Attachments between individuals of the same species, but different sexes-that is to say, attachments in which it can be said that any sentiment exists-are not widely spread throughout the animal world. The pairing arrangement, which forms the natural basis for the matrimonial alliance amongst ourselves, is only practised where the aid of both parents is necessary for the sustentation of the young-the final cause, obviously, of the arrangement. It is particularly conspicuous amongst the birds, the pairs of which usually present in spring a delightful reflection of the fondness, tenderness, and unselfishness which fill the bosoms of a newly-wed pair of our own species. The male exerts himself to obtain food for the female while she is engaged in the duty of sitting upon her eggs; with a gallantry rivalling that of the troubadour, he sits upon a neighbouring bough for hours, pouring forth his lively song to cheer her under the tedium of her situation. In the exclusiveness of his regard, he might form a pattern for the most virtuous of husbands. The mixture, indeed, of kindness and faithfulness shown by the humblest field-bird to his mate, is noways externally distinguishable from those traits of human character which we are accustomed to applaud as moral. In some particular species, this attachment lasts throughout life, and the death of one of the pair is almost sure to prove fatal to the other. There is a species of parrot called the love-bird, in which the passion is of this kind. A pair being confined in a cage, the male is seen to sit fondly beside his mate, feeding her with his bill, and evincing the greatest gentleness and tenderness in all his conduct towards her. Bonnet gives a description of a pair, the female of which falling sick, the other attended her with unremitting care till her death, when he went round and round her in the greatest agitation, trying occasionally to open her bill and give her nourishment. He then gradually languished, and survived her death only a few months.

Mr S. Bowdich gives two interesting anecdotes of this affection faithful till and beyond death. When I lived in Paris,' he says, 'there were two remarkably fine ostriches, male and female, kept in the Rotunda of the Jardin du Roi. The skylight over their heads having been broken, the glaziers proceeded to repair it, and in the course of their work let fall a triangular piece of glass. Not long after this, the female ostrich was taken ill, and died after an hour or two of great agony. The body was opened, and the throat and stomach were found to have been dreadfully lacerated by the sharp corners of the glass which she had swallowed. From the moment his companion was taken from him, the male bird had no rest; he appeared to be incessantly searching for something, and daily wasted away. He was moved from the spot, in the hope that he would forget his grief; he was even allowed more liberty; but nought availed, and he literally pined to death.

'A gentleman had for some years been possessed of two brown cranes; one of them at length died, and the survivor became disconsolate. He was apparently following his companion, when his master introduced a large mirror into the aviary. The bird no sooner beheld his reflected image than he fancied she for whom he mourned had returned to him; he placed himself close to the mirror, plumed his feathers, and showed every sign of happiness. The scheme answered completely; the crane recovered his health and spirits, passed almost all his time before the looking-glass, and lived many years after, at length dying from an accidental injury.'* The connubial feeling, however, sinks far below the parental in intensity amongst the lower animals. Once a mother, the female has for the time no other feeling than that of devoted affection for her offspring, for whose sake she seems cheerfully to sacrifice her own convenience, and to give up all her wonted habits. Wondrous and beautiful is it to contemplate this parental self-devotion in some poor bird, or other humble crea

*Loudon's Mag. of Nat. Hist., vol. ii.

ture, reflective as it is of what we never fail to acknowledge as amongst the most pure and holy of all the emotions that animate our own species. The wildest and fiercest tribes are equally remarkable as the gentlest for their affection for their young, provided only that this affection is needed for their protection and nurture. It would even appear as if the feline were amongst the most remarkable for the philoprogenitive sentiment: the lioness is proverbially devoted to her cubs, and we rarely witness more intense examples of the feeling than in the common cat. This latter animal, during the early days of her progeny, gives herself entirely up to them, and then only leaves them for the sake of food. If apprehensive of danger to them, she brings them forth and keeps them in some obscure place, where she will remain unknown to the family till she thinks the lives of her young ones may be safe. Not long ago, a young cat, recently become the mother of a set of kittens, all of which had been destroyed but one, was missed from her home. When she had been absent two days, it was concluded that she was lost, or had met with some fatal accident, and her sole surviving kitten was then taken from the nest and drowned. Soon after, the poor mother made her appearance, with one of her feet nearly cut to pieces by a rat-trap, which had closed upon and confined her in a neighbouring granary. Miserable as she was from this accident, she wandered about the house incessantly for a day in search of her lost kitten, manifesting such an anxiety about it, as could neither be mistaken nor beheld without sympathy. Some cats provide for the family they are about to have by storing up mice for them, and when they have lost their kittens, it is not unusual for them to continue collecting provisions in the hope of their returning. An instance is mentioned of one which, for more than a fortnight after the loss of her young ones, would come in with a mouse, and search over the whole house to give it to them, making a complaining noise.

The extremity of this parental feeling has a remarkable effect in making the most timid animals bold for the time in protecting their young, or in seeking for food wherewith to support them. The quiet hen is seen in a new character of courage and determination when surrounded by her brood. Even feebler birds will then fly fiercely at men or other animals which may have given them any alarm on account of their progeny. It is a well-known fact,' says Mr Swainson, that a pair of ravens which dwelt in a cavity of the rock of Gibraltar, would never suffer a vulture or eagle to approach the nest, but would drive them away with every appearance of fury. The missel thrush, during the breeding season, will fight even the magpie or jay. And the female titmouse will frequently allow herself to be made a prisoner, rather than quit her nest; or, if she herself escape, she will speedily return, menacing the invaders by hissing like a snake, and biting all who approach her: this we have ourselves experienced. The artifices employed by the partridge, the lapwing, the ring plover, the pewit, and numerous other land birds, to blind the vigilance and divert the attention of those who may come near their little ones, are equally curious. The partridges, both male and female, conduct their young out to feed, and carefully assist them in their search for food; but, if disturbed in the midst of this employment, the male, after first giving the alarm, by uttering a peculiar cry of distress, throws himself directly in the way of danger, and endeavours, by feigning lameness or inability to fly, to distract the attention and mislead the efforts of the enemy-thus giving his mate time to conduct her little brood to a place of security. "A partridge," says White, out of a ditch, and ran along, shivering with her wings, and crying out as if wounded, and unable to get from us. While the dam feigned this distress, a boy who attended me saw the brood, which was small and unable to fly, run for shelter into an old fox's hole under the bank." The lapwing pushes forward to meet her foes, employing every art to allure them from the abode of

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her young. She rises from the ground with a loud screaming voice, as if just flushed from hatching, though probably, at the same time, not within a hundred yards from the nest. She afterwards whines and screams round the invaders, and invariably becomes more clamorous as she retires further from the nest. The ring plover will flutter along the ground as if crippled, and, if pursued, will hasten to a short distance, stretch out its feathers, and appear to "tumble heels over head," till it has enticed its enemy to a distance; while, on similar occasions, the pewit resorts to the same expedient of appearing wounded, as soon as it perceives the approach of a stranger. Sheldrakes are equally ingenious during the period of incubation, which lasts thirty days, the male keeps watch on some adjoining hillock, which he only leaves that he may satisfy the calls of hunger, or occupy the post of the female while she quits it for food. After the young are hatched, the parents lead, or sometimes carry them in their bills, towards the sea; and, if interrupted in their progress, it is said that they employ numberless arts to draw off

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the attention of the observer.'*

There are few things more disarming than this anxious fondness of a humble animal for her offspring. It is therefore to be considered as strictly in accordance with the more generous feelings of human nature, that the Israelites were enjoined to respect female animals, as the doe and the ewe, while taking their young. It is painful to think that the spirit of this command is often broken by men from cupidity or wantonness. A striking instance is related in Phipps's Voyage to the North Pole. An old she-bear was attracted with her cubs by the smell of a sea-horse, which had been killed several days before, and the flesh of which she carefully divided between her young ones, reserving but a small portion for herself. As she was fetching away the last piece, the sailors levelled their muskets at the cubs, and shot them both dead; and in her retreat they wounded the dam, but not mortally. It would have drawn tears of pity from any but unfeeling minds, to have marked the affectionate concern expressed by this poor beast during the last moments of her expiring young. Though she was herself dreadfully wounded, and could but just crawl to the place where they lay, she carried the lump of flesh she had fetched away, as she had done others before, tore it in pieces, and laid it before them; and when she saw they refused to eat, she laid her paws first upon one, and then upon the other, and endeavoured to raise them up all this while it was pitiful to hear her moan. When she found she could not stir them, she went off, and when she got to some distance, looked back and moaned; and that not availing her to entice them away, she returned, and smelling round them, began to lick their wounds. She went off a second time as before, and, having crawled a few paces, looked again behind her, and for some time stood moaning. But still her cubs not rising to follow her, she returned to them again, and with signs of inexpressible fondness went round, pawing them and moaning. Finding, at last, that they were cold and lifeless, she raised her head towards the ship and uttered a growl of despair, which the murderers returned with a volley of musket-balls. She fell between her cubs, and died licking their wounds.' Nor does the parental feeling of animals always rest content with merely protecting and cherishing the young. There are some which take pains to give their offspring something of the nature of education. 'Some of the eagles,' says Mr Swainson, 'take out their young before they are fully grown, on purpose to teach them the arts necessary for securing their prey. The female lark conducts hers, to exercise their powers of flight, herself fluttering over their heads, directing their motions, and preserving them from danger. The butcherbird, or common woodchat shrike, continues her regard for her offspring even after they have attained maturity, while the latter reward her care by assisting her in

* On the Habits and Instincts of Animals: Cabinet Cyclopædia.

providing for the support of all, until the following spring.' The monkeys, too, which are surpassed by no animals in the philoprogenitive feeling, are observed to go through something like a process of education with their young. They keep them under proper obedience and restraint, much after the fashion of human mothers. A set of female monkeys has been observed to suckle, caress, and cleanse their young ones, and then sit down to see them play with each other. If, in the course of their sports, any showed a tincture of malice, the dams would spring upon them, and, seizing them with one paw by the tail, correct them severely with the other.

It has been remarked, that the parental feelings of animals are not reciprocated to any considerable extent by their progeny-a fact in nature for which there is this obvious reason, that it is not necessary, in the economy of the aniinals, that the young should have any strong attachment to their parents. There are, however, some remarkable instances of strong filial love on the part of the lower animals. Mr Turner, who resided long in America, mentions an affecting trait in the character of the bison when a calf. Whenever a cow bison falls by the murderous hand of the hunters, and happens to have a calf, the hapless young one, far from attempting to escape, stays by its fallen dam with signs expressive of the strongest natural affection. The body of the dam thus secured, the hunter takes no heed of the calf, of which he knows he is sure, but proceeds to cut up the carcass; then laying it on his horse, he returns home, followed by the poor calf, which never fails to attend the remains of its dam.' Mr Turner says that he has seen a single hunter ride into the town of Cincinnati, followed in this manner by three calves, which seemed each to claim of him the parent of whom he had cruelly bereft it. To the same effect is an anecdote of two spaniels, dam and son, who were hunting by themselves in Mr Drake's woods, near Amersham, in Bucks. The gamekeeper shot the mother; the son, frightened, ran away for an hour or two, and then returned to look for her. Having found her dead body, he laid himself down by her, and was found in that situation the next day by his master, who took him home, together with the body of the mother. Six weeks did this affectionate creature refuse all consolation, and almost all nutriment. He became at length universally convulsed, and died of grief.

That the maternal feeling in animals is entirely independent of the intellect, is amply proved by the numerous instances in which particular mothers have not only taken the progeny of others of their own species under charge, but even the young of entirely different animals. A female cat will foster a young dog. A young panther has been nourished by a bitch. A cat has even been known to rear a young bird; and there is one instance of a still more extraordinary kind of fostership. According to Mr Jesse, in his interesting volume, Gleanings in Natural History, 'A cat belonging to Mr Smith, the respectable bailiff and agent of the Earl of Lucan, at Laleham, is in the constant habit of taking her place on the rug before the parlour fire. She had been deprived of all her litter of kittens but one, and her milk probably incommoded her. I mention this in order to account in some degree for the following circumstance. One evening, as the family were seated round the fire, they observed a mouse make its way from the cupboard, which was near the fireplace, and lay itself down on the stomach of the cat, as a kitten would do when she is going to suck. Surprised at what they saw, and afraid of disturbing the mouse, which appeared to be full-grown, they did not immediately ascertain whether it was in the act of sucking or not. After remaining with the cat a considerable length of time, it returned to the cupboard. These visits were repeated on several other occasions, and were witnessed by many persons. The cat not only appeared to expect the mouse, but uttered that sort of greeting purr which the animal is so well known to

make use of when she is visited by her kitten. The mouse had every appearance of being in the act of sucking the cat; but such was its vigilance, that it retreated as soon as a hand was put out to take it up. When the cat, after being absent, returned to the room, her greeting call was made, and the mouse came to her. The attachment which existed between these two incongruous animals could not be mistaken, and it lasted some time. The fate of the mouse, like that of most pets, was a melancholy one. During the absence of its nurse a strange cat came into the room. The poor mouse, mistaking her for its old friend and protectress, ran out to meet her, and was immediately seized and slain before it could be rescued from her clutches. The grief of the foster-mother was extreme. On returning to the parlour she made her usual call, but no mouse came to meet her. She was restless and uneasy, went mewing about the house, and showed her distress in the most marked manner. What rendered the anecdote I have been relating the more extraordinary, is the fact of the cat being an excellent mouser, and that during the time she was showing so much fondness for this particular mouse, she was preying upon others with the utmost avidity.' It would appear that the faculty for the love of offspring-the philoprogenitiveness of Gall's system-is excited at the time of parturition, and that the feeling, craving for exercise, is ready to take up with any object capable of gratifying it, if the one primarily contemplated by nature be wanting.

Animals are also possessed of the ordinary social affections. Some are gregarious, which is just another term for the feelings which induce men to form regular societies. Almost all have a liking for company. A cow in a herd appears a happier creature than a cow alone. Enter the paddock of a solitary horse, and it is odds that he comes up and follows you, as if courting your society. The dog attaches himself to man with a devotion which touches every generous nature. The cat, notwithstanding the doubts of many upon the subject, is also capable of the warmest attachment to the human beings amongst whom it lives. Mr Blaine, in his Canine Pathology, relates an instance of a dog belonging to a tailor in Tooley Street, Southwark, which haunted the grave of its deceased master in St Olave's churchyard till it died. There are other examples of dogs which have proved quite inconsolable for the death of their owners, and died of grief on that account. Friendships such as those of Damon and Pythias, and Pylades and Orestes, are rivalled in the animal world. An instance is furnished in the story of two Hanoverian horses, which had long served together in the Peninsular war, in the German brigade of artillery. They had assisted,' says Mr Jesse, in drawing the same gun, and had been inseparable companions in many battles. One of them was at last killed; and after the engagement, the survivor was piqueted as usual, and his food brought to him. He refused, however, to eat, and was constantly turning round his head to look for his companion, sometimes neighing as if to call him. All the care that was bestowed upon him was of no avail. He was surrounded by other horses, but he did not notice them; and he shortly afterwards died, not having once tasted food from the time his former associate was killed. A gentleman who witnessed the circumstance, assured me that nothing could be more affecting than the whole demeanour of this poor horse.'

When cut off from friendships with their own kind, animals will form attachments to individuals of different species. Gilbert White tells a curious anecdote of a horse and a solitary hen spending much of their time together in an orchard, where they saw no creatures but each other. The fowl would approach the quadruped with notes of complacency, rubbing itself gently against his legs; while the horse would look down with satisfaction, and move with the greatest caution and circumspection, lest he should trample on his diminutive companion. The celebrated horse, the Godolphin Arabian, and a black cat, were for many years the warmest

friends. When the horse died in 1753, the cat sat upon his carcass till he was put under ground; and then crawling slowly and reluctantly away, retired to a hayloft, where she was soon after found dead. Lions confined in menageries have in numerous instances spared little dogs that had been thrown to them, and formed with these creatures a permanent friendship. St Pierre describes such an attachment between a lion at Versailles and a dog, and concludes by saying-Their friendship is one of the most touching exhibitions which Nature can offer to the speculations of the philosopher.' The dog has admitted the cat to similar intimacies; and a tame fox has been admitted by dogs to course with them. One of the most extraordinary animal friendships was related to Mr Jesse by a trustworthy person, who had resided for nine years in the American States, in charge of some extensive public works. One of these works consisted in the erection of a beacon in a swamp in one of the rivers, where he caught a young alligator. This animal he made so perfectly tame, that it followed him about the house like a dog, scrambling up the stairs after him, and showing much affection and docility. Its great favourite, however, was a cat, and the friendship was mutual. When the cat was reposing herself before the fire (this was at New York), the alligator would lay himself down, place his head upon the cat, and in this attitude go to sleep. If the cat was absent, the alligator was restless; but he always appeared happy when the cat was near him.'

What do all these anecdotes, which might be almost indefinitely multiplied, tend to show? That the lower animals possess qualities superior to what in general we are disposed to allow, and might be to us sources of far greater social pleasure than we permit them to be. Man deems his breathing associates in this sphere only fit subjects for the wanton exercise of his self-esteem and destructiveness; and he reaps the proper consequences of such conduct. Did he take a more true and benevolent view of the animal nature, and treat it on the same simple principles of justice and kindness which he is taught to display towards his fellow-creatures, he would find his own interests immensely advanced by it. The docility and social feelings of the animals would be more strongly developed than at present; their services would be more heartily rendered; and man would himself be improved by the reflection of better feelings from these humble creatures.

OLD TOM MILLER.

A SUFFOLK TALE.

IN the small market-town of Halesworth, in the county of Suffolk, some thirty years ago, lived one Thomas Miller, who had long kept a bookseller's shop, and held the office of postmaster in the place of his abode. He was a tall thin man of some sixty years of age, with long gray locks, which curled round the back of his head, and showed themselves but sparingly on his forehead. His eyes were dark and lively, but generally covered by enormous spectacles, worn as much to hide their expression, and to give him an advantage over those with whom he had dealings, as to aid his sight; for frequently, when anxious to examine any article more narrowly, the spectacles were thrust back upon his forehead. He wore a long dark-gray coat, reaching to the middle of his legs, gray worsted stockings, and shoes with large silver buckles. Old Tom Miller was what is called well to do in the world:' besides having saved a considerable sum in trade and by his economical habits, he had inherited, from an elder brother, funded property to some amount, and a collection of curious old books, china, and other articles, said to be very valuable. That this property should have been left to Thomas Miller, was a surprise to the little world of Halesworth, for he had been for many years estranged from his brother, who had adopted an orphan nephew as his heir; but on his death-bed William Miller, who

resided in the neighbouring town of Bungay, sent for his brother-their differences were forgotten, and young William Bullock, the nephew, confided to his care; but, strange to say, after the death of the sick man, a will was found in which he gave all his property to his brother. The date of this document was, indeed, previous to the adoption of the lad, and at a time when he had quarrelled with his mother, the only sister of the testator, in consequence of her having married a Protestant the Millers being a Roman Catholic family, strongly attached to the tenets of their religion. On his sister's death, however, William Miller had taken charge of her orphan child, and no doubt was entertained by his acquaintance that he would provide for him in afterlife, being unmarried, and remaining so till his death. It proved otherwise, as we have seen. Thomas Miller, having by virtue of the will taken possession, returned to Halesworth with his orphan nephew, who was, from that time, a resident in the family of his new protector. But the situation of William Bullock was materially changed for the worse, and he held a doubtful position in his new abode, being required to do the duties of a servant, though in other respects treated as a member of the family. The establishment of old Miller consisted, at the time, of an aged female domestic, named Susan, and a daughter about a year younger than her cousin, the only child of her father by his wife, who had been dead several years. From her childhood, Betsey Miller had been remarkable for her amiable temper and promise of beauty, which increased as she grew up. A sincere affection naturally sprang up between the cousins, to which the circumstances of their daily life continually gave fresh energy. The influence of Betsey over her father was great, and to that influence William was indebted for every indulgence he obtained. Whenever anything was to be asked from the old man, it was through her he sought to gain it: it was this love alone for his cousin which detained the youth in a state of thraldom and inactivity, which became every day more irksome as he advanced to man's estate. But no influence could induce the old man to part with money to apprentice the youth to any of the tradesmen in the town. It was in vain that many of the most respectable of the inhabitants offered to take him at a small premium, and to instruct him in their several employments; for William was a universal favourite, and many were anxious to obtain the services of such a promising assistant. But though his uncle professed no strong affection for him, and seemed to grudge every shilling expended on the necessary articles of his wardrobe, some powerful influence seemed to act upon old Miller, and to prevent him from allowing his nephew to quit his family and immediate guardianship, and he manifested the greatest irritation at any proposal for having William removed from under his eye, appearing jealous of every one who took the slightest interest in his future prospects.

Some years rolled on in this state of uncomfortable dependence and uncertainty as to the future; and nothing but the increasing and mutual affection of the cousins prevented William from leaving his uncle's house, and seeking to provide for himself by the exertion of his talents, which were considerable, and had not been left uncultivated. By Betsey's means he obtained admission to her father's books, which, though not numerous, were sufficiently so to give him the means of self-instruction-the best, if not the chief source of education. The years which had thus passed saw young Bullock advanced to manhood, and Betsey Miller the belle of the small town in which she lived. Many and tempting were the offers of marriage she received; but the damsel remained unshaken in her affection for her cousin, and her father was not inclined to force her acceptance of any of her numerous suitors. He was well aware of the attachment the young couple had formed; but though he never opposed it, he would not listen to any proposition for their marriage. The same strange influence which seemed to have impelled him to keep his

nephew in his family, appeared to weigh with him, and prevent him from prohibiting their mutual engagement; but any attempt to obtain his consent to their union rendered him furious, and even his love for his daughter could not then restrain him from saying the harshest things. She wanted,' he would say, to get possession of his money, to set him aside from managing his property, to make him dependent on herself and her cousin,' and strictly forbade the subject to be mentioned to him again. His conduct towards his nephew, also, was at times very peculiar; and he seemed, even when asserting a supreme authority over him (which he would not allow for a moment to be questioned), to feel some strange and mysterious fear of the young man; and if called on to defray any needful expense on his account, though he would complain heavily, he never seemed to contemplate the possibility of a refusal; and although the presence of William gave him no pleasure, and, from the moroseness of his manner towards him, would have led to an opinion that he desired to be rid of him, he was evidently resolved not to part with him, and retained him as if performing an imperative but unpleasant duty. Everything in the old man's establishment was regulated with the greatest exactness, and his daily habits were equally unvaried. After his early breakfast, he constantly locked himself up with his books and antiquarian treasures for some hours, and no one intruded on his seclusion. Previous to his dinner at one o'clock he walked in his small garden, which was under the care of William and his cousin, and at such times was much addicted to talk aloud to himself, and seemed lost in thought on some matter which weighed upon his spirits, but of which no one had any idea; for, notwithstanding the strictness and even severity with which he kept all the observances of his religion, from the time of his brother's death he had never been to confession, and he avoided as much as possible meeting with the Roman Catholic clergyman of his district.

At length, one day during their frugal dinner, the old man was evidently in a state of great mental excitement, so much so, that his daughter asked if he was unwell. He said 'no;' but seemed abstracted and unwilling to be questioned on the subject. On the following day after breakfast he was heard making a considerable bustle in his small sitting room, and on his appearance at dinner, was even more abstracted and taciturn than on the previous day. He looked around him with an air of watchful suspicion, at times fixing his attention steadfastly on his nephew, and on his old servant, but made no remark from which any information could be gained as to the cause of his evident discomposure.

The next morning he called William into his rooman event of very rare occurrence-required him to remove various heavy books, and to take down every article from the tops of two old-fashioned book-cases, and from a cabinet of ancient china, an object of the old man's especial idolatry. The search, however, seemed very unsatisfactory; and at length seating himself in his chair, apparently much fatigued, at the same time regarding his nephew sternly through his spectacles, he said, slowly and deliberately-It is true, then, I am robbed and plundered daily, and that by some one who knows my rooms, and has constant means of access to them.' William regarded his uncle with astonishment, and repeated the words, 'robbed and plundered.'

'Yes, sir,' exclaimed old Miller furiously; 'some one has carried off the most valuable of my china, a box of medals, my silver crucifix, which once belonged to Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and I know not how many other articles of value; but I will not suffer this. Be the robber who he may, he shall be punished as severely as may be. He cannot escape detection, for the things are too remarkable not to be easily recognised. To-morrow I shall apply to the magistrates to search into the matter.'

He then sat in stern silence, and when his daughter

entered the room, attracted by the elevation of her

father's voice, he did not seem to regard her presence. William related to his cousin the circumstance of her father's loss, which he seemed inclined to consider as a mere imagination, when he was startled by her reply, as she appeared suddenly to remember something in confirmation of the fact. It is singular,' she said, that, for the last two or three nights, I have fancied I heard some one moving in the house long after we had all been in bed.'

'Indeed!' cried her father, rousing himself from his reverie; and from whence did the sound proceed?' 'From the front parlour,' she replied.

'Are you sure that the shutters were closed and the window fastened?'

'I fastened the window myself, and William closed the shutters as usual.'

'Did you hear nothing more?'

'Once or twice I thought I heard the creaking of the stairs, as if some one were coming up; but the noise was so slight, that I fancied I was deccived, and fell asleep again.'

Was the sound from the garret staircase?' asked the old man, looking steadfastly at his nephew, and evidently showing his suspicion of him.

The blood mounted indignantly to the cheeks of the young man, and his uncle groaned heavily; but his daughter, who had not observed her cousin's change of countenance, or her father's suspicious glances, simply answered,The sounds came from the stairs leading to your chamber door, my dear father, but were so slight, that I may have been deceived. But what proofs have you of the robbery?'

"The things I miss can nowhere be found; they have vanished one after the other. Two or three days ago I missed the medals; then the china; and the crucifix, which was in its place yesterday, is, you see, no longer there. But leave me,' he added; 'I feel much disturbed and uneasy, and wish to be alone.'

The young people obeyed, and, with the old domestic who had joined them, retired to discuss the mysterious affair, which baffled all their endeavours to find a clue to its solution. William could not help brooding over the idea of his uncle's suspicion being directed towards him; and though Betsey endeavoured to make light of it, the matter engrossed all their thoughts and conversation.

At dinner, the old man remained perfectly silent, and never once alluded to the subject which was uppermost in all their thoughts. In the evening he retired earlier than usual to his chamber, but still without any mention of his loss; and when William observed that it was necessary that the affair should be investigated, and search made for the missing articles, he sharply bade him hold his tongue, adding, that he did not want to be instructed as to what it was his duty to do. After he had retired, Betsey took up her work and William a book; but the latter felt too much annoyed at being the object of his uncle's groundless suspicion to think on any other subject, and sat for a considerable time in moody silence. His cousin, after trying in vain to engage him in conversation, gave up the attempt, and the evening passed in uninterrupted taciturnity, till the hour of retiring was near at hand, when their attention was attracted by a slight noise which proceeded from the old man's little room, and William was rising to investigate the cause, when his companion laid her hand upon his arm, and motioned to him to wait a minute in silence. The noise was heard again, and the door of the room in which they were sitting slowly opened. A figure appeared in the entry dressed in night attire, with eyes wide open, but in which there was no speculation it was old Miller himself. In one hand he held a long and narrow china jar, in the other a candle and a small key. The daughter and the nephew remained in mute amazement, whilst the old man glided into the front parlour, and proceeded to a closet concealed in the wall, and in which, when employed as postmaster, he had been wont to place letters and articles of value. He opened the door of this pri

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vate depository, and, to the infinite surprise of the young people, who had followed him, displayed the missing articles carefully stowed away. William could not repress a loud shout of satisfaction, which suddenly awoke the somnambulist, who, in his alarm, dropped the china jar, which was shivered to atoms on the floor; at the same time a folded paper fell from it, which William mechanically stooped and picked up. The old man, startled from his sleep, was paralysed with terror. It was in vain they pointed out to him his recovered treasures; he trembled violently, and was so agitated, that his daughter requested her cousin to take him in his arms and convey him back to his bed, where she watched anxiously beside him, and would have sent for medical aid, but her father recovered sufficiently to forbid her, and desired to be undisturbed. In the meantime, William withdrew into the room below, in order to be in readiness should his presence be required; and thinking over the circumstances which had so strangely hidden and brought to light the articles supposed to be stolen, he remembered the paper he had picked up, which he carelessly unfolded, thinking it probably of no value. Great, then, was his amazement at seeing his own name in large letters on the sheet. He glanced his eye rapidly over the contents: it was the last will and testament of his uncle, William Miller, in which, with the exception of a few trifling legacies to his brother Thomas and his daughter, all his property was given to William Bullock, his nephew.

William carefully refolded the paper, said nothing of the matter to his cousin, when by her father's desire she retired to her chamber; but next morning had a long private conversation with his uncle, which terminated much to the satisfaction of the young man. In a few weeks the cousins were united, and old Miller was said to have advanced a considerable sum to establish his nephew in an employment in which he found both occupation and emolument.

THE LAST WISH.

[The celebrated Wilson, the ornithologist, requested that he might be buried near some sunny spot. This wish is expressed in the following lines. The name of their author is unknown to us.] IN some wild forest shade,

Under some spreading oak, or waving pine,
Or old elm, festooned with the gadding vine,
Let me be laid.

In this dim lonely grot,

No foot intrusive will disturb my dust;
But o'er me songs of the wild birds shall burst,
Cheering the spot.

Not amid charnel stones,

Or coffins dark, and thick with ancient mould,
With tattered pall, and fringe of cankered gold,
May rest my bones;

But let the dewy rose,'

The snowdrop and the violet, lend perfume Above the spot where, in my grassy tomb, I take repose.

Year after year,

Within the silver birch tree o'er me hung,
The chirping wren shall rear her callow young,
Shall build her dwelling near.

And ever at the purple dawn of day
The lark shall chant a pealing song above,
And the shrill quail shall pipe her hymn of love,
When eve grows dim and gray.
The blackbird and the thrush,

The golden oriole, shall flit around,
And waken, with a mellow gust of sound,
The forest's solemn hush.
Birds from the distant sen
Shall sometimes hither flock on snowy wings,
And soar above my dust in airy rings,
Singing a dirge to me.

.. Complete sets of the Journal, First Series, in twelve volumes, and also odd numbers to complete sets, may be had from the publishers of their agents. A Stamped Edition issued for transmission, post free, price Twopence halfpenny.

Printed by William Bradbury, of No. 6, York Place, and Frederick Mullest Evans, of No. 7, Church Row, both of Stoke Newington, in the county of Middlesex, printers, at their office, Lombard Street, in the precinct of Whitefrian, and city of London and Published by WILLIAM SOMERVILLE ORR. Publisher, of 8, Amen Corner, at No 2. AMEN CORNER, Dota in the parian of Christenure, sud in the city of London.~Saturday, April 27, 1944.