COMPANIED BY ACTIVE VIRTUE.

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 these duties are the same; everywhere sacred in the for their discharge! In all ranks and conditions, 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 com. mon 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.

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.

GUILT, though it may attain temporal splendour, can never confer real happiness. The evil consequences of our crimes long survive their commission, and, like the ghosts of the murdered, for ever haunt the steps of the malefactor. The paths of virtue, though seldom those of worldly greatness, are always those of pleasantness and peace. SIR WALTER SCOTT.

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 subterrancan 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

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.

THE Canton of Berne, thougn not one of the three great founders of Swiss independence, is the second in rank in the Helvetic confederation, and by far the first in size, wealth, and power. It comprises within its northern and western boundary part of the Jura, and in its southern and eastern some of the most remarkable of the Alpine chain, the intermediate space consisting of pastoral lowlands, a region of surpassing beauty, which is, however, nearly overlooked in contemplating the stupendous magnificence of the surrounding objects. That part of the High Alps which is included in the Canton of Berne, is usually known by the name of the Oberland, or Highland, of Berne, and of this we propose to give

some account.

The Bernese Oberland, then, consists principally of four great valleys, the waters of which are emptied into the common basin of the lake of Thun. The most western, and perhaps the least remarkable of these valleys, is the Simmenthal, which separates the chain of the Stokhorn from that of the Niesen. The second, parallel to the Simmenthal, is the Kanduthal, which rises at the foot of the Gemmi-pass in the Valais. These two valleys pour their united waters into the western side of the lake of Thun, where they form a landscape of meadows of the VOL. XIL.

richest verdure, interspersed with the most picturesque villages. The two other valleys empty themselves into the eastern corner of the lake, and of these, and the surrounding mountains, the Oberland properly consists. The principal of them is the valley of Hasli, which follows the course of the Aar from its source, the other consists of the united valleys of Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen. Nowhere has nature displayed more magnificence than in this extraordinary region; nowhere can so constant a succession of rock, waterfall, or glacier, be found: the mind, hurried on from one wonder to another, is at first lost in a breathless enchantment, and it requires a continued residence among them to be able to appreciate them thoroughly.

The grand features of these valleys are the mighty granite mountains which encompass them; of which the most remarkable are the following: