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when he was suddenly surrounded by horsemen and easily captured. How little better is man than a cat! Each amuses himself by tormenting his prey ere he destroys it. Nevertheless, some philosophers have thought it a very pleasing entertainment to the poor animal to flee with danger as a pursuer. Suppose we refer to the animal man for an analogy in this natural trait? Let us take him, not as a progressive and improving being, but as a savage, and he is equalled by all inferior animals; for, if we except the connecting link with the vegetable world, they possess the same number of senses; and even with reason in the one, we find analogically instinct with the other: they have the same passions, and all of the moral virtues of uncivilized man. May it not, then, be their unaccessible language which creates the great difference? If so, language may be the basis of civilization. In Eden there was no carnivorous animal. Every herb bearing seed, and every tree in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed, to you it shall be meat.' 'Dominion' alone was given over animals, and there also the serpent spake to Eve. But we will leave this subject to superior minds, to return to our story.

"After this our tents were pitched, and a carpet spread for the Sultan's couch. I was by him when he fell upon his face to perform his evening's devotion, and did not leave him until he was deeply sleeping. I now requested the loan for a few minutes of the vizier's kullumdan or ink-horn. They are worn by viziers as a mark of their office, and are constructed so as to hold ink, a reed, and penknife: they are ten or twelve inches in length, and three or four in circumference, beautifully enamelled, and suspended from the girdle. The vizier promptly handed it, supposing-the heavens being as bright as day-that I designed making astronomical calculations. Stepping out of the tent, I traced for the Sultan, as his astrologer, a few lines of advice, with this admonition:

"Sultan Sanjar, beware! had not thy character been admired, the hand that struck this dagger into the hard ground could with more ease have plunged it into thy soft bosom.'

"This I wrapped around the handle of one of the daggers which was concealed about my person. I returned the ink-horn to the vizier, who replaced it in his girdle, and, stationing a guard about the monarch's tent, spread his carpet and folded himself in his robe for the night. As the vizier was not an astrologer in his habits, he was very soon dreaming of the Mussulman's paradise. I heard him mutter in his sleep:

"Hand me, gazelle-eyed, that crystal cup of nectar.'

"Being somewhat acquainted with the philosophy of dreams, I fully expected that the grave vizier would confuse the empire and the horns of the stag together, and in his tangle of ideas awake. So, as softly as possible, I sank the dirk to the handle at

the head of the Sultan, and so very near that his turban shaded it; then passing the guard, who knew me, as if going to my tent, I was soon as free as the mountain breeze, or the waking ringdove in the wilds of Diarbek."

The ship was anchored, and the Templar saw the little boat rock upon the billows as it awaited his departure. The Assassin sat upon the deck, and as his Frankish friend turned towards him for the purpose of bidding him farewell, his manly bearing and muscular proportions might have induced any one to suppose, had they lived in the age of Pericles, that he was the original of the Olympian Jupiter of Phidias.

Rising, Hásan approached him, and, kissing repeatedly his left cheek, the noble pagan wept. The Templar's hand was wet with tears as he pointed to the red-cross upon his left shoulder, and, drawing the Assassin by his side, he fell upon his knees and prayed fervently that God would guide him, whose mind was as the desert of his native land, to that "well of living water which quenches thirst forever." The Assassin, like Felix, trembled as he said:

"Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian, for thy example for many long years has proved to me that the spirit of Allah is with thee."

The Assassin returned to his tribe immediately after separating from his Christian friend, and having two or three months of furlough at home, he amused himself not in travelling in disguise over new scenes in foreign countries, as was customary with them when released from duty, but in compiling a manuscript of the adventures of his life, designing to forward it to the Templar as an evidence not only of his regard, but of his recollection of him. During this period he would each day wander alone upon the crags surrounding the Eagles' Nest, and there, in the solitude of nature, he would recall his past existence; and often the Syrian sun would sink, and the curtains of night gather around him ere he would awake to the realities of his present life. So deeply was he wrapped in thought, that we might say a tide of Lethe swept over him, rendering him not oblivious to the past, but of present time. He was two months engaged in tracing with his reed on vellum the history of his life; and when his task was finished, he dropped his pen and inkhorn in the chasm beneath him as he said:

"My life is now finished, and oh! that the scissors of the Greek Fury would sever its thread as that pen its chronicle."

He rolled up the manuscript, rose from the rock, and looked around him. All was silent and motionless, save the clouds, which sailed in broken fragments above him. He again exclaimed:

"Such is Hásan Sábáh: the light and shadow which yon cloud reflects as it passes over him, are but the type of his tempest-tost life; and his house hold, where are they? Vanished and gone forever!

And he now stands, the only animated remnant of his race."

He turned to his home, placed the manuscript in a satin purse, and the purse in a casket of gold: then, calling an Egyptian Saracen of the order, he deposited it in his hand, saying:

"Haradden, thou art now bound for Greece. Go to the island of Ægina: inquire for the Templar Guy de Balben, and, after saluting him by the recollection he bears to Hásan Sábáh, bless him in the name of Allah, and say, 'May the dust of thy feet be fortunate!' then hand him this, and disappear." (To be continued.)

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ILLUSTRIOUS WOMEN OF OUR TIME.

"We look to the biography and writings of a woman, to show us the interior of a nation as well as of a family: to furnish those secondary evidences and causes of a people's character, which men cannot so much be said to overlook as actually not to see."-Quarterly Review.

MRS. S. C. HALL.

THE fair subject of our present article may deservedly be considered to rank high among those talented women on whom, according to our quotation, rests the responsibility of influencing the opinions of their readers, and turning them into the right channel, on subjects of no little importance. A better proof of this cannot be given than in her joint work with Mr. Hall, "Ireland; its Scenery, Character, &c." Here is displayed a peculiar fitness for so arduous a task; and any one who has perused these popular volumes must be led to agree in the remark that they contain "instruction for the tourist, amusement for the novel-reader, information for the student, and novelties for the curious."

II intimate acquaintance with that class of Irish life which affords the animated portion of her descriptions enables her to paint the nationalities of the peasantry and working-classes with a fidelity, to which are added touches of a more general nature, which greatly heighten the interest and effect of particular scenes and characters. The scene of an embarkation of Irish emigrants for the New World is a peculiar instance of this happy combination of truth and pathos, and abounds with traits of Irish feeling and thought which are eminently characteristic, fully proving that it is never difficult to open an Irish heart; a few kind words, almost a kind look, will insure success. Her remarks on the temperance movement in Ireland are written with a judgment and good sense which have met with the warm approval of all the friends of this matter of popular interest; while the whole work, with its collection of characteristic anecdotes and picturesque facts, bounds with proofs that no common industry and research have accompanied the talent employed in its preparation.

Mrs. Hall has equally high claims on our approbation in her amusing and instructive "Stories of the Irish Peasantry," which are written with a faithfulness, purity, and right thinking, which will, we doubt not, cause them to go down to posterity as

standard works on the subject. These Irish tales are directed at the prominent failings of her poor country, with the amiable view and hope of correcting them, and she has chosen for her appropriate motto the Christian precept of the apostle, "Mind not high things, but condescend to men of low estate." Though dwelling on the foibles of poor Pat, she makes him rather an object of sympathy than of ridicule, and her characters are calculated to interest our feelings, and not merely to excite our laughter, while in all her writings we may observe a total absence of all appearance of that party prejudice which may too often be traced in writers on the subject of Ireland.

Her "Tales of Woman's Trials" have been collected and published in one volume; and here is well displayed that fertility in inventing incidents for which Mrs. Hall is so remarkable; that excellent quality which, as the Athenæum remarks, "is to a teller of stories something like the voice to a singer." It is, in fact, one of the attractions which have rendered the writings of the fair authoress, especially those of a legendary class, so deservedly and universally popular.

The following pathetic love tale-an extract from a contribution to "The Amulet" of 1833, and must have been one of Mrs. Hall's earliest productionsis a very fair specimen of the happy powers of invention to which we have alluded:

"Milly Boyle, ma'am, a blue-eyed, fair-haired girl, with rosy cheeks, and a smile ever ready to convert them into dimples. Ah! she was the pride of the whole village. And her poor mother (and she a widdy) doated on her as never mother doated on child before or since, to my thinking. Then her voice was as clear as a bell, and as sweet as a linnet's; and though she had forty pounds to her fortune, besides furniture, a feather bed, and a cow, to say nothing of the pigs, and powers of fowls, and lashings of meal and cutlings, (sure, her uncle, big Larry Boyle, is a miller), though she had all them things, she was as humble as a wild violet, and, to the poor, was ever ready with a soft word and a

'God save you kindly,' and her hand in her pocket, and out with a fivepenny bit or a tester; or would think nothing of lapping her cloak round her, and away to any sick woman, or poor crayther of a man, that 'ud be ailing, and give them the grain of tea, or the bit of tobaccy, or taste of snuff, to comfort them; and the prayer of the country side was 'Good luck to Milly Boyle.' To be sure, if she hadn't the bachelors, no girl ever had. Shoals of 'em watching for her coming out of chapel, or from the station, or from the wake, as it might be, waylaying her, as a body may say: and though she was main civil to them all, and smiles were as plenty and as sweet with her as harvest berries, yet it was long before she laid her mind to any, until her fancy fixed on Michael Langton, one of the best boys in the barony; handsome and well to do in the world was Michael, and every one was rejoiced at her luck. Well, the day was fixed for the wedding, and even the poor mother rejoiced upon her knees; and, the evening before, Michael and Milly were walking down by the river at the bottom of the common, and Milly spied a bunch of wild roses hanging over the stream, and she took a fancy to the flowers; and to be sure, Mike made a spring at them, but his luck took the footing from under him, and the poor boy was drowned in the sight of her eyes. But the worst of the woe is to come; she got a brain fever out of the trouble, and the fever scorched up her brain, so that there was no sense left in it, though her heart was as warm as ever. And then she used to go rambling about the country, with her hands crossed on her breast, and her eyes evermore wandering; and, if she'd hear a cry or a moan, she'd run to see could she do anything to lighten the trouble, and yet she had no sense left to know how to set about it. And, oh! ma'am, dear, the mother of her! To see that poor woman fading away from off the face of the earth, and following her as if she was her shadow! And so, ma'am, dear, at last, Milly died. And it was quare, too, she was found dead under a wild rose-tree. I often heard they were unlucky things. There she was, and I heard them that found her tell that it was a beautiful melancholy sight to see her-her cheek resting on her arm, as if she was asleep, and ever so many of the rose leaves scattered, by nature like, over her white face! And, oh! ma'am, her mother! They say old hearts are tough, but, if it's true, sorrow can tear them in pieces-the two were buried in the same grave!"

To the pen of Mrs. Hall the rising generation owes a deep debt of gratitude, for her books for young people are almost uniformly such a pleasing combination of fancy and instruction as to be peculiarly acceptable to the age which, while delighting in invention, is so susceptible of imbibing good impressions. Among her juvenile works, we must allude to "Stories and Studies from the Chronicles of England," a charming work, and one well calcu

lated to seduce young people into historical reading, as every division or epoch is diversified with the story of some remarkable person or incident, in a manner to make a durable impression on the youthful mind, and is eminently successful in attaining the happy medium of being neither above nor below the capacities of those for whose understandings it is written. One of the latest works of Mrs. Hall, and the only one of her numerous store which we have now space to notice, "Pilgrimages to English Shrines," is spoken of as being "so attractively written and so charmingly illustrated, as to form a most delightful guide-book and companion to the scenes it portrays." And truly valuable will this book prove to the lover of all that is beautiful in external nature, in architecture, or in the manifestations of the human heart and intellect, for with it he may wander along the banks of the "lazy Ouse," to the birthplace of that "pilgrim of eternity," John Bunyan, to the burial-place of Hampden, the tomb of Gray, and to other hallowed spots, rendered equally interesting or famous from their connection with

"Hands that penned,

And tongues that uttered wisdom."

But the rapidity of Mrs. Hall's genius has produced so many claims on our admiration, that we must not pretend even to enumerate them, or we shall have no space for some well-authenticated personal details of this talented lady, for which we are indebted to the "Portrait Gallery" of a clever contemporary, "The Dublin University Magazine."

Mrs. Hall is a native of Wexford, though, by her mother's side, she is of Swiss descent. Her maiden name was Fielding, by which, however, she was unknown in the literary world, as her first work was not published until after her marriage. She first quitted Ireland at the early age of fifteen, to reside with her mother in England, and it was some time before she revisited this country; but the scenes which were familiar to her as a child had made such a vivid impression on her mind, and all her sketches evince so much freshness and vigor, that her readers might easily imagine she had spent her life among the scenes she describes. During her residence in England, she became acquainted with, and subsequently married, Mr. S. C. Hall, a gentleman well known in the literary world as the able editor of several leading periodicals and other works. The pursuits of her husband were an additional inducement for her to make her débût in the republic of letters, which she did in 1829, by the publication of some Irish sketches. She soon made such rapid advances in the favor of the public, as to venture on new ground, and, in 1832, published her first novel, "The Buccaneer," the scene of which is laid in England. In 1837, her versatile genius took another direction, and she produced a little piece for the stage, called "The French Refugee," which

was brought out in London with the greatest success, and, with other of her minor dramas, evinces a considerable degree of dramatic talent. "The Groves of Blarney," the first tale in her "Lights and Shadows of Irish Life," was subsequently dramatized and acted, also with complete success, in the season of 1839.

These, with all Mrs. Hall's works, have great credit besides their literary merit, for throughout reigns a spirit of gentleness and delicacy that constitute, after all, the principal charm of a feminine style, and is a peculiarity that, as we have before remarked, distinguishes her from most others who have written on similar subjects. And, what is higher merit still, our sympathies are never enlisted on the side of vice or immorality, nor does she strive at producing an effect by dwelling upon exciting

and irritating topics, the only tendency of which is to produce a most culpable discontent. Even those who do not entirely agree with her very English notions upon some subjects, must freely admit that her aims and object have always been most philanthropic and most admirable; to correct faults, to soften prejudices, to promote universal harmony and good-will, to please and instruct together, and ever to enlist the feelings of her readers in favor of what is honorable and good. In all that she has written, there is not one page, not one line, which is not devoted to the cause of that morality and virtue, of which she herself is, in domestic life, a brilliant example.

"What we admire we praise; and, when we praise, Advance it into notice, that, its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too."-CowPER,

VEGETABLE PHYSIOLOGY.

BY HARLAND COULTAS.

Ir has been proved that the organization of plants is formed out of a vast collection of minute cells, united together, and developing the plants into certain forms, according to fixed natural laws. But if the substance of plants consists of cells, then differences in the size, form, and duration of plants are simply the result of different degrees of cell evolution. To show that this is really the case, it is only necessary to advert to the appearance presented by vegetable organization on the earth's surface.

As in the animal, so in the vegetable world, nature passes from complexity to simplicity in organic structure, not by an abrupt transition, but by a beautiful and regular series of gradations.

In forest-trees, the process of growth, or cell evolution, continues for centuries; in shrubs, for a much shorter space of time: hence the vast size to which the former attain, and the dwarfed growth of the latter. Forest-trees and shrubs are the highest forms of vegetable development on the face of the earth. Not only do they surpass the herbaceous plants, that grow beneath their shade, in size and in the duration of their life, but they are to a considerable extent more composite in their mode of growth. The forest-tree is not a simple individual, as is usually supposed, but a community of individuals. Properly speaking, the simple plant consists only of a stem, root, and the first pair of leaves. The succeeding evolution of leaves is only a continuation of the first process of growth, whilst each bud is an actual repetition of the plant, the only difference being that the bud or new plant has no free radical extremity, like the parent plant, developed on the soil, its root being intimately blended with and con

tributing to the formation of the wood of the stem on which it grows.

In herbaceous annuals and perennials, there is a similar development of buds or new plants on the stem, but not to the same extent; hence they do not attain the same elevation above the ground. In the lower forms of herbaceous vegetation, the buds or stem-plants become successively less and less evolved, until at length they disappear altogether from the stem, which itself is so contracted in its growth as to be hidden in the earth. This is the case with the hyacinth, lily, and other bulbous-rooted plants. The bulbs of these plants are considered by botanists to be subterranean buds or undeveloped stems, to which they are in every respect similar. The outer leaves of these buds retain their rudimentary scalelike appearance, and form a protective covering to the inner leaves, which grow in a tuft on the ground, the flower-stem rising from their centre.

In the beautiful and interesting tribe of plants called ferns, we have a still greater simplification of vegetable structure. Stem and leaf are now blended into what is designated as a frond, which appears to partake of the nature and office of both, whilst in place of the beautiful flower there is only a collection of mere dust-like spots or lines of reproductive matter, situated on the margin or under-surface of the frond.

But the structure of ferns is complexity itself when contrasted with the beautiful simplicity of the tribes of plants beneath them. When we come to examine the mosses those miniature representations of the arborescent forms of nobler plants-we are struck with the extreme delicacy, simplicity, and exquisite

beauty of their structure. There is a certain degree of solidity about the organization of forest-trees, flowering plants, and ferns, the result of different amounts of ligneous matter or woody fibre entering into their composition. These substances impart strength and stability to the vegetable fabrics, and plants so organized will grow to a considerable height. But mosses are wholly cellular in their organization, and for this reason, never rise more than a few inches re the ground. They usually possess a sort of stem, around which their minute leaves are arranged with the greatest regularity. These minute leaves, when examined carefully with a microscope, are seen to have an entire and sometimes serrated margin, and to contain condensed cells in the form of ribs or nerves. Their fructification is contained in little capsules or urn-shaped bodies which are borne on the summit of their filiform fruit stalks or setæ. These capsules contain the minute spores or reproductive matter. The beautiful mechanism by which its dispersion is effected, will be described another time. Few common objects appear more interesting than the little mosses growing on the bark of trees or barren rocks, amidst the gloom and desolation of winter, which require neither skill nor the assistance of instruments for the detection of their beauties.

In the lichens, vegetation is reduced to its last degree of simplicity. Root, stem, and leaves, have now disappeared, and the whole plant is blended into a flat expansion or bed of vegetable matter, called a thallus. The thalli of the higher forms of lichens are foliaceous, consisting of several layers of cells radiating out on all sides; some of these cells are reproductive, and exhibit the spores in the shape of powdery heaps called soredia, or else they become organized into saucer-like bodies called shields, in which the spores are imbedded. In the lower forms, the thalli of these plants are crustaceous or even pulverulent, the whole plant assuming the appearance of mere powder. In this case the cells no longer remain together, but are free and unformed, any cell being capable of originating a new individual. The plant and cell are now identical.

Nature passes through the same transitions in the sea-weed tribe. Certain algae or sea-weed are of a frondose, others of a filamentous structure, whilst some appear as mere scum on the surface of the waves. In these instances, the plants consist of cells developing in length and breadth, of cells developing in length only, or of a single cell. The same remark applies to the fungi, where nature only finishes with plants of a single cell. Here then we have vegetation reduced to its simplest terms. Tho basis of the superstructure of the whole vegetable world is a single cell.

A review of the life of the cell and of very simple plants consisting of a few cells, must necessarily precede any successful attempt at the comprehension of higher and more complex vegetation. We have VOL. XLV.-12

seen that the fabric of plants is wholly made up of cells, and that growth is simply the result of the evolution of new cells. Now the process of cellgrowth, which is really the key to much that remains mysterious in the fabrication of plants, may be most successfully studied in these simple plants. This has been felt to be the truth, and hence this subject has recently taxed the powers of the ablest minds. Much remains involved in obscurity, but scientific and microscopical investigation of these humble plants has already revealed many deeply interesting discoveries in reference to cell-growth tending to throw light on the wonders and beauties of the vegetable creation.

In our subsequent communications to this volume, we shall endeavor to disclose some of these discoveries, and by the aid of suitable illustrations, convey some very interesting truths to the minds of our readers.

A YOUNG MOTHER'S REVERIE.

BY W. J. ANNABLE.

BABE of my bosom, rest thee-
Angel-dreamer thou!

No care hath yet oppressed thee-
No cloud is on thy brow.

What fancies bright, sweet lisper,
Thy spirits thus beguile?

Oh, that thy lips would whisper

The thoughts that make thee smile!

Perchance some seraph warbles
To thee its song of joy-
Entrancing thee with music,
My beautiful, bright boy!

For I know, in dreams of heaven

We hear, or seem to hear,
Soft voices and the beat of wings,

And feel that they are near.

Do cherubs lure thee, blossom,

Back to thy native sky?
For thy arms move on thy bosom
As if thou fain wouldst fly.

Thus may they ever woo thee
With messages divine
And the beauty of their holiness
Be thine, forever thine.

Yet thy mother's heart doth tremble,
To think what future years
May in thine own assemble,
To form the fount of tears.
O Thou of gifts the Giver,
Smile on this precious one
And like a peaceful river

May his life's current run!
Spread Thou Thy mantle o'er him-
Nor leave alone with me
The task to guide; restore him
To angels, heaven, and Thee!

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