"And I will give the host of the Philistines

But

retorts at once: carcasses of the this day unto the fowls of the air, and to the wild beasts of the earth." Terrible and still ever-repeated are the threats of the Lord. Jezebel is torn by dogs under the wall of Jezreel, and Jeremiah is told: "I will appoint over them four kinds, saith the Lord-the sword to slay, and the dogs to tear, and the fowls of heaven, and the beasts of the earth to devour and destroy." with the exception of this restriction, animals know no difference between clean and unclean. They have, however, their tastes, as well as we ourselves. Bitter things are not very popular. A caterpillar that loves a peculiar euphorbia, is almost the only undoubted example of a lover of bitter juices. Sour dishes are less generally shunned, but all the world seems to like sweetmeats. Gourmands are as frequent as gourmets. Gigantic snakes fill themselves, it is well known, until they are gorged, and so unable to move for weeks and months, that they are not rarely caten up by hosts of ants while fully alive. Even by mere force of habit, some are led to eat more than is wholesome; hence our asthmatic birds and wheezing poodles. Others are true Sybarites, and require their food to be carefully dressed. Agur already tells us, in a much misunderstood sentence, that The ants are a people not strong, yet they prepare their meat in summer." Fishes are very choice, and thus have led us to invent such a variety of baits for their destruction. food the tiny dog preferred, whom Henry IV. used to carry in a basket slung around his neck, we are not told in history; nor are we better informed as to the pet dog of the great Doria, doge of Genoa, who had two body servants, and ate only off silver, as the holy elephants of Siam are fed in gold troughs. The greatest bon vivant, curiously enough, is a toad, which actually shuts his eyes with delight, whilst he swallows a luscious morsel; like other worshipers of the god of good dinners, he also pays dearly for his enjoyment. He cannot digest ants, and still he eats them in numbers, knowing full well that they will cause him much pain, and often long sickness. Who would call him a machine, or his taste a mere instinct?

What

How suggestive is also the increasing self-control in hungry animals.

The

lowest cannot restrain their appetite; birds and quadrupeds only are here also masters of themselves. The hamster still prefers death to the surrender of the morsel he has once seized with his teeth; but the dog and the horse can wait, to suit the wishes of others and the comforts of man. The horse suffers the oats he has already begun to munch to be swept out of the crib, and even the savory bone may be taken from the dog's mouth. Hungry, and sorely tempted, he still carries faithfully his basket filled with roast meat to his master's house; if other dogs pursue him, he puts his burden down and defends it; if they are too strong and fall upon his precious treasure, it is true, he cannot resist, and joins them at once. Perhaps he thinks that, as the meat being lost, the enemy ought at least not to enjoy it alone. On the other hand, instances also abound, of an improper indulgence in drinking as well as in eating. only horses are fond of oats soaked in wine, and cats of literal drunken bouts, but even insects are not free from the vice of intemperance. Ants drink sweet honey, until they are royally drunk. Bees, also, sip honey mixed with brandy, until they begin to roll and to rollick about: they fly in zig-zag lines to and fro; they cannot find their home nor the entrance-gate to their hive; they are genuine topers. Gradually they become more and more fond of the dangerous drink, and as the habit grows upon them, they cease to labor, and finally change into robber bees, living upon the wealth of others. Thus, even animals may be demoralized by strong drink-soulless machines, forsooth!

Not

Heat and cold, also, are clearly discerned by all living creatures. They love warmth, without distinction, and flee from extreme cold. Each animal, however, has its own peculiar temperature, and when the ice-bear suffers from almost intolerable heat, the elephant shivers with frost. Both extremes, firo and frost, are equally fatal to all life, and no animal can live in either. The fish, who have the temperature of the water in which they dwell, feel the declining vitality in winter, and often succumb; even the sleeping marmot can die of excessive cold. A few fish only, and the chrysalis of some butterflies, it is said, may actually freeze without hurt. Frogs also retire to their dark holes, and, needing neither air nor food, are changed

into lumps of ice; their souls must in like manner fall asleep, as if they had drunk from the waters of Lethe. As spring comes, they arise, like new creatures, once more, and thus they divide their life for twenty years between summer joy and winter sleep. How exquisitely even insects discern cold and heat, we see in locusts and spiders. The former crowd together in cold nights to keep each other warm; hence, Nahum could say: "Thy crowned are as the locusts, and thy captains as great grasshoppers, which camp in the hedges in the cold day, but when the sun ariseth, they flee away, and the place is not known where they are." Spiders, we all know, are true weather prophets, and perceive the most delicate changes, often hours and days in advance. Hence, Quatremère's famous advice to his countrymen, when he told them from the depth of his dark prison, that in a few days the marshes of Holland would be firmly frozen, and able to bear the French army. His pet spider had prophesied well: the frost came, and with it liberty for the kind-hearted patriot.

A power to discern the necessity, and the material of clothing, is naturally confined to but few animals. The ma

jority either live in a medium that requires no such protection, or they are amply provided by nature with horn and scale, with hair and with feathers. The few cases as yet known are, however, both interesting and instructive. Some humble insects already cover their whole tiny body with foam, to protect it against the rays of the sun. The oft

mentioned enemy of the aphides, throws, like another Hercules, the skins of the tiny lions he has slain over his shoulder. But the motto of most animals, as to their clothing in winter and summer, is the consoling legend on the old gold coins of the republic of Berne: Deus providebit. Even those which periodically change their costume, as snakes and caterpillars, have the new garment all ready under the old. They only shuffle off the coil. Still, to do it, costs no little labor, and often great pain. The caterpillars are luckiest; they drop the old garment with greatest ease, though it is tightly fitting, and better made than human tailors could boast of. Grasshoppers change their green coat repeatedly, and often wear out their old clothes too soon, long before the new underneath are ready, in which case they suffer seVOL. VII.-24

verely. The water-newt seizes its tiny tail, and pulls its own skin off; the process is slow and fatiguing. Frogs and some toads wear such light summerdress, that it looks like a mere shadow on paper: it must be curiously made, for they eat it as soon as they have stripped. Of all turn-coats, however, lobsters and crawfish undergo the soverest trial, as they change the whole skeleton which they quaintly choose to wear outside, and insist upon renewing even their stomachs. The process is painful indeed: the armor cracks first on the back like the bark of a tree; through this opening appears slowly the thick, pulpy body of the animal, to which the limbs are attached like so many branches. The tail is then pulled out from behind, the claws from in front, and the legs below follow, one by one, leaving the oddly-shaped house standing empty. The whole change lasts generally three days, and the hardest part is the passage of the claws, as the whole broad hand and the opposite smaller part have both to be drawn through the narrow joint of the arm. Fortunately the flesh becomes, at this season, as soft and elastic as India rubber. Still, not unfrequently one claw at least is lost in the torture, and the remaining one has to serve then as anchor, and as weapon. Only in their older days, the poor creatures are left to enjoy the comfort of their old, loosefitting clothes. Hence, we find them occasionally a yard long, with feelers like enormous rods, their feet covered with long hairy appendages, and thick moss growing in a miniature forest on their backs, amid which mushrooms are seen raising their delicate, flowering branches, and snails slowly wending their way.

All animals, high or low, discern rest, and motion, and love, if not the latter exclusively, at least the change from the one to the other. None, however, are incessantly moving, as none are permanently at rest. The difference, nevertheless, is almost incredible between the most active animal, and the most quiet. Parasites are probably the most sedentary; for their dwelling itself is their food. Infusoria, on the other hand, belong to the most restless, whether they whirl in unceasing motion around and around, or move as the paradox does, like a Roman phalanx, now in squares, and now in rhombs. The most active

of all are the children of the air, from the slow beetle, drowsily humming homeward, to the swift swallow and the lightwinged hornet, that flies amost as fast as light itself. And who has not seen the merry dance of tiny gnats, who hover like faint clouds of mist, over hedges and fences, and, in the golden light of the setting sun, forget how near death is to birth. They seemingly move lawlessly up and down, enjoying the mere pleasure of motion. But an attentive observer will soon notice that they each know full well their appointed place: they move now on this side up and down, and now on that; they dash diagonally through the crowd and resume their position, so that in reality the confused maze is a beautiful, though mysterious dance. Surely it is not without higher meaning, that even the tiny insect should thus show both will and enjoyment in regular motion.

After motion follows rest; for among animals also the law prevails, that rest is production, but motion consumption. Hence the most active of all live shortest, whilst tortoises, water-snakes and crocodiles live almost forever, like the ever-resting trees of the forest. The more regularly divided rest and motion are, the higher the animal's powersalthough we must not forget that the necessity for rest itself is a sign of inferiority, and hence the Eternal alone "never resteth." Hence we find animals to differ in few points more radically than in their sleep. The lowest classes exhibit no signs of such alternation-as their whole life is, perhaps, only a state between waking or sleeping. Closed eyes are no evidence; for many animals, even fishes and insects, have no eye-lids, and cannot shut their eyes. Others, and those of the most perfect, sleep with open eyes, their upper lids being too short, or their eyes themselves being so constructed. Stranger still it is, that the lower animals are affected only by the great changes of the seasons; so that they are lively in the summer sun, but fast asleep in cold winter. Only the higher organizations are affected by the slighter changes of day and night. The torpor of hybernating animals is no true rest, but merely a measure of self-preservation. The frozen frog and the ice-bound eggs of the caterpillar can hardly be said to be living. The marmot of Mont Blanc, which sleeps for ten months of the year, does not wake under

the surgeon's knife; his blood is stagnant, and his heart has ceased beating. Quite mysterious is as yet the periodical sleep of some insects. Deep under ground, some locusts sleep an unbroken sleep of seventeen years. All of a sudden they awake-who calls them? They feel an invincible impulse to rise to the surface, to greet the sweet light of day, to join the great chorus above with merry voice, to live and to enjoy.

The first discernment of night and day is found in the spotted crawfish, which sleeps in the day, and lives only at night. In the dark hours he catches small fishes, knocks them down, and then cuts them up into nice little bits, as with a knife. When sleep once commences among certain classes, it is lost no more; for it belongs,necessarily to the economy of the more perfect animals. Hence, also, the strange effects of a privation of sleep among some of the most gifted. The wild are thus tamed, the docile taught to sing. The noble falcon of Iceland-that land of wonders which, amidst ice and fire, has given to the world some of the most useful animals, and some of the greatest warriors and thinkers-was, when first captured, placed on a hoop, and kept without sleep. After some days and nights passed in such cruel torture, his memory was so obscured that he forgot his old liberty, and became humbly subject to his new master!

Need we finally add, that animals discern, and show both pain and joy? They all avoid the former, and seek after pleasure. Various classes possess, of course, very different capacities, and what gives joy to some, is pain to others. Here, also, the law prevails, that the least perfect enjoy and suffer least; their nerves, through which, mainly, both sensations are felt, being too generally diffused. Hence some animals may be cut into pieces, and each piece grow into a perfect whole; the head of snails may be removed, and another will appear in its place. Grasshoppers have had cotton stuffed into the place of their bowels, and they have lived for weeks; turtles deprived of the brain, and even the heart, have lived for a month! The emperor Commodus beheaded ostriches, whilst they were racing at full speed, and they still ran to the end of the course; Boerhaave offered food to a hungry cock, and cut off his head whilst he was running towards the grain; the

bird ran twenty yards to his food, and, when there, bent over to pick up the grains. Hence also the common superstition that snakes will not die before sunset; their tenacity of life is so great that the severed head of a viper bit the famous Charas, several days after its decapitation, fiercely enough to expose him to serious danger. How strongly this apparent insensibility contrasts with the tenderness of the elephant, which uses unceasing diligence in driving off flies, or the sensitiveness of the dog that trembles at the mere sight of the rod.

Still, pain ever quickly passes away, and joy is, with animals at least, the permanent purpose of life. They all enjoy rest or motion, heat or cold, food and warmth. The melancholy

bat loves its kindred, and revels in its nightly wanderings, and the jubilant lark rises on high, singing loud anthems of joy and thanksgiving. Merry bees seize each other, and whirl round in merry dance, and ants play and gambol in the bright sunshine, and wrestle like men with each other. The fish in the water sport and gambol in their limpid home, chasing and beating each other with flexible tails, in merry joy and gladness. The herons of Numidia even come into the villages, and dance in a circle with widely-spread wings. Thus. too, there is joy among men, as God has said: "Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad; let the field be joyful, and all that therein is, the world, and all that dwell therein !"

I.

DUST

II.

ROB

OBERT BROWNING'S poetry is certainly very hard reading, like Cowley's and Dr. Donne's. But the difference between him and such obscurists is, that with the earlier poets, both the style and the sentiment were equally conceits-while Browning's style is the naturally quaint form of a subtle or sinewy thought. In any general classification of English poetry, Browning must be ranked with the modern school for his profound reality and humanity and faithful reliance upon nature. In any classification of poetry in general, he is strictly a dramatist-the most purely dramatic genius in English literature since the great dramatic days.

A great deal of the difficulty in reading his poetry arises from its purely dramatic conception and form.

The man Browning is not to be found in his poems, except inferentially, like Shakespeare in his dramas. The various play of profound passion is his favorite realm. He loves the South, and southern character, as Byron loved the East. But Byron's passion, however fiery and intense, is a passion of the sensesBrowning's is the passion of the soul, including and deepening the other. In other great English poets there is more daring indecency; but in none such startling audacity of passionate expression. It is the emotional nature of man with which he deals, and of man everywhere, and under all circumstances. Thus, while the quaint structure of his mind, and his rare and curious reading, show, for instance, his natural abstract sympathy with the fantastic horrors of the middle ages, springing, as they did, out of a kind of cold, religious logic; yet he dashes in the scene with a living picturesqueness, which invests it with a lurid but appropriate splendor. So absolute is his. dramatic form, that the "Heretic's Tragedy," in his last volume, "Men and Women," is as entirely mediæval as a fragment of an old cathedral. The intense satire and prodigious jeer of the poem arise from the reader's knowledge that it was written at the

present time. By some inexplicable power, which is entirely peculiar to Browning, without the faintest indication or expression of his personality, he seems to be present as a critic of all the scenes his various poems describe. But this consciousness on the part of the reader, never destroys, for a moment, the dramatic variety and completeness. The most exquisite illustration of this is "My Last Duchess." There is no prelude, no key-but not only is the story perfectly told, so that you feel yourself to be in mediæval Italy, hearing an Italian talk, but without a word said, you have the whole thing impressed upon your mind as utterly iniquitous. We subjoin the two poems. The first is from his last volume, "Men and Women;" the second from the Dramatic Lyrics, in the second volume of his earlier works:

"THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY.
"A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE.

"(In the Original) ROSA MUNDI; SEU, FULCITE

ME FLORIBUS. A CONCEIT OF MASTER GYSBRECHT, CANON REGULAR OF SAINT JODOCUS-BY-THE-BAR, YPRES CITY. CANTUQUE, Virgilius. AND HATH OFTEN BEEN SUNG

AT HOCK-TIDE AND FESTIVALS. GAVISUS ERAM, Jessides.

"(It would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of Jacques du Bourg-Molay, at Paris, A.D. 1314; as distorted by the refraction from Flemish brain to brain, during the course of a couple of centuries.-R.B.)

1.

"PREADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEODAET. "The Lord, we look to once for all,

Is the Lord we should look at, all at once; He knows not to vary, saith St. Paul, Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce. See Him no other than as he is; Give both the Infinites their dueInfinite mercy, but, I wis, As infinite a justice too.

[Organ: plagal-cadence. As infinite a justice too.

66 ONE SINGETH. "John, Master of the Temple of God, Falling to sin the Unknown Sin, What he bought of Emperor Aldabrod, He sold it to Sultan Saladin