cabin is full and overflowing, through all its doors and windows, with white-haired children. Every prairie abounds in deer, prairie-hens, and cattle. Every river and creek is alive with fish. The whole land is electric with lizards, perpetually darting among the grass like flashes of green lightning. We have too much prairie and too little forest for a great variety of birds. But in horned frogs, scorpions, tarantulas, and centipedes, we beat the universe. A horned frog is simply a very harmless frog, with very portentous horns. It has horns because everything in this region, trees, shrubs, grass even, has thorns, and nature makes it in keeping with all around it.

The scorpions are precisely like those of Arabia in the shape of a lobster exactly, only not more than some three inches long. Youare very apt to put one upon your face, in the towel, which youapply thereto after washing; if you do, you will find the sting about equal to that of a wasp-nothing worse. They are far less poisonous than the scorpion of the East-in fact, none, except new comers, dread them at all.

But the tarantula! You remember the astonishing elasticity with which you sprang in the air that time you were just on the point of putting your raised foot down upon a snake coiled in your path. You were frightened through every fibre of your body. Very probably the snake was as harmless as it was beautiful. Spring as high, be as utterly frightened as possible, when you just avoid stepping upon a tarantula, however. Filthy, loathsome, abominable, and poisonous, crush it to atoms before you leave it! If you have never seen it, know, henceforth, that it is an enormous spider, concentrating in itself all the venom, and spite, and ugliness of all other spiders living. Its body is some two inches long, black and bloated. It enjoys the possession of eight long, strong legs, a red mouth, and an abundance of stiff brown hair all over itself. When standing, it covers an area of a saucer. Attack it with a stick, and it rears on its hind legs, gnashes at the stick, and fights like a fiend. It even jumps forward a foot or two in its rage, and if it bite into a vein, the bite is death. I have been told of the battle fought by one on board a steamboat. Discovered at the lower end of the saloon, it came hopping up the saloon, driving the whole body of the passengers before it, and almost drove the whole company, crew and all, overboard.

The first I saw was at the house of a friend. I spied it crawling slowly over the wall, meditating murder upon the children playing in the room. Excessively prudent in regard to my fingers, I, at last, however, had it safely imprisoned in a glass

jar unhurt. There was a flaw in the glass as well as a hole through the cork by which it could breathe, but in ten minutes it was dead from rage! Soon after, I killed three upon my place, crawling about ground, trodden every day by the bare feet of my little boy. A month after I killed a whole nest of them. They had formed their family circle under a door-step, upon which the aforesaid little fellow played daily.

I was sitting one day upon a log in the woods, when I saw one slowly crawl out to enjoy the evening air and the sunset scenery. He was the largest, most bloated one I ever saw. As I was about to kill him, I was struck with the conduct of a chance wasp. It, too, had seen the tarantula, and was flying slowly around it. The tarantula recognized it as a foe; and throwing itself upon its hind legs breathed defiance. For some time the wasp flew around it, and then, like a flash, flew right against it, and stung it under its bloated belly. The tarantula gnashed its red and venomed jaws, and threw its long hairy legs about in impotent rage, while the wasp flew round and round it, watching for another opportunity. Again and again did it dash its sting into the reptile and escape. After the sixth stab, the tarantula actually fell over on its back, dead; and the wasp, after making itself certain of the fact, and inflicting a last sting to make matters sure, flew off, happy in having done a duty assigned it in creation.

But deadliest and most abhorrent of all our reptiles in Texas, is the centipede. This is a kind of worm, from three to six inches long, exactly like an enormous caterpillar. It is green, or brown, or yellow, some being found of each of these colours. As its name denotes, it has along each side a row of feet-horny claws rather. Imagine that you walk some night across your chamberfloor with naked feet; you put your foot down upon a soft something, and instantly it coils around your foot in a ring, sticking every claw up to the body in your foot. The poison flows through each claw, and in two minutes you will have fainted with agony; in a few more and you will be dead. The deadly thing cannot be torn away. It has to be cut off, and claw by claw plucked out. Even if it crawls over the naked body of a sleeping person, without sticking in its claws, the place will pain the person for years after- at least, so I have been told.

I have seen these things in which Nature corks up her deadly poisons often; yet I have heard of few cases in which they have bitten or killed any one. The kind Being who makes the butterflies to be abundant, in the same loving-kindness makes all deadly creatures to be scarce.

EUTYCHUS ASLEEP. Ir was evening at Troas. Silence had come down on the city. In that little upper room were shining lights, which flung their cheerful gleam abroad into the darkness of the night. Through those open windows floated out a sound till of late unheard in the streets of Troas-the sound of prayer and hymn to Jesus of Nazareth. The story of "Christ, and him crucified," had come hither also; and a little band of believers were now gathered to hear it anew from the lips of one who was not a whit behind the chiefest of apostles. Traces of mingled joy and sorrow were on their countenances--of sorrow, like that which took hold on the elders of Ephesus for the words which he spoke, that they should see his face no more; of joy, that Paul was with them once again to comfort them by his words of Christian cheer, and to encourage them by his stirring eloquence to loftier efforts and stronger faith. It was a scene for a painter, and in imagination I can see it now: those sorrowful, glad eyes, upturned to the face of Paul; those many lights burning; and Eutychus asleep in the open window. And in imagination, also, I can see that individual who sits near Eutychus, gazing at him as sleep steals over him. He sees his eyes close, his head recline on his shoulder, his body bend forward, till finally his balance is lost, and the dull heavy sound of his fall comes up from the ground below. There is confusion in the assembly; hurried footsteps are heard down the stairway, and soon word is sent up that Eutychus is dead! Paul passes calmly out, and the multitude follow, till none is left in the lighted room but him who saw and suffered the sleeping man to perish unwarned. He moves not, but sits staring at that vacant seat in the window. He dares not look on

the face of that pale corpse. And why? Conscience makes a coward of him; conscience speaks out boldly, saying, "You are guily of the blood of Eutychus; you saw his danger; you saw him asleep on the brink of ruin, and why did you not awake him?" With fear and trembling he enters on his defence:

"I saw him asleep, but I feared he would be angry if I attempted to awake him, and I did not wish to incur his hatred and ridicule. He might have thought me impertinent and meddlesome, and I was afraid of losing his respect and confidence." "Afraid!" says the Judge. "Why, are you

not ashamed to call yourself a man? There was your brother man in deadly peril, and the great law of humanity called upon you to save him; and yet you were afraidafraid of the ridicule of an earth-worm, whose life you sought to rescue! How knew you but that, warned by your benevolence, he would have seen the abyss which yawned to engulf him, and would have blessed the hand that drew him thence? And had he scorned you, could you not endure it? His life was as precious to him and his, as your own is to you and yours. His all was at stake, and you were afraid! Nay, call yourself a man no longer. Be no more a disgrace to that lofty name; your excuse is worthless. Why did you not save him?"

"I saw him asleep, but I was drowsy myself, and I feared he would taunt me with it, and tell me to awake myself before I attempted to arouse him." "You drowsy? Why, a few evenings ago, when you were asleep in that very spot, and a kind hand drew you from your peril, did you not vow never again to yield to that stupor, but always to be awake? Nay, more, did you not solemnly promise to put forth all your power to awaken every man you saw in that condition? Where now is the gratitude and love which inspired those resolves? Oh, thou ingrate !-hide thy head in shame, and betake thyself to penitence and new resolution. Your excuse is invalid. Why did you not save him?"

"I saw his closed eyes and drooping head, but I did not once suspect he was so sound asleep. I intended soon to speak to him, but before I was aware he had fallen." "Hold!" says the Judge; "good intentions and firm resolves for the future are no excuse for present duty neglected. You knew there was danger simply in the position which he occupied. Had you warned him then, that sleep had not been a fatal one. Your excuse does not hold. Why did you not save him?"

"I saw his danger, but Eutychus was naturally a sound sleeper, and I did not suppose I could arouse him; others attempted it, and failed." "Slothful, fainthearted man! do you always measure your prospect of success by the efforts of others? The fact that others had failed, was the very reason for you to attempt it; and that others had preceded you in the effort, so far from discouraging, should have incited you to a fourfold energy. How knew you but that your simple word was alone want

ing to complete what they had begun? And his aptitude for sleep was a stronger motive yet. There he sat, poor infatuated man, asleep on the verge of death; and you, faint-heart, refused an effort to save him, because he was infatuated and asleep. Had he been awake, and aware of his danger, there had been some excuse for you. Why did you not awake him?"

"I knew he was asleep and in peril, but I thought if Paul's preaching could not arouse him it would be vain for me to attempt it. If he would sleep under Paul's eloquence, I thought his case was hopeless." "Will you never have done with these miserable subterfuges? Who awoke you, and by what means? Did you not sleep as soundly under the preaching of Apollos, and were you not aroused by a direct and gentle appeal from your neighbour, who pointed out your danger, and showed you how to shun it? Apollos, you considered, was preaching to the multitude; and you said within yourself, 'He does not mean me;' and so you slumbered on till, but for that direct personal warning, you had slept the sleep of death. And how know you but such was the case with Eutychus? A word of warning from you, faint and faltering though it was-a downward gesture of your finger to the earth below-perchance would have poured such a flood of terror on his mind as would have driven sleep effectually from his eyelids; and for want of this fidelity in you he perished. Why did you not save him?"

"I knew he was in danger; but my voice is feeble, and my arm weak, and I dared not hope that the strength in either would suffice to save him." "I know you are not a a bull of Bashan' in strength of lungs; but who told you that it needed a voice of thunder to awake him? How know you that he was not in that state between waking and sleeping in which a whisper is as efficacious as a shout to start the senses of a sleeper? At least your duty was not done till you had strained your voice and tasked your strength to the utmost if need be. Had you been dumb and palsied, then there had been an excuse for you. Why did you not save him?"

"I saw his danger, but I could not awake him without attracting attention, and I did not wish to make a display of my benevolence." "Alas, for thee, thou coward! You can face your fellow-man in the mart of business; you can jostle him in the crowded circus; you can argue your point with him in the hall of justice; and yet when the life of your brother is in jeopardy, you fear the frown of a mortal, and your voice cleaves to the roof of your mouth. You have no heart for self-denial, though it

MATTHEW WILKES.

Wilkes was a contemporary of Rowland Hill, but, unlike him, was of obscure origin, and had the disadvantage of a most common education. The former, amid his eccentricity, was all grace; the latter was equally eccentric, but awkward and coarse. "Hill's mind was more highly cultivated, but Wilkes' intellect was probably stronger; certainly, he was more sagacious and farseeing. They laboured side by side, the one in Surrey Chapel, the other alternately in Tottenham-court Chapel and in the Tabernacle, for about half a century. Both were eminently blessed in their labours; both were highly gifted and eccentric men; both enjoyed, through a long life, an unsullied reputation; and the memories of both are still deeply embalmed in the affection and gratitude of thousands."

The following illustrative anecdotes of Wilkes will be found full of interest:

There was nothing for which he had a more cordial abhorrence than any exhibition of dandyism in young ministers; and nothing of this kind ever came in contact with him without meeting a rebuke. On one occasion, a young minister, of a good deal of flourish and pretension, went from the country to London, and carried Mr. Wilkes a letter, which was designed to procure for him an invitation to preach.

Well, young man," said Matthew, with a nasal twang that is perfectly indescribable, but which nobody who has heard it can ever forget, "well, young man, you want to preach; you want to preach in London, don't you?"

"I am going to pass a few days here, sir; and if it should suit Mr. Wilkes' convenience, I should be very happy to give his people a sermon while I am here."

"Well," replied Matthew, " you can preach-you can preach; come along next Wednesday morning to the Tabernacle, and I'll meet you there, and you can take my lecture for that morning.'

The young man agreed to do so, and was on the spot at the appointed hour. Matthew met him at the door, disgusted, as he

had been before, with his dandy airs, and addressed him thus: "Go along into the pulpit, young man; and I shall sit below and look at you, and hear every word you say."

The young preacher darted through the aisle into the pulpit in a manner that seemed better to befit a ball-room than a place of worship. He performed the introductory service with an air of insufferable self-complacency, and in due time opened the Bible and read his text, which was the last verse of the first chapter of the Gospel by John: "Hereafter ye shall see Heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man." He had written his sermon, and committed it all to memory, as he supposed, to a word; but, unfortunately, had left his manuscript behind him. When he had read his text, he found it impossible to recall the first sentence. He hesitated and hemmed, and began thus: "You perceive, my brethren, you perceive-that the angels of God-are here represented-as ascending-and descending." He then set up a good stout cough, in the hope that his memory might go to work in the mean time; but the cough was as unproductive as it was artificial, and he could do nothing but go right over again, with the absurd sentence with which he had started. He coughed again and again, but his memory was in too profound a slumber to be awakened by it. After three or four minutes, during which he was a spectacle to the congregation, and especially to Matthew, who was all the time watching and listening, according to his promise, he shut up his Bible in perfect consternation, and abruptly closed the service. Of course, he came out of the pulpit with a very different air from that with which he entered it. But the worst was yet to come-he had to meet Matthew, and hear his scathing comments.

"Well, well," said he, "young man, you've preached in London, ha'n't you? I've heard you-I've heard every word you've said; and I've only just one comment to make: if you had ascended as you descended, then you might have descended as you ascended."

It is needless to say, that the young man was by this time cured of his ambition for preaching in the Tabernacle.

Another young minister of a similar character paid him a visit, and Matthew observed that he sported what he thought a very indecent number of watch-seals. He eyed them for some time, as if he were scrutinising the material of which they were made; and then said, with a terrible sarcastic air, "It seems to me that you've a good many seals to your ministry, considering how young you are."

On one occasion, as he was on his way to a meeting of ministers, he got caught in a shower near the place called Billingsgate, where there was a large number of women dealing in fish, who were using the most vulgar and profane language. As he had stopped under a shed in the midst of them, he felt himself called upon at least to leave with them his testimony against their wickedness.

"Don't you think," said he, speaking with the greatest deliberation and solemnity, "don't you think that I shall appear as a swift witness against you at the judg ment?"

"I presume so," said one; "for the greatest rogues always turn State's evidence."

Matthew, when he got to the meeting of ministers, related the incident.

"And what did you say, Mr. Wilkes, in reply?" said one of the ministers present. What could I?" was the characteristic

answer.

His

It may seem strange, that with so much of eccentricity, operating too sometimes in a way that seemed actually irreverent, he should still have been one of the eminently useful men of his day. But that such was the case, admits of no question. preaching, though abounding with anecdote, and never rising above the most colloquial style, and often producing something much above a smile on the countenances of his audience, was nevertheless strongly evangelical, and admirably fitted to reach the conscience. He was also one of the most benevolent of men. Numerous anecdotes are related of him, that show how literally he imitated his Master's example in going about doing good. Few ministers, it is believed, have at any period been instrumental of the salvation of so many souls, or contributed so much to further the cause of evangelical truth and piety.

TESTIMONY IN FAVOUR OF TEMPERANCE.

FROM SIR JOHN ROSS.

AN amusing and instructive brochure, from the pen of the veteran Sir John Ross, has recently been published, narrating his observations of drunkenness in the navy, and his experience in curing it. The subjoined extract will at once amuse and interest the reader.

In the year 1804, on board of H. M. S. Hydra, three of the best seamen in the ship were severely punished for drunkenness, at 8 A.M. They bore their punishment of thirty-six lashes each with uncommon fortitude, which had the effect of exciting the

admiration as well as the pity of the crew, who had witnessed it; consequently, when below at dinner-time-their own allowance of grog having been stopped, as usual on such occasions-the people of each mess asked them to share a little with them, and before six o'clock all the three were again in a state of intoxication. Seeing, therefore, the utter inefficacy of flogging for such an offence, I was induced to conceal their situation from the captain, with the view of taking a proper opportunity of proposing my own method of subduing drunkenness; but I was only a few weeks longer in that ship, and it was not proposed.

The late Lord Hugh Seymour was a great enemy to drunkenness, and never forgave the offence, excepting on one occasion, which indeed had a salutary effect on his Lordship's subsequent conduct. His infliction of severe corporal punishment was so proverbial on board his ship-the Sans Pareil-that although no one doubted that a severe flogging would be the consequence of intoxication, it had little or no effect in subduing the evil. One day the captain of the after-guard-one of our best seamen came staggering on the quarterdeck in a state of inebriety, when his Lordship, accosting him, said, "Jack, upon my honour I'll flog you;" to which Jack, drunk as he was, immediately replied, “My Lord, you need not put your honour to it, I'll take your word for it; but it will be of no use. His Lordship forgave this man; whether in consequence of his ready wit, or because he thought it best to substitute a secondary punishment, is not known. Except in very aggravated cases, he never again had recourse to flogging for drunken

ness.

In the year 1799, when belonging to the Weasel sloop-of-war, the captain, Durban, had a particular aversion to flogging for drunkenness, and said to me, who was then acting lieutenant, "I wish you could invent some method of checking this evil." After some consideration, I made the following proposition-"To separate every person found drunk from the rest of the crew; oblige them to mess by themselves on the main hatchway, being the most conspicuous part of the ship; to have their dinner after all the rest were done; their clothes to be marked 'D.,' and their wooden utensils to be marked 'Drunken Mess;' to wring swabs, sweep the decks, and to do all the dirty work in the ship; to be made to drink their allowance of six-water grog, instead of three, on the quarter-deck; and for the first offence to be one month, and for the second, two months, in the 'Drunken Mess." This plan was adopted, had the desired effect, and in a few months almost

completely cured the evil in our own ship, and also in several others to which this plan was communicated.

But the most remarkable instance was on board H. M. S. Victory, recommissioned in 1808, when the writer of this article became first lieutenant. This ship was manned chiefly by a draft of men from a ship that was proverbial for drunkenness, which flogging and other punishments had failed to subdue. I proposed my plan to the captain, who gladly adopted it. The effect was wonderful. Every one of the crew-eight hundred-who passed up and down the main hatchway had a laugh, if not a joke at the drunkards, who were heard to say they would sooner take three dozen lashes at the gangway than be put a second time into the "Drunken Mess." In short, in six months this lamentable evil was almost completely vanquished. When the drunkards were brought on deck to drink their six-water grog, the captain, and often the admiral, the gallant Sir James Saumarez, used to talk to them, which had a good effect; indeed, there was only one man in the ship who was found incurable. His name was Brown, who, the very day he was discharged, was sure to be drunk. At last he was fairly given up, and obtained the unenviable dignity of "Captain of the Drunken Mess."

The writer, when advanced to the rank of commander, practised this plan with equal success in the Ariel, Briseis, Acteon, Driver, and Isabella, and on several occasions received the high approbation of the Lords of the Admiralty. Since the expedition of 1818, he made an official report of this plan to the Secretary of the Admiralty; but, being then unfortunately out of favour with that functionary, his plan was not adopted, nor his official letter even answered, as was the case with many others he had written and forwarded. The letter referred to was dated the 1st of June, 1819.

My attention was first called to the subject by observing the baneful effects of intoxicating liquors when in the West Indies. My first service was in a large ship of war, before the French Revolution.

While lying at Portsmouth, in the year 1790, my captain said to several of us, Young gentlemen, if you do not go to sea, you will never be sailors. You had better, while it is peace, go into the merchant-service, and I will keep your names on the books." Consequently, six of the midshipmen left the ship, as on leave, and I, as one, went to Greenock, was bound an apprentice for four years, during which time I made three voyages to the West Indies, and three to the Baltic. I had, therefore, a good opportunity of observing