ters remain during the winter in a torpid state in their habitations, which they have previously secured and consolidated. Against this season they lay up no provisions, as has been imagined, for such would be useless.

How much is there in this slight outline of the history of the ant, to call forth reflection! How wonderfully is the faculty of instinct displayed in the operations and conduct of these insects, which cannot but astonish us: instinct impelling them to actions which in man would be the result of a process of reasoning, and leading us at once to the great source of all wisdom, the God of creation, who has implanted in every animal the innate impulse necessary to such labours and operations as are essential to its wellbeing, and which often surprise the philosopher. But the ant works blindly; not so man-accountable, rational man; to whose reason God appeals in all his ways, claiming the homage, obedience, and gratitude of an immortal soul.

Pursue we our ramble. Observe the bee is still abroad, hovering around the flowers which now blossom; and the saffron butterfly (Papilio hyale) flits lightly by. Among our wild autumn flowers, that of the great bindweed (Convolvulus sepium) is one of the most elegant; its large white blossoms adorn the hedgerows, which are garlanded with its luxuriant festoons, the chaplets of Pomona. This graceful weed is not universally spread throughout our island. In the midland and more northern counties, it is either rare or not to be found.

It is interesting now to notice the habits and manners of the feathered race, and especially of our summer birds of passage. The swallows have now collected into vast hordes, and are rapidly traversing the regions of the air, as if trying their powers of wing preparatory to their final departure; doubtless they are also in the eager pursuit of their insect prey. The old birds, now that the toilsome duties of incubation and of rearing their broods are over, recruit their energies in the interval between their last incubation and the time of their flight from our shores; and the young birds have to train their strength, against the coming crisis. As the evening draws on, the thousands of these swallows now

on

the wing cluster around barns, churches, and tall trees, on which they settle during the night, huddled together in close array.

Extensive reed beds, however, constitute their favourite resting place during this month, perhaps from the shelter they afford against the chilly breezes of our autumnal nights. When the sun begins to decline, vast flocks may be seen wheeling and sweeping over the reeds, now settling, now rising again simultaneously, and again settling, while they keep up an incessant and noisy twittering, till, at length, they finally rest, and their vociferation gradually subsides.

It is from their partiality to reed beds, at this time of the year, that the old belief in the swallow's submersion beneath the water, in a state of torpidity, appears to have arisen. Many of the earlier naturalists were inclined to think that they thus passed the winter, buried in the oozy mud of fens and marshes, and that their migration was not actual, forgetting that birds of far less power of flight, as woodcocks and quails, were positively known to take long aerial journeys, as indeed it is well ascertained that the swallow does; its destination being Africa. It is proved from swallows kept in confinement in our climate through the winter, that they moult in February: a circumstance of great interest, inasmuch as it is not only a fact utterly at variance with their going into a torpid state, but as showing that they acquire renovated plumage, in their natural state in Africa, and so become prepared to take their flight back to Europe, in the month of January or February, when travelling by easy stages, they would reach our island and the northern portions of the continent, by the early part of April, regulating their progress according to the state of the weather.

The swallow arrives in Greece at the latter part of February, on its return to Europe. According to the Greek Calendar of Flora, by Theophrastus, of Athens, the ornithian wind blows, and the swallow comes between the 28th of February and the 12th of March; the nightingale between the 11th and 26th of March; and the cuckoo at the time the young figs appear on the trees; so that the most southern portions of Europe are occupied by their winged sojourners, long before the northern parts have received their influx.

We may now look in vain for the swift; it has already taken its migratory course southwards: it leaves us about the middle or latter part of August. Starlings now congregate in numerous flocks, and often

accompany rooks in their search over fallow or new ploughed lands for food. This circumstance was noticed by White, who expresses his wonder at it, and considers that the starlings attend upon their sable brethren for the sake of their own interest, availing themselves of the superior sense of smell which the rook enjoys, and which enables it to detect the spots where larvæ most abound; this is, perhaps, rather fanciful. It appears that the starling has a natural partiality, not only for the companionship of its own species, but for the society of other birds: flocks of starlings are often seen mingled with lapwings, which at this season leave the moors and boggy grounds for fallow lands and cultivated fields, where food is easily obtained. Like the swallow, the starling is partial to reed beds, as roosting places for the night; and it is interesting to watch a phalanx of these birds, wheeling, sinking, and rising over the reeds, and performing a multitude of aerial evolutions, all acting in unison, as if guided by some signal from a leader, till at length they settle to rest.

Wheatears now begin to congregate, and pass towards the south-eastern coast, covering the downs of Kent and Sussex, previously to their departure. The stone curlew, (adicnemus,) which scatters itself in pairs during the summer over high pasture grounds and extensive upland commons, now also collects into flocks, which make their way to the coast in readiness to migrate. The ringouzel, (Merula torquata,) by no means a common bird in our island, now leaves the mountain districts of England and Scotland, and associating in small companies, journeys to the south, preparatory to its flight to a warmer climate. They are now to be observed in Sussex, and occasionally in considerable numbers, frequenting the shrubs and bushes which are scattered over the downs, and which afford them shelter.

We are now approaching to the sea shore. Mark that fleet of small vessels in the distance: how animated the scene! how beautiful a picture they present, erowded on the placid surface of the water, blue as the sky above! They are out with men engaged in dredging for oysters, which are taken at this season from the beds they form, and sent in great quantities to the markets. These oyster beds are often artificial, or rather produced by oysters being purposely deposited in convenient situations, where

they breed, and keep up a due supply. It is common to call oysters "fish, "but this term, though it may be tolerated in ordinary discourse, is very erroneously applied, and like all terms so used, liable to produce mistakes. Hence I have heard many assert the oyster to be a fish, as truly as the salmon or sole: the oyster, however, is a molluscous animal, belonging to the acephalous (or headless) testaceous section of Cuvier, or the conchiferous (shell-bearing) section of Lamarck.

To the same section belong the mussel, the cockle, the scallop, and thousands more. As is well known, these animals are housed in a firm, hard, calcareous shell, consisting of two parts, or valves, secreted by what is termed a mantle, and which in some species, undergoes, at certain seasons, a temporary development, so as to enable it to produce spines, ridges, or raised ornamental lines on the shell, a row of such being added at given intervals. If we separate the shells of an oyster, not in the usual way, but as if the animal naturally opened them, (which may be done when the animal within is just dead,) we perceive that each shell is lined with a delicate membrane, or first investment of the body of the oyster, having its margin free, except at the part of the shell occupied by the elastic hinge. These membranes form the mantle, and their edges are thickened. Between them are the branchiæ, or aquatic respiratory organs; consisting of two upper and two lower leaves, composed of fine radiatory fibres; these leaves are free, except at their base, where they are attached to the body of the animal, as the axis which they encompass. The body of the mollusk surrounds a thick muscular column, passing from shell to shell, by the action of which they are closed. The mouth, a simple orifice, with two pairs of lips, is seated between the two innermost leaves of the branchiæ, and appears to open at once, from the shortness of the gullets, into the digestive cavity, which is imbedded in the substance of the liver, and receives the secretion of this organ, through several tubular orifices. The liver is of large size, of a dark colour, and consists of an aggregation of small glands connected into a mass by a cellular tissue. The intestinal tube is short, and makes a double convolution, one loop encircling the stomach. The heart is situated between the muscular pillar,

and the other intestinal fold, and may be distinguished by its dark purple colour: it consists of two chambers, namely, an auricle and a ventricle: the former is a thin muscular sac, communicating, by means of two short canals, with the ventricle, which is more firm. The auricle receives the circulating fluid from the branchia, where it has undergone the necessary aëration, and then transmits it through the two canals into the ventricle, whence it is sent to circulate through every part of the animal system. In some bivalve mollusks the heart is more complex, and is divided into two auricles and a ventricle, or even into two auricles and two ventricles; a distinct heart being appropriated to each pair of branchia. The branchia are highly vascular, consisting of minute tubes having a parallel course, countless in number, and united by most delicate cellular tissue; and it is on its course, through these tubes, which alternately merge into larger vessels at the base of the branchiæ, that the circulating fluid becomes subjected to the oxygen of the water.

But the branchiæ have another and not less important office. Deprived, as the oyster is, (and other bivalve mollusks are also,) of the power of pursuing or seizing its prey-imprisoned as it were in its own shells-incapable of making any active bodily efforts, the question naturally suggests itself, How does the oyster live? The mouth, as already observed, is placed between the two innermost leaves of the branchiæ, and it is to these organs that it owes its reception of food. Now, on examining the branchie with a powerful microscope, it is found, that every filament of their fringe is covered with countless minute vibratory cilia, or threadlets, in constant action, incessantly vibrating, and so causing a strong current in the water washing their surface, and which is directed straightway to the mouth, carrying with it animalcules and different nutritious particles. The lips appear to be endowed with some singular power of discrimination, as they close against pernicious or unfit materials, receiving such only as are suitable for food. So energetic is the movement of the cilia over the surface of the branchiæ, that, it is said, if a portion of one of these branchia be cut off, it will continue to work itself along on the water by their rapid movements, till their vital energy departs.

The oyster has no locomotive powers;

it remains cemented to the rock, or to its fellows forming the bed, by a calcareous exudation on the outer surface of its shell; there it ever continues, fixed and unmovable, (as far as itself is concerned in locomotion,) and grows and lives the allotted term of existence. But other bivalves are not so chained down; they can propel themselves along the bottom of the sea, or burrow in the sand with considerable facility, as in the instance of the cockle, and the razor-shell, (solen.) These animals are provided with a foot, as it is commonly called, in shape resembling the tongue of an ox, and firm and muscular; it grows from the anterior part of the body, and is capable of being protruded, and brought into vigorous action. In the cockle, this organ is large, and enables the animal to move along by a succession of leaps, or sudden impulses; in the razor-shell, it is a burrowing organ, by means of which this mollusk can bore in the sand, to the depth of two or three feet or more, with singular rapidity; but in the sea mussel, the foot, which is small, is used only as a finger for fixing the gummy threads of the beard, or byssus, as they are secreted, to any fixed substance; adding thread after thread, until the animal swings by a secure cable. The filaments composing the byssus are secreted at the base of the foot, in the form of glutinous filaments, which soon harden, and acquire considerable strength. In the pinna these threads are very fine, long, and numerous; and are sometimes spun and manufactured into gloves, and other articles, preserved as curiosities in the cabinets of naturalists, or in public museums.

Much respecting the economy of the bivalve mollusks remains to be cleared up. They live and fulfil their allotted task where the eye of the naturalist cannot pursue them; but to Him who formed them, their ways are all open; they are the work of His hands, who, in the beginning said, "Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life;" and in their structure and habits they proclaim the power of their Creator. But if thus mysteriously glorious in the creation of the myriads of beings which tenant earth, and air, and water, what tongue can tell how glorious is the God of all grace in the revelation which he has given of himself to man, who, but for that bright light, would, in despite of reason, be left in darkness amidst the wonders of nature around him!

M.

THE WATERS DIVIDED.

AN eminent meteorologist, Mr. Daniell, having proved the necessary existence of the turbid state of the aqueous atmosphere, previous to the creation of the firmament, makes the following acute and judicious remarks:

These complicated and beautiful contrivances, by which the waters are collected "above the firmament," and are at the same time "divided from the waters which are below the firmament," are inferior to none of those adaptations of Infinite Wisdom, which are perpetually striking the inquiring mind, in the animal and vegetable kingdoms. Had it not been for this nice adjustment of conflicting elements, the clouds and concrete vapours of the sky would have reached from the surface of the earth to the remotest heavens; and the vivifying rays of the sun would never have been able to penetrate through the dense mists of perpetual precipi

tation.

Nor can I here refrain from pointing out a confirmation, which incidentally arises, of the Mosaic account of the creation of that atmosphere whose wonders we have been endeavouring to unravel. The question has been asked, How is it that light is said to have been created on the first day, and day and night to have succeeded each other, when the sun has been described as not having been produced till the fourth day? The sceptic presumptuously replies, This is a palpable contradiction, and the history which propounds it must be false. But Moses records that God created on the first day, the earth covered with water, and did not till its second revolution upon its axis, call the firmament into existence. Now, one result of the previous inquiry has been, that a sphere unequally heated and covered with water, must be enveloped in an atmosphere of steam, which would necessarily be turbid in its whole depth with precipitating moisture. The exposure of such a sphere to the orb of day would produce illumination upon it; that dispersed and equal light, which now penetrates in a cloudy day, and which indeed is "good:" but the glorious source of light could not have been visible from its surface. On the second day, the permanently elastic firmament was produced; and we have seen that the natural consequences of this mixture of gaseous matter with

The

vapour must have been, that the waters would begin to collect above the firmament, and divide themselves from the waters which were below the firmament. The clouds would thus be confined to definite planes of precipitation, and exposed to the influence of the winds, and still invisible sun. gathering together of the waters on the third day, and the appearance of dry land, would present a greater heating surface, and a less surface of evaporation, and the atmosphere during this revolution would let fall its excess of condensed moisture; and upon the fourth day it would appear probable, even to our short-sighted philosophy, that the sun would be enabled to dissipate the still-remaining mists, and burst forth with splendour upon the vegetable surface. So far, therefore, is it from being impossible that light should have appeared upon the earth before the appearance of the sun, that the present imperfect state of our knowledge will enable us to affirm, that, if the recorded order of creation be correct, the events must have exhibited themselves in the succession which is described. The argument, therefore, recoils with double force in favour of the inspiration of an account of natural phenomena, which, in all probability, no human mind, in the state of knowledge at the time it was delivered, could have suggested; but which is found to be consistent with facts that a more advanced state of science and experience have brought to light. If, however, it were reasonable to expect that the ways of God should, in all cases, be justified to the knowledge, or rather the ignorance, of man, the boldest philosopher might well pause, before he applied the imperfect test of a progressive philosophy to the determination of the momentous questions involved in these considerations.

DECAY.

THE crazy habitation of the body will decay. You may repair the broken tiles and damaged roof; you may rub up the dim window-lights, and oil the rusty hinges of the doors; you may patch up and plaster over the shattered walls, and paint the outside of the tenement, till the passer-by wonders at its fresh appearance; but, for all this, the old house must come down at last. G.