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RECREATIONS IN NATURAL
PHILOSOPHY.

WE propose, under the above title, to present our readers with a series of very popular papers, on various subjects connected with natural philosophy. As our object is to present the young reader with an easy and agreeable mode of passing his time, and of turning it to useful account, even in the midst of his sports, we shall avoid every appearance of scientific difficulty, which may remind him of work instead of play. Accordingly, we shall adopt no particular arrangement of subjects, but write, from time to time, on such as most readily occur to us; and which we think capable of being best understood, or most likely to afford pleasure. Our experiments will be of such a nature as to be easily repeated, without having recourse to that very expensive gentleman, the philosophical instrument maker. We therefore begin by requesting the young experimentalist to provide himself with some of that cheap and abundant blessing-water-for we are going to talk to him of

I. THE SIPHON.

MOST persons who inhabit a city or large town, such as London, have seen a distiller's wagon in the streets, with men drawing off spirits from casks into copper vessels, through bent copper tubes; most persons, we say, have seen this; but very few understand the curious law by which fluids admit of being removed from one vessel into another in this way. If we look at the manner in which it is done, we find that the pipe ascends from the upper part of the cask; and is not inserted into the lower part; and, in that respect, differs from all our common notions as to the manner in which liquids move.

Why is it that the water will not flow out of a tea-kettle while on the are, into our tea-pots, unless, by applying our hand to the handle, we bring the spout of the kettle to a lower level? It is that water, under general circumstances, will not ascend, but will constantly strive to attain a lower position. The tinman, therefore, who, without being much of a philosopher, perfectly well knows that such is the property of liquids, makes the mouth of the spout of the kettle higher than the body of the kettle, in order that, although full of water, it may not overflow. The manner in which cocks are fixed into our cisterns and water-butts, the care which we take to prevent any holes being made in the sides of a vessel containing water, &c., all show that we constantly act from a knowledge of the circumstance, that water will descend whenever an opportunity for so doing occurs; but that it shows no tendency to ascend. How is it, then, that the distiller is enabled to draw liquor from a cask by a pipe fixed into the top of the cask instead of into the bottom? This we will now

answer.

The air which we breathe, and by which we are always surrounded, is a material substance, although we cannot see it. A gallon of it weighs about a quarter of an ounce, and presses on other bodies in that proportion. A milkmaid, while carrying her pail upon her head, when going to milk cows, thinks that she has an empty pail upon her head, and only bears the weight of the pail: but such is not the case; she carries a pailful of air besides the pail itself, the air weighing from an ounce to two ounces. It is very true that this is a small amount of weight; but it produces an important effect when witnessed in the grand processes of nature. The atmosphere is about fifty miles in height from the earth's surface; but it gets so much thinner or lighter as we ascend, that if the whole were of the same density as at the

earth's surface, a mass of air only five miles high would weigh as much as that of the whole fifty miles now does, as it is really constituted.

Now this weight acts as a pressure upon all bodies at the earth's surface; and it is precisely this pressure which makes water ascend in the siphon or bent tube of the distiller. The shorter leg of the siphon is, in the first intance, inserted into the bung-hole of the cask, the other end being closed by means of a cock. A small tube is inserted at the side of the siphon above the cock, and passes a little way into it. To the free end of this small tube the man applies his lips, and sucks out the air, the spirit in the cask being pressed upon by the atmospheric air, a portion of it rises up the tube, passes over the bent part, and falls down to the closed end of the siphon; on opening the cock the spirit flows out, and the cask would be almost entirely emptied of spirit, unless the flow were regulated by the turning of the cock at the long end of the siphon.

Let us illustrate this by a figure. The annexed cut represents a vessel, with a siphon F G H inserted Fig. 1. Fig. 2.

E

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H

in one side of it. In fig. 1 the vessel is rather more than half filled with water, and in fig. 2 it is nearly full. The pipe E we will supose to be for the purpose of conveying water into the vessel. Now as soon as there is enough water in the vessel to reach up to the point F, that is, to the mouth of the siphon, the water begins to ascend the tube; and if the vessel gets so full that the water is as high as the top of the siphon, as in fig. 2, it will immediately begin to flow down the outer leg of the siphon, and escape at the end ; but so long as the height of the water is, as in fig. 1, less than the height of the siphon, the water will not flow through the tube, provided the bent part of the siphon contain air; because that air will act on the water in the inner leg of the siphon, as much as the exterior air acts on the water in the vessel, and will prevent it from flowing outwards. But if the siphon, before it be introduced into the vessel, be inverted and filled with water, the water from the vessel will flow through the siphon, even if there were only just enough water to cover the mouth of the siphon at F. If the conduit pipes F and E be of the same bore, that is, of the same breadth or diameter, as the siphons, the water will flow out as quickly as it flows in. If the conduit-pipe be of larger bore than the siphon, the latter will not draw off the water quick enough, and the vessel will soon overflow. If the conduit-pipe be of smaller bore than the siphon, the vessel will be emptied down to F; air will then enter the siphon, and no more water will flow from it until the level of the water in the vessel and in the siphon has reached to G. All these conditions, however, are subject to modifications depending upon the rapidity with which the water flows into the cistern from the conduit-pipes.

We now understand the action of the distiller's siphon. The inner leg of the siphon dips into the liquid in the cask; and the air which presses on the liquid in the cask forces it up the siphon, because the latter, being full of lir uid, cannot allow the air

to press in an opposite direction. It must always be understood, however, that the mouth of the outer leg of the siphon must be at a lower level than the surface of the liquid in the vessel, or the liquid will not flow through the siphon.

This property of water is the source of one of the grandest, as well as one of the most valuable, phenomena of nature: we mean the formation of springs and fountains. The rain which descends from the clouds, falls, some on hilly districts, and other portions on plains and valleys. That which falls on hills is partially absorbed by the soil, and a number of minute streams combine to form a reservoir, which frequently exists in the bosom of a mountain. From this reservoir streams descend through the sandy strata, following the windings of those kinds of soil, or earth, or gravel, which will admit them to pass most easily. These little streams may thus descend and wind, until they arrive under the surface of a neighbouring valley: when, if the soil above them be porous, they will rise to the surface and exhibit themselves to us under the form of bubbling streams. The reason why the water rises to the surface is, that all the little channels leading from the reservoir to the spring, form collectively a sort of siphon turned upside down, because there is a continuous stream of water from one end of the siphon to the other.

If the soil on the surface of the valley lie on a chalky foundation, the little streams will probably be unable to penetrate upwards through the chalk; but if a well be dug at that part, a hole or passage is prepared for the water, through which it will ascend. If the reservoir in the neighbouring mountain be under the level of the valley, the stream will form a well; but if it be at a higher level, the stream will form a fountain, because the water will strive to reach as high a level at the valley as at the mountain. The poet Thomson, in some beautiful lines, thus describes the above phenomenon :

These roving mists, that constant now begin
To smoke along the hilly country; these,
With weightier rains and melted Alpine snows,
The mountain-cisterns fill, those ample stores
Of water, scooped among the hollow rocks,
Whence gush the streams, the ceaseless fountains play,
And their unfailing wealth the rivers draw.
Some sages say, that, where the numerous wave
For ever lashes the resounding shore,
Drilled through the sandy stratum, every way
The waters with the sandy stratum rise;
Amid whose angles infinitely strained,
They joyful leave their jaggy salts behind,
And clear and sweeter as they soak along :
Nor stops the restless fluid; mounting still,
Though oft amidst the irriguous vale it springs;
But to the mountain courted by the sand,
That leads it darkling on in faithful maze,
Far from the parent-main, it boils again
Fresh into day; and all the glittering hill
Is bright with spouting rills.

The property which enables liquids to flow from one vessel into another through a siphon, was taken advantage of to form a rude kind of clock, before our present admirable watches and clocks were invented. To explain how this was done, we must first consider another mode of attaining the same object. Fig. 3, is a Clepsydra, or Water-Clock. It consists of an upright hollow tube, with a little hole in the bottom, and an open vessel placed underneath. The hole in the bottom of the tube is so small, that the tube-full of water takes twelve hours to flow out. The tube is filled with water at a certain hour, and when the water has all flowed out, it indicates that twelve hours, or half a day, have elapsed. But how shall we know when one, or two, or three hours have

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elapsed? If the water flowed through the hole with a constant rapidity, it would be suffiFig. 3 cient to divide the height of the tube into twelve equal parts; and we should know that when one of those divisions was emptied, one hour had elapsed; when two divisions were emptied, two hours had elapsed, and so on. But such is not the case: the water flows more rapidly when the tube is nearly full than when it is nearly empty; indeed, so great is the difference, that if the tube were twelve inches high, almost two inches of water would flow out in the first hour, and only onetwelfth part of an inch in the last hour It therefore became necessary, in order to make. this water-clock indicate correct hourly intervals, to divide the height of the tube into twelve unequal divisions, the smallest being at the bottom, and increasing upwards in length according to a certain law of increase; this we see roughly indicated in our engraving.

Fig. 4.

But it was not always easy to graduate the tube in the exact proportion desired; and, in order to obviate the necessity of so doing, the principle of the siphon was employed, as in the annexed figure, fig. 4. Here DE is an open vessel for containing water, and ABC is a siphon, with the outer opening c at a lower level than the inner opening A. On filling the vessel with water, and immersing the shorter leg of the siphon in it, the water will flow through the siphon, and escape at the lower orifice c, provided, of course, the siphon be properly prepared by being full of water before the short leg is immersed in the vessel. In this way

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the vessel may be completely emptied of its water We have now to inquire whether the water flows at an equal velocity through the siphon at all times; for if such is not the case, we shall be as far off as ever from obtaining a correct time-measurer. Now such is not the case, unless the lower orifice c of the siphon is at a constant distance below the surface of the fluid in the vessel: as that distance increases, so does the rapidity of the flow through the siphon increase. In order, therefore, to keep this distance always equal, the shorter leg of the siphon is fixed through a flat piece of cork, which floats on the surface of the water; so that as the water sinks the siphon sinks with it, and the consequence is, that the water flows with a constantly equal rapidity through the siphon.

This we perceive is precisely the object which we desired: the vessel loses equal portions of water in equal times. If, therefore, the height of the vessel be divided into twelve equal parts, either one of the divisions will be emptied of its water in an hour; for the diameter of the siphon, and the size of the vessel, are so adjusted, as to cause the whole of the water to flow out in twelve hours. If the vessel is filled with water at noon, one-twelfth will have flowed out by one o'clock, and the surface will be at 1, as in the figure. We have represented the cork-float at between the levels of 7 and 8; it is thus indicated that nearly two-thirds of the water have flowed out, and that nearly two-thirds of twelve hours have elapsed in the flowing, which indicates likewise that the time is now between seven and eight o'clock.

COMPANIED BY ACTIVE VIRTUE.

These are some of the means by which our fore- | DANGERS OF MORAL SENTIMENT UNACfathers measured the flight of time; but the almost magical performance of a modern watch or clock has completely driven the water-clock out of the field; and it is only now known as a curiosity—as a relic of ancient ingenuity.

The reader may see the action of the siphon by taking a bent tube and placing one end into a vessel of water, and inserting the other end into his mouth; on withdrawing the air the water will pass over the bent part of the tube into his mouth, and if the latter be removed, the water will continue to flow until the vessel is empty, provided the outer end of the tube be always below the level of the water in the vessel.

THE HEAD OF THE ELEPHANT.

A VULGAR admiration is excited by seeing the spidermonkey pick up a straw or a piece of wood, with its tail; or the elephant searching the keeper's pocket with his trunk. Now, fully to examine the peculiarity of the elephant's structure, that is to say, from its huge mass to deduce the necessity for its trunk, would lead us through a train of very curious observations to a more correct notion of that appendage, and therefore to truer admiration of it. We find that one of the grinders of the elephant weighs seventeen pounds; and of these there are four in the skull, besides the rudiments of others. We next observe how

admirably these grinding-teeth are suited to sustain great pressure and attrition. The jaws must be provided to give deep socketing to such teeth: and they must have space and strength to give lodgment and attachment to muscles sufficient for moving this grinding-machine. The animal must have its defence too. Now each of the tusks sometimes weighs as much as one hundred and thirteen pounds : and being projected, they may be considered as if placed at the end of a lever. If this enormous and heavy head had hung on the end of a neck having anything like the proportion in its length, which we see, for example, in the horse, it would inordinately have increased the pressure on the anterior extremities; and more than four times the expenditure of muscular power would have been necessary to the motion of the head. What has been the resource of nature?

There are seven vertebræ of the neck in this animal, the same number that we find in the giraffe; but they are compressed in a very remarkable manner, so as to bring the head close upon the body: and thus the head is, as it were, a part of the body, without the interposition of the neck. But the animal must feed: and as its head cannot reach the ground, it must possess an instrument like a hand in the proboscis, to minister to the mouth, to grasp the herbage, and lift it to its lips. Thus we perceive that the form of the elephant, as far as regards the peculiar character in the shoulders and head, the closeness of the head to the body, the possession of the proboscis, and the defence of that proboscis by the projecting tusks, is a necessary consequence of the weight of the head, and, indeed, of the great size of the animal,-BELL on the Hand.

MORNING SOUNDS.

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried

In the lone valley; echoing far and wide

The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees; the linnet's lay of love;
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrims bark;
Crowned with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs;
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower; And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.-—— BEATTIE.

Or the various appearances of melancholy weakness in youth, none is more general or more fatal to every duty or hope of the Christian, than that, where the youthful taste is exalted above the condition in which life is to be passed. The faithful parent, or the wise instructor of the young, will ever assiduously accommodate the ideas of excellence to the actual circumstances and the probable scenes in which their future years are to be engaged; and every condition of life undoubtedly affords opportunities for the highest excellence of which our nature is susceptible. If, on the other hand, these hours are neglected,—if the fancy of youth be suffered to expand into the regions of visionary perfection,-if compositions which nourish all these chimerical opinions are permitted to hold an undue share in the studies of the young, if, what is far more, no employment of moral labour and intellectual activity are afforded them to correct this progressive indolence, and give strength and energy to their opening minds, there is much danger that the seeds of irremediable evil are sown, and that the future harvest of life will be only feebleness, and contempt, and sorrow.

If, in the first place, it is to the common duties of life they advance, how singularly unprepared are they for their discharge! In all ranks and conditions, these duties are the same; everywhere sacred in the eyes of God and man; everywhere requiring activity, and firmness, and perseverance of mind; and everywhere only to be fulfilled by the deep sense of religious obligation. For such scenes, however, of common trial and of universal occurrence, the characters we are considering are ill prepared. Their habits have given them no energy or activity; their studies have enlightened their imaginations, but not warmed their hearts; their anticipations of action have been upon a romantic theatre, not upon the humble dust of mortal life.

It is the fine-drawn scenes of visionary distress to which they have been accustomed, not the plain circumstances of common wretchedness. It is the momentary exertions of generosity or greatness which have elevated their fancy, not the long and patient struggle of pious duty. It is before an admiring world that they have hitherto conceived themselves to act, not in solitude and obscurity, amid the wants of poverty, the exigences of disease, or the deep silence of domestic sorrow. Is it wonderful that characters of this enfeebled kind should recoil from the duties to which they are called, and which appear to them in colours so unexpected ?—that they should consider the world as a gross and vulgar scene, unworthy of their interest, and its common obligations as something beneath them to perform; and that, with an affectation of proud superiority, they should wish to retire from a field in which they have the presumption to think it is fit only for vulgar minds to combat?

If these are the opinions which they form on their entrance upon the world and all its stern realities, it is the "fountain from which many waters of bitterness will flow." Youth may pass in indolence and imagination, but life must necessarily be active; and what must be the probable character of that life which begins with disgust at the simple but inevitable duties to which it is called, it is not difficult to determine.

From hence come many classes of character with which the world presents us, in what we call its higher scenes, and which it is impossible to behold without a sentiment of pity, as well as of indignation,

in some, the perpetual affectation of sentiment, and the perpetual absence of its reality; in others, the warm admiration of goodness, and the cold and indignant performance of their own most sacred duties; in some, that childish belief of their own superior refinement, which leads them to withdraw from the common scenes of life and of business, and to distinguish themselves only by capricious opinions and fantastic manners; and in others, of a bolder spirit, the proud rejection of all the duties and decencies which belong only to common men,-the love of that distinction in vice which they feel themselves unable to attain in virtue, and the gradual but too certain advance to the last stages of guilt, of impiety, and of wretchedness. Such are sometimes the "issues" of a once promising youth! and to these degrees of folly or of guilt, let the parents and the instructors of the young ever remember, that those infant hearts may come, which have not been "kept with all diligence," and early exercised in virtuous activity.

Amid these delusions of fancy, life, meanwhile, with all its plain and serious business is passing; their contempories, in every line, are starting before them in the road of honour, of fortune, or of usefulness; and nothing is now left them but to concentrate all the vigour of their minds to recover the ground which they have lost. But if this last energy be wanting-if what they "would," they yet fail to do," what, alas! can be the termination of the once ardent and aspiring mind, but ignominy and disgrace a heart dissatisfied with mankind and with itself; a conscience sickening at the review of what is passed; a failing fortune; a degraded character; and, what I fear is ever the last and the most frantic refuge of selfish and disappointed ambition,-infidelity and despair.

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It is ever painful to trace the history of human degradation, and it would even be injurious to religion and virtue to do it, if it were not at the same time to exhibit the means by which these evils may be prevented. Of the character which I have now attempted to illustrate, the origin may be expressed in one word: it is in the forgetfulness of duty, in the forgetfulness that every power, and advantage, and possession of our being, are only trusts committed to us for an end, not properties which we are to dispose of at pleasure; in the forgetfulness that all our imaginary virtues are "nothing worth," unless they spring from the genuine and permanent source of moral and religious obligation.

Wherever, indeed, we look around us upon general life, we may everywhere see, that nothing but the deep sense of religion can produce either consistency or virtue in human conduct. The world deceives us on one side, our imaginations on another,―our passions upon all. Nothing could save us; nothing, with such materials, could hold together even the fabric of society, but the preservation of that deep and instinctive sense of duty, which the Father of nature hath mercifully given to direct and illuminate us in every relation of life; which is "none other" than his own voice; to which all our other powers, if they aim either at wisdom or at virtue, must be subservient; and which leads us, if we listen to it, to everything for which we were called into being, either here or hereafter.-ALISON.

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THE NESTS OF WASPS. THE honeycomb of the bee is well known, and the instinct by which the insect has been taught to construct its curious dwelling, has been often commented upon. It is not so generally known that many species of wasps, who live in societies, prepare habitations for their young with a skill, little, if anything, inferior to that evinced by the bee.

The nest of the common wasp is constructed in the earth, the entrance to it is by a hole or gallery worked in, like the entrance to the burrow of a rabbit; this gallery seldom leads in a direct line to the nest, and its length is of course determined by the distance of the nest from the surface, but it appears to be never less than six inches, and seldom exceeds eighteen inches in length.

This gallery leads to a little subterranean town constructed with great regularity. It is surrounded by walls on all sides, the walls not being merely formed by the earth in which the hole is made, but by a substance somewhat resembling paper, consisting of layers, altogether about an inch and a half in thickness. (See fig. 1.) This outward envelope of the nest varies in form and size according to the species of wasp to which the nest belongs; the usual form is that of a lengthened ball, about eighteen inches long, and twelve or thirteen broad. The substance of which its covering is formed, as has already been said, more resembles paper than anything else; it is generally of an ashy-gray colour, of different shades; sometimes its surface appears as if formed of different coloured substances, applied in streaks or wavy lines, so as to have a marbled appearance. The surface of this covering is not smooth, nor does its substance appear solid, but it bears some resemblance to a number of bivalve shells cemented together with their convex sides outwards. When the structure is complete, it is provided with two door-ways, or openings, by one of which the insects enter, but they always leave the building by the other. These openings are only sufficient to allow one wasp to pass at a time, and so great is the regularity of their movements, that no confusion takes place by jostling each other, or by entering at the wrong hole. The interior of the building is occupied by several platforms of cells, placed horizontally, like the segments of a honeycomb, from which, however, they differ in many respects; they are formed of the same paper-like material as the covering of the nest. The segments of the honeycomb are composed of a double series of cells, opening on both their surfaces; the cells of the wasps are in a single series, the openings all on the under side, and the cells contain no honey or other substance, being merely intended for the reception of the eggs and young. These cells are most numerous, and Réaumur has calculated that as many as thirty thousand wasps might be produced in a nest in one year. The upper part of the cells being covered over, affords spacious platforms, on which the inhabitants move backwards and forwards. The intervals between these platforms are ornamented with numerous pillars, by which they are supported. In constructing the comb, the upper and smallest platform is first formed, the second is suspended in the air beneath it, being attached by the pillars. These pillars are formed of the same material as the rest of the structure; the platforms are also attached in some places to the sides of the nest.

If the wall of the nest is cut through its substance, it will be seen that it is formed of numerous layers, leaving small spaces between each layer; as many as sixteen of these have been counted in the covering of

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a wasp's nest. This structure of the covering appears to be resorted to on two accounts; it requires a smaller quantity of material, and is less easily penetrated by the rain, the intervals between the layers forming so many drains for the moisture.

The material, of which the whole building is formed, is brought home by each wasp in the shape of a small ball, which is carried between a pair of pincers, placed beneath the head, with which at other times the creature divides its food. Supposing a layer begun, which the wasp wishes to enlarge, it presses the little ball, which consists of a soft paste, against one end of the layer, there it adheres, and the wasp moves backwards; as it retreats, it leaves behind it a small portion of its load fixed to the edge of the layer, employing all this time its nippers, as a potter does his finger and thumb in applying more clay to the edge of a vessel. The wasp having moulded the whole of the ball into a flattened layer, advances quickly to the place where it was first attached, and seizing it in its nippers again, retreats quickly, moulding it into a still thinner layer; this operation is repeated four or five times in succession, until it is reduced to the thickness of a sheet of paper.

Réaumur, to whom we are indebted for our knowledge of the mode in which the wasps construct their nests, was, for a length of time, notwithstanding repeated observations, unable to ascertain from what source the insects obtained the substance which they brought home with them. At length accident gave him an opportunity of ascertaining the fact; and he thus explains the circumstance.

After I had discontinued my observations on this description of fly, a female wasp, of the species of which we are speaking, taught me that which I had been so long searching for without success. She placed herself near me on the frame-work of the window, which was open. I perceived that she remained at rest, on a spot from which it seemed impossible she could obtain any succulent substance; while the rest of her body was at rest, I remarked many movements of her head. My first idea was, that the wasp was detaching from the wood some substance with which to build, and I was right in my conjecture. I observed it with attention, and I noticed that while it appeared to be biting the wood, it moved its two teeth with great activity, and cut off extremely fine fibres from the wood. The wasp did not swallow what it removed, but added it to a small mass of the same material, which it had already collected between its legs. Presently it changed its place, but still continued to gnaw the wood, and add to its little stock. Being perfectly satisfied of the nature of its labour, I seized the wasp in the midst of its work. I found it loaded with nearly as much material as these flies are usually in the habit of carrying home to their nest, but it had not yet been formed into the shape of a ball: the

substance was not as moist as it is when the insect employs it in its labours.

On examining the mass, he found it to consist of numerous small fibres of wood, not chips, the insect having first loosened the fibres, and then bitten them off of the necessary length. Fragments of wood, like saw-dust, would not have answered the purpose of the wasp, they would not have interlaced so as to form a paper.

Subsequent observations proved to our author, that these insects were quite as well satisfied to take the fibres from ready-made paper, as to be at the trouble of stripping them from the wood. This he discovered by the noise made by a wasp while robbing the paper squares of a casement in Paris, near which he was at work. The window overlooked the garden, and the paper was much damaged by the numerous wasps who visited the spot.

The hornet, like the wasp, builds its nest in the ground, but other species of this genus attach them to the branches of trees. The engravings, figs. 2 and 3, represent specimens of these nests.

Fig. 2 was about the size and form of a large cabbage-rose. In this instance the cells were arranged in two masses, at the bottom of the cavity of the nest. Fig. 3 shows the form of a wasp's nest from America; the outside of this nest was smooth, and bore a great resemblance to pasteboard. Fig. 4 is a very singular wasp's nest; the cells are unprovided with the usual covering, and attached to the branch of a tree; at a little distance it appears like a flower. Unprovided with the usual covering, these wasps preserve their cells from the effects of the rain by varnishing them, and this seems to occupy a great portion of their time.

As beauty does not consist in taking what lies immediately before you, so neither, in our pursuit of taste, are those opinions which we first received and adopted, the best choice or the most natural to the mind and imagination. In the infancy of our knowledge we seize with greediness the goodness that is within our reach; it is by after consideration, and in consequence of discipline, that we refuse the present for a greater good at a distance. The nobility or elevation of all arts, like the excellency of virtue itself, consists in adopting this enlarged and comprehensive idea, and all criticism built upon the confined view of what is natural, may properly be called shallow criticism, rather than false; its defect is, that the truth is not sufficiently extensive. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

LONDON:

JOHN WILLIAM PARKER, WEST STRAND. PUBLISHED IN WEEKLY NUMBERS, PRICE ONE PENNY, AND IN MONTHLY PARTS, PRICE SIXPENCE.

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