ON MIGRATION. I. "YEA, the store in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and "For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the time of Perhaps of all these habits, none is more remarkable than the periodical migration of birds and other animals from those quarters where there is no longer a supply of food for them, or the approaching season would prove fatal to their existence, and their simultaneous movement towards a more hospitable land. In the case of certain quadrupeds, the desire to migrate appears to seize them suddenly and at irregular intervals. Thus the lemmings of the Thus the lemmings of the frozen regions of Lapland and Norway only perform their extraordinary journeys two or three times in the course of twenty years, when an unusual increase in their numbers causes a scarcity of food in their mountain-homes, or when the season threatens to be a rigorous one*. The appearance of these animals at the time of their migration, and the ravages they commit in the country through which they pass, are thus stated in MISS ROBERTS's Sketches of Wild Animals. When emerging in Lulean Lapland from a deep pine forest, rendered pleasant by the tender leaves of the birch, we discovered on a sudden what appeared to us like a dark cloud, slowly descending the flank of a lofty mountain. It was early in the morning, and when the mists were dispersed, and the beams of the risen sun had flung their wonted splendour over the whole of that alpine district, we discovered that this unusual cloud was no other than an incredible multitude of lemmings that were marching towards the plain. Having stationed ourselves on the nearest eminence, we could readily discern the order and regularity of their course. They proceeded in a straight line, and as they passed, the ground appeared as if recently turned up with a plough; they devoured every green thing; and nothing could impede their progress: they crossed ravines, torrents, marshes, and broad lakes, and if a rock or other obstacle opposed their advance, they only swerved from the line, while they were going round it, and immeIn crossing one diately returned to their former course. of the lakes, some of the neighbouring farmers got into a boat, hoping to prevent them from landing on a field of But no; though their phalanx was separated by the oars, they would not recede; they kept swimming directly on, and soon fell into regular order again. The farmers pushed their boat towards the shore and endeavoured to prevent the enemy from landing. Vam was their opposition. The lemmings soon made good their footing, and on they went, devouring the green blade, and marking their progress with devastation. Some of the men attacked them, and then, driven to desperation, they rose up, uttered a kind of barking sound, flew at the legs of the assailants, and clung so fiercely to the end of their sticks, as to suffer themselves to be swung about before they would quit their hold. Very few of the vast multitude return to their native mountains; some perish in the water, and swarms of enemies, hawks, owls, and weasels, attend their progress. There can scarcely be a more beautiful spectacle than the corn. * See the description given of this animal in the Saturday Magazine, Vol. VI., p. 68. march of these pigmy armies, and the surprising perseverance with which they pursue their course. The females are often loaded with their young; some carrying them on their backs, and others in their mouths. Other quadrupeds are occasionally found to migrate in vast companies, and to considerable distances, but without much regularity of proceeding, or of period. The herds of bisons, so often described by travellers in North America, as covering the wide extended savannahs of that country for miles, feeding in the open plains, morning and evening, and retiring during the sultry time to shady rivulets and streams of clear water, where they may be seen gliding through thickets of tall canes,—are also migrant, especially in the more southerly latitudes, where the character of the seasons renders the plains almost barren and destitute of other herbage than aloes, or such esculent plants. The peculiar form of these animals, their dark, flowing, shaggy manes; the low bellowing sound that they utter, and the vast numbers of them generally seen together, must indeed form a most imposing spectacle. The migration of the bison takes place spectacle. at various periods, and seems to be owing to accidental causes. It is well known that fishes migrate. To this cause we are indebted for the abundant supply of salmon in our markets. Arriving from the northern seas, shoals of these fishes force their way up the rivers in autumn, sometimes for hundreds of miles, springing up cataracts, and surmounting other obstacles which come in their way, in a manner truly astonishing, till they reach a place proper for the reception of their spawn. When this is deposited in a hole, prepared by the fish in the sandy or gravelly bed of a river, the parents hasten back again to the warmer waters of the sea, leaving their offspring to be hatched in the ensuing spring. Great quantities of these fishes are taken in England and Scotland, on their first arrival in our rivers: more indeed than will supply the London and other markets; so that the overplus is salted, pickled, or dried, and sent to the continent. The cod-fish spawns in the polar seas; but as soon as the more southern seas are open, it repairs to the banks for subsistence. Thus about the month of May, great numbers of cod arrive at Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, and New England, and find in the shallows of those extensive sand-banks the food peculiarly grateful to them, in the multitude of worms which they are able to obtain there. Most of the herring species are migratory, and They multiply beyond generally in immense shoals. all description in the northern seas, which prove a safe retreat for them from their numerous enemies. Shoals of them come out from these seas; and the immense swarm of living creatures is separated into distinct columns, five or six miles long, and three or four broad. In this order they arrive at the Shetland Isles, in June, from whence they proceed down to the Orkneys, where they divide and surround the islands of Great Britain and Ireland, uniting again in September in the British Channel, from whence they steer south-west, and are next seen in America. In the bays, rivers, and crecks of New England they deposit their spawn, continuing there till the latter end of April. They arrive at Newfoundland in May, and are no more seen in America till the ensuing spring. Some species of mackerel are migratory, making long voyages at certain seasons of the year. The same is the case with the pilchard, anchovy, &c. Migratory locusts form a dreadful scourge to the When the countries subject to their ravages. winter has been too mild to destroy their eggs, they increase to an amazing extent, and the desert of Arabia, from whence they are generally observed to come, can no longer afford food for them, so that they proceed in flights which darken the air to the various regions of Syria, Egypt, and Persia, where they totally consume the vegetation of the territory on which they alight, while their noise in feeding can be heard to a considerable distance, and resembles that of a foraging army. In those countries, however, the evil is happily soon repaired; for so vigorous is the sap of the trees, that new foliage appears in a few days, and even the herbaceous plants soon recover their usual appearance. A visit from these insects is much more destructive when it occurs in any part of Europe; the crops of that season being completely destroyed. But this calamity is not so frequent, nor are the .swarms so formidable as in former times. Locusts have been occasionally seen in Britain, and much apprehension has been excited on that account; but the coldness and humidity of our climate, form our best defence against such invaders, and when any of them arrive in our land, they are sure to perish, without leaving a young generation behind them. The southern parts of Africa were infested with them to a dreadful extent in 1797, when an area of two thousand square miles is said to have been literally covered with them, and the waters of a wide river were scarcely visible, owing to the multitudes of carcases that floated on its surface. Butterflies have been observed to migrate in immense flights. Mr Lindley witnessed this in Brazil, in 1803 when great numbers of these insects, of white and yellow colours, proceeded in a direction from north-west to south-east for many days successively, and if they met with no obstacle to impede their course, they must have perished in the ocean. More recently, a flight of the species called painted lady has been observed near the Lake of Neufchatel in Switzerland. They were all flying close together in the same direction from south to north, and were so little intimidated when any one approached them, that they turned not to the right or left. Their flight continued for two hours, and the column was about ten or fifteen feet broad.. Remarkable instances have been recorded of the migration of aphides, and of their enemies, the lady birds. Mr. White speaks of a shower of aphides which alighted at Selborne on the first of August, 1785, covering every leaf, and the dress of persons walking in the street. He supposed these swarms to have been driven from the hop plantations of Kent and Sussex, by an easterly wind which prevailed at the time. Kirby mentions the arrival of vast numbers of lady-birds at Brighton, and at all the watering places on the Kent and Sussex coast, in 1807, when they were considered by the superstitious as the forerunners of some dreadful evil; these persons being ignorant that the little visitors were merely emigrants from the neighbouring hop-grounds, where they had been rendering an essential service in the destruction of the aphides. The migration of bees and ants is a matter of common observation, and presents many curious and interesting features which will repay the attention of those who steadily watch the proceedings of the several swarms. The habitations of various species of ants may be observed to swarm, with winged insects, in warm summer weather, busily occupied in their preparations for leaving home. At length the male ants rise, as by a general impulse, into the air, and the females accompany them. The swarm rises and falls with a slow movement to the height of about ten feet, the males flying obliquely with a rapid zigzag motion, and the females, though they foliow the general movement of the column, appearing suspended in the air like balloons, apparently without any individual motion. Migrations of another kind are performed by these insects; for when a heedless step has injured their little dwelling, and caused them to apprehend danger in the situation they have chosen, they immediately become uneasy and soon set about selecting a new home. They have no sooner made their choice, than the march begins in a very orderly manner, and the high road, which leads in a straight line to the new, establishment, is filled with a line of ants, some bearing eggs and some carrying their companions, and the whole colony is actuated with such a spirit of persevering industry, that their new dwelling, or rather city, is speedily completed, A slight injury done to their walls they quickly repair, but they soon take the alarm if this is often repeated, and those who for experiment have frequently destroyed a part of the building have been disappointed, on coming to look at the ant hill, to find that the whole party had decamped. The migration of birds, however, affords the chief subject for our notice, and this we shall describe in a future article. FORGIVE thy foes; nor that alone; In meek forgiveness to its doom; Sheds in abundance rich perfume.—KNOWLES A WISE man hath his foibles, as well as a fool. But the difference between them is, that the foibles of the one are known to himself, and concealed from the world; the foibles of the other are known to the world, and concealed from himself. The wise man sees those frailties in himself which others cannot; but the fool is blind to those blemishes in his character, which are conspicuous to everybody else. Whence it appears, that self-knowledge is that which makes the main difference between a wise man and a fool, in the moral sense of that word.-MASON on Self-Knowledge. OH! only He, whose word at first That feeling's breadth and depth would scan ; The instincts of his ruder love.-HANKINSON. THERE are two channels of information, by which the Creator has enabled mankind to arrive at a knowledge of truth, namely, sight and hearing. And each has its appropriate source, from which a knowledge of the things per taining unto God are derived into the mind. The visible world, or natural kingdom of God, is the province in which the eyes expatiate, in search of materials for contempla tion; the invisible world, or spiritual kingdom of God in Jesus Christ, that which cometh by hearing. In other words, the visible world leads the way to the religion of nature; the invisible, through hearing, to the religion of grace. And that this latter method of arriving at divine truth is the surest, appears from this, that even the most stupendous miracles, although they overpowered the reason and established the fact of Divine interposition, did not enlighten the minds of those who were only spectators to the understanding of Gospel doctrine; whereas the plain and simple exposition of it, from the mouth of an apostle, made thousands wise unto salvation.-BISHOP BLOMFIELD, EFFECTS OF LITERATURE ON THE MORAL CHARACTER. Ir is rational to conclude, that our proper employment lies in those inquiries, and in that sort of knowledge, which is most suited to our natural capacities, and carries in it our greatest interest, that is, the condition of our eternal estate. Hence I think I may conclude, that morality is the proper science and business of mankind in general, (who are both concerned and fitted to search out their summum bonum,) as several arts, conversant about several parts of nature, are the lot and private talent of particular men, for the common use of human life, and their own particular subsistence in the world. LOCKE. I ASSUME an important point,-namely, that moral excellence, or virtue, is the highest excellence of human nature. Outward beauty is an excellence: we are formed to admire a graceful and elegant conformation. Bodily strength is an excellence : we cannot be insensible to the value of physical power. A vigorous and active mind is an excellence; for it raises its possessor in the scale of intelligent agents. And a lively imagination is an excellence; for it is a noble occupation to hold converse with the ideal world. But no one of these is the highest excellence of man; for man is a moral being, and the highest excellence of a moral being is goodness. Now if this be so-and who will dare to deny it? the value of everything with which we are concerned should be estimated by the effects which it is calculated to exercise upon the moral character: and it is a point of immense importance to ascertain how the moral condition of man is affected by the cultivation of literature. As regards books written expressly to inflame the passions and corrupt the heart, or to diffuse falsehood and scepticism, we have nothing to say. No one doubts about the tendency of such writings. They are the open foes of what is most dear to us, and none who place any value upon purity or virtue, will lightly risk themselves in their company. With many, however, general reading is most literally a mere form of dissipation. It is resorted to purely in idleness, and avowedly for the sake of amusement. Books are perused indiscriminately; or, what is worse, nothing is read but the periodical literature, or works of a trifling or ephemeral nature. The practice is pursued with no view to self-improvement, but merely to collect materials for gossip, or to beguile the vacant hours of solitude. The mind is distracted rather than disciplined by this idle and discursive method of reading; it becomes fastidious, and acquires an unnatural appetite for food which excites for a time, without adding permanent strength and vigour to thought and action. The effects of all this are as injurious to the heart as to the intellect. From the practice of reading good and bad alike, without selection or discrimination, the taste is in danger of being perverted, and the principles of being impaired; the reader gains no substantial knowledge, no practical views nor great principles; he acquires no good habits; he becomes impatient in the search after truth, and his moral improvement would have been more advanced by devotion to some common art or every-day occupation. But when literary pursuits are carried on honestly, soberly, and in a right spirit, they elevate and purify the moral character. It is indeed complained that knowledge is apt to render men vain, self-sufficient, and arrogant, and makes them look with contempt upon those who are less instructed. But it is certainly not the natural tendency of real knowledge to produce such a state of mind; for the more a man knows the more plainly he sees the limits of human knowledge, and the more sensibly he feels the weakness of the human understanding. It is not the man of real learning in literature or science, who prates about the extent of human knowledge, and deifies the intellect; but the man who has a smattering of learning, or who is acquainted only with those branches of knowledge which are most uncertain and imperfect. For the man of learning compares his own acquirements with those of others; he comes to know how much after all he has to learn; time and space, mind and matter, are spread out before him, and the vast and majestic scene makes him feel his insignificance. "He rises above himself, and looks from an eminence upon nature and society and life. Thought expands, as by a natural elasticity, when the pressure of selfishness is removed. The moral and intellectual principles of the soul, generously cultivated, fertilize the intellect. Duty, faithfully performed, opens the mind to truth, both being of one family; alike immu table, universal, and everlasting." Again, the cultivation of literature has a direct tendency to foster and confirm a spirit of patience and and self-discipline. Rash and presumptuous minds, indeed, are eager in forming opinions, and are prone to deduce conclusions from inadequate premises; but the student who deserves the name, gets to understand too well the difficulty of gaining truth, to venture to embrace opinions hastily, or without due examination. He becomes desirous of examining things for himself; he suspects the soundness of received opinions, and is anxious to refer every fact to its ultimate source of intelligence. And this implies much selfdenial and patience: it requires abstraction from unprofitable society, and the renunciation of idle and vicious habits: it demands energy, industry, and perseverance; and in the end compels us to make many sacrifices and overcome many importunate temptations. Learning, thus earnestly and zealously cultivated, imparts force and vigour to the moral character. Literary pursuits are naturally humanizing. They tend to diminish and remove the coarseness and violence which are characteristic of ignorance, and to substitute in their stead politeness and civility. They communicate to the manners a degree of elegance and animation which are much more graceful than the heartless formality which is learned in intercourse with what is called the world. They open the mind to perceive the real condition and relations of man, and convey to it a deep conviction of the propriety of discharging the social duties. The conscientious man of letters will indeed keep no terms with vice: he will have little respect for fashionable follies; but in his studies he has gained a deeper and more comprehensive love of his species: his heart has been trained to the exercise of habitual kindness and philanthropy. But how are we to reap these best and highest fruits of learning? The question may be answered in a few words. We can expect benefit of this sort from literature only when we enter upon literary pursuits conscientiously, and with a sincere desire of deriving from them moral advantage. If we have recourse to them for materials for display, they will only foster an unworthy weakness; if we resort to them as an amusement, they will operate only as an amusement, and will be more likely to relax the moral character than to strengthen it; if we apply to them for confirmation of our prejudices, or excuse for our vices, they will only contribute to our depravity. If, on the contrary, we study severely and steadily, from a sincere love of knowledge and truth, under a sense of our responsibility, and in dependence on higher aid, though we may be exposed to peculiar temptations, we shall pass through them safely, and as we advance in wisdom, shall make a corresponding proficiency in virtue. In conclusion, let me recommend young minds to choose some particular line of study. It is ill for the public, and for the individual, when powers of any value are wasted without an object. There are some who excuse themselves for their ignorance on the subjects on which they ought to be best informed, by pretending to have cultivated general knowledge. Do not be imposed upon by that phrase, but be assured that all superior minds regard the accomplishments. which it is usually employed to indicate, as utterly worthless and contemptible. This general knowledge is the foppery of literature. It may qualify a man to talk; it may give him reputation with the superficial and illiterate; but it renders him ridiculous in the eyes of discerning persons, and is so far from rendering him wiser or better, that it tends to deteriorate both his intellectual and moral character. [Abridged from a Lecture by the REV. JOHN GOULTER DOWLING, read before the Gloucester Literary and Scientific Association.] THERE is no magic in the works of nature; there are causes and means for every effect, though we do not always discover those: and though God operates by a word, that word acts as philosophically and reasonably as the hand of man, in chemistry, according to the rules of that science, in mechanism, under the laws of mechanics.-MACCUL LOCH. FLOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem Teach this, and, oh! though brief your reign, For youth's unthinking brow: What most he fears to know; Have ye no words of cheer? And death and life betoken well. The pillow of the dying; His mercy and his power; Moral of Flowers. ENTRANCE TO THE MONASTERY OF THE GRAND CHARTREUSE. LONDON: Published by JOHN WILLIAM PARKER, WEST STRAND; and sold by all Booksellers. THE Doric order may be said to consist of three parts, riz., the stylobate, the column, and the entablature. The word stylobate is derived from the Greek, and signifies a basement for columns. The stylobate differs from a pedestal in this: the former is a continued unbroken substructure, or basement to columns, while the latter term is confined to insulated supports. 11 In the Doric order the stylobate is in height from two thirds to a whole diameter of the column. It is usually constructed in three equal courses, which recede gradually, the one above from the one below; and on the floor of the uppermost surface, or step, the columns rest. The object of the stylobate is not so much to afford access to the portico, as to impart an air of firmness to the structure, which it does in an eminent degree. The columns are short, varying from four to six diameters in height; they are without bases, because of the narrowness of the intercolumniations, and also en account of their tapering form. They spread out at the bottom, and so afford a sufficient base, not only in reality, but also to satisfy the eye: whereas, did the columns rest on bases, not only would great inconvenience be experieneed, but a heavy awkward effect would be produced, which is avoided altogether by terminating the columns on the floor of the stylobate. The columns taper in a graceful curve; and this tapering is rendered more apparent by the flutings which lessen the massive effect of the columns; and produce a pleasing variety of light and shade. The flutings, which are generally twenty in number, are wide and shallow, separated by sharp edges only, thus producing an effect of breadth: they follow the general curve of the shaft, and detail on the floor of the stylobate. The capital of the columns consists of an echinus (or egg-shaped projection), and a deep square abacus (or tile), above it. The echinus swells out, so as to exceed the diameter of the foot of the column; which, however, it appears VOL XVI. to equal, on account of the distance at which it is always seen. We come now to speak of the entablature, or horizontal mass, resting upon the abaci of the columns. The reader will remember that the entablature is composed of architrave, frieze, and cornice. The architrave is the first member of the entablature, and rests immediately on the abaci. It presents one plair broad face, and is proportioned to the weight it has to bear. Its height is usually equal to the narrowest diameter or neck of the column. The width of its soffit, or under side, is midway between the two extreme diameters of the column; so that it overhangs the upper part of the shaft: it does not, however, project over the abacus, which, by presenting a more extended surface, seems better calcu lated to support the pressure of the whole entablature. The frieze is usually of the same dimensions as the architrave, from which it is separated by a projecting band, or fillet, called tania. The frieze is ornamented by slightly projecting tablets, in which are cut two glyphs, or grooves, and two half-glyphs, one on each of its outer edges, thus making three glyphs, or grooves, and giving the ornament its appropriate name of triglyph, an ornament which is peculiar to the Doric order. The width of each triglyph is rather more than half the lower diameter of the column. One triglyph is situated over each column, and one over each intercolumn. The spaces between the triglyphs are called metopes (a Greek word signifying spaces between), which were, it is said, originally intended to represent the ends of the beams which rested on the architrave, and formed the inner roof, or ceiling. The metopes are squares, and were sometimes occupied with sculptures in bas-relief. The triglyph is said to have been originally formed to prevent the rain from adhering to the ends of the beams: the water thus running down the grooves, and dropping from the tænia, is said to have suggested to an early Grecian |