face, and the air becomes consequently heated in one part to a greater degree than in another. The hot air rises, and its place is supplied by the flow of the colder air from the surrounding parts. When the vacuum thus created is sudden, and the flow of the surrounding air is violent, the meeting of winds from all points of the compass produces at sea the phenomena of water spouts, and on land whirlwinds, caused by the air ascending in a spiral into the higher regions of the atmosphere. There are a number of causes which produce inequalities of temperature in the atmosphere; some of the most obvious of which are the alternation of night and day, and the occurrence of cloudy and unclouded skies. The air must be necessarily heated when illumined by the rays of the sun, and cooled when those rays are withdrawn. PRACTICAL SYMPATHY. AN excellent moral is taught in the following "twice told" story. Some years ago, a meeting of Friends was held in one of the county towns of England, and a relief case was brought before the fraternity for consideration. It appears that the distressed party had sustained a serious loss of worldly goods owing to the occurrence of an unfortunate event, over which he could have no possible sort of control. Much interest pervaded the meeting, and many eloquent expressions of sympathy were uttered. "I feel for him," being the usual termination of each successive address. At last an old Friend arose, and very slowly and deliberately taking ou his purse, said, "I feel £10 for him." Then addressing his neighbour, he asked: "How much does thee feel for him?” A new feeling now pervaded the meeting, and, amid much humour created by this well-timed and witty speech, an amount was soon realized which effected the restoration of the brother to his former condition of comfort and prosperity. There is no use of money, equal to that of beneficence; here the enjoyment grows on reflection, and our money is most truly ours when it ceases to be in our possession, -Mackenzie. POWER OF MUSIC ON ANIMALS. THE celebrated John Wesley relates the following experiment illustrative of the power of music on animals: "I thought," says he, "it would be worth while to make an experiment. Remembering how surprisingly fond of music the lion of Edinburgh was, I determined to try whether this was the case with all animals of the same kind. I accordingly went to the town with one who plays on the German flute. He began playing to four or five lions; only one of these (the rest not seeming to regard it at all) rose up, came to the front of his den, and seemed to be all attention. Meanwhile a tiger in the same den started up, leaped over the lion's back, turned and rose under his belly, leaped over him again, and so to and fro incessantly. Can we account for this by any principle of mechanism? Can we account for it at all? Where is the mystery? Animals are affected by music just as men are who know nothing of the theory; and like men, some have musical ears and some have not. One dog will howl at a flute or trumpet, while another is perfectly indifferent to it. This howling is probably not the effect of pain, as the animal shows no marks of displeasure; he seems to mean it as a vocal accompaniment.” Sir William Jones relates some remarkable instances of the effect of music upon animals, which has certainly been known from time immemorial; the tales of Orpheus would else not have existed. The fact is applied to good purpose by the eastern snake-catchers; and perhaps the story of the pied piper of Hammel is but an exaggerated account of some musical rat-catcher. Beasts of prey are less likely to be affected by it, than such as live upon the alarm, and have consequently a quicker and finer sense of hearing. HATE idleness, and curb all passions. Be true in all words and actions. Unnecessarily deliver not your opinion; but when you do, let it be just, well considered, and plain. Be charitable in all thought, word and deed, and ever ready to forgive injuries done to yourself; and be more pleased to do good than to receive good. USEFUL RECEIPTS. Tomato Catsup.- The following, from long experience, I know to be the best receipt extant for making tomato catsup. Take one bushel of tomatoes, and boil them until they are soft. Squeeze them through a fine wire sieve, and add half a gallon of vinegar, one pint and a half of salt, two ounces of cloves, quarter of a pound of alspice, three ounces of Cayenne pepper, three tablespoonfulls of black pepper, five heads of garlic, skinned and separated. Mix together, and boil about three hours, or until reduced to about one-half. Then bottle, without straining.-S.W.C. Orange Pudding.-Grate the yellow rind of the oranges, and squeeze the juice into a saucer, taking out all the seeds. Stir the butter and sugar to a cream. Beat the eggs as light as possible, and then stir them by degrees into the pan of butter and sugar. Add, gradually, the liquor and rose-water; and then, by degrees, the oranges. Stir all well together. Have ready a sheet of puff-paste, made of five ounces of sifted flour, and a quarter of a pound of fresh butter. Lay the paste in a buttered pie-dish. Trim and notch the edges, and then put in the mixture. Bake it about half an hour, in a moderate oven. Grate loaf-sugar over it, before you send it to table. "A country housekeeper' sends this receipt for the Family Friend." J. S. Woodcote. To Collar a Breast of Veal.-Take the finest breast of veal, bone it, and rub it over with the yolks of two eggs, and strew over it some crumbs of bread, a little grated lemon, a little pepper and salt, a handfull of chopped parsley, roll it up tight and bind it hard with twine, wrap it in a cloth, and boil it one hour and a half, then take it up to cool, when a little cold take off the cloth, and clip off the twine carefully, lest you open the veal, cut it in five slices, lay them on a dish with the sweetbread boiled and cut in thin slices and laid round them, with ten or twelve forcemeat balls; pour over your white sauce, and garnish with barberies or green pickles. The white sauce must be made thus:-Take a pint of good veal gravy, put to it a spoonful of lemon pickle, half an anchovy, a teaspoonful of mushroom powder, or a few pickled mushrooms, give it a gentle boil; then put in half a pint of cream, the yolks of two eggs beat fine, shake it over the fire after the eggs and cream are in, but do not let it boil, it will curdie the cream. To make Biscuits.-Biscuit bread is made in the following manner:-The necessary quantity of flour is to be mixed with water in such quantity that the dough produced will be the stiffest and most solid that will be possible to work. So hard ought this dough to be that it would not be possible to knead it with the hands in the usual manner. Two methods are resorted to. The dough being spread out, a cloth is laid over it, and a man tramples it in all directions with his feet. Or a long bar of wood, having a sharp edge, fastened at one end to a block, yet with sufficient liberty to move with a kind of chopping motion, extends over a table on which lies the dough flatted out. The dough is chopped in all directions, is often doubled up, flatted, and chopped again. When sufficiently kneaded, it is rolled into cylinders of about an inch and a half in diameter, and these are cut into lengths. the same as their diameter. They are then flatted and moulded with the hand; some holes are struck through with a docker. After a slight sprinkling with flour, they are laid on the tiles of the oven and baked.-S. C. Richmond. Infants' Food.-"I am quite sure you will be very willing to make your Family Friend a friend to all the family, even to the very babes. I have referred to the volumes already published for receipts for infants' food, but could not find one. You would oblige me and others, who may be placed in the unfortunate position of having to rear children by hand, by furnishing, in the Friend, receipts for preparing infants' food suitable for the various periods of infancy. The bowels of infants brought up by hand are very liable to be disordered, and a change of food will often remedy the evil. Receipts for the kinds of food calculated to correct a loose or confined state of the bowels would be very useful. The stomachs of some infants cannot agree with any preparation containing milk.-Could you make some nourishing provision for them? I have used for two months a food commonly used in France, viz., the best wheat flour, gently roasted in the oven, and then boiled for a length of time in water, and made into a gruel. The child fed upon this has been healthy with the exception of an occasional looseness in the bowels, which the addition of a little isinglass generally cured,-only it remains very thin, and does not grow. I hope you will excuse me for troubling you; but seeing the welfare of the man often depends upon that of the child, and is a family matter, as well, I think, it merits a little attention from a "Family Friend "-J. W., Liverpool. [Perhaps some of our experienced friends will favour our correspondent with a reply to his inquiry.] Preserved Plums. Cut your plums in half (they must not be quite ripe), and take out the stones. Weigh the plums, and allow a pound of loaf-sugar to a pound of fruit. Crack the stones, take out the kernels and break them in pieces. Boil the plums and kernels very slowly for about fifteen minutes, in as little water as possible. Then spread them on a large dish to cool, and strain the liquor. Next day make your syrup. Melt the sugar in as little water as will suffice to dissolve it (about a gill of water to a pound of sugar), and boil it a few minutes, skimming it till quite clear. Then put in your plums with the liquor, and boil them fifteen minutes. Put them in jars, pour the juice over them warm, and tie them up, when cold, with brandy paper. Plums for common use are very good done in treacle. Put your plums into an earthen vessel that holds a gallon, having first slit each plum with a knife. To three quarts of plums put a pint of treacle. Cover them, and set them on hot coals in the chimney corner. Let them stew for twelve hours or more, occasionally stirring them, and renewing the coals. The next day put them up in jars. Done in this manner, they will keep till the next spring. Sirups may be improved in clearness by adding to the dissolved sugar and water some white of egg ve well beaten, allowing the white of one egg to cwo pounds of sugar. Boil it very hard (adding the egg shells), and skim it well, that it may be quite clear before you put in your fruit. "At this season for 'preserves,' your readers may be glad of the above instructions which I have always adopted with great success." M. MINSON. Manchester. RECREATIONS IN SCIENCE. To make a Metallic Tree.-Mix together equal parts of saturated solutions of silver and mercury in nitric acid, diluted with a little water in this mixture suspend five or six drams of pure mercury contained in a piece of fine linen rag doubled. The metallic solutions will soon penetrate to the mercury inclosed in the cloth, and clusters of beautiful needle-shaped crystals will begin to be formed round it, and adhere to the nucleus of mercury. When the arborization ceases to increase, the bag, loaded with beautiful crystals, may be taken out of the vessel where it was formed, by means of the thread by which it is suspended, and hung under a glass jar, where. it may be preserved as long as may be thought proper. ENIGMA. BY THE REV. CHARLES TERROT, HORNCASTLE. I am constantly in the midst of money (1); I am continually putting people in possession of property (2.); and I increase the number of most things that come in my way (3.) I am no friend to the distressed needlewomen, for I render needles unnecessary (4.); yet whenever I undertake a dress I infallibly make it sit (5.) I am quarrelsome, for a word and a blow is my maxim, -in fact with me a word becomes a weapon (6.); and merriment slaughter (7.) In the time of Henry IV. I was much addicted to hanging on the great (8.) It is commonly remarked that drink converts men into swine, but I transform wine itself into the same animals (9.) Deprived of me certain railway speculations come out in their true character (10.) A team can draw a wagon well without me, still when I am in front the speed is wonderfully increased (11.) It seems that marvellous products may be obtained from peat, but when I am extracted from earth pure oil alone remains (12.) Let me go before and a story is sure to be stale (13.); and if I am left out it will be political (14.) Whether you consider me a friend or a foe to the church, I must confess that I am strongly attached to pluralities (15.) With respect to free trade, I turn corn itself into contempt (16.) I am met with in the midst of Russia (17.) and Prussia (18.), and am also abundant among the Swiss (19.) Were I withdrawn from that unhappy country Spain, nothing would be left but grief (20.) After sport, when I take my departure, the evening is often finished with what remains (21.) At a soirée I am always in good time (22.) In person I am much bent (23.); although I occasionally stand upright (24.) As to my education I was always head of the school (25.), although invariably at the bottom of my class (26.) With me age looks wise (27.), but a gentleman is better without me, as accompanied by me he appears feminine (28.) On the contrary a lady oug. not to part with me, for if she loses me she seems masculine (29.) I must be an unwelcome visitor, for with me sorrow (30.) begins and happiness ends (31.); sadness commences (32.) and bliss terminates (33.);-yet it is in my power to transform cares into what is delightful (34.) -That House whose owners try to gain ANSWERS TO FAMILY PASTIME. MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING. (Continued from page 248.) ONCE more the sweet murmuring voice of the Long Moss Spring welcomed him to its margin. Once more the splendidleaved magnolia swept its boughs over his head, while its magnificent blossoms unfolded their waxen bosoms to the air, and perfumed it with their intense odours. The feathery moss still curled over the bed of the fountain, green in the sunshine, blue in the shade; and pure and white gleamed the rocks through the clear, gurgling waters. As Marcus gazed around with that fulness of heart this scene ever caused, he beheld, not far from the spot where he stood, a mound, covered with grassy turf, of that peculiar oblong form which indicates the last resting-place of man. He remembered his friend, the aged Simon, whom two years before he had seen bowed over the fountain's edge, and he was sure he was slumbering in that quiet bed. While he stood with pensive brow and folded arms, looking down on the greensward, the ferryman's wife, the same woman who had lent him the blanket, and assisted in ferrying the boat over the moon-lighted waves, approached the fountain, with a wooden bucket, poised in the African style, on her uncovered head. She started at the sudden apparition, but soon recognised the handsome youth, who had seemed so like an angel to her, slumbering in the moonbeams. After having greeted her with his wonted courtesy, he questioned her about his old African friend, and learned that he indeed slept his last sleep near the murmurs of the fountain, whose music had so often soothed his aged ears. He was found dead by the side of the spring, with his face turned towards the waving moss, as if his soul went floating down the silver current into the neighbouring river, and thence into the great ocean of eternity. It had been his reiterated request to be interred near that spot, and the scene of his death became the place of his burial. "I didn't mind it at first," said the woman, "for I didn't know how lonely it would make the place seem. But now, VOL. VII. NO. LXXXII. when I come down at night for water, I dare not look on that grave, and yet I see it all the time. I hurry back as fast as I can, and then I hear old Simon hobbling behind me all the way." "Poor old Simon!" exclaimed Marcus, with glistening eyes. "You need have no fears of him. He was a true-hearted Christian, with a soul as white as that snowy basin. As sure as there is a heaven, where suffering man finds rest, he has found admittance there. He is no restless ghost to inspire terror in those he has left behind." "Some time before he died," said the ferrryman's wife, "he gave me a little packet, wrapped in buckskin, sewed up tightly all round, which he wanted me to give to you, whenever you came this way, for a woman named Milly. I'm glad you've come, for I kind of hated to keep it. Dead folks' property is a mighty sacred thing; when it is fastened up so close, too, it seems more particular." While she went to the cabin to get the mysterious packet, Marcus indulged his sincere and heartfelt sorrow over the grave of this devoted friend of his desolate years. How short a time it seemed since he, a mere boy, sat at his side, watching him peel the bark from the smooth willows with his wrinkled hands, while he dropped comforting texts of Scripture into the listening ears of Milly, or sang with growing enthusiasm, "The old ship of Zion, glory, hallelujah." There was a smooth white stone lying close to the grave, such as formed the basis of the fountain. Marcus knelt down, and taking his penknife, carved the name of the old soldier on its yielding surface; then placing it at the head of the grave, he pressed the earth against it, to prevent it from falling. He felt an irresistible desire to consecrate the spot by some act of memory, some token of human friendship. The ferryman's wife returned while he was engaged in this touching rite of remembrance to the lowly negro, and she thought that she should never again fear to approach it, even in the darkness of midnight. In silence she placed the packet in his hand, then, when he turnes. away, she said, "There is a wild rose-bush yonder; if you like, I will plant it by that stone, S the moss should grow over it, I will clear it away from the name you have cut." 66 "God bless you," exclaimed Marcus; you have a feeling heart; I honour you for it. Yes," added he, to himself, as he led his horse toward the ferry-boat, which had just reached the shore, "this woman has native refinement and sensibility. I am glad she dwells near my beloved spring. There is something in its placid, silvery beauty, in its deep continuous music, that creates responsive beauty in the heart that is bathed in it. I never approach it without feeling my immortality, my eternity. My father's soul, after going through a baptism of fire, here found the river of life. Poor old Simon, no doubt, here held communion with the Great Invisible, whose image he beheld in the far depths of the waters. Beautiful fountain of my boyhood!" continued he, casting one more backward glance, as he stood on the brink of the river, "my being seems coeval with thine; I listen to thy murmurs, and feel as if I had for ever heard them sighing, breathing, mingling with iny soul; I watch thee swelling, flowing onward, onward-never wearying, never pausing; full, exhaustless, deep, and clear; and I feel as if thus my existence had ever been flowing onward, onward, and ever would flow, as long as God's eternal days shall last. Oh! when I have realized the lofty dreams of my ambition,-when my spirit has wrestled, and battled, and triumphed in the conflict with the stormy elements of the world, let me come and bathe my thirsty lips in thy sweet tranquillizing wave; and when, like the timeworn African, I lay my head on the claycold bosom of our general mother, may thy lone, mysterious accents breathe forth my requiem, and thy silver gushings beautify the place of my repose." Lost in his meditations, he had not observed that the ferryman's wife was assisting her husband in urging the boat across the river. But the moment he became aware of this circumstance, he grasped the pole, though she laughingly endeavoured to retain it. "And thou, rejoicing river!" thought he, bending over and watching the resist ing waters gurgling and foaming round the opposing staff, "thou, too, seemest a part of my own existence. Strong and glad and triumphant like thee, I go on my course, receiving tributary streams of strength from all things around me and about me. The breeze that ruffles thy surface moves over and refreshes the stream of my thoughts, and the sunbeams that flash on thy ripples play and sparkle over my spirit's restless waves. We are one, O rejoicing river; we ever have been, and ever shall be one.' When he had landed, shaken hands with the woman, whose promise about the rosebush had raised her so much in the scale of being, and ascended the steep bank, he felt as if he were at the starting-point of his journey. He girded himself anew for the enterprise, watching, with Indian sagacity, everything that could indicate the route of the fugitives. He had made inquiries of the ferryman, but they had elicited no information. The weather was mild and clear, and as he swept along through the pine woods, inhaling the healthy and inspiring odour. catching glimpses of the effulgent blue of the heavens through the green dome above, and here and there the sparkling of bright waters by the wayside, and the flow of the runnel across his path, he felt the joy of a young traveller, and thought himself incapable of fatigue. But when after several days continuous riding, without having met any adventure, or any clue by which he could direct his course, his buoyant spirits began to lose a little of their elasticity. It was probably owing to the electricity gathering in the clouds that rolled round the setting sun, and deepened the gloom of the twilight hour. Many who, like Marcus, have their beings charged with the electric fluid, feel, on the approach of a thunder-storm, as if it were withdrawn from themselves to give power and destructiveness to the elements, an oppression, an attraction towards the earth painful and irresistible. Marcus was wont to associate the idea of Florence with the lightning's flash, and he always hailed its coruscations with rapture,-but, as she herself had told him, it was rather the lambent glory that sports silently on the horizon's hedge, than the blaze that herald the thunder's crash, that was the emblem of the electric L'Eclair. Deep into the night he rode through the gathering storm, for |