for the last two years, is in the number of meteors (some of them of a large size) of 121, no less than 95 appeared in the evenings of July, August, and September, the three hottest months in the last year. It may, therefore, be inferred, that they are generated by heat in an atmosphere highly charged with electric matter.
NAUTICAL IMPROVEMENT.
We congratulate the public on the application of a simple mechanical apparatus to impel boats, instead of oars. It consists of the machinery of steamvessels, but the moving power is the hand applied to a windlass. Boats were first used on this principle with success on Whit-Monday, between London and Greenwich. The labour is much less than that of oars, and the impulse of the boat through the water much increased in swiftness.
LADY MORGAN. Among the numerous Travellers who have visited Italy since the restoration, we have
reason to believe that no one has been admitits social and political machinery, as Lady ted so unreservedly to inspect the interior of Morgan; her amusing delineations of France having procured for her a more complete inbeen enjoyed by other Travellers. timacy and confidence abroad, than have It is therefore with much satisfaction that we nowill contain the observations collected by tice the announcement of a work, which this distinguished Lady during her two years absence from England.
TO DESTROY CATERPILLARS.
A gardener at Glasgow practises a mode of destroying caterpillars, which he discovered by accident. A piece of woollen rag had been blown by the wind into a current bush, and when taken out was found covered by these leaf-devouring insects. He immediately placed peices of woollen cloth in erery bush in his garden, and found next day that the caterpillars had universally taken to them for shelter. In this way he destroys many thousands every morning.
From the Third Chapter of Habakkuk. FROM Teman's height the Lord the right'ous came: From Param's mount appear'd the vision dread: His beaming glories o'er the Heav'n were spread, And Earth was fill'd with high Jehovah's fame. His brightness dazzled as the lightning-flame, While burning coals beneath his feet were shed; He gaz'd, and lo! the parting nations fled : He stood, and measur❜d Earth's affrighted frame. The mountains saw, and trembled at thy nod; The deep receded from th' appalling sight: At thy superior blaze, thy fearful God; The sun, the moon, withdrew their fainting light: O'er paths of fire thy flaming arrows trod, And, as the morning, beam'd thy falchion bright!
TO AUTUMN.
By John Keats.
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosey hue;
Then in a wai!ful choir the small goats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies:
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies
THE KITTEN.
By Joanna Baillie.
WANTON drole, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;
And Maid whose cheek outblooms the rose.
As bright the blazing faggot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coil'd and crouching low,
With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear'st with rump in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like Madam in her tantrums high:
Though ne'er a Madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.
Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound.
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted by the modern Muse
Expression technical to use,)
These mock the deftest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.
The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains,
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud;
But, stopped the while thy wanton play,
Applauses, too, thy feats repay;
For then beneath some urchin's hand,
With modest pride thon tak'st thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy pur;
As timing well the equal sound,
'Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose :
While softly from thy whiskered cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But, not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire ;
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with altered air
To see thee climb his elbow chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a lettered page;
on her hearth for thee lets fall
ended cork or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravelled skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the wit of former days,
And loaths the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.
Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss,
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey,
A tiger, at his ruthless play?
Or, is it that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem view'd with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,
Who hath, like the & our wits beguil'd,
To dull and sober manhood grown.
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom'st a cat demure,
Fall many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favoured playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove,
When time hath spoil'd thee of our love;
Still be thou deem'd by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat;
Whose dish is for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with sav'ry food.
Nor when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast,
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid,
And children show, with glist'ning eyes,
The place where poor old Pussy lies.
SPANISH AIR.*
By Thomas Moore, Esq.
A temple to Friendship,' said Laura, enchanted, I'll build in this garden, the thought is divine !" Her temple was built, and she only now wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor who set down before her,
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the Friendship she meant. O never!' she cried, 'could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim ; But yon little god upon roses reclining,
We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him.' So the bargain was struck, with the little God laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove. 'Farewel,'said the sculptor, 'you're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship, and took away Love!'
* From Popular National Airs, just published.
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