Ashurst, who said a few good things, though admired for many, told Lord Chesterfield once, that he was like a stunted giant, which was a humorous idea, and really apposite."

The other description we think is by a man who had no particular prejudice in the matter. Putting the two together they show what confidence we can place in all we read.

"His figure, though on a small scale, was very good-every limb turned by Nature's daintiest hand, yet full of vigor, till it paid the penalties of vice. The head is inimitable-we never saw any engraving of him, either from bust, or medal, or picture, that gives an approach to its peculiar expression. The features are all classical-the eyes full of softness, yet of fire-the brow and eyebrows grave and manly, the mouth small, but impressed with such a mixture of firmness, sense, wit, gayety and voluptuous delicacy as few artists could have imagined-and no one of that day but Rosalba could have transcribed."

A very characteristic anecdote is given, of the stratagem he resorted to to obtain a vote against Walpole, whose downfall he was very zealous in promoting.

"The late Lord R-, with many good qualities, and even learning and parts, had a strong desire of being thought skilful in physic, and was very expert in bleeding. Lord Chesterfield, who knew his foible, and on a particular occasion wished to have his vote, came to him one morning and after having conversed upon indifferent matters, complained of the headache, and desired his lordship to feel his pulse. It was found to beat high, and a hint of losing blood given. I have no objection; and as I hear your lordship has a masterly hand, will you favor me with trying your lancet upon me?

"Apropos, said Lord Chesterfield after the operation, do you go to the House today? Lord Ranswered, I did not intend to go, not being sufficiently informed of the question which is to be debated; but you who have considered it, which side will you be of? The Earl having gained his confidence, easily directed his judgment; he carried him to the House, and got him to vote as he pleased. He used afterwards to say, that none of his friends had done so much as he, having literally bled for the good of his country."

It is putting a man's politeness to a pretty severe test when it comes to bloodletting.

On seeing the full-length picture of

Beau Nash, between the busts of Pope and Newton at Bath, he wrote the following epigrain :

"This picture placed the busts between,
Givos satire all its strength;

Wisdom and wit are little seen,
But folly at full length."

The following bon mot gives another specimen of his wit:

On hearing of the marriage of a man of low family, with the daughter of a lady whose way of life threw doubts on the paternity, he observed that nobody's son had married every body's daughter. No one doubts Pope's appreciation of wit, and he wrote

"Accept a miracle instead of wit,

See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ."

The best exhibition afforded of the manners of Chesterfield is given in his manner of governing Ireland. He was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland at a very critical time-that nation being in a great state of excitement from an apprehension that the Catholics would rise in favor of the Pretender. He was the man of all others best suited to the post, and Ireland neither before nor since, was ever better governed than by him. His profound knowledge of human nature, his sagacity and penetration, his great tact, suavity and firmness, admirably fitted him to govern that people at any time, but more especially during a crisis. A man of less discernment, tact, and affability-a well-meaning but dull-witted governor at that period, would have been pretty sure to have had a civil war to contend with.

We give two anecdotes illustrative of his manners! while he was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Some would say that it evinced how very efficacious pleasantry often is in averting serious difficulties. "Why, my lord," said some one to him, 'your own coachman is a Papist, and goes to mass every Sunday." "Does he, indeed," replied the Lord Lieutenant, "I will take good care that he does not drive me there." One morning early, the vicetreasurer, Mr. Gardner, a red-hot Orange man, waited on him, and assured him on the best authority that the Papists in the province of Connaught were actually rising! Upon which Lord Chesterfield took out his watch and composedly observed, "It is nine o'clock, and certainly time for them to rise; I therefore believe your news to be true." All this time he was watching over the peace of the country with Argus eyes, and the slightest

movement towards disaffection was observed.

This pleasantry of manner in these instances, as any one can see, was the result of the shrewdest observation and the deepest reflection. Some of the jokes of this perfumed milliner Lord (as many suppose him to have been) while in Ireland, have been preserved, but they are too coarse and indecorous for publication nowadays.

But notwithstanding his appreciation of coarse jokes, no man ever whispered in the ear of woman compliments of more exquisite delicacy than he. Good nature without wit, grace, or refinement, will not enable a person to bestow compliments well. A striking illustration of this fact is afforded in the case of the Mayor of London, who in his address to Queen Elizabeth told her that the Spanish Armada got the wrong sow by the ear when they attacked her.

Chesterfield's reputation now rests chiefly on his letters to his son; when he lived it was based on what he was, without them.

Of course it was much more splendid then, than it has been since. It is not likely that Chesterfield placed any undue stress upon manners, but he had for a son a dull-witted, awkward, clumsy clown, and undoubtedly few sons ever needed more the cultivation of graceful manners than he. Hence his father's earnest endeavors to force them upon him, but all without avail. The following lines are very much to the point:

Vile Stanhope-Demons blush to tell
In twice two hundred places,
Has shown his son the road to h―,
Escorted by the Graces:

But little did the ungenerous lad
Concern himself about them;
For base, degenerate, meanly bad,
He sneaked to hell without them.

The difference between Dorset and Rochester illustrates well what kind of a foundation agreeable manners require. Rochester was one of the most brilliant wits and poets of the court of Charles II.; but he lacked that good nature and broad sympathy with his fellow-men which made Dorset so attractive. We cannot forbear quoting Macaulay's description of the latter. Although the reader is undoubtedly familiar with it, he will not object, we think, to have his attention often called to it.

"None of the English nobles enjoyed a larger measure of public favor than Charles Sackville, carl of Dorset. He was, indeed, a remarkable man. In his

youth he had been one of the most notorious libertines of the wild time which followed the Restoration. He had been the terror of the city watch, had passed many nights in the round house, and had at least once occupied a cell in Newgate. His passion for Betty Morrice and for Nell Gwynn, who always called him her Charles the First, had given no small amusement and scandal to the town. Yet, in the midst of follies and vices, his courageous spirit, his fine understanding, and his natural goodness of heart had been conspicuous. Men said that, the excesses in which he indulged were common between him and the whole race of gay young cavaliers, but that his sympathy with human suffering and the generosity with which he made reparation to those whom his freaks had injured were all his own. His associates were astonished by the distinction which the public made between him and them. 'He may do what he chooses,' said Wilmot; "he is never in the wrong.' The judgment of the world became still more favorable to Dorset when he had been sobered by time and marriage. His graceful manners, his brilliant conversation, his soft heart, his open hand, were universally praised. No day passed, it was said, in which some distressed family had not reason to bless his name. And yet, with all his good nature, such was the keenness of his wit, that scoffers whose sarcasm all the town feared, stood in craven fear of the sarcasm of Dorset."

The manners of Charles the First on the scaffold, and of his son Charles the Second on his deathbed, both did much to atone for the errors of their lives. How much kindness of heart and philosophical magnanimity the latter exhibited when he begged pardon of his courtiers for being such an unconscionable time dying.

Chesterfield, in his old age, called his daily drive through the streets the rehearsal of his funeral, and used to say of Lord Tyrawley and himself: "Tyrawley and I have been dead these two years, but we don't choose to have it known."

The loss of sight was added to his other miseries; but he retained his memory and his politeness to his latest breath. Only half an hour before he died, Mr. Dayrolles came to see him. and the earl had just strength enough to out in a gasp faint voice from his bed-"Give Dayrolles a chair." "His good breeding," said his physician, "only quits him with his life." He was in the 79th year of his age when he died.

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a former notice of this subject, we gave a brief sketch of the general principles of the historical study of the natural records of our planet, couched in such simple language as might convey some idea of the scope and interest of the pursuit, without appalling the reader with names and terms associated in most minds with a strong impression of dulness and obscurity.

Whether justly or unjustly, geology has won a very dry reputation with the world at large, and is often regarded as a pursuit appropriate only to those "slow coaches" which can succeed in nothing usually deemed attractive or interesting. The sly hit at its students in Vanity Fair, where, after rendering full tribute to the merits of Mrs. Eagles, that "woman without a flaw in her character and with a house in Portman Square," the author stoops for an instant to characterize her conjugal appendage as "a quiet old gentleman not tall enough to reach any body's ears, and with a taste for geology;" is perhaps a fair indication of the estimation in which "polite society" holds that small class of persons indulging tastes similar to those of Mr. Eagles. Certainly the philosopher blowing soap-bubbles was not a better subject for ridicule than a formal professor, toiling with hammer and basket " 'up hill and down dale, knocking chucky-stones to pieces to see how the world was made," and in the minds perhaps of most, the speculations of the erudite and enthusiastic laird of Monkbarns seem authentic compared to those of the geologist.

Perhaps all this is mainly the fault of the philosophers themselves, whose socalled elementary books on the subject are often admirably calculated to quench curiosity and repel investigation. We remember well a course of geology in our junior year at college, and have still a strong recollection of the precise definitions and angular diagrams of De la Beche's epitome of the science; under the influence of which all interest formerly aroused by a residence where fossils were so abundant that every stone was marked by their mystic forms, was fairly extinguished. The only application ever made of our learning was when, on some Saturday ramble, we amused each other by "airing our vocabulary," and detecting the most remarkable "uplifts,' 99.66 faults, contortions," and "schistose cleavages" in the slaty banks of the Mohawk. The

cloud of dulness shed over the science by the college manual was afterwards dissipated by a very different book. In accompanying (in imagination) Dr. Mantell along the chalky cliffs of the channel or the inland quarries of the Oolite, to pick from among the rocky debris the moulded imprints of the tenants of the ancient oceans; and tracing back the chain of natural causes until the wonderful facts were made to explain themselves by a yet stranger history, the true char

acter of the science was understood. We realized at once the fascinating interest which it owes to the manner in which its best established truths are connected with unexplained phenomena; and to the blending of the satisfaction resulting from truth attained, with the eager curiosity excited by mysteries yet unresolved.

A not less admirable guide is the explorer of the opposite extremity of Great Britain, as will be confessed by every reader who with his mind's eye follows Hugh Miller, along the cliffs of Cromarty and among the isles of Orkney, scanning closely the stony layers for the organic remains which their waste reveals, yet constantly awake to the grand scenery which surrounds him. He seems to rest on some high hillside ledge, forgetting his immediate pursuit while looking across the Moray Frith on mountains crowned with the snows of spring and draped with the heather, so that "all above is white, and all below is purple;" or gazes in the evening "on the three great Rossshire hills, while the sunset lights up their horizontal strata showing like courses of masonry in gigantic pyramids;" and he reflects how vast were the masses of which these are merely the detached relics. He works with the author among the seaweed on the rocky beach, eagerly breaking the nodules and finding in each some before unknown organic fragment, and desists only when the rising tide drives him away, to spread out on some huge boulder the spoils of the morning, and from the various fragments to restore vague outlines of the vanished forms to which they once belonged. He traces the layer which contains these relics deep into the country, buried under hundreds of feet of rock in the walls of the ravine of Eathie, but disdains not to stop on the search, and to recount the fairy legend which haunts the glen.

Such writers redeem their science, and prove that Bulwer was far from right

marks on the granite block are the last traces of that toil which reduced it from its parent mass. The surface which we inhabit is but a temporary one, constantly changing for a lower. The powers which have reduced it thus low, will, in a far less period than that past of which we trace the record, level it so that it shall

"Sink, like a seaweed, into whence it rose,"

till the salt billows shall again sweep across it, and the continent shall be obliterated as have been the estates of the Saxon earl where are now the Goodwin sands.

Enough of these considerations of the mere earthy material of the Great Cemetery. We are in this corner of it, on this actual upland farm, in the town of Manlius and county of Onondaga, to disinter some of the relics of living things which were buried when the foundations of these monumental hills were laid.

We turn from the broad landscape, and follow up the bed of a shallow brook which comes down the slope from the south, emerging from a ravine which it has worn in the black slate of which the hill is formed. We ascend its bed for a hundred yards, our feet plashing on its gravelly bottom, and our hats swept by pendent boughs of birch and elm growing from the slaty banks. A hundred yards within the edge of the hill,-and we come to a cascade. A layer of hard, black limestone, three feet thick, lies here in the midst of the soft slates, its edge projecting like a course of stone masonry from a brick wall. Its greater hardness causes it so to outwear the shales in which it is imbedded, that they are swept clean from its upper surface, and excavated below into a shallow cave or recess behind the falling waters,-a miniature illustration of the structure of Niagara itself.

This hard layer is one of the most crowded repositories of the Great Cemetery. The slates both above and below are barren of fossils, and seem to have been deposited by waters almost destitute of animal life. But the limestone contains the proof of an epoch of a very different character.

On breaking its upper surface, we find fragments filled with tiny shells, which a casual observer would compare to those of snails. They bear, however, in their peculiar spiral form, their markings and their indented aperture, characteristics which prove their affinity with a family of small carnivorous shellfish inhabiting VOL. III.-39

the ocean. If we call them Pleurotomaria, the general reader will be no wiser, but naturalists will know at once what they are like. They are perfect in every particular, though bound in a rock of the hardest texture. A pound of stone will often show a dozen projecting from its ragged sides. From most of them the shell itself breaks away under the hammer, or adheres to the investing stone, when there is left only a smooth spiral coil, which is an interior cast of the shell, formed by the hardening of the slime which filled it. A few specimens however, rescued in perfection, preserve the entire shell in its place, its jetty surface marked with every original line and furrow, more distinctly under the magnifier than to the naked eye.

But these are on the surface of the rock. Let us raise a layer, and see what other relics it may yield us, of those forms of life which swam or drifted above the depths in which its particles were accumulated.

It is a hard, tough stone, and we require the use of crowbar, sledge and gunpowder, to effect any considerable inpression upon it. By dint of much prying and pounding, we are able to loosen a block of perhaps three or four square feet, and nearly a foot in thickness. As it is torn up from the dark bed which it has occupied so long, and thrown over against the bank, the dullest eye must be arrested by the figure in bas-relief which shows upon its lower surface. The outlines of a large coiled shell are perfectly defined, and no one who has seen a nautilus can fail to recognize a closely allied form. There is the coil, beginning at the centre in a tiny circle, and expanding at every volution until it terminates in a wide mouth with a gracefully curved margin. There is the substance of the shell, its colors indeed lost, and itself converted into a black, crystalline, stony mass, but preserving its original thickness and form, and showing as distinctly as ever its undulating striations. And at places where the outer walls of this old tenement are broken away, show the waving, sinuous edges of those remarkable partitions

which divide its interior into two or three score of successive cells, forming that admirable float by which its tenant was enabled at will to swim basking on the sunny surface of the deep, or to sink to the bottom. These cells are now all filled with solid stone; the outer chambers usually with the same material with the enveloping rock, which must have been pressed in while semi-fluid through