Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy
Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.
The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast,
Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest.
With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled,
And Hector hasted to relieve his child-
The glittering terrors from his brows unbound,
And placed the beaming helmet on the ground;
Then kiss'd the child, and lifting high in air,
Thus to the gods preferr'd a father's prayer.

Next comes the passage, as it appears in the first draught, on the back of a letter franked by Addison: it will be observed that the lines and words in italics were rejected :

Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy
Extends his eager arms to embrace his boy,
lovely
Stretch'd his fond arms to seize the beauteous boy;
babe

The boy clung crying to his nurse's breast,
Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest.
each kind

With silent pleasure the fond parent smiled,
And Hector hasten'd to relieve his child-
The glittering terrors
unbound,
His radiant helmet from his brows unbraced,
on the ground he
And on the ground the glittering terror placed,
beamy

And placed the radiant helmet on the ground;
Then seized the boy, and raising him in air,

lifting

Then fondling in his arms his infant heir,

dancing

66

Thus to the gods address'd a father's prayer. Addison was a most careful writer, and spared no after labour in making his compositions correct. Dr Warton relates that, when the entire impression of a number of the Spectator was nearly thrown off, he would stop the press to insert a new preposition or conjunction. A specimen of the corrections he made upon his first editions has been given by Dr Drake. It relates to the 117th number of the Tatler, and includes some very minute improvements, as-" For tastes, read relishes; for times, read ages; for the whole, read a whole; for satisfaction, read pleasure; dele the; dele own; &c."+ Savage and Armstrong were also zealous and most scrupulous correctors. Gray would spend a week upon a page, revising and re-revising, till he got it to his satisfaction. Dr Robertson wrote all his sentences on separate bits of paper, and not till he had corrected them into perfect harmony, did he transfer them to his manuscript. Even the peasant bard Burns took great pains in correcting. Easy composition, but laborious correction," was his own description of his mode of writing. It is not unworthy of notice that Milton was anxious for correct punctuation. Virgil spent eleven years in correcting the Æneid, and, after all, being interrupted in the task by death, was so dissatisfied with the state of his poem, that he wished to have it destroyed. On the other hand, Ovid could not bring his mind to the labour of correction. Shakspeare is said to have never altered a line. And, to descend to a meaner example, the satirist Churchill detested blotting and erasing, which he said was like cutting away one's own flesh.§ Steele was as careless as Addison was the reverse; but his writings are, for that reason amongst others, much inferior. This easy-natured Irishman makes a most characteristic admission in introducing the Tatler. "The nature of my miscellaneous work," says he, "is such, that I shall always take the liberty to tell for new such things (let them have happened never so much before the time of writing) as have escaped public notice, or have been misrepresented to the world; provided that I am still within rules, and trespass not as a tatler any further than in incorrectness of style, and writing in an air of common speech." || For an author to acquaint his readers that he should probably be incorrect in his style, seems a pitch of impertinence of no common height.

It may be presumed that Young wrote carefully, as he recommends others to do so. In his Epistles, the following passage occurs :

Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again,
And for its swiftness ne'er applaud your pen;
Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise;
Slow runs the Pegasus that wins the bays.
Much time for immortality to pay

Is just and wise; for less is thrown away.
Time only can mature the lab'ring brain;
Time is the father, and the midwife Pain:
The same good sense that makes a man excel,
Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well.
Downright impossibilities they seek:

What man can be immortal in a week?

Cowper belonged to the same order. He says, in a letter to Mrs Unwin, "To touch and retouch is, though some writers boast of negligence, and others would be ashamed to show their foul copies, the secret of almost all good writing, especially in verse. I am never weary of it myself." A striking proof of the good effected by the process in his instance, is afforded by the easy and fluent poem on Friendship published amongst the writings which appeared during his life, as compared with the rough draught of the same poem published amongst his minor poems after his death. Dr Parr gives his opinion on the same side. Writing to Sir James Mackintosh, he says—“ A style which is truly good must always, more or less, be the result of effort and art. Write on, write on, and depend upon it, you will soon have the habit of executing narrative

well—very well, and I mean to the satisfaction of your own profound penetration and judicious taste. At first there may be the lima labor et mora ;* but fluency and rapidity will soon come on, and this I know from my own personal experience." Johnson's advice to a young clergyman was to exactly the same purpose:"In the labour of composition, do not burden your mind with too much at once; do not exact from yourself, at one effort of excogitation, propriety of thought and elegance of expression. Invent first, and then thing was before, is an act of greater energy than the embellish. The production of something where noexpansion or decoration of the thing produced. Set down diligently your thoughts as they rise in the first words that occur; and when you have matter, you will easily give it form. Nor, perhaps, will this method be always necessary, for by habit your thoughts and diction will flow together."+ Johnson gave Dr Parr's thought with admirable brevity and pith :“ What we hope ever to do with ease, we must first learn to do with diligence."+

Three recent Scottish luminaries, Stewart, Leslie, and Playfair, were all of them remarkable as great correctors both in manuscript and proof. We have a very curious account of Mr Playfair's mode of composition, from the pen of Lord Jeffrey: "He wrote rather slowly, and his first sketches were often very slight and imperfect, like the rude chalking for a masterly picture. His chief effort and greatest pleasure was in their revisal and correction; and there were no limits to the improvement which resulted from this application. It was not the style merely that gained by the change; the whole reasoning, and sentiment, and illustration, were enlarged and new modelled in the course of it, and a naked outline became gradually informed with life, colour, and expression. It was not at all like the common finishing and polishing to which careful authors generally subject the first draughts of their compositions nor even like the fastidious and tentative alterations with which some more anxious writers assay their choicer passages. It was, in fact, the great filling in of the picture-the working up of the figured weft, on the naked and meagre roof that had been stretched to receive it; and the singular thing in his case was, not only that he left this most material part of his work to be performed after the whole outline had been finished, but that he could proceed with it to an indefinite extent, and enrich and improve as long as he thought fit, without any risk either of destroying the proportions of that outline, or injuring the harmony and unity of the design. He was perfectly aware, too, of the possession of this extraordinary power, and it was partly, we presume, in consequence of it that he was not only at all times ready to go on with any work in which he was engaged, without waiting for favourable moments or hours of greater alacrity, but that he never felt any of those doubts and misgivings as to his being able to get creditably through with his undertaking, to which we believe most authors are occasionally liable. As he never wrote upon any subject of which he was not perfectly master, he was secure against all blunders in the substance of what he had to say; and felt quite assured, that if he was only allowed time enough, he should finally say it in the very best way of which he was capable. He had no anxiety, therefore, either in undertaking or proceeding with his tasks; and intermitted and resumed them at his convenience, with the comfortable certainty that all the time he bestowed on them was turned to good account, and that what was left imperfect at one sitting might be finished with equal ease and advantage at another. Being thus perfectly sure both of his end and his means, he experienced in the course of his compositions none of that little fever of the spirits with which that operation is so apt to be accompanied. He had no capricious visitings of fancy which it was necessary to fix on the spot or to lose for ever-no casual inspirations to invoke and to wait for no transitory and evanescent lights to catch before they faded. All that was in his mind was subject to his control and amenable to his call, though it might not obey at the moment; and while his taste was so sure that he was in no danger of overworking any thing that he had designed, all his thoughts and sentiments had that unity and congruity, that they fell almost spontaneously into harmony and order; and the last added, incorporated, and assimilated with the first, as if they had sprung simultaneously from the same happy conception."§

Upon the whole, it appears that, for one writer of note who was careless in composition and negligent of correction, there have been at least ten who were the reverse. And even those writers whose works appear the simplest and most natural in style, have generally been remarkable for the pains they took in elaborating their compositions. We humbly think that this affords an instructive lesson, in the first place to literary aspirants, and in the second to all who would excel, whatever may be the department of exertion they have entered upon. When we find that even the most masterly intellects have in general found study, care, diligence, and laborious finish, necessary for success, how vain must appear the folly of all those

success.

attempts to dash off clecer things in happy moments, of | which young men are sometimes guilty !how senseless must appear all efforts at excellence, which are not made in the spirit of laborious application! From our experience in life, we would say that one-half of the failures which occur in literature, in art, in business, in every kind of pursuit, are owing to self-conceit in the aspirant leading him to despise labour, and to suppose that his slightest effort is enough to secure Such persons conceive it to be unworthy of should be enough that they try: the effort being made by them to take any particular pains with any thing: it them, success should be certain; as if there were some charm about them which should set all ordinary rules at nought. Such was not the spirit in which Pope warbled his dulcet numbers; in which Johnson threw out his lofty moralisings; in which Cowper, Burns, Virgil, or Horace, wrote their imperishable works. These great men studied hard, and wrote, or at least corrected, with the utmost care. Whatever they did, they thought themselves bound to do as well as they could. Very far was it from them to suppose that whatever they chose to enunciate at random was sure to be good. No; they gave concentrated attention to all that they attempted, and their success was mainly owing to their observance of the maxim, that "whatever we would do well, we must first learn to do with diligence."

THE scene of our little story opens in an apartment in an ancient castle in Brittany. The young proprietor is about to quit the abode of his forefathers, to pursue schemes of ambition at court, or in the great world. The family, consisting of the mother and two sisters, with the hero of the piece, are met together on this interesting occasion. But we let the young gentleman relate what passed at the interview.

The time at length came when I should depart; and Joseph, opening the door gently, informed us that the chaise de poste was ready. This announcement was startling to my mother and sisters, who, in an agony of feeling, threw their arms around me.

"It is not yet too late!" they exclaimed, with tears; "renounce this intended journey. Oh, do not leave us!"

66 My dearest mother," I replied, "at twenty years of age, and the inheritor of a noble name, I must make myself known in my native land. I must open a path to fame, either in the army or at court."

"And when you are gone," said my poor mother, "what will become of me?"

"You will hear with pride and pleasure of your son's success!"

"And should I hear of his death in battle?"

"Well; of what use is life at my age," I replied, "but to gain honour and glory? Think rather of the time when I shall return a colonel-perhaps a marshal of France."

"And then?"— said my mother. “Why, then, honour and respect will follow my steps wherever I go."

And then?"-pursued she. "Then, I will marry my cousin Henrietta; we shall find noble husbands for my sisters; and we will all live together in peace and happiness in these ancient halls of my ancestors."

"And why not commence this life of happiness from this moment?" said my mother. "Where is there a wider or fairer domain in Brittany than yours? Who claims a nobler name in the province? In the midst of your faithful vassals, are you not sufficiently honoured and beloved? Leave us not, my son!-leave not your friends, your sisters, your aged mother, whom you may never again behold! Go not to waste, in the pursuit of vain glory, or to shorten, by sorrows and disappointments, those youthful days that pass so rapidly. Life is a treasure, my beloved Bernard; and where can you enjoy it more than under the lovely sky of Brittany?" As my mother spoke, she led me to a window, and pointed out the noble avenues of the ancient park, where the stately chestnuts were mingled with lilacs and woodbines, whose fragrant blossoms perfumed the air. Before the door stood the aged gardener and his family, whose saddened looks seemed to say, "Desert us not, our noble master-desert not those you are bound to protect!" Hortensia, my eldest sister, twined her arms round my neck, while Amelia, the youngest, taking up a volume of La Fontaine, pointed to an engraving, and with sobs placed the book in my hands. It was the fable of the Two Pigeons. I started up, and extricating myself from their embraces, again exclaimed, "I must win honour and glory!-let me go, let me go!"--and I rushed into the court-yard.

*The labour of the file and the delay-an expression used by

cation was needed) how well that exquisite literary artist knew what careful writing was.

more at Henrietta, and I felt I could not have left her. In a few minutes after, the chaise de poste was rolling along the high road to Sedan.

For some time, my thoughts were entirely filled with my beloved Henrietta, my weeping sisters, my dear mother, and all the happiness I felt I was leaving. But as the ancient turrets of Roche Bernard receded from my view, these saddening images seemed to vanish also, and were succeeded by the brilliant visions of glory and ambition. What airy castles rose before me as I leaned back in the rumbling vehicle! Riches honours-dignities-nothing did I refuse to myself as the just reward of my merit; and the scale ascending as I advanced on my journey, I was a duke, governor of a province, and Maréchal of France, by the time I reached the inn at which I was to repose for the night. The voice of my servant, simply addressing me as Monsieur le Chevalier, forced me, unwillingly, to abdicate my newly created dignity.

The next day, and for several succeeding ones, I indulged in the same intoxicating dreams, my journey being of some length. I was repairing to Sedan, to the residence of the Duke of C, an old and tried friend of my father's, and the protector of the family. He had promised to take me to Paris, and introduce me at the court of Versailles. He hoped, also, to obtain for me a company in a regiment of dragoons, by the influence of his sister, the Marchioness of F a young and beautiful woman, whom public opinion pointed out as the probable successor of Madame de Pompadour.

I reached Sedan at so late an hour that I could not think of presenting myself at the ducal chateau, and therefore installed myself for the night at the Arms of France, the best inn the town afforded, and the rendezvous of all the officers of the garrison. Sedan was then a fortified town; the very streets had a warlike appearance, and the citizens a martial air, that seemed to say to a stranger, “We are compatriots of the great Turenne !"

I supped at a table-d'hôte, and took the opportunity of inquiring my way to the chateau, where I intended going in the morning.

"Any one will point it out to you," was the answer; "it is well known to the whole country. In that chateau expired one of our most celebrated men, and bravest of warriors, Maréchal Fabert."

And hereupon, as was natural amongst so many military heroes, the conversation fell upon the career of the maréchal. They spoke of his many gallant exploits, and of his singular modesty, which had made him refuse the titles of nobility, and the ribbons of several orders, offered to him by Louis XIV. Above all, they expatiated upon his extraordinary good fortune, which had enabled him, without the aid of family interest, he being the son of an obscure printer, to raise himself from a common soldier to the rank of Maréchal of France. It had appeared so extraordinary and unprecedented an elevation, that even during the life of Fabert, popular rumour had not been backward in attributing it to supernatural causes. It was currently reported that he dealt in magic, and it was even affirmed he had made a compact with Satan.

Our landlord, who, to the ignorance of a native of Champagne added the credulity of a peasant of Brittany, gravely assured us, that a few moments before Fabert expired, a black man, unknown to any one in the chateau, had entered the chamber and carried off the maréchal's soul, which, indeed, of right appertained to him, he having purchased it long before. Mine host also went on to state, that from that period to the present time, upon each anniversary of Fabert's death, the black man was seen at midnight bearing a lighted torch in his hand. This recital enlivened our dessert, and we quaffed several bumpers of champagne to the familiar demon of the deceased maréchal, hoping he might take us also under his protection, and give us similar triumphs to the battles of Collioure and Marfée. The next morning, at an early hour, I repaired to the chateau of the Duke de C. It was an immense and gloomy Gothic pile, which would not perhaps, at another time, have made much impression upon me, but I must confess that I now gazed upon it with a singular feeling of interest, as I called to mind the landlord's story.

The domestic who ushered me in told me his master was not yet visible. I gave my name, and was then left alone in an ancient hall, adorned with the trophies of the chase, and hung round with family portraits. I waited a considerable time, but no one appeared. "Is this brilliant career of glory to commence by the antechamber?" exclaimed I, beginning to conceive the impatience of a discontented place-hunter. I had gone three times the round of the grim portraits, and had sedulously counted all the beams in the lofty ceiling, when I heard a slight noise in the wainscot, and found it proceeded from a half-closed door, moved by the wind. I pushed it gently open, and saw a small room, tastefully furnished, and from which a glass door opened into a magnificent park. I advanced, in order to enjoy the view from the window, when another object met my sight. Stretched on a sofa, whose back was turned to the door by which I entered, was a man, who, not observing me, rose hastily and rushed to the window. I then perceived that his face was bathed in tears, and that despair was marked in every feature. He remained for a moment motionless, his face buried in his hands, then with rapid steps began to pace the apartment. As soon as his eye fell upon me, he stopped and shuddered, while I, distressed at my intrusion, muttered some words in apology, and was about to withdraw.

"Who are you?—what brings you here?" he ex

claimed, in a loud voice, and seizing my arm with violence.

"I am the Chevalier de Bernard, and I come”. "I know, I know," he said, hastily; and taking my hand warmly, he made me sit down by him, and inquired with much interest about my family; spoke of my father, whom he appeared to have known so well, that I could not doubt my being in the presence of the master of the chateau.

"You are Monsieur de C-?" said I.

He rose, and replied, in an agitated tone, "I was once; but I am nothing-nothing now. Hush!-do not speak-do not ask me any questions!" "Permit me, at least," I ventured to say, " to assure you, that if the most devoted friendship can in any way lighten the affliction of which I have been an involuntary witness"

"You are right," he replied, abruptly; "though you cannot change my doom, yet you may receive my last wishes. That is the only service you can render me." He closed the door carefully, and returned to his seat at my side, where I waited in trembling anxiety for the result. There was something awfully solemn in the tone of his voice, and an expression in his countenance I had never seen before. His face was deadly pale, while lightnings seemed to flash from his large dark eyes, and his features, worn by suffering, were frequently convulsed by a demoniac smile.

"What I am about to relate to you," he said at length, in a hollow tone," will confound your reason. You will doubt-you will perhaps utterly disbelieve. Even I almost doubt at times still-at least I wish to do so; but the proof, the fatal proof, is too strong. Alas! are there not in all that surrounds us, in our very organisation itself, mysteries whose existence we are compelled to acknowledge without any powers of comprehending them?" He paused for a moment, as if to recollect his ideas, pressed his hand to his brow, and continued

"In this castle I first drew breath; and being a a younger son, upon the elder born was of course to devolve all the wealth and honours of our house, while I had nothing to look forward to but the cloak and band of an abbé. With a heart burning with ambition, and a head filled with dreams of glory, the prospect of this obscure lot made me wretched, and I resolved, by some means or other, to raise myself above it. Life was distasteful to me; I lived but in the future; and yet what a gloomy future appeared to my aching sight!

I thus attained my thirtieth year, and I was still nothing-nothing; while I daily heard of colossal reputations, whose fame reached even this remote province. I will try the career of letters!' I exclaimed; let me win fame in any way, for fame alone is happiness.'

The only confidant of my chagrin was an aged Negro, who had been in the chateau even before my birth. Indeed, he was so old, that no one remembered his coming; and it was said he had been present at the death of Maréchal Fabert."

Here an involuntary start of surprise, which I could not repress, made my companion pause. "Go on," I said, "tis nothing;" but, notwithstanding, I thought of the black man described by the old landlord.

"One day," continued Monsieur de C," I gave way before Yago (so the old negro was called) to the despair of my soul, at the shameful obscurity in which I dragged on my days. I would give ten years of my life,' I exclaimed, to become a celebrated author!

'Ten years,' said Yago, coldly; it is paying dear for such a trifle. However, I accept your offer. The ten years are mine. Keep your promise; you will find me true to my word.'

I will not attempt to depict my astonishment at this speech. However, after a moment's reflection, I naturally concluded that age had enfeebled his intellects; and with a smile of pity I left the room, and in a few days after the chateau. I arrived in Paris, and soon found myself in the most distinguished literary society of the metropolis. Encouraged by their approval, I published several works. My success exceeded my most flattering dreams. The journals of Paris, of France, of even foreign nations, rung with my name; yourself, even yesterday, young man, acknowledged the power of my genius." "How!" I exclaimed, with astonishment; " you are not, then, the Duke of C

-?"

"No," he replied, coldly. "What favoured son of genius, then, stands before me?" said I :-" Marmontel? D'Alembert? Voltaire?" The unknown, with a smile of contempt, continued his recital.

"The literary fame I enjoyed, unbounded as it was, could not satisfy a soul like mine. I longed for nobler triumphs, and could not help exclaiming to Yago, who had followed me to Paris, Oh, there is no real glory but that which is gained on the battle-field! What is a philosopher-a poet?-nothing! Speak to me of a hero! What are the poet's bays compared to the laurel wreath of a conqueror? To purchase that, I would willingly give ten years more of my life.'

I agree to the bargain,' said Yago. They are mine also. Do not forget."

At this part of the narrative, the unknown paused, for he observed the astonishment expressed in my countenance.

"I told you," he said, "you would not believe. You think it a dream, as I, alas ! did once. But the honours I won, the triumphs I gained-squadrons led to meet

the fire of the enemy-fortresses carried by skillstandards seized by my bravery-victories that were echoed through the world: these were not dreams no! that glory was real, and that glory was mine!" He paced the room with rapid strides, and his cheeks flushed with the vehemence of his discourse, while I muttered to myself, "Who, then, is this renowned warrior?-Coigny?-Richelieu ? — perhaps Maréchal Saxe himself."

The fever of enthusiasm passed away, and the unknown sunk again into despondency.

"Yago spoke truly," he continued, in a low and mournful tone. "I was soon wearied with the vain incense of military fame, and perceiving there was but one thing real and substantial in the world, I purchased, by five years more of my existence, the riches I coveted. Yes, young man, it is true, though incredible-I saw my wealth increase beyond my most sanguine desires. Lands, forests, castles, all were mine; even this morning I thought myself-but no matter; you will soon be convinced of the truth-oh, how soon!"

He approached the clock on the chimney, and looked at it with a terrified gaze, then continued, rapidly,

66

This morning, on awaking at daybreak, I felt a degree of exhaustion throughout my whole frame that alarmed me. I rang my bell, and Yago answered the summons. What is the matter?' I exclaimed; ‘I am faint.' 'It is but the course of nature,' he answered, calmly. 'Master, the hour approaches—it is come.' 'What hour?' I cried, in surprise.

'Do you not divine it?' said Yago. Heaven allotted as your portion sixty years of existence. You had lived thirty of them when I first became your slave.'

'Yago,' I cried, 'you are jesting with me!' 'No, master, no; in five years of life you have expended twenty-five to purchase glory. They became my property, and will be added to the term of my existence.'

"That, then,' I cried, 'was the price I paid for your services!'

'Others have paid dearer,' he answered, boldly; 'for instance, Fabert, whom I served also.'

'Tis false, 'tis false!' I exclaimed, vehemently. "You will find it true, my master,' said the black; you have but half an hour to live.'

"Oh, say not so, Yago; you are deceiving me!' "Calculate yourself,' he answered; 'thirty-five years that you have actually lived, and twenty-five lost. The account is square. It is my turn now; every one their own, is but justice.'

He turned to go, but feeling myself gradually sinking, I exclaimed in despair, 'Oh Yago, Yago! give me

but a few hours more !

"They would be deducted from mine,' said he ; and I know the value of life better than you did. What treasure is equal to two hours of existence?'

A dark cloud seemed to pass before my eyes, and the chill of death was in my veins. With a last effort, I gasped out, 'Take back the wealth for which I have paid so dear. Give me but four hours more of life, and I resign my lands, my castles, my gold-all, all!''

"You have been a kind master,' said he, after a pause; I wish to do something in gratitude.' I felt my courage revive, and ventured to say, 'Four hours are almost nothing: Yago, Yago, grant me some more in addition, and I resign the literary fame that placed my name so high in the world!'

Four hours of life for such a bagatelle as that!' said the negro, with disdain; but for your sake I will not refuse your last request.'

'Oh! say not my last,' said I, emboldened by his compliance; 'give me the twelve hours complete-one more day-and let the fame of my battles and victories be for ever effaced from the memory of mankind. One day, Yago-one day, and I am willing to resign all else.'

You abuse my good nature,' he said; but I will not refuse. I give you till sunset. Farewell-with the last beam of day I come to fetch you'-And left me," continued the unknown, in the accents of despair; “and this is the last day I have to remain on earth." He rushed to the window, and pointed to the park. "I shall never again behold that lovely sky, that verdant lawn, that silvery stream, nor ever again breathe the balmy air of spring. Fool-fool that I was; the blessings that God lavishes upon all were mine also, and I despised them! Now I know their inestimable value; and I might have enjoyed them for twentyfive years longer; and in a few hours I must lose them for ever! I have squandered my life for a vain chimera -a sterile fame, that has perished even before myself. Look!" he cried, pointing to a group of peasants, who, on their return to labour, filled the air with their joyous songs; "what would I not give to share their labours and poverty? But I have nothing now to hope for-not even labour and poverty." A bright sunbeam at this moment fell upon his pale and distorted features; he grasped my arm convulsively, and exclaimed, "Look-look at that glorious sun; and I must leave it for ever! Ah! let me not lose a moment of this precious day, to which, for me, alas! there will be no morrow!" Thus saying, he rushed into the park, and disappeared amongst the foliage of a shady alley.

I threw myself upon the sofa, bewildered and oppressed by all I had heard and seen. Was it indeed a reality, or was I under the influence of some fantastic dream? The door was opened by a servant, who announced the Duke of C

"Il Spettatore Imparziale," but there is nothing in their columns worthy of special notice. A third newspaper, in English and Italian, has also been started, under the name of "Il Gazetto del Mediterrano." It is decidedly the most clever that has ever appeared in Malta, but, it is to be feared, will sink for want of support. The Maltese care for almost nothing beyond the day or hour in which they live; a newspaper is of no interest or use to them; and until they are better educated, or some great change takes place among them, the liberty of the press will not be either valued or supported.

A FEW WEEKS FROM HOME.
VENTILATION AND LIGHTING OF THE HOUSES OF
PARLIAMENT.

MOST persons, I suppose, have heard that within the last two or three years various schemes have been proposed for the proper ventilation and lighting of the Houses of Lords and Commons, and that those which have been most approved of are now in operation. Except, however, from a random newspaper paragraph, little has been made known respecting the successful plans, and it is probable that some little account of them from personal observation may not prove unacceptable.

During my stay in London, I had occasion to call upon Dr D. B. Reid, of Edinburgh, who has been appointed to organise and superintend the ventilation of the Houses, and was by him kindly conducted over the establishment, and introduced to Mr Goldsworthy Gurney, the able discoverer and applier of the new process of lighting.

Ventilation has hitherto been little understood or thought of. We scarcely find a church, school, or ball-room, or public or private structure of any kind, properly ventilated. The most splendid structures are occasionally seen in course of erection, without the smallest provision for the escape of the vitiated air, and the admission of that which is pure and wholesome. Ignorance has stumbled on one mode only of relieving the overloaded air of crowded apartments, and that is by opening the windows-a practice of the most dangerous kind as respects health, and which on that account, independently of its clumsiness, should not be resorted to except in cases of extreme necessity. It is impossible to have any accurate idea of the principle of ventilation, unless we become familiar with the fact of air being a buoyant fluid, which has a tendency to keep up an equilibrium in all parts of its volume that is, if you exhaust a vessel or room partially of its air, the air without will have a tendency to rush in to supply the deficiency. Another thing to be remembered is, that warm air is more expanded and lighter than cold air, therefore it rises while the cold sinks. Observe how these principles act in the case of opening windows on a cold day. The cold air rushes in to fill up the deficiency caused by the expansion, and sinks to the floor, while the hot air rises, or is retarded and cooled. The rush of cold air in such a case, may prove most fatal to an overheated person. If the day be as warm outside as in the house, the opening of the windows is of no use for the escape of the hot air; there will be no rush either way; hence, by the common method of ventilation, there is no means of withdrawing the vitiated atmosphere from a church or large assembly-room in warm weather. To ventilate properly, it is indispensable that the balance of the atmosphere should be disturbed by artificial means; and the means which the air naturally adopts to rectify its want of equilibrium, forms the ventilation. Perhaps it is not generally known that a room, whose door is kept shut, endeavours to ventilate itself by the chimney. During the day, when the sun is powerful, the air in the apartment expands and lightens, the redundancy going off by the chimney; when night comes, the air in the room condenses or goes into a smaller bulk, and, to supply the deficiency, there is a rush of air down the chimney; and thus there is a see-saw motion of air up and down the chimney daily. The sea and land breezes of tropical islands are accounted for on precisely the same principle.

Dr Reid has for many years been known as a skilled scientific ventilator. His chemistry lecture-room is one of the most curious things which can be seen. Various fires are seen in stands in different parts of the floor, but instead of poisoning the apartment with nauseous fumes, the smoke of each is seen to rush down a tube, as if anxious to be gone and out of sight with all imaginable speed. The secret of this urgent haste is, that the smoke is rushing towards some larger fire elsewhere, or hastening to supply the demand for air. The doctor has carried this principle into beautiful operation in the Houses of Parliament. I shall first describe his operations in reference to the House of Lords.

Beneath the house there is a series of low vaults, paved with stone, and connected by passages with similar vaults beneath the House of Commons. One of the vaults, on the western side of the building, is that in which Guy Fawkes was discovered when about to blow up the edifice with gunpowder, and it is here that Dr Reid now performs the first part of his process of introducing and purifying the air. On one side of the vault is a wide opening, covered with coarse gauze, through which the air penetrates, depositing in its course any particles of soot or dust with which it may be loaded. Having passed into the vaulted apart

ment, it is completely washed with water as it rushes across to the passage beyond. The washing apparatus consists of a number of pipes laid longitudinally and transversely on the floor; each pipe is perforated with a great number of holes, and from these spout jets d'eau in all directions, so as to really fill the apartment with an intense spray, and effectually wash the air as it proceeds through it. On the inner side of the vault, the air is as fresh and pleasant as at the brink of a waterfall. Being thus purified, the air, if necessary, is made to pass through a vaulted chamber, containing a congeries of pipes of hot water; and being there warmed, is sent on by a channel or passage to the House. The temperature of the air which is admitted can be at all times regulated with perfect nicety, by allowing it to go, more or less, through the warm-worthy Gurney, and is called the "Bude Light," from ing-room; and for the purpose of discovering at any time what is the degree of heat their lordships above are enjoying, a thermometer is pulled down by a string from a concealed part of the house.

Having offered an idea of the mode of ventilating, I now proceed to a subject not less remarkable for the great scientific skill which is displayed upon it-the method of supplying artificial light to the House of Commons. During the day, light is admitted through sloping glass ceilings on each side; and at night the light is derived chiefly from two large lustres pendant from that central panelled part of the roof, through which the used air has been described as escaping. Externally, there appears nothing worthy of notice in the lustres, except the peculiar intensity of the light, which in each case is emitted from a single burner, and it is to the nature of this that the attention of the reader has in a particular manner to be directed. The light employed is the invention of Mr Goldsthe name of his residence in Cornwall, where it first. became known to him. In 1823, Mr Gurney published a work on the elements of chemical science, in which he described the powerful light produced from The air, thus regulated in temperature, is admitted lime by the action of the mixed gases. This light, into the house through canvass which covers the walls, about seven years afterwards, was employed by Lieuand also behind the bar, seats, and tables. The can- tenant Drummond on the Trigonometrical Survey of vass, which is stretched upon the walls, or rather at a Ireland, in consequence of which it took the name of little distance from them, is of a thin yellowish de- the "Drummond Light." A committee of the House scription, and is streaked or marked to resemble oak of Commons on Light-houses, in 1834, recommended panels. As high up as the heads of the members, the lime light to be experimented on, with a view to the canvass is papered in a neat style. When the air remove the practical difficulties connected with the admitted in this manner all round the house, through subject, and adapting it for light-house illumination. the texture of the canvass walls, has been breathed In consequence of Mr Gurney having first announced and vitiated, it passes off through ventilators in the the discovery of the light, he was recommended by roof into a kind of garret, whence it proceeds along a the committee to the Trinity House, to carry out the passage, and descends a shaft to the ground. On going experiment. In the course of his engagement in this round by a stair to the bottom of this very strange air office, he discovered the present light, which he conchannel, we find ourselves in a vestibule opening upon sidered better for light-house purposes, and, as already an immense ash-pit, into which we perceive red hot mentioned, called the Bude Light. This light is procinders occasionally falling. We step forward, and duced by introducing oxygen gas in the interior of the enter the ash-pit. We now find ourselves standing at flame of a lamp. An ordinary flame is hollow, the the bottom of a round chimney, measuring a hundred exterior part being only ignited by the atmosphere; feet high, and eleven feet broad at the base, and in the interior part is unburnt, containing the vapour of which, at the height of some twelve or fifteen feet oil and carburetted hydrogen, and the burning of this overhead, we observe a large blazing fire suspended on unused interior vapour as quickly as it is distilled, by a capacious grating. There is no opening into the the admission of oxygen, forms the principle of the chimney except from the vestibule, into which all Bude Light. As soon as a small tube, conveying a the vitiated atmosphere of the House is poured-stream of oxygen, is introduced into the heart of the the fire being trimmed only by means of a small door flame, the light is immediately increased in its intensity. on the outside, but which is usually kept shut-and Since this valuable discovery was made, Mr Gurney therefore this forms the great organ of draught in this has effected various alterations and improvements on extensive ventilating apparatus. the light. Formerly he used oil, but now he employs common street gas. This gas, however, is made to pass through a box containing naphtha, which naphthalises it, or improves its inflammable properties, and renders it equal to the best oil without the trouble of wicks. The London street gas, it is necessary to explain, is an impure stuff, containing a certain proportion of free hydrogen, which combines with the carbon of the naphtha, and forms a bi-carburetted gas as it passes. The Edinburgh gas being pure, or without free hydrogen, would not require any such assistance from naphtha. The apparatus for supplying the oxygen is placed in a vault adjacent to Dr Reid's ventilating process. It consists of two iron retorts built over a furnace, and in these is put a certain quantity of oxide of manganese (a metallic substance which resembles brayed coal in appearance), from which oxygen is evolved, and led away in pipes to a gasometer; from the gasometer small pipes proceed to the burners in the House, each conducting a stream of oxygen into the heart of the flame. The light so produced is most intense in brilliancy, but is softened by the intervention of ground glass, and illuminates, with a powerful effect, the whole interior of the apartment. A more perfect substitute, in every respect, for daylight, could not, I believe, be found. The flame being supplied freely with oxygen, a comparatively small quantity of atmospheric air is abstracted or consumed, and all offensive heated air from the combustion is carried away in a small tube into Dr Reid's ventilating gallery above. Before the introduction of this beautiful light, the House of Commons was illuminated with 240 wax candles dispersed about in different parts-a method of lighting which Sir David Brewster has described "as most absurd, and such as no person at all acquainted with the physiological action of light on the retina, and the principles of its distribution, could have adopted."* Dr Ure, on being examined by the committee of members respecting the power of the Bude Light, previous to the substitution of gas for oil, observed-"I made experiments upon it very carefully in my own house last night, and compared its relative illuminative powers with argand lamps and candles with great pains, both by the method of shadows and also by Mr Wheatstone's photometer. Mr Gurney's larger Bude lamp, furnished with a wick of fiveeighths of an inch, but emitting a white flame of only three-eighths in diameter, was found to afford thirty times more light than a wax candle, and nearly three times more light than the standard flame of the mechanical lamp, which was equal to from ten to eleven candles. Secondly, Mr Gurney's smaller Bude burner, with a flame one-quarter of an inch, was found, by the same methods, to afford a light eighteen to twenty times greater than a wax candle."

We now come to the House of Commons. The air is admitted for it through gauze into a lower vault, in the same manner as for the Lords; passes, if required, through a heating room; and is thence conducted in a purified state to a space beneath the floor. For its admission, the floor and rising steps are penetrated with millions of small holes, and rising in these, it passes through a coarse carpeting into the House. Having there performed its office, the air passes off by openings round the edges of the panels in the ceiling, into a garret above, where it is led away by a passage to the descending channel to the ash-pit and fire which I have already described, and which answers for both Houses. I was conducted by the doctor up a trapstair to the dark passage leading from the garret, at a time when the House was sitting, for the purpose of observing the effects of the draught created by the fire. Groping along the passage, we reach a door which rises and falls like a sash-window. This is an important part of the apparatus. At the time I visited the spot, it was open about a foot at top, and through this there poured a steady current of air in our faces from the openings into the garret. I was told by the doctor not on any account to move down the sash, for it would add a power to the draught whose least effect would be to blow away our hats into the dismal gulf behind us. Both, therefore, by this shifting sash-door, and by means of the doors beneath in the vaults, the quantity of air admitted or sent through the House can be exactly regulated, so as to create no unpleasant sensation to the members. In ordinary circumstances, there is an opening for a current of 60 cubic feet of air, which rushes at a velocity of 10 feet per second; 60 multiplied by 10 makes 600 feet per second, and this again multiplied by 60 seconds, gives 36,000—that is, thirty-six thousand cubic feet of fresh air supplied every minute for the consumption of the House. The air, likewise, can be admitted in either a cold or warm, moist or dry state, at a moment's notice. On one occasion, seventy gallons of water were sent in in the shape of moist air in the course of a few hours. The feelings of the members being very various, the regulation of these details, as may be supposed, is a matter of extreme delicacy. The great object desirable by the learned doctor, is to afford at all times a profuse supply of the best air for breathing, without any sensible feeling of draught to the members; and this he seems to have admirably accomplished by his ingenious arrangements for both Houses. It has been alleged, that the method of admitting the air through the carpet on the floor has the effect of raising a dust in the apartment; but such is not the case. Every precaution is taken to avoid this, not only by the universal porosity, but by the plans adopted for brushing the feet of the members as they pass along the passages and lobbies. It is further necessary to observe, that the plans, at the best, are only preparatory to others of a more perfect kind in connexion with the new Houses of Parliament now in course of erection, and for the superintendence of which, our friend the doctor is now necessarily resident on the spot.

The adoption of the Bude Light in the House of Commons, as now improved and simplified by the substitution of gas for oil, has completely set at rest all theoretic speculations on the subject. The light is not only by far the most brilliant, without distress to

* Report of Committee on Lighting the House.