there be a metal or alloy which, about the temperatures with which we have to deal, was stronger hot than cold, the effect of the cause first referred to would be to produce an expansion a little below the water-line.'

Mr Hartnup, Director of the Liverpool Observatory, has just published an unusually interesting report, for he has collected the particulars of error and rate of 1700 chronometers used on as many voyages, ranging in time from a few weeks to twelve months and upwards. These particulars are arranged in tables which impart most valuable information to seamen concerning the errors to which their instruments are liable. For example, taking the whole number of chronometers 1700-the average error in a voyage of one month is 6 miles; in twelve months, 186 miles. In other words, the ships would be 6 miles from the place, as shewn by the chronometer, in the one instance, and 186 miles in the other; and when such errors of calculation are possible, it is easy to understand how a ship may be lost through trusting to a faulty chronometer. But a different result appears on classification from the first best 10 in 100 through ten classes, down to the worst 10 in 100. With the best 10, the error in a voyage of a month is 0, absolutely nothing; and not more than 5 miles in a twelvemonth's voyage. On the other hand, the worst 10 shew an error of 25 miles in a month's voyage, and of 524 miles in a twelvemonth's voyage. Ordinary readers will hardly believe that ships are sent out from such a port as Liverpool with such imperfect instruments on board. However, it is part of the

function of the Observatory to rectify faulty chronometers, so that, on returning home, a captain now sends his chronometer to Mr Hartnup with a memorandum of its rate and error, and it is at once tested and placed in temperatures as extreme as those it has to pass through on a voyage from England to Calcutta or Kamtchatka. Hence, when the captain is again ready to sail, he receives his chronometer in an improved condition, or with such information concerning it as will enable him to avoid gross occasions of error, and calculate accordingly. From this it will appear that the Liverpool Observatory is doing good work, to which we can but wish a long continuance. Regarded in its results, it is a noble work to furnish true time to the great port, and send it forth to all the seas of the world.

From benefits to navigation we turn to horticulture and pomiculture. Mr C. Roach Smith is so much impressed by The Scarcity of Home-grown Fruits in Great Britain, that he has published a pamphlet on the subject; a subject which, as he thinks, has not been sufficiently considered. He points out the importance of an abundant supply of fruit for the preservation of health, and shews that apples were once abundant in Shetland, while at present they are disappearing from many parts of England. And yet there are gardeners who know how to make apples grow upon pyramids and dwarf bushes as thick in beds as gooseberry and currant trees.' Mr Roach Smith advocates the planting of apple-trees in labourers' gardens everywhere, round about brick-fields and other waste places, and along the sides of railways. 'One mile,' he observes, 'would require about 250 trees, the cost of which, and the labour of planting, would be about L.15. As good strong trees should be selected, in three years they would pay their expenses; and in a few years more, we may calculate that, out of the 250, about 200 would produce five bushels each, which, at 38. the bushel, would be L.150; and, of course, if both sides of the mile of railway were planted, the returns would be L.300; and for 100 miles we may calculate L.30,000. But make yet a deduction for contingencies, and the profit would be enormous. There is no reason, moreover, why our highways and byways should not be planted with fruit-trees (especially the apple); and also the vast tracts of land which surround hospitals, fortifications, and other public buildings.' As to the keeping of apples, Mr Smith states that generally they are allowed to hang too long on the trees. The ripening of every kind,' he argues, should be anticipated; the fruit should be gathered before the ripening commences; and this process should be allowed to take place in a dry cellar, from which the light is excluded. Guided by this sure and simple rule, I have preserved apples in perfection many months after my neighbours' heavier crops, allowed to ripen on the trees, have rotted.'

As the result of his experiments on the pear, Mr Smith states that a seedling of five years is shewing promise of fruit for 1864. He advocates the cultivation of the vine, not against walls, but in open grounds; yet even in the former case, he says that on every foot of wall, except such as face the north, it is possible to grow a pound of grapes.' Not only the fruit of the vine can be used for the making of wine, but the young shoots, tendrils, and leaves which are pruned in such large quantities, can, by the addition of water and more or less sugar, be made into wines 'so closely resembling those of Champagne and Anjou in France, and the dry Rhenish wines, that, at a most trifling cost, what is now the refuse of the vine may be converted into a wholesome and cheering beverage.' Mr Roach Smith further treats of the cherry and plum, gooseberry and currant; and we commend his pamphlet to all who are interested in the subject,

or are desirous to ameliorate the condition of the labouring-classes.

We are glad to see that, in another way, the working-classes are taking pains to ameliorate their own condition; that is, by travelling. A prospectus now before us announces a Working-men's excursion to Paris, to start from Birmingham on the 10th August. The fare to the French metropolis and back is to be thirty shillings, besides a registration fee of one shilling; and the committee promise that lodgings, guides, and interpreters shall be provided, and arrangements made to secure the comfort of the travellers. The time allowed in Paris will be six days. The secretary, Mr F. Hine, 3 Provident Place, Ladywood Lane, Birmingham, will gladly furnish further information. We heartily approve of this excursion, and give it our best wishes for success. 'Such visits,' says Mr Cobden, in a letter to the secretary, are the commencement of a real personal acquaintance between the masses of the two countries. They will help to remove the veil of ignorance which has hid from each other these great neighbouring nations, who, in proportion as they become better acquainted, will renounce those feelings of hatred and suspicion which have for centuries envenomed their relations.'

THE CHURCHYARD LILY.
SLOWLY Out of a summer grave
A pure white lily grew,

Its root was red in the heart of the dead,
Its cup held tears of dew.

Blanched as white as a first day's snow,

It sprang by a mossy stone,
An angel's smile turned into a flower,
And it blossomed there alone.

It was prisoned round with iron rails,
Cankering red with rust;

And it rose like a blessing upon a mound,
That covered poor human dust.

It sprang from a maiden's broken heart—
'Twas the purest thing on earth;
Yet its fibrous roots were deep in a grave,
And Death had given it birth.

It fed on sunshine and on showers,

It drank the warm bright air;
There was never a flower at Eden's gate
Grew yet more pure or fair.

White and pure as a virgin's soul,

Soft as an angel's wing,

It rose to hear the birds above
Of heaven in raptures sing.

The flower was as white as the maiden's shroud,
And graciously it grew;

And its offering of dewy tears

On the grave below it threw.

I could not think but it was a sign
Of happiness and rest,

For it seemed to whisper to us who're left: "Your Alice is with the blest.'

All communications to be addressed to The Editors of Chambers's Journal, 47 Paternoster Row, London,' accompanied by postage-stamps, as the return of rejected contributions cannot otherwise be guaranteed. Communications should also, in every case, be accompanied by the writer's Christian and surname in full.

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH, Also sold by all Booksellers.

ASSOCIATION.

PERHAPS no subject offers more metaphysical difficulties, and at the same time finds more incessant illustration in the commonest, most thoughtless life, than that of Association. Association is the belt of the world-it embraces heaven and earth; God and man; life and death are contained within its bounds. It is the mystery of the past, present, and the future. After a glimpse, we must be touched with a sense of its immensity; we may therefore more freely handle a few little tags in the fringe which borders it. Some subjects may well dismay us, for they appear to be within compass, and to expect an exhaustive examination, if they are examined at all; others are so large that the philosopher can really make little more impression upon them than the fool, and it is no more pretentious in the one than in the other to approach them. Here we are, then, by the brink of the great sea of Association, without horizon, sounding, or end; let us dip our little mug in and sip upon the beach.

Events widely severed are joined and meet together in some familiar scene. Take, for instance, the story of the groom and the eggs. A gentleman was driving, on a moonlight night in September, over a bridge, in a one-horse phaeton. He wore a white coat, and his servant sat behind him. Just beyond the bridge, on the right, was a wind-mill, and on the left, a church. The clock struck eleven. The gentleman turning round suddenly to the groom, said: 'John, do you like eggs?' 'Yes, sir,' said John, touching his hat.

Exactly twelve months afterwards, he was driving the same vehicle over the same bridge at eleven o'clock by moonlight, in a white coat. The clock struck. The gentleman turned round suddenly to the groom, and said 'How?' 'Poached, sir,' replied John, touching his hat.

The eye and the ear annihilate space and time. An unexpected familiar sound transports us in a moment. When we hear the whetting of a scythe, there is a vision of the hayfield, the harvest, or the lawn. If we were to hear it in Piccadilly, we should still see cabs and granite with the outward eye, but swaths of grass or bending barley would be immediately present to the true or inward seeing power. A passerby says, "Tlck,' and horses come into the field of vision. The hiss of the groom recalls the stable-door,

PRICE 1d.

the bucket, the sponge, and ammonia. The bleat of the lamb carries us another way. The tom-tom of the Hindu beggar strikes the contrast between the East and the West. The peal from the steeple rekindles a mixed memory of weddings, victories, and elections. There are, of course, catholic sounds which suggest the same ideas to different minds with approximate certainty. The passing bell has one message to all. But each associates some private scene with some particular sight, or sound, or smell. I can never see a knife laid with its edge upwards without thinking of a particular picnic. There was a pause, and I suppose a moment of unusual receptivity in my brain; we talked about accidents in carving, danger of carelessness with knives, &c., when a gentleman, with much ceremony, set the large carving-knife in the middle of the group with its edge uppermost, and while we expected some conjuring trick, said: 'None of you will ever see a knife so laid without thinking of me;' and he winked at the prettiest girl.

Thus each of us has some scene which an unlikely, unmeaning incident rekindles. The most remarkable revival of past impressions, however, occurs sometimes at a combination or coincidence of circumstances. Did you never, for instance, come suddenly across or into a scene which at once is recognised as familiar, though you cannot remember having been present at it before? So strong is the impression at times, that we seem to know what will happen next, as if we had crossed the track of some past life, and, for a moment, were in possession of a little scrap of time, involving future, as well as past and present. No doubt, such an inexplicable appreciation of the view at an unexpected turn in our path has done much to strengthen a belief in the transmigration of souls.

There are sounds and sights which it is impossible to detach from particular ideas, or at least particular states of mind. Whose solemnity will not be disturbed by the squeak, pan-pipe, and drum of Punch? If a waltz could not justify itself at a funeral, it would disconcert everything else. The effect of certain tunes, especially when associated with national life, is notorious. In conscript armies, certain airs are obliged to be prohibited, lest the recruits from the districts where they are played should turn home-sick. A particular succession of notes excites the tarantula dance, and is not without its impression on the cruel snake. The fable of Amphion's influence is not mere poetic fancy.

It is as difficult to account for the stream of our waking thoughts, as it is to analyse dreams; sometimes the course runs smooth, and then perhaps the eye rests upon a particular object, catches a peculiar gesture, and the whole tide is turned; some little idea comes up and takes the reason and the imagination by the nose; and we are not conscious of anything forced or unnatural in this; but we cannot see the association which makes the change natural. Occasionally, we ask others or ourselves: 'What made you think of that?' and we can trace the steps of thought, but commonly we take them as they come, without a wish to know the history of their birth. There is a moving, endless picture ever passing before the mind; we look at, we accept or dislike it, we can even call for particular scenes, detain or dismiss them, and think we provide the show ourselves; meanwhile, sleeping or waking, the moving panorama passes by, and we cannot tell who is the exhibiter, whose the secret hand behind the scenes which turns the crank of life's revolving view.

Association is powerful in office. Let a man get a place under government, or be ordained by the bishop, and he is changed. He is the same man; his appetite, memory, power are unaltered; he cannot see further, or speak louder, or reason better the moment he is admitted to his new office; but he is changed. In nine cases out of ten, the change appears, perhaps involuntarily, in more than professional conversation or dress. Originally, the man made the office; now, the office makes the man. It is not merely that his good-will is more valuable when he has such and such additional influence or patronage in his power, but the man himself breathes at once a new atmosphere. He turns his back upon the world, and sticks up for his profession. He judges by a professional standard, he accumulates professional gossip. I once knew a cats-meat man who displayed as keen a professional etiquette, jealousy, and pride as any member of the most learned bodies in society. He had a wooden leg, and stood upon his dignity with as much grace as if he had a diploma of knighthood. When I made some sensible remark about his business, he snapped me up, and shewed me how little I knew what I was talking about, with a smile at my presumption. Poor fellow! I was glad to give him that gratification. The traditional associations of office are among the strongest, though perhaps least suspected influences of civilised society. Conceive the consternation of Mrs Grundy, if every soldier, lawyer, parson, doctor, and merchant said what he thought himself, and not what he thought would be expected of a professional man, about war, law, divinity, physic, and trade.

The official mind is a distinct production of its age, as unlike others as the uniform under which it works is unlike our common dress.

Perhaps there is nothing, however, in which we are more conscious of the influence of association than in personal appearance. We connect character of the mind with that of the face, the attitude, the step, the voice, the waistcoat, the umbrella, the boots. Perhaps the waistcoat is the most expressive garment; it is a test of theology and taste; it measures not only our girth, but our social standing, pursuits, and opinions. Does not the black satin vest convey a distinct impression? Is not the waistcoat with sleeves expressive? What do flaps and a multiplication of pockets indicate? In the tightness or otherwise of the waistcoat, we may measure the vanity or good sense of the wearer. It is a great social meter, to those who can read it aright. Boots, again can we not judge most men fairly by their boots? Indeed, clothes are almost as expressive as faces, which are unexhausted, and will yet produce many a Lavater. A man of discernment will invariably get near the mark in judging by appearances, and form some accurate opinions about even the details of a stranger's character, from the mere examination of his outside. Do not let us,

however, suppose that there is any law or set of rules by which we could work out an opinion. We don't go deliberately to work, assigning this to the nose, that to the brow, that to the lips, that to the stride; no such thing. But by an undefinable process of association, we come to a conclusion which we are conscious to be just; and yet we are unable to trace, much less explain, the steps which lead to it.

There is really no great triumph in getting a character from a phrenologist off the cast of a Swedish turnip. We laugh at his discomfiture, and then set off at once judging by appearances which we cannot decipher ourselves.

The effect of association is seen remarkably in the case of company or companionship. The man and wife grow alike. The obstinate conservative farmer's head does become at last like the Swedish turnip which he grows. But about man and wife. The approaching similarity of their features, figures, manners, voices, has been too repeatedly noticed to be questioned. There is something in it, a great mystery, which cannot be physically explained. The rule of contrast often seems to guide the courting. black bewhiskered Edwin woos the delicate blonde Angelina. But from the day the knot is tied, up to the longest tether of life's rope, they grow less and less unlike, until at last, when the old couple come into the room together, you see that you might often make a magnified Angelina by putting a cap on Edwin's white hair.

The

There is association in death. Skulls are alike-let the phrenologist say what he will, let the eye and the lip have been ever so diverse. Perhaps that is all we learn from seeing the gradual resemblance between a husband and a wife. It is because they are approaching the great assimilating crucible, and being together, we notice most in them the common converging lines which point to the last focus of life. Indeed, I fancy it must be so. Most old people of the same habits are alike. Look into the workhouse yard, at the shrunken, toddling paupers in the sunny corner. They are associated in decay. Once, one was strong, and another was weak; now, they are all weak together. Their voices, gait, are as similar as the workhouse coat-a trifle looser and more threadbare here or there than the other, but alike throughout. What period of the man's life fixes his character? What, so to speak, decides his place in the great household? Hardly death, in which not only all the delicate shades of distinction between one and another are often confused, but the most striking contrasts are done away-when the pulse flutters in the athlete and the infant, and the orator and the idiot moan alike.

Look into the penal prison, and see the bulletheaded, close-cropped felons. Here is association in crime. A life of skulking stratagem has set that cunning gleam in the eye; a life of lawless indulgence has stamped that air of sensual abstraction and vile absence of mind upon the lip and brow, which marks the criminal face. These men catch each other's features like small-pox, and all are scarred. How can the comparatively uninfected escape, when the law compels inoculation? You might as well hope to cure an incipient convict in jail, as to dry damp clothes in a pond. The licence of crime is notoriously contagious; there is a wicked charm in it almost irresistible. When a man cannot resist it, although free to choose an honest course, how can he do so when brought into daily contact with criminals, and depressed by the loss of personal liberty? Why should prisons be more than tanks to hold our 'social sewage,' till it be carted off, and spread somewhere upon the soil. It asks to be put into the crucible of nature, and associated with its freshest material. One great problem of the day is, where to deodorise and utilise' our felons. They are 'men in the wrong place.' It would be something if we could set a thief where he

could rob nothing beyond a bird's nest, and a burglar where he could break into nothing but the ground, where, in short, rogues would have to associate themselves in honest labour or perish outright. Success to the search for such a Reformatory!

But let us leave the felons. The power of association is seen in the influence of the sound man as well as in that of the sick. One fool makes many, so does one hero or saint. Isolated independence is impossible in good as well as in evil-no man liveth to himself. The solitary devotion of the prophet quickens a thousand pulses. The one brave outspeaker frees the caged-up thoughts of his sympathetic but shrinking kindred-he brings together the hundred drops which hang upon the social windowpane. Thus an opinion gathers weight, and truth makes its way.

This illustration, however, reminds me of a danger. The little raindrops on the window-pane are lost in the big one. As this pursues its zigzag course, it grows fat on the bodies of its companions. Not so with the human centres of association. No man, however small a contribution to the great body, can afford to be lost in it. He is himself throughout, he cannot be merely the part of another. There must be a sense of completeness and totality within his little waistcoat, or he ceases to be a man. By retaining his individuality, he does not withhold his support to others; nay, the very charm of his support depends upon this. Let him be lost in another, and he has thenceforth nothing to give.

man.

But this danger is avoided if we are associated in some principle, and not merely in support of some There must be something common to the whole associated body, head and members alike, which quickens it. Take, as example, the words 'knit together in love.' There we have one superior motive life, which holds each up from being lost in his neighbour's, and yet provides an irresistible, pervading bond for all.

Some associations, however, are of course temporary; men combine to carry out some definite legislative enactment, to remove some distinct abuse. It would be well if some of these societies could be wound up with less suspicion of disgrace. There ought to be no more shame in dissolving than in forming an association. The side at cricket or football is dispersed when the game is played. But I fancy there are associations which linger on long after they have done their work, from sheer dread of censure for dying. Some, of course, are kept alive by paid officers, merely for the salaries they produce, but some hang together from the mis-directed obstinacy of directors and committees. Wind the thing up, gentlemen; proclaim your task done; set yourselves free to take up another; but do not carry on a work, when all about it has grown stale and sour.

True wit depends on association. It lies in the unexpected aptness of ideas, just as false wit lies in odd contrasts or incongruities. False wit is very funny. No one can, for example, remember the Irishman's recipe for a cannon, Take a hole, and pour some brass round it,' without a little spasm of the chuckling apparatus inside us; and yet we see it lacks a lesson, which is part of true wit. We will illustrate this by the next familiar example which comes to hand in the mind. Lord P. is asked why he does not get the order of the thistle for Lord Q., and replies: "I'm afraid he would eat it.' This old joke is good, but it is more than a joke; it is full of sense as well as of humour.

Perhaps association is most obviously active when we travel. Then the ignorant, unobservant man sees without seeing. To him, the Forum at Rome is a shabby plot, with shabbier ruins and bullock-carts about it. It touches no store of learning, kindles no dead history within him. In travel, we find the value of accumulated facts, which otherwise would probably

lie barren in our memories. Even the dry memories of school-lessons give out a charm to a classical route, which makes us forgive the dreary hours we spent over them. It is all very well, too, to laugh at bookstudents of nature, but they carry that about with them which gives an interest to every flower, cloud, and stone they see. They see the object, and then, by the magic of association, the true beauty, fitness, history, which surround and accompany it, reveal themselves. A leaf or a bird is but a letter in the great book, which is read only by those who can put letters together; that is, who have the faculty of Association.

SCHOOL LEGENDS. WHEN a sight-seer who is a distinguished stranger' visits any of our old foundation schools, he is often conducted over the place by the head-master himself, who is not always all affability, even on such occasions and crammed with historical ana. 'Here,' he is told, is the wing devised by King Alfred, but not entirely completed until the reign of Henry VI. That statue in the niche over the gateway is Henry VIII., of pious memory, who built the chapel. We never disturb the birds that build in his royal crown; visitors have often objected, but they should provide themselves with umbrellas. That gorgeous pile is the library; no, it is never used by the boys, but they are allowed to play beneath it in wet weather. A hundred and forty of them sleep in the Gallery Chamber; a dormitory for which we are indebted to the Lady Margaret, sister of-I beg your pardon, Mr Tallboys, I did not know you were within. That is a monitor's room; they have apartments off the gallery chamber to themselves-formerly cells. These are the Cloisters. The blessed martyr, Charles I., caused them to be erected at his own expense, and doubtless would have paid for them, but for the unhappy troubles that subsequently overtook him. Observe the monogram beneath the sculptured flower at the eastern end. One of our wits observed that it would not have escaped the fanatic rage of the Puritans had it not been "under the Rose." Yes, we have produced many wits-statesmen, warriors, poets, men of science, divines. Atterbury lived on yonder staircase; mean, of course, in one of the rooms off the stairs; we speak technically here. We expect others to learn our language, not we theirs. favourite game was fives. He is said to have been the first who broke the great painted window above the communion-table. It was often done, however. It was renewed, at vast expense, in 1760, and the wire-work placed outside. Yes; that is the reason why the whole place looks, as you say, as if it wore a fencing mask. Otherwise, there would not be an entire window. Boys will lithoballise. Newton occupied that room; we did not make much of him, since we give our attention to the classics mainly. He gave no indication of his future fame, except in his extreme partiality for apples. Keats-KeatsKeats-I never heard of him; there may have been such a boy, but not in my time. His name is not upon the screens. All names of eminence will be found there-Howard, Cavendish, Dacre. See how long ago the upper rows were carved. There is a Wolsey, look you, supposed to have been somewhat too near kin to the great churchman. The porter carves them still for a small fee. The view through the Oriel is considered fine. The trees, as you remark, would grace a park indeed; there are few parks so noblethe fields about the river are very rich. Yes; all is ours, as far as you can see. Princely-you say. Why not? It was given by a line of kings; hence youths of royal descent possess, while with us, considerable privileges. We have had three dukes at once here. True, everything here is old, and plain, and cheap, and simple; that is what we pride ourselves upon. Do

His