Though greater bodies made the louder noise,

Yet in the lesser is a voice,

A voice, though still,

That doth the mind with admiration fill, And gives to man the product of his will. The insect world, when truly known, Doth both his skill and glory too, declare, They a Creator own

No less than doth the Sun, Their Rise, their Life, their End, Sparks of wise pow'r comprehend."

Natural history, in fact, consists of two distinct divisions. The first comprehends the classification of the various races of animals-the description of their external form-and the formation of a correct and applicable nomenclature; the second, and without doubt by much the more important, includes the description of their manners, habits, and uses, whether in the economy of nature, or, as subservient to the benefit of mankind, of their food, growth, habitations, and modes of rearing their young-an account of their hybernation, migration, and other most singular instincts-and a comprehensive view of their mutual relations, and their physical and geographical distribution over the earth's surface.

In regard to the former, however useful it may be as an accessory to the delightful pursuits to which it leads, if considered in relation to itself alone, few branches of human acquirement can be said to be more tedious, mechanical, and imperfect, or more devoid of real interest and utility. No mind, unless blinded by prejudice rendered callous by habit and the force of early example-or naturally destitute of the power of indulging in extended and enlightened views-can pursue it to the exclusion of the other. It exhibits no new views of the economy of nature-it makes no adequate impression of the power, and the goodness, and the wisdom, of Providence, -it conducts neither directly or indirectly to the exposition of final causes -it affects neither the fancy, the imagination, nor the heart, and exists of itself, and by itself, unconnected with other studies of a more intellectual nature" with no rainbow tinge to allure our gaze by its beauty-not one celestial hue to lighten the dull materiality of its aspect."

The latter division of the science, however, is fortunately of a very different nature. It presents a widely

extended and ever-varying field of enjoyment to those whose minds are capable of being excited by the sublime perfections of nature. To him who regards it with a philosophical eye, it is indeed a source of the purest pleasure. In the depth of the most secluded valleys, the resources of his mind never fail him; he feels not alone on the mountain top, though enveloped in mist and vapour; amidst the toil, and the bustle, and the fever of a city, he is calm and serene. A still and placid state of mind is the necessary result of an attentive consideration of the facts of natural history; and nothing proves, in so pleasing and beautiful a manner, the existence of an Omnipotent Being, as a careful examination of the works of nature.

Natural history, indeed, in the true and liberal acceptation of the term, has been the study of the most elevated minds in every age. To the poet it holds out many and great inducements, as one of the noblest storehouses of the imagination; and the regard which has been bestowed upon it by that enlightened class of men, demonstrates its power over the mind, and its consequent value and importance as a study.

In fine, as long as the human mind remains pure and unsullied-as long as it is excited by what is beautiful in simplicity and truth-as long as it delights to dwell on the sublime productions of Omnipotence, contrasted with the feeble efforts of art-it will derive pleasure and instruction from the study of nature. P. F. Edinburgh, 7th June 1817.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

MR EDITOR, In the Meteorological Table for Edinburgh, given by you, I perceive the observations are made at 8 o'clock in the morning and 8 o'clock in the evening. Permit me to say, that during at least eight months in the year, this will give us the temperature of the night, and not of the day and night combined; and, judging from my own observations here, it will exhibit the average temperature of Edinburgh eight or ten degrees too low. The average difference between the heat of the day from 10 to 5, and the heat at

8 in the morning and 8 in the evening, will be considerably greater.

To obtain an accurate statement of the temperature of a place, the observations should be made every hour; but this is attended with so much trouble and inconvenience, that it will in a very few cases be attempted. Four times a day will be accurate enough for comparisons: at 6 or 7 in the morning, noon, 4 in the afternoon, and 10 or 12 at night. But even three will do very well; and then we should substitute 1 or 2 in the afternoon for the middle period. I limit my observations to three, but circumstances generally prevent me from making the middle one till 5, which is rather too late.

I have further to observe, that the Calton, which is stated to be 350 feet above the level of the sea, is too elevated. The average temperature of that hill, I should think, will be some degrees below the general average temperature of Edinburgh. London, 9th August 1817.

C. P.

FRAGMENT OF A LITERARY ROMANCE.

(Concluded from page 471.)
CHAP. II.

"A DREAM-a golden dream-what fancies wait

Upon our sleep and yet I wake; they are Apparitions."

I FOUND that the directions of my Conductress, as to my toilet, had been

* This is taken from the Doubtful Heir, one of Shirley's plays. Few writers of that age possess greater poetical merit than Shirley. He has not certainly the ingenuity of plot, and astonishing variety of character, which, in addition to his higher beauties, we find in his great contemporary Shakspeare; but in the pathos, melody, and eloquence, of his single speeches, he is unrivalled. It is in no common degree delightful to peruse those authors of this age, who, in the words of Spenser, lead us "To the pure well of Englishe undefiled," before the language was corrupted by that unnatural mixture of foreign terms, and far-fetched and borrowed phrases, which have lately so profusely flowed into it. Even in common conversation it has become fashionable to have constant reference to French expletives. This is unworthy of our national spirit, and a deep indignity to the manly language of the English people.

most scrupulously obeyed. I was conducted into a superb apartment, the walls of which were covered with mirrors, shewing me my own ill-apparelled figure in every possible attitude and direction—in front, profile, back view, side view, foreshortened, but all equally true and mortifying. My shabby habiliments were soon whirled off by my aerial little friends the Peris, not without many significant nods and sly looks at each other, as they discovered the holes which had before been ingeniously concealed by my slippers, or the patches which now for the first time emerged into open day. My new dress it is needless minutely to describe. It was rich, full, and flowing. I was literally "clothed in purple and fine linen;" and after the toilet was completed, one of my winged domestics, hovering above my head, sprinkled me over with perfume which she scattered from a little censer. When I stood up, inhaled the delicious fragrance which was emitted, and perceived myself reflected as before on every different side, I felt a kind of complacency and satisfaction, which was a striking contrast to the mortifying reflections my former appearance had created. It is difficult to express the contempt with which I kicked into a corner my former thread-bare apparel.

It was now pretty well advanced in the evening, and the sun was just setting behind the mountains, which enclosed the valley, as I set out for Jovius' villa, under the guidance of one of my Peris. The scene which now presented itself was consummately beautiful. The romantic peaks of the mountains were partially gilded with his beams, whilst their broad bases lay buried in shade. The lake itself was, in the words of the greatest master of romantic painting,

"One burnish'd sheet of living gold." The spires and colonnades, which have been before described, and the lofty trees which surrounded them as they caught the level rays, shone with a lustre, which was finely contrasted with the blue and shadowy haze which enveloped the rest of the landscape. has been as often pronounced stale Sunset has been often described, and and trite-ground, by the critics. Yet to myself, if there is any time in which Nature appears more lovely

and her language more deep and devotional than another, it is at sunset. But I must proceed with my narration. As I continued my way, I perceived, carelessly seated beneath a tree, whose foliage overhung the road, on a mossy eminence at its root, a figure, who, by the intentness with which he gazed on the scene before him, appeared certainly none of those who affect to be tired of sunset. He seemed wholly engrossed in his own contemplations, -and if he moved, it was only to raise his head to heaven in an attitude of deep thought, and with an expression in which there was a mixture of triumph and devotion. There was something in the air and appearance of this Solitary which rivetted my attention. I stopt instinctively, and, pointing to him, turned to the little Spirit who walked beside me. It evidently had not perceived him, for immediately on doing so, it put its hands to its lips, motioning me to be silent; and coming close up, "That," said she," is one of the greatest men in our valley, and we are under the strictest orders never to intrude upon him in his solitary hours. Here is a spot, however, from which you may see him clearly without disturbing him. That is William Shakspeare.' At this magic name it is impossible to describe my sensations. Shakspeare, the immortal, the imperishable Shakpeare, was before me. Had all the emperors in the world appeared, I could have turned my back on them. It was indeed a moment worth centuries of after existence, which showed me Nature in all her loveliness, and Shakspeare, her own anointed, seated like her high priest in the temple of her beauty. I felt, as I approached nearer the mount on which he lay, that I was on holy ground; and as I passed by in silence, fearing to awake him from his profound meditation, it was with feelings little short of adoration, I could not help often turning back, fearful that I might have seen him for the last time. At length he arose, and, winding slowly down the mount, disappeared in the woods. As my eye gazed after him, the Peri observed "that I need not look so wistfully, for I should certainly see him at Jovius' root. He and old crusty Ben Jonson will be there to a certainty, and you may chance also to find his other favourite cronies, Shirley and ugly Will Davenant."

As we walked forward, I perceived, on one side of the road, surrounded by woods, a large turretted building, from which, as I approached, I could distinctly hear sounds of such deep complaint, and shrill and high-toned objurgation, as convinced me that no scene of merriment was concealed within them. "That," said the Peri, " is our Bridewell, or Literary House of Correction, and the murmurs you hear proceed from those unfortunate authors whose literary crimes have there condemned them to a temporary punishment. We have no time fully to examine it, but we may just take a peep into the wood, and trust to what first offers."

As we entered, I saw, seated at some distance from me, a man, who appeared to be writing something much against his will. He took every opportunity of stopping in his labour,-bit his nails, tore his quill, made various contumelious lounges with his pen at his inkstand, and exhibited every possible indication of impatience and disgust. But whenever he stopt, two little fiends, in the shape of printers' devils, who stood on each side of his table, admonished him, by a stroke of their whips, to proceed. In his countenance there was an expression of great talent, but seasoned with no common dose of malignity and derision. At some distance, and seemingly smiling at his misery, stood three aged-looking persons. One in particular I remarked, as in his appearance one of the most striking-looking men I ever beheld. His countenance, and indeed his whole demeanour, was that of an ancient Roman. It was rendered more venerable by a long beard, which reached almost to his middle; and his figure, which was considerably above the middle size, and enveloped in flowing drapery, recalled to my mind those white-stoled sages who wandered in the groves of the Academy. I thought that, as the unfortunate scribe looked at this remarkable person, his countenance assumed a tone of darker malignity, and his unwillingness to write evidently brought more reiterated admonitions from the devils at his elbow. The old man, on the other hand, looked on him with an expression which convinced me that his feelings were more 66 in sorrow than in anger."

"That first culprit, yonder," said the Peri,

whom you see "is the fa