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something respectable. The community, in fact, in the height of point can they ever agree,-no two of a trade can, it is said; and its satisfaction with the disinterested activity of its public-spirited | it holds good of public-spirited men as well as others. man, ends by working him to death, and, in nine cases out of ten, by ruining him into the bargain—as he generally dies a beggar. It is curious to mark how cunningly the good folks of the community urge on their public-spirited man to his work, when he either flags or gets restive on their hands. As they do not give him anything for his trouble, they, of course, cannot command him, but they hint him on in the most delicate and ingenious way imaginable; and if this will not do, they come over him with a little respectful solicitation.

Suppose there is a particular job to be done which would greatly benefit the community, but which no one will take the trouble of looking after, all eyes, in such case, are immediately directed towards the public-spirited man. His personal friends and acquaintances meet him with smiling faces, and shaking him by the hand with more than usual cordiality, throw out some delicate hints, or it may be jocular remarks, regarding the grievance desired to be remedied; concluding, generally, with some expressions of wonder that he does not take the matter up.

Possibly, deputations from some corporate bodies also wait on him, and ater soft-soaping him a little about his public spirit, hope that he will lend them the aid of his well-known activity and influence in managing the affair. It is needless to add, that having once got him fairly in for the job, they invariably cut and run themselves, and leave him to get out of the scrape as he best


The newspapers, too, of the place very cordially join in keeping the public-spirited man to his duty; they usually manage it by paragraphs running thus :

"MELANCHOLY ACCIDENT.--As some labourers were returning from their work late last night by the Quarry-road, one of them, of the name of Michael M'Grady, fell over the precipitous bank at the turn near Mr. Dickson's house, and is seriously injured by the fall. We have often called attention to the disgraceful state of the road at this particular point, but without effect. But it is an old saying, 'What is everybody's business,'

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"We are sorry to learn that the Quarry-road trustees have raised an action of damages against our public-spirited townsman, Mr. Kilderkin, for certain proceedings adopted by that gentleman with a view to compel them to repair the road near Mr. Dickson's house, and which proceedings the trustees hold to be illegal. For ourselves, feeling satisfied that whatever steps Mr. Kilderkin may have taken in this matter, he could have had only the public interest in view-that public-spirited gentleman's motto ever being "Pro bono publico "we shall extremely regret if he be cast in the present case."

So long, however, as there is only one public-spirited man in a given locality, both the man and the locality get on very well; but, as often happens, when two public-spirited men appear upon the same stage at the same time, the result is anything but advantageous to the community; for when public-spirited man meets public-spirited man, then comes the tug of war, as on no single

Instead, therefore, of attending to the public interest, they study only how they can thwart each other. To this amiable purpose they devote their whole energies, and the consequence is that nothing is done. Nor is this all. They divide the community between them and keep it in a state of civil war. At the head of each party stands that party's public-spirited man, looking and breathing defiance of the public-spirited man of the opposite party.

By-and-by, one of the public-spirited men proposes a great public measure; probably it is a suggestion to remove the depôt for the city manure, of which all the city complains, to another locality which he points out.

The public-spirited man of the other party agrees, because he cannot deny it, in the propriety of removing the said defect, but scouts the idea of its being taken to the site suggested by his great rival, declaring the said site to be incomparably worse in every respect than that which it at present occupies. The several parties of the public-spirited champions take up the quarrel of their respective leaders; a general war is the consequence, and the depôt for the public manure, which is suffocating half the town, remains where it is.



A GREAT sensation had been created in Siena, by a series of pictures illustrative of the life of Pius the Second, with which the public library had been recently enriched: the cognoscenti talked learnedly of their merits; the small wits found them a convenient mark against which to direct their light but destructive artillery; and the Sienese, in general, regarded them with pride, admiration, and delight. In these latter sentiments, and in no small degre did the artist himself share. The consciousness of power is said to be half the strength of genius; if this be so, Pinturiccio's was gigantic. But two other passions shared the rule of pride, and On this occasion, however, the first had been largely gratified, and sometimes injured its interests; these were, avarice and anger. the fear of exciting the latter had kept from his ear many of the criticisms and reports which might have aroused it. It had indeed been insinuated to him, as a general opinion, that he had been much indebted for success to the assistance of a young artist just rising into eminence; but then his friends consoled him with the belief that posterity would never mistake Pinturiccio for Raphael. It was, perhaps, the happiest period of the painter's life; congratulations met him on all hands; he was courted by the great, and reverenced by the little ;-yet even in this cup might be found

the drop of bitterness that none are without. In this case, it was a secret misgiving as to the "fate" of his reputation, induced by an additional anxiety to support it. It was his fear on this head that, in the moment of success, prostrated the pride of genius before the power of Heaven.

It was late in the evening, and the chapel of the monastery of St. Francis was deserted by all but Pinturiccio, who had obtained leave of the superior to pass a night there—a night of vigil and penance,-in order to propitiate the saint to prosper his next effort; promising to offer at the shrine of St. Francis whatever he most valued, if the saint would hear him. Midnight came and passed, and still Pinturiccio was zealously engaged in his devotions; but even these will weary imperfect human nature, when continued over long, and, with the self-excuse that he was occupied in devout contemplation, he rested his brow on his folded hands, and supporting both on a convenient ledge, remained immovable. had not long lain thus, when a fresh and fragrant wind lifted the hair on his uncovered head, and gently fanned his cheek. He raised his eyes, and saw standing beside him a venerable old man




in the habit of the monastery. The picture he had just been contemplating would have enabled him to recognise St. Francis, even without the halo that shone round his head; and the moment he saw him, he bowed his forehead to the earth, in reverence and fear, to the holy visitant, whose appearance thus honoured the devotions of his votary.

"My son," said the venerable and gracious apparition, "I have heard and accepted your prayers and promises. Your next effort shall be to adorn these sacred walls. Sacrifice on my shrine, as you have promised, what you most value, and fame and riches I have cared for your payment; but shall crown the work. beware how you spurn my gift by withholding the sacrifice." He ceased; and before the painter could find voice or words to answer, the venerable form was absorbed in a light whose dazzling brightness the eye of the mortal could not endure.

When Pinturiccio again raised his head, a faint light filled the chapel, and the brothers of St. Francis were assembling for the matin service. As soon as this was concluded, he was informed that the superior wished to see him before he went. The painter, respectfully assenting, was conducted to a large apartment well stored with books, into the presence of a fine comely-looking man, somewhere about the middle age, whose aquiline nose and bright intelligent eye would, to a physiognomist, have told of powers of mind and strength of will. He was seated in a very easy chair; the symbols of devotion were scattered over the table near him, on which lay a large volume, whose pencilled pages witnessed the thoughtful study with which they had been perused. There was a strong contrast between the monk and the painter: the latter was very thin and pale; his eye, though bright, was very small; and his knees bending inwards, gave an ungraceful air to his walk and movements. He was young, but his forehead, naturally high, and already heightened by baldness, lost much of its beauty from its perpetual contractions and frowns. Elevated with the consciousness of his vision, his manner was even more haughty than common, though rather checked by the reverence with which the superior of St. Francis was generally regarded.

"My son," said the reverend father, after bestowing the usual benediction, " you do well to ask the blessing of the Saint upon your labours. Surely, the immortal mind is not less the creature of Providence than its habitation. My son, in this thou dost well; but one thing thou lackest: out of the powers He has given, devote a part as an offering to His glory, and those powers shall be strengthened-their efforts blessed!"

There was something in this address, which, though gratifying to the pride of genius and religion, seemed to the painter to convey a requisition that wounded his avarice. He bowed without reply; but the contraction of his brow and the gleam in his eye plainly signified his feelings to the superior.

"I do not mean," he resumed, with a slight smile, "to demand for the service of God a sacrifice solely at your expense, in urging upon you the duty of a free-will offering from the abundance He has given. I do not forget that I owe it to my own conscience not to sacrifice to Him what costs me nought." He then proceeded to propose that Pinturiccio should paint "the Nativity" for the decoration of the chapel of the monastery, and receive for his labour a remuneration which, though handsome, yet fell far short of the painter's grasping wishes; but he remembered his vision, and trusted that the saint would be responsible for his farther payment; the high estimation in which he held his own talent inducing him to believe that its mere exercise was the costliest offering he could make to his shrine.

All this passed rapidly through his mind, and the superior had scarcely done speaking, when, with proud humility, the offer was accepted; and the painter, requesting that a chamber might be prepared for his use, declared his intention of commencing the holy work the following day. The superior promised it should be ready; and again desiring, with some little show of importance, that the room destined for his easel might be cleared of all unnecessary furniture, he departed with profound demonstrations of

reverence, which self-consequence forbade him really to feel, and which the monk returned with his benediction.

A smile in which was something of contempt passed over the features of the latter, when, once more alone, he thought over the past interview; but other and better thoughts replaced this slight ebullition of pride: he crossed himself, and bowed his head. "God forgive me," he said, "that I should look with contempt, instead of sorrow, on the shadows with which man has marred His handwriting." Reparation must quickly follow repentance in a generous and well-regulated mind: the superior's next thought was to atone for this injurious one by assiduous attention to the wishes of its object; and two brothers were quickly summoned to his presence, and entrusted with a commission to prepare a chamber for the painter.

The order was received with silent submission, and immediately acted upon, but by the two monks in a very different spirit. Brother Julian, all reverence for genius, especially for that which inspired the perpetuation of the objects of his adoration, was zealously anxious that everything should be ordered with the utmost convenience and comfort. Brother John regarded all the professors of what he called the world's vanities with a contempt that implied on his part a still greater vanity; he did not attempt to dissemble his aversion to the task imposed on him, to which he was only reconciled by regarding his painful obedience to his superior as a species of penance. But before the evening of that day all preparations deemed necessary had been made. Brother John breathed an ejaculation of thanksgiving as he left the room when all was ready; and Brother Julian lingered to look round, regretting, as he did so, the obstinacy of his associate; for his eye fell on a very old chest, whose removal Brother John had determinately opposed, which determination had been somewhat aided by his own secret misgiving that it could not, in fact, be moved without coming to pieces. This fate his reverence for the ancient piece of furniture led him to deprecate, and he had accordingly agreed to leave it; but now he could not help thinking that the old chest spoiled the looks of the newly-arranged apartment, and he shut the door with a sigh and a shake of the head.

The following day, punctual to his appointment, Pinturiccio appeared at the monastery, and, by the previous orders of the superior, was immediately ushered into the chamber prepared for him by the two brothers who had assisted in its arrangement. As he had passed along the street in his way thither, a good-natured friend had stopped him to repeat, with due expressions of wrath, some ridicule he had heard applied to his works: there was neither taste nor judgment in the opinion, but there was wit enough to point and envenom it. With gnashing teeth, which he strove to hide, with a proud smile, the painter had parted with his informant -the fury of wounded pride raging in his heart. The spirit already chafed, he was prepared to make the most of a grievance, or, with his irritable temper, to create one, if need were. sullen and dissatisfied air he looked round the room: on the first view he saw nothing of which he could complain, and the anxious glance of Brother Julian was somewhat assured. He looked again, and unhappily at the moment the sun, bursting from a cloud, shone out brightly upon the old chest, displaying with the most unfavourable clearness its rude manufacture and dilapidated condition. A frown contracted his mobile brow as his eye fell on the ancient offender.

With a

"What means this wretched lumber left in a room intended for an artist and a Christian?" he said sharply; "do you think I take my models from the churchyard, and want an old coffin to Let it be moved instantly." keep them it' "That ca ot be, signor," replied Brother John doggedly; "it could not be moved without falling to pieces." "And what signifies the fate of the lumber?" returned the are you afraid of being overpainter, kicking it as he spoke; stocked with firewood?" Brother John's cheeks could not become paler, but his lips did AA 2 as he replied hoarsely, "It belonged to one who is now a saint in


heaven, and must not be destroyed." And he advanced a few striking his mouth with such force that the blood flowed, and paces, and laid his hand on it.

Pinturiccio only grew more obstinate from being opposed, and stamping with his foot, he said passionately, "Destroyed or not, removed it shall be; see that it be done instantly."

Brother John did not answer, but he planted his foot more firmly beside the chest, and his compressed lips and scowling eyes spoke defiance.

Brother Julian, with pacific intentions, now thought it time to interfere. "If the signor will permit," he said, "I will cover the chest with a rich piece of carpet, and it will no longer offend his eye."

"Talk not to me of your hypocritical pretences," said the enraged painter; "the presence of a thing like that, cover it how you will, would desecrate my painting-room."

Brother Julian shook his head as he answered mildly, " He was a holy man, signor, to whom it belonged." Brother John muttered something of pearls and swine; but Pinturiccio paid little regard to either. "If you do not immediately remove the lumber," he said furiously, "I shall learn from your superior if it is by his orders I am thus insulted.

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But Brother Julian, as the apostle of peace, was not to be daunted or offended. He advanced nearer to the painter, and spoke in a low voice. "Signor," he said, "the holy man to whom that chest belonged was the early, almost the only, friend of the man who now stands beside it: if this the only relic left of him were destroyed, it would wring his heart. Will you not, signor, sacrifice something to save a fellow-being pain?-let it remain."

Pinturiccio did not close his ears to this pleading; but a Bramah lock could not have fastened up his heart more surely than did Brother John's look of sullen determination. He drew aside from the pleader, and with a glance at his companion, in a stern voice repeated his command that the subject of discussion should be instantly removed; adding, that if it were not, he should immediately appeal to the superior, who, if they refused, could doubtless employ others.

clenching his hands in his hair, with gnashing teeth he threw himself on a seat, and remained gazing wildly on the lost treasure. The two monks, meantime, were eagerly occupied in their plea sant and profitable employment. Brother Julian's humanity and love of peace were for the moment absorbed in the presence of the great king of this world; and his companion's reverence for the relic of a dead friend was for the time forgotten in the bright consequences of its destruction. With sparkling eyes and excited gestures, they continued to gather up and to collect from the chest the hidden treasure; and, at least, the mortification of the painter was not deepened by the triumph of the fortunate finders-they never thought of or looked at him. The gold was carried away, the remains of the old chest removed, and the painter was left alone to the agony of mortification, disappointment, and selfreproach. Nor were these feelings transient; they preyed upon his mind and wasted his frame from day to day.

He proceeded with his labours in the chapel, but the spirit that had inspired his previous efforts now soared with flagging wing ; the very place in which he had to work served to perpetuate these feelings, by presenting more vividly to his mind the memories that tortured him; and those tortures are not always commensurate with the cause-there are almost ever some thrills in the first pang that arise from other sources than the ostensible one, but which memory re-acts or re-echoes when those collateral causes are forgotten; and the looker-on-nay, the very sufferer himself—is surprised that such deep emotions should be excited by memories that seem so insufficient to produce them. Perhaps it was thus with Pinturiccio; but, as I have said before, his strength, his very life, was wasting away in the gnawing agony of his recollections; and the man so highly gifted with the wealth that belongs to immortality was sickening unto death for the loss of that which the grave wrests away.

Day after day he persevered in his labours, but it was silently, sullenly-a perseverance without energy. The superior had asked the reason for the sad and strange alteration he marked in him; Brother Julian sighed and retreated; and his companion, but he had gloomily denied that he was in any way changed, though his eye blazed with wrath, yet finding the painter obstinate, and laughed a hollow laugh of derision when told of his wasted perceived that his command might be no longer safely resisted; strength. Brother Julian, who had relapsed into his wonted for he well knew the superior would not suffer an old relic of an respect for him, would often watch him sadly and anxiously, and almost forgotten brother to weigh in the balance against the wish many a delicacy did the kind brother place on his table, to tempt of one from whose art he expected ornament and honour to the a sick appetite; many an effort did he make to arouse or amuse a monastery; but there were curses in his heart and eye, as, with a depression whose cause he could not penetrate. One day, as, cold, harsh voice, he called his companion to aid him in moving it perceiving the utter failure of these efforts, he was entreating him as required. An appealing glance of the would-be peace-maker to say if any bodily ailment was thus depressing him, Brother John showed him the painter standing, the very incarnation of obsti- was standing by, whose more kindred mind could better distinnacy, his eyes sternly fixed on the denounced chest, or occasion-guish what was passing in that of Pinturiccio; he smiled a harsh ally glancing determinately at the wrathful countenance of its partisan; and with a slow step he advanced to assist in the unwilling service.


The two monks, holding the chest with the utmost care, attempted to lift it from the ground; but the effort was almost vain with the greatest exertion of strength, they raised it about an inch from the floor, when its immense weight compelled them again to drop it with some violence. The sudden shock loosened the already warped panels of the old chest, and shaking one quite out, a rich stream of yellow metal fushed through the opening, and the floor around was covered thickly with large gold pieces. The painter started forward with an exclamation of astonishment and delight, which, as the monks began eagerly to gather up the scattered riches, was changed into a pang of mortification and disappointment. At one glance came upon his mind what might have been, with a recollection of the peevish obstinacy that had thrust from him advantages so precious; for with this came the thought of his vision, and the belief that it was the recompense the saint had intended for him. He had indeed spurned it; but he saw not yet that he had also refused to fulfil the terms on which it had been promised. His vexation and remorse were for the time almost insanity; he muttered curses on his own folly; then

and contemptuous smile; the painter's eye met his, and at a glance read in that smile the monk's knowledge of his feelings. This was the crowning mortification-that that man, whose obstinacy had excited his so unhappily, should know and triumph in the effects of his disappointment, stung him almost to madness, and added to his previous tortures the perpetual gnawing of a hidden hatred.

If this story were not a truth too well authenticated, it might and would be looked on as an exaggerated picture of an impossible consequence; it is another evidence and illustration of the assertion, that "truth is strange, stranger than fiction."

To return to Pinturiccio. This war of the life and the spirit could not long continue. The vulture passions that he had nourished, now, in the day of their power, wasted away his bodily strength, and sapped those powers they had once seemed to subserve.

It was but a few months after the event that had so deeply affected the painter's health of mind and body, and he was again alone at night in the chapel of St. Francis. He knelt now on the very spot where the vision had promised what his waking folly had thrust from him; the picture, for which he believed the treasure the intended payment, was now nearly finished, and again had he proposed to pass a night of prayer and vigil, to woo back to his

grasp the gift he had thrust from him: but midnight was come, and no prayer had passed his lips. Still he knelt in silent exhaustion and remorseful thought. In what words could he pray

for that which his own hands had cast from him? But in the depths of his heart arose a bitter questioning of the justice of his fate. "Have I not," he said, "fulfilled my part? I have devoted to the saint's shrine that which I value most highly. I have exerted for the glory of God his highest gift; and if I have thrust from me the reward appointed, was it not in ignorance? Does this merit its forfeiture? Surely, I am unjustly punished!" He ceased to speak; but his spirit chafed with a sense of injustice, and his heart was filled with repinings.

While thus he lay, he became conscious of a bright light that seemed to fill the chapel, which had been before but dimly illuminated by a few wax tapers; he raised his head, and again saw the reverend form-the object of his former vision. Impetuously he threw himself at the feet of the saint, but vainly did he strive to express by words anything of his feelings or his hopes; he folded his hands, and with gasping breath fixed his eager and glazing eyes upon the holy visitant, whose radiant brow was bent upon him in frowning reproof.

"Child of the dust," he said, "impeach no longer the justice of thy doom; thou hast said, 'I have fulfilled my part, I have sacrificed to God of my choicest treasure.' Thou hast offered of the treasures of the mind, and in this thou hast done well, but the offering most acceptable to the Almighty thou hast withheld the cherished pride and passion; these are the sacrifices in which He delights-it was this only that was demanded of thee, and this thou hast refused; murmur then no longer at the fate thou hast thyself woven."

The words of the saint prostrated the painter's heart; he felt at once all their meaning; and, humble and self-convicted, he bowed his forehead to the earth, and his tears wet the pavement; a strain of music soothing and spirit-like passed over him, his tears flowed more freely, and no other sight or sound that night inter rupted the communion of the penitent with his Maker. On the following morning, when Brother Julian entered the chapel before the usual hour of service, impelled thereto by anxiety respecting the painter, he found him still lying where the vision had left him; he hastened to raise him, and to his terror and dismay saw the approach of death fearfully manifest in his countenance; a few words he gasped of confession and repentance, to which the monk replied with the consolations of religion ;-there was a minute's struggle -a transient brightening of the glazing eye-a slight cry as of pain, and Pinturiccio, the proud and gifted painter, and the slave and victim of his own evil passions, ceased to breathe.

tian's example, and the old man's relapse; the one imitates his pureness, and the other falls into his simplicity. Could he put off and exchanged but one heaven for another, and then returns again his body with his little coat, he had got eternity without a burden, to his regiment.-Bishop Earle.


WE presume all our readers are acquainted with the nature and character of Savings Banks, and that, therefore, there is no occasion to tell them what they already know. We may merely remind them, then, that these admirable institutions are spread over the country; that they are established for the safe custody and increase of small savings; and that deposits as low as a shilling (but not lower) are received by them. We should be very sorry to encourage a narrow, mean, calculating spirit in the young; we should turn away, with a feeling of pain, from the schoolboy, out to enjoy his holiday, and debating whether he will save his penny, or spend it on a cake: but there is an essential, if not a wide, difference between meanness and prudence; and the person who can deny himself a present pleasure to avoid a future pain may be far more generous, on proper occasions, than the thoughtless waster, who can hardly look, as the saying is, “beyond his nose.' Let all our young friends, who have not already done so, begin to accumulate, by putting a shilling or a half-crown in a Savings Bank.

The rules of Savings Banks are generally much the same, though slight variations may be made according to local circumstances. The rules of each Bank are printed, and each depositor receives a copy, along with his deposit-book, so that none of them need be ignorant of what it concerns them to know. For the benefit of such of our readers who may be, or intend to be, interested in Savings Banks, we here present them with an Interest Table, which is calculated at the rate of 31. 8s. 4d. per cent. per annum, being the usual and the highest rate allowed :—

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Is a man in a small letter, yet the best copy of Adam before he tasted of Eve or the apple; and he is happy whose small practice in the world can only write his character. He is nature's fresh picture newly drawn in oil, which time and much handling dims and defaces. His soul is yet a white paper unscribbled with observations of the world, wherewith, at length, it becomes a blurred note-book. He is purely happy, because he knows no evil, nor hath made means by sin to be acquainted with misery. He arrives not at the mischief of being wise, nor endures evils to come by foreseeing them. He kisses and loves all; and, when the smart of the rod is past, smiles on his beater. Nature and his parents alike dandle him, and tice him on with a bait of sugar to a draught of wormwood. He plays yet, like a young prentice the first day, and is not come to his task of melancholy. All the language he speaks yet is tears, and they serve him well enough to express his necessity. His hardest labour is his tongue, as if he were loath to use so deceitful an organ; and he is best company with it when he can but prattle. We laugh at his foolish sports, but his game is our earnest; and his drums, rattles, and hobby-horses, but the emblems and mocking of man's business. His father hath writ him as his own little story, wherein he reads those days of his life that he cannot remember, and sighs to see what innocence he hath outlived. The elder he grows, he is a stair lower from God; and, like his first father, much worse in his breeches. He is the Chris

nor is any interest paid upon sums of less than 17. The fractional parts of a penny are not allowed in calculating the interest;

Connected with many Savings Banks are Annuity Societies, enrolled under the 3 Will. IV. c. 14. The purpose of this act is to "enable depositors in Savings Banks, and others, to purchase Government annuities through the medium of Savings Banks." These annuities may be either immediate or deferred, for life or for a certain term of years, according to the tables provided for that purpose, and sanctioned by the lords of the Treasury, pursuant to the act.

The lowest and the highest annuities which can be purchased

under the act are 41. and 207. No person under fifteen years of age can purchase an annuity. If any person should commence to make an annual payment for an annuity, and should be unable to continue his payments, he can get his money back again, with interest, on giving proper notification; and the same will be paid to his executor or heir, in case of death. This is a very important provision.



If you are sixteen years of age and under seventeen, and think you have a chance of living till you are forty-three, you may secure yourself a yearly annuity of 201., by an annual payment of 61. 3s. 6d. A young man of sixteen may say, Oh, who is ever Eikely to continue to pay 61. 3s. 6d. per annum for twenty-seven But, recollect, you may live, if you are temperate, to sixty; and a comparatively small weekly saving would enable you to have the prospect of an annuity of 201. for-say seventeen of the years of a declining life. A deferred annuity can be purchased, to become payable within ten years, or twenty years, or thirty years, reckoning from the time of purchase.

Example in deferred Life Annuities.—On the 15th December, 1833, a person (whether male or female), aged twenty-five, and under twenty-six, contracts, by annual payments, for an annuity of 207. a year, to be enjoyed by him or her, during the rest of his or her life, after the expiration of a period of thirty-five years, reckoning such period from the time of purchase. Under that contract the party would receive the first half-yearly payment of the said annuity on the 5th April, 1869, that being the second quarterly day of payment next following the expiration of the term for which the annuity was agreed to be deferred.

In this case, the party would be required, first, to pay down 21. 15s. on entering into the contract on the 15th December, 1833; and, secondly, to continue to make the same payment of 21. 15s. annually on the 10th October, in each of the succeeding thirty-five years; the last, or thirty-fifth annual payment, being to

be made on the 10th October, 1868.

Such of our readers as may be anxious to know more about these annuities should get a small pamphlet, entitled "Tables of the Rates of Government Annuities," published by Shaw and Sons, Fetter-lane; where also they may procure all the forms under the act, with every other information they may require on the matter.



THE first thing that would strike us, were we detached from the earth and able to study it like an artificial globe, would be this -the great disproportion between the land and sea. In the southern hemisphere, the land is as one hundred and twenty-nine to one thousand-but a trifle more than one-eighth part of the whole; in the northern, it is as four hundred and nineteen to one thousand-less than forty-two per cent.; and taking both together nearly three quarters of the whole earth is found covered by the sea-and, though called by different names, by one and the same


twenty-four hours-or from fifty-nine to sixty-five one hundredths of a foot every second of time; the other, which we are all somewhat acquainted with, as the Gulf Stream, flowing in a contrary direction, that is, from west to east, at the rate of three and a to five miles an hour, or seven feet and a half every second-such half miles an hour, upon the average, though sometimes reaching being the measured velocity thereof, at the end of the Gulf of Florida, in the parallel of Cape Cannaveral-hurrying onward for ever and ever, without rest or pause, with the certainty of fate, and the steadiness of irresistible power-as if the Bahama Channel, where it runs five feet every second, or the Gulf of Florida, where it thunders along like a torrent, were, in sober earnest, the world's aorta and losing itself, at last, in its original source, between the tropics; thereby completing a circulation which occupies a period of two years and a half, and establishing what Humboldt calls, with startling propriety," a whirlpool of fifteen

thousand miles in extent!"

Others hold that the entire revolution is performed in somewhat less than three years; and that, while a drop of water falling into the sea, (if it were neither evaporated on the passage, nor swallowed by an oyster, and converted into pearl,) would come back to the point of departure in two years and ten months; that a boat left on the sea, without sail or oar, would drift from the Canaries to the coast of Caraccas in thirteen months; round the Gulf of Mexico, where the Gulf Stream reaches its highest elevation, in about ten months; and that in forty or fifty days it would find its way, as if impelled by its own volition, from Florida to the Banks of Newfoundland. By name, at least, we are all acquainted with the Gulf Stream. To us, indeed, it is a matter of no common interest; for to the Gulf Stream we are indebted--perhaps to the discovery of the Western world. It was owing to the remains of tropical plants, fragments of overgrown bamboo, and the bodies of two men of a strange aspect, deposited by this very Gulf Stream on the shores of certain islands (the Azores) lying half-way between the Old world and the New, latitude 36 dgs. 39', that Christopher Columbus himself was persuaded hither. Such accidents are continually happening now. Near Mont Flammand, in latitude 45 or 50 dgs. a branch of this very Gulf Stream flows from the S. W. to the N. E., toward the shores of Northern Europe, and heaves along the coast of Ireland and Norway the fruits and trees of the torrid zone; and it is not long since the wreck of a vessel burnt at Jamaica was found on the coast of Scotland, having drifted thither on the outer edge of the whirlpool.

Vessels from Europe to the West Indies find their sail much quickened before they reach the torrid zone. The equatorial, or, as others prefer to call it, the equinoctial current, which is separated from the Gulf Stream by a belt of seven hundred miles in width, flows in a westerly direction, while the Gulf Stream flows to the east. Near the Bahama Isles, the width of the latter is only seventy miles; in latitude 28 dgs. 30' N., it is eighty-five miles in the parallel of Charlestown, it spreads out from two hundred to two hundred and fifty miles, according to the nature of the coast. After it reaches our seabord, it enlarges gradually and steadily, until it becomes two hundred and forty miles, or eighty marine leagues in breadth, under the meridian of Halifax— after which, it sweeps away to the eastward, all at once, and touches along the southern extremity of the Banks of Newfoundland—our great northern refrigerator and fog-generator.

The Gulf Stream is readily distinguished from the surrounding waters. The temperature is higher by five degrees; it is evidently

Here is the foundation of a system to be followed out. With the rivers, the lakes, and other fresh-water reservoirs, which take up another goodly portion of the land that is left for the dominion of man, let us have nothing to do; let us give our whole attention to THE SEA-that prodigious element of power and transfor-salter, and the colour is deeper-of the deepest and richest indigo mation, which, enduring no empire over itself, holds unquestioned and absolute dominion over nearly three quarters of the whole earth; overshadowing all other empires, and maintaining two mighty systems of encroachment and compensation, which, how ever they may appear to contradict and thwart each other, are but "parts of one stupendous whole," sections of the same great circle, like the venous and arterial systems of animal life: one, the equatorial or equinoctial current, flowing steadily and for ever, from east to west, at the average rate of nine or ten miles every

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blue. It is always covered with sea-weed, and sometimes in prodigious quantities; and there is a perceptible heat in the surrounding atmosphere, especially in the dead of winter. The waters of the Grand Bank are from 16 to 18 dgs., Fahrenheit; while the waters of the torrid zone, hurrying to the north at the rate we have mentioned, are from 38 to 40 dgs. Fahr.; and the waters of the ocean are about 33 dgs.-or more accurately, while the waters of the Bank are 16 dgs. 9' colder than those of the surrounding ocean, these of the surrounding ocean are 5 dgs. 4′ colder than

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