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nist he carried with him his library and his business wherever he might go. He visited the Devonshire coast, and made scientific acquaintances in London. Then he expanded his wings for a longer flight. He made a long tour in America, giving scientific lectures in Boston, and making friends with Longfellow, Agassiz, and Laura Bridgman. Switzerland formed an interlude before longer travels, which extended to the Antipodes. Then he ranged to his heart's content

'On from island unto island at the gateway of the day.'

In Ceylon we drove for miles through one vast "Ward's case," of cocoa-nut, areca, and other palms, ferns without end, and very many noble tropical shrubs in blossom

. . a perfect paradise of wooded hills, open valleys with rich vegetation, and glorious forms of tropical plants.' Thence he went to Australia, which, in a botanical point of view, he considered to be a 'topsy-turvy' country. He was disappointed in his collections at low water, and was 'dependent on storms for throwing up weeds.' He was accosted one day by a settler, who made the sensible but prosaic suggestion that he should point out some seaweed 'good to eat, good for something, in fact.' In Norfolk Bay he got some experiences of the convicts, and, on the whole, he seems to have taken up a more favourable idea of the transportation system than is ordinarily the case. He found the convicts very civil, and some of them helped him in his dredging. He went to see the quarters occupied by William Smith O'Brien. They were very comfortable, a cottage, 'commanding a very pretty prospect and had quite a cheerful aspect. He was supplied with books and writing materials and literature. 1 was told that he worked in his garden, which had beautiful shrubs and flowers.' Afterwards he went to New Zealand, and thence to the Friendly and the Fiji Islands. We have never met with anything more eminently satisfactory than Dr. Harvey's account of Christian missions

in these islands. They immeasurably outweigh the shallow, virulent rubbish talked by such a man as Mr. Burton. He thence got to Panama and so home, having travelled round the world, and been absent three years. He did not live very many years after these prolonged travels. He married, but soon afterwards his health gave way. Among other places he visited Arcachon, on account of the supposed beneficial effect of the aroma of its pine forests. This also gave him an opportunity of making an excursion into the Pyrenees. Professor Harvey died of consumption at Torquay in 1866. His mental history is highly interesting. In early life he was a Quaker, and he talked that curious ungrammatical lingo in which the Quakers of the present day delight. 'Thou expects,' 'dost thee know,' is the style of thing. He found little satisfaction in Quaker writings, and his experience enables us to understand why that once important body is now hopelessly declining. The Church of England may be proud of him as a convert, for he brought into religious matters the most vigorous spirit of science, and freely elected her communion as his own amid the religions of the world. Many of his remarks, as bearing on the science of the day, are full of moral interest. 'Science,' he writes, is always in progress; always polishing off old surfaces and bringing out new. In her eye nothing is final; her faith knows no repose, looks forward to no future rest. She cannot conceive either of a beginning or an end, neither hath she any goal conceivable to our minds.' He writes several letters to Dr. Asa Gray on Darwinism. 'I am fully disposed to admit natural selections are vera causa of much change, but not as the vera causa of species.' 'I have no objection, per se, to a doctrine of derivative descent. Why should I? One mode of creation is as feasible to the Almighty as another, and, as put by you, is very consonant to sound doctrine. I have had a short friendly correspondence with Darwin on the subject, but without much result one way or the other.

A good deal of Darwin reads to me like an ingenious dream.'

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Mr. Robert Buchanan's edition of 'Audubon's Life * brings before us a scientific biography full of personal and adventurous interest. The rambles of this great ornithologist and ornithological painter are romantic in the extreme. Mr. Buchanan's book is partly made up of plentiful quotations from Audubon's own manuscripts, and partly with the story with which these manuscripts have supplied him. Audubon has certainly met no Boswell. Mr. Robert Buchanan possesses the critical faculty, which he promptly exercises at the expense of his subject. Audubon was very handsome and correspondingly vain; he especially admired the curve of his nose and the longitude of his hair; he was reckless, inconsiderate, and self-opinionated-all which imperfections Mr. Robert Buchanan does not fail to set forth with the candid impartiality of true friendship. But Audubon had good health, a good wife, and a good heart, and through an immense variety of ups and downs he survived to a good old age. He was a born genius, in the way of artist, naturalist, and vagabond. The lighthearted way in which he would leave his wife and children to get their own living as they could while he was off to the woods, is, in our over-civilized state of society, a matter of much admiration. His life is crowded with enough adventures to set up any number of adventurers. At one time he could not keep his journal because he had no money wherewith to buy a book of blank paper, and had to maintain himself by giving lessons in drawing and dancing. He came over to England, with what introductions he could, in order to get subscribers for his great work. Here he was received with much kindness, and Professor Wilson wrote an article about him in 'Blackwood's Magazine,' by which

The Life and Adventures of John James Audubon, the Naturalist.' Edited from Materials supplied by his Widow, by Robert Buchanan. Sampson Low, Son, and Marston.

he has chiefly been made known to Englishmen. At Edinburgh he made the acquaintance of all the celebrities-Sir Walter Scott, Basil Hall, Lord Jeffrey, Mr. M'Culloch, and others. Jeffrey is a little man, with a serious face, and a dignified air. He looks both shrewd and cunning, and talks with so much volubility he is rather displeasing. In the course of the evening Jeffrey seemed to discover that if he was Jeffrey I was Audubon.' The sensitive naturalist was full of gratitude for the kindness showed him by Lord and Lady Morton, and highly indignant at the treatment he received from the daughters of Lady Mansfield. He showed them his collection of drawings to amuse them, and was soon afterwards cut by them at a public assembly as if unworthy of their notice. We have an amusing instance of his simplicity in his account of a dinner at Sir James Riddell's. The style here far surpassed even Lord Morton's; fine gentlemen waited on us at table, and two of them put my cloak about my shoulders notwithstanding my remonstrances.' His success London was very considerable, but he was for a time almost heartbroken at the London distress which was revealed to him. He passed over to Paris, where he saw a good deal of Baron Cuvier and Geoffroy St. Hilaire. He found that he could get more subscribers in Manchester than in Paris. Then he got back to America after this successful transatlantic foray, and his position was much helped in America by his European success.

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To see Audubon in his glory we should observe him in that forest life which he loved so well, and with descriptions of which this book abounds. He is spending days in the forest, with Daniel Boone, or some old hunter, living on the trout of the stream, and the venison or bear's flesh which their rifles have procured. Sometimes he is venturing on encounters with alligators in swamps or by rivers when he wants a specimen for drawings. Then we have some fearful story which came within his experience or knowledge, of being nearly toma

hawked by Indians or lost in a forest. Once amid pools, swamps, and rank grass, he alights on a small island covered with wild orange trees over which the humming birds are flut tering. Then again we have his adventures with the wreckers of the Floridas and the turtlers of the Tortugas. Then again he visits bleak, inhospitable coasts of Labrador, but, nevertheless, knee-deep in mosses, and with the downy eider ducks nestling under the scraggy boughs of the fir trees. Then he is out at sea amid the whalers and in the cod-fisheries. Then there are adventures with snakes and wolves, and human beings more subtle and more cruel than either. Wherever there was the unusual phase of nature or of human nature to be seen, thither was Audubon led by an irresistible attraction. Birds we find mentioned passim, for to this pursuit he dedicated his life, and, in return, this pursuit gave him his great fame and a modest competence. It was quite in his old age that he made his last and grandest journey into the far wilderness of the west. The incidents related in this work might well furnish forth a dozen ordinary volumes of travel. He was seventy years old when he went into the prairies of the west, and after a quiet sweet rest of a few years his mind utterly failed him. But on the day he died, one of the sons said, "Minnie, father's eyes have now their natural expression;" and the departing man reached out his arms, took his wife's and children's hands between his own, and passed peacefully away.'

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But scientific biography has its lighter as well as its severer side. This is in some degree brought out in a recent work on English Engineers, a work which contains many pleasant, sketchy chapters.

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author has shown much skill in steering clear of Mr. Smiles. Of course there is a tragic side even here, and there are those of our

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engineers who have worked themselves to death. There is an immense amount of floating anecdote extant respecting the introduction of railways into the country, a portion of which is successfully caught and fixed in this volume, but there is a large amount of and very well worth collecting which has hitherto eluded our writers. Macadamizing had hitherto been the highest triumph of English road-engineering. Mr. Macadam was an old Scottish gentleman, who, living in a neighbourhood of detestable roads, hit upon the happy idea that if you would only cover a road with a quantity of small stones you will keep it dry and prevent ruis. He also economically resolved that the necessary process of gradual comminution should be carried out, not by the constructors of the road but by the carriage wheels of those that used it. People laughed at the foible of the old gentleman, but before he died he was making ten thousand a year by his superintendence of the various mail road trusts on his system. Coachmen were, of course, very slow to believe the railways could improve upon the macadamized road. They were very angry with the unreasonable public. 'They will want,' said an honest coachman, 'to leave London at nine o'clock and get to Oxford at five minutes before nine.' The author remarks: The honest coachman little thought that he was a prophet. We do not yet travel at that imaginary rate, but our electric messages do.'

The first railway approach to London was from Camden Town to Euston Square, anticipating all the future difficulties of metropolitan railways. Those memorable publichouses to which the 'busses run had then a strictly bucolic character. The Swiss Cottage and the Eyre Arms then stood amid shaded fields, the green country being interposed between them and the City. The dwellers in Mornington Crescent would find people clambering over their walls and making holes in their summer-houses. There was a great deal of roystering fun and adventure in those days for engineers, especially in their dealings

with those who had unwillingly to learn the inquisitorial powers of an Act of Parliament. Our Engineer' is especially fond of talking about Brunel. One day, on the opening of a line, Brunel went to a great breakfast given by a director. The director was a Quaker and a teetotaller, and though he gave them pines and grapes, he would give them nothing else but coffee. Brunel said that at that hour he must have a pint of beer. The host was inexorable, and so Brunel, followed by several gentlemen, left the house and repaired to the nearest 'public,' and then returned to finish their costly feed. He relates a good anecdote of Stephenson. One day he got into a great rage with one of the contractors. 'So-and-so, you are a great scoundrel.' 'Well, sir,' meekly replied the delinquent, 'I know I am.' Stephenson was demolished by this candid admission. But Brunel he knew best, and Brunel is his favourite, and the author of the broad gauge was eminently a great man. He gave to English travelling its speed and luxury, and made the narrow-gauge people substitute the long six-wheeled engine for the jumping four-wheel. The personal character of the great engineer, perhaps imperious and arbitrary, is full of interest, and mellowed beautifully towards its close.

We wonder what will be the character of our next great industrial achievement. For ourselves we have little doubt but it will be the establishment of a highway with France and the Continent, whether by a tunnel, or by steamfloats, or by an embankment, or by a viaduct. We may then, when the Euphrates line is complete, travel all the way to India by railway. We are always trembling on the verge of great discoveries. When that problem which was always before the mind of Goodsir --what is the physiological law in organisms which corresponds to the law of gravity in matter?— is discovered and turned to profitable use; when the naturalist has unravelled fresh healing secrets of plant and herb; when medical

science has promoted the curability of disease, and the arts and sciences have multiplied the conveniences and luxuries of life; when the span of our days is lengthened and rendered infinitely more tolerable, the inquiry arises, What is the final cause, the great end of all this? Why is it that in our day discovery has been so potent, and the forces of the sun stored up for years beneath the soil are ready for our service in abridging all the processes of labour and speeding mutual intercourse, and barriers changing into highways, and man is everywhere drawn into closer contact with his brother man, save that the benevolent intention of the Great Ruler is revealed, that the great boon of Leisure, in a sabbatic prelude, is given to his creatures through all these infinite savings of their strength, that they may grow more in thought, in knowledge, in soul, in worth, if only our greed does not cause us to sacrifice all higher good into the passion for accumulation, and turn our very blessings to a Jurse?

THE TALK OF THE CLUBS.

Some time ago a friend was showing me some old letters, unpublished, which he had received from William Mackworth Praed. He was a man of great gifts, always regarded as a very promising young man, one of those who are always very promising young men to the end of the chapter. The letters related to political matters, and I may mention, since the times have now become historical, that Praed said he could make himself useful at the clubs by spreading rumours,' &c. It may be very desirable to ascertain the floating opinions of the clubs, but to my mind such a sentence fully explains what puzzled so many people at the time, why Macaulay should succeed so well and Praed comparatively fail. We cannot fancy that Macaulay would ever make it his business to spread any kinds of rumours. On the whole, we don't believe in the epigrammatic sparkle, the wit

and wisdom of clubs. You hear scandal there, and some good stories, and get some of the earliest items of political intelligence, which certainly oozes out in a curious way. Occasionally, too, you may hear some real pathos and eloquence if your club has procured some remarkably good wine or secured a peculiarly gifted cook.

The difficulty in regard to the floating converse of the hour is to separate the frivolous and transitory subjects from those which possess a real and perhaps an abiding interest. The stray facts of our time may become history; the stray thoughts portions of systematized truths. Among the subjects that have been eagerly discussed of late, there are certainly not a few that possess a supreme interest, and are well worthy of all the ventilation which the wits of clubs, or other's wits-for clubs certainly possess no monopolycan bestow. Mr. Gladstone's great speech in bringing forward the Irish Church Bill gave the quidnuncs as much to do as they could possibly manage. The effort was a magnificent one, a near approximation to that series of budget speeches which are now things of the past. Lord Salisbury's gathering at Hatfield certainly seems to be bearing much fruit in the conspicuous moderation of the measure. confiscation and it is even revolution in the judgment of many people; but did ever confiscation or revolution come in so mild a form? That long pause of many months which Mr. Gladstone made before enunciating his principle of what should be done with the money has resulted in an idea of that simplicity and effectiveness well worth long incubation. Revenues given up to the afflicted and distressed are still devoted to most sacred uses; and if the Premier adheres to the principle of his measure, we shall not have a deprivation but a redistribution of church property. And if the clubs discuss Mr. Gladstone's most humane provisions, I think the clubs may take a most necessary lesson home to themselves, for the way in which various of them have

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persistently refused to promote their own local charities, and have drawn broader and sharper the lines of demarcation between rich and poor, which every civilized state should seek to obliterate as far as possible, reflects little credit on their collective benevolence and patriotism.

The Saurin v. Starr' case has perhaps been too contemptuously treated by the wits. The mass of circumstances were trivial in the extreme, and it is easy to lament that judge, jury, and counsel were occupied for three weeks over such a case. But I question whether any three weeks of lawsuits have ever been so fertile in broad general results. The Saurins, originally quite humble people, I believe, never contemplated that the trial would have extended to such a length or have occupied so large an amount of public attention. Everybody seems satisfied with the verdict, especially as the damages given were so exceedingly moderate. Miss Saurin was teased to the extent of being tortured, but manifestly she was a very disagreeable kind of young woman to have in a convent. But the blow given to the conventual system will be felt all over the world. Much may be said, on abstract given, both for and against the theory of the convents, but it is just one of those systems which is fitly judged by experience. And, practically, it is found to work exceedingly ill. Indirectly another heavy blow has been struck at the papal power. The pope will be more than ever confirmed in his view that a death shock has been given to the power of the tiara. In countries where it had long been absolute, as in Italy and Spain, political revolution has been the instrument; but in free countries, where Protestantism has long been in the ascendant, and where, from excess of liberality, we were disposed to regard conventual institutions tenderly, this is just the kind of blow which will most effectually add to Roman decadence.

The great political problems in the East and in the West ought to receive the most serious atten

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