tious respect in which it is held. It is called by the French Prie Dieu, or according to some writers Presque Dieu, by the Italians Pregadiou, by the Portuguese Louva Dios. A monkish legend informs us that St. Francis Xavier, walking one day in a garden, and seeing an insect of the Mantis genus moving along in its solemn way, holding up its two fore-legs as in the act of devotion, desired it to sing the praises of God. The legend adds that the saint immediately heard the insect carol a fine canticle with a loud emphasis.

The patience of this Mantis in catching its prey is very remarkable. Rösel tells us that when once it fixes its eyes on an insect it rarely loses sight of it again, though it may cost some hours to take. If it sees the insect a little beyond its reach, over its head, it slowly erects its long thorax, by means of the moveable membranes which connect it with the body at the base; then resting on the four posterior legs, it gradually raises the anterior pair also: if this brings it near enough to the insect, it throws open the last joint, and snaps its prey between the spines, that are set in rows on the second joint. If it is unsuccessful it does not retract its arms, but keeps them still stretched out, and waits for a more favourable opportunity of seizing the insect. If the latter goes far from the spot, the mantis flies after it, and as it approaches the place, crawls slowly along the ground like a cat, ready to spring upon its prey. It has a remarkable quickness of sight, being possessed of a small black pupil or sight, which moves in all directions within the parts we usually term eyes, so that it can see its prey in any direction, without having occasion to startle it by turning its head.

The female mantis deposits her eggs in regular order on the twigs of plants, and covers them with a white substance, which on hardening gains a yellow colour. This takes place in September, but it is not till the following June that the insects appear. In the larva state they have all the appearance of their parents, except that they are destitute of wings and wing

covers.

The disposition of this Mantis to prey on its own species, has long attracted the attention of naturalists. Rösel, wishing to observe the gradual progress of these creatures to the winged state, placed some eggs in a large covered glass. From the time they were first hatched they showed signs of a savage disposition; and though he supplied them with different sorts of plants, they preferred preying on each other. This determined him to supply them with other insects to eat he put ants into the glass to them, but they then betrayed as much fear as they had before shown barbarity, and tried to escape in every direction. He next gave them some of the common musca, (house-fly,) which they seized with eagerness and tore in pieces; but, though these creatures seemed very fond of flies, they still continued to destroy one another through savage wantonness Despairing at last of rearing any to the winged state, he separated them into small parcels in different glasses, but here, as before, the strongest of each community destroyed the rest. On receiving some of these insects in the winged state, he placed each pair in a separate glass, but found that the fierceness of their disposition is not softened by sex or age, for the stronger of the two, whether male or female, rushed at the other with great velocity, and tore it in pieces with the crotchets and spines of the fore-claws.

The Chinese, aware of the fighting propensity of these insects, keep them in little bamboo cages, and match them together in combats, in the same way as in this country fighting cocks used to be matched. Rösel compares the attacks of the Mantis tribe

to that of hussars; for they dexterously guard and cut with their fore-claws, as those soldiers do with sabres, and sometimes at a stroke one of them cleaves the other through, or severs its head from the thorax; after this, the victorious mantis devours his fallen enemy.

Various species of Mantis have been found throughout the warmer regions of the earth, reaching as far north as the middle of France. Their forms are variable; some of them bear so exact a resemblance to the leaves of the trees they inhabit, that travellers have been struck with the phenomenon, as it seemed, of animated vegetable substances. Indeed, their manners, as well as their structure, are very likely to impose on persons who have but little acquaintance with the insect world. They often remain on the trees for hours together without motion, then suddenly spring into the air, and when they settle again appear lifeless; these are only stratagems made use of to deceive the more cautious insects on which they feed, but some travellers who had witnessed this curious sight, declare that they saw the leaves of trees become living creatures and take flight.

Were these insects as voracious in their vegetable diet as they show themselves with respect to other insects, and even their own species, they would prove very formidable enemies in the countries where they abound; for, according to Renard, the larger kinds of Mantis go in vast troops, and cross hills, rivers, and other obstacles that oppose their march, when they are in quest of food. Thus they clear the earth of myriads that infest it, and when these become scarce from their ravages, they bite and devour one another.

The Mantidæ are found to be most active in situations where they are exposed to the greatest heat. As the season declines, they become comparatively inert, and are more easily taken. In attempting to catch them, however, it is difficult to escape being wounded by the sharp spines of their fore-limbs, which readily pierce the skin.

The species called Mantis precaria is a native of many parts of Africa. It is of the same general size and shape with the species we have been describing, is of a beautiful green colour, with the thorax ciliated, or spined, on each side, and the upper wings each marked in the middle by a semi-transparent spot. It is the supposed idol of the Hottentots, and this superstitious people are reported to hold in the highest reverence the person on whom the adored insect happens to alight, such a person being considered as favoured by the distinction of a celestial visitant, and regarded ever afterwards as a saint.

Not only in the Mantis tribe, but in several other families of tropical insects, may be found those extraordinary species to which the popular name of Walking-leaf has been applied. Among locusts we find insects with wing-cases bearing the most striking resemblance to the leaves of the laurel, the myrtle, the citron, the lily, the sage, the olive, the camellia, thyme, and grass; hence their specific names of citrifolia, laurifolia, oleifolia, &c. and the likeness they bear to these leaves is so great, not only in the colour but in the texture, and even the veining of the wingcases, that were these detached from the body, it is thought that even botanists themselves might be deceived by them, and suppose them real leaves. Nor are these remarkable cases entirely without parallel among our own insects, when in their larva state. An attentive observer of nature will frequently discover, among the numerous caterpillars that infest our hedges and trees, a great similarity between the colour and make of the little creature, and that of the twig on which it rests. The dull hues and speckled surface of some, might very well be mistaken for the lichen-covered bark of the tree itself, while the smooth and glossy green of others aptly represents the young shoots on which it feeds. This adaptation of the appearance of the insect to the circumstances in which it is placed, is, doubtless, intended for its preservation and concealment, and affords another instance of the wise provision made for the wants of apparently insignificant portions of God's creation.

ALUM AND ALUM-WORKS.

II.

THIS very useful substance is composed principally of two ingredients, sulphuric acid, and alumina; but it also contains a portion of one of the three alkalies, potash, soda, or ammonia. More commonly it is the first of the three, and is then, chemically speaking, a sulphate of alumina and potash; but it is usually called common or potash alum; while the other two kinds are called respectively soda alum, and ammonia alum. The two latter kinds are not much known in commerce; we will therefore confine our notice to common or potash alum.

The appearance of alum is too well known to need description. Its uses in the arts and medical sciences are numerous. It forms one of the ingredients in many kinds of medicine: it is a necessary ingredient in many kinds of paint: its use is indispensable to the dyer, as a mordant, or means of fixing the colour to cloth it is used for preparing all those kinds of leather which are neither tanned nor dressed with oil

it is used by candle-makers, to harden their tallow and render it white; and in a variety of other processes, the value of alum is very conspicuous.

It seems probable that the ancients were unacquainted with alum, but that they applied an equivalent name to a vitriolic earth. True alum was first discovered by the Orientals, who established alum-works in Syria, in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. The oldest alum-works in Europe, were erected about the middle of the fifteenth century. Towards the end of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, Sir Thomas Chaloner established the first alum-works in England, near Whitby in Yorkshire, where the principal works of the kind in this country are still carried on. There are also large works at Hurlett, near Paisley. The best alum is considered to be that from the neighbourhood of Civita Vecchia, in the papal territory. There is a species often called Rockalum: this is a wrong term: it should be Roch, from Rocha, in Syria, from whence it is procured.

con

Alum is procured in various ways, according to the nature of the mineral employed. We will describe the principal modes of operation. The first of which we shall speak is the production of alum from a volcanic sulphureous earth near Naples. The Solfaterra, according to Dr. Aikin, is a small plain on the top of a hill near Naples, and is covered with a white soil, in which are perceived numerous round holes or craters, from which sulphureous vapours are stantly ascending. The ground, even at the surface, is warm, and at the depth of a few inches is too hot to be borne by the hand. This white clayey soil, being penetrated and entirely impregnated by sulphureous vapours, forms a rich ore of alum. In order to extract the alum, a shed is erected, in the middle of which is placed a large oblong-leaden cistern, let into the ground almost up to the brim, in order to receive a proper quantity of the subterranean heat; this cistern is surrounded by smaller caldrons, sunk into the ground in a similar manner. When all is prepared, some of the sulphureous earth is put into the cistern, and water is poured on it; this mixture is carefully stirred till the whole of the salt is dissolved; after which, the earth being removed, a fresh portion is put in, so as to bring the water almost to a state of saturation with the salt. The liquor is now removed into the smaller caldrons, and the loss by evaporation is supplied by fresh liquor. The whole is then removed into tubs, where, as it cools, it deposits a large quantity of crystals of alum. These crystals are purified by a second solution and crystallization, after which they are fit for the market. This alum is the most easily procured of any, because it exists ready prepared in the soil; but from the careless mode in which it is manufactured, it is but little known out of Naples.

We have said that the finest alum is procured from the Roman territory. This is prepared at the oldestablished works of La Solfa, near Civita Vecchia, from a kind of alum-stone procured about a mile from the works. This alum-stone occurs in irregular strata, and in deep veins in the side of a hill. When unmixed with other substances, it is of a yellowish white colour, and so hard as to require blasting by gunpowder. The stone is first broken into pieces of a moderate size, and then roasted. The furnace used for this purpose is a cylindrical cavity in a mass of masonry, the greater part of which is occupied by a hemispherical dome, with a large round aperture at the top. The wood-fuel is conveyed through a side door into the dome, and the alum-ore is piled carefully over the aperture, so as to form a smaller dome, whose diameter is equal to that of the aperture in the larger one. As soon as the fire is kindled, the smoke and flame penetrate through the interstices of the pieces of ore, and quickly heat the whole mass. For the first three or four hours, the smoke escapes in dense black volumes; but by degrees it acquires a white colour, the pieces of ore become of a bright red, or-rose colour, and a smell of sulphur becomes manifest. In twelve or fourteen hours the fire is extinguished, and when the alum-stones have cooled, they are removed, and again replaced for a second roasting, but observing that those should now be placed in the middle which before occupied the outside of the heap.

When the roasting is completed, the alum-stones are piled upon a smooth, sloping floor, in long parallel ridges, between each of which is a trench filled with water. From these trenches the ridges are frequently sprinkled; and after a few days the pieces begin to swell and crack, and fall to powder, like quicklime when slaked; acquiring at the same time a light reddish colour; and in five or six weeks

this operation is completed. A leaden boiler is then two-thirds filled with water, and portions of the slaked ore are successively stirred in, till the vessel is nearly full. When the liquor begins to boil, the ore is diligently stirred up from the bottom, that the whole of the alum may be dissolved. At the end of about twenty-four hours, the fire is extinguished, and the liquor is left at rest for the particles of earth to subside. As soon as this has taken place, a stop-cock, fixed in the side of the boiler, about one-third of its height from the bottom, is opened, and the clear solution is transferred along a wooden spout, into square wooden reservoirs, seven feet high by five wide, so constructed as to be readily taken to pieces: in these it remains about a fortnight, during which time the alum crystallizes in irregular masses upon the sides and bottom. More alum is afterwards procured from the remaining liquor, by a subsequent process.

We now come to our own country, and shall speak of the alum-works at Whitby. The mineral from which the alum is here procured, is alum slate, or alum shale; and the mode of preparation, as detailed by Mr. Winter and Dr. Ure, is nearly as follows. The stratum of alum-slate is about twenty-nine miles in width, and is covered by strata of alluvial soil, sand-stone, iron-stone, shells, and clay. The alumslate is generally found disposed in horizontal layers. The rock is first broken into small pieces, and laid on a horizontal bed of fuel, composed of brushwood, &c. When the rock is piled up to a height of about four feet, fire is applied to the bottom, and fresh rock is continually heaped upon the pile. This is continued until the calcined heap be raised to the height of ninety or one hundred feet. Its horizontal area has also been progressively extended at the same time, till it forms a great bed, nearly 200 feet square, containing 100,000 cubic yards of rock. The rapidity of the combustion is allayed by plastering up the crevices with moistened clay.

When the rock has been thus roasted or calcined, it is placed in water contained in pits, that usually hold about sixty cubic yards. The liquor is drawn off into cisterns, and afterwards pumped up again upon fresh calcined rock: this is repeated until the water becomes about one-seventh heavier than in its ordinary state, owing to the quantity of alum it now contains. This strong and heavy liquor is drawn off into settling cisterns, where iron, earth, and sulphate of lime, are deposited. When the subsidence (which is sometimes accelerated by boiling) is completed, the liquor is transferred into leaden pans, ten feet long, four feet nine inches wide, two feet two inches deep at one end, and two feet eight inches at the other. Here the liquor is concentrated at a boiling heat. Every morning the pans are emptied into a settling cistern, (which is effected more easily by the sloping shape of their bottoms,) and a solution of muriate of potash is added. After being allowed to settle about two hours, the liquor is poured off into coolers, to crystal

lize.

The liquor remains in the cooler about four days, after which the clear fluid is poured off, leaving crystals of alum at the bottom. These crystals are washed in a tub, drained, and put into a leaden pan, with as much water as will make a saturated solution at the boiling point. When this is effected, the solution is poured into casks, and allowed to remain there about a fortnight. At the end of this time, alum is found, exteriorly in a solid cake, but in the interior cavity in large pyramidal crystals. The alum is now in its finished state, fit for the market. It is thus seen, that Whitby alum differs from that of Naples or Rome, in the necessity for adding potash, or some

equivalent alkali, to the ingredients already existing in the ore. About 130 tons of the Whitby ore are necessary to produce one ton of alum. The expense of digging, and removing to a distance of 200 yards, one cubic yard of the rock or ore, is about sixpence halfpenny; and the men earn from two to three shillings per day at the employment.

In Saxony the alum-ore, being of a somewhat different kind from those hitherto mentioned, is treated in a different manner; but what has been already said will sufficiently illustrate the general modes by which alum is procured.

His

I HOLD it indeed to be a sure sign of a mind not poised as it ought to be, if it be insensible to the pleasures of home, to the little joys and endearments of a family, to the affection of relations, to the fidelity of domestics. Next to attachment of a man's family and dependents seems to me being well with his own conscience, the friendship and one of the most comfortable circumstance of his lot. situation, with regard to either, forms that sort of bosom comfort or disquiet that sticks close to him at all times and seasons, and which, though he may now and then forget it amidst the bustle of public, or the hurry of active life, will resume its place in his thoughts, and its permanent effects on his happiness, at every pause of ambition or of business.

I WOULD distinguish between that knowledge of the world which fits us for intercourse with the better part of mankind, and that which we gain by associating with the worst.

RELIGION. It will one day be understood, that whatever wars with reason and common sense, is equally hostile to religion. The simple and unchangeable truths of Christianity will be found to violate none of our most obvious convictions. Truth will reassume her legitimate reign, and piety, religion, and morals, our best interests for this life, and our surest preparations for a future one, will be found exactly conformable to the eternal order of things: and thus the system of the Gospel will become universal according to its legitimate claims. True piety, in my opinion, is equally our duty, our wisdom, and our happiness. To behold God everywhere in his works, to hold communion with him in a con. templative and admiring spirit, to love and trust him; to find, in the deep and constantly-present persuasion of his being and attributes, a sentiment of exhaustless cheerfulness and excitement to duty, I hold to be the source of the purest and sublimest pleasure that earth can afford.—D.

PRIDE relates more to our opinion of ourselves; vanity, to what we would have others think of us.

AUTUMN.

THERE is an "even-tide" in the year,—a season, as we now witness, when the sun withdraws his propitious light,-when the winds arise, and the leaves fall, and nature around us seems to sink into decay. It is said, in general, to be the season of melancholy; and if by this word be meant that it is the time of solemn and of serious thought, it is undoubtedly the season of melancholy; yet it is a melancholy so soothing, so gentle in its approach, and so prophetic in its influence, that they who have known it feel, as if instinctively, that it is the doing of God, and that the heart of man is not thus finely touched but to fine issues.

1. It is a season which tends to wean us from the passions of the world. Every passion, however base or unworthy, is yet eloquent. It speaks to us of present enjoyment; it tells us of what men have done, and what men may do, and it supports us everywhere by the example of many around us. When we go out into the fields in the evening of the year, a different voice approaches us. We regard, even in

A few days ago, and the summer of the year was grateful, and every element was filled with life, and the sun of heaven seemed to glory in his ascendant. He is now enfeebled in his power: the desert no more "blossoms like the rose:" the song of joy is no more heard among the branches; and the earth is strewed with that foliage which once bespoke the magnificence of summer. Whatever may be the passions which society has awakened, we pause amid this apparent desolation of nature. We sit down in the lodge "of the wayfaring man in the wilderness," and we feel that all we witness is the emblem of our own fate. Such also, in a few years, will be our own condition. The blossoms of our spring, the pride of our summer, will also fade into decay; and the pulse that now beats high with virtuous or with vicious desire will gradually sink, and then must stop for ever.

We rise from our meditations with hearts softened and subdued, and we return into life as into a shadowy scene, where we have "disquieted ourselves in vain." Such is the first impression which the present scene of nature is fitted to make upon us. It is this first impression which intimidates the thoughtless and the gay; and, indeed, if there were no other reflections that followed, I know not that it would be the business of wisdom to recommend such meditations. It is the consequences however of such previous thoughts which are chiefly valuable; and among these there are two which may well deserve our consideration.

2. It is the peculiar character of the melancholy which such seasons excite, that it is general. It is not an individual remonstrance; it is not the harsh language of human wisdom, which too often insults while it instructs us. When the winds of autumn sigh around us, their voice speaks not to us only, but to our kind; and the lesson they teach us is not that we alone decay, but that such also is the fate of all the generations of man. "They are the green leaves of the tree of the desert, which perish and are renowed."

In such a sentiment there is a kind of sublimity mingled with its melancholy: our tears fall, but they fall not for ourselves; and, although the train of our thoughts may have begun with the selfishness of our own concerns, we feel that, by the ministry of some mysterious power, they end in awakening our concern for every being that lives. Yet a few years, we think, and all that now bless, or all that now convulse humanity, will also have perished. The mightiest pageantry of life will pass, the loudest notes of triumph or of conquest will be silent in the grave;-the wicked, wherever active, "will cease from troubling," and the weary, wherever suffering," will be at rest." Under an impression so profound, we feel our own hearts better. The cares, the animosities, the hatreds, which society may have engendered, sink unperceived from our bosoms. In the general desolation of nature, we feel the littleness of our own passions; we look forward to that kindred evening which time must bring to all; we anticipate the graves of those we hate, as of those we love. Every unkind passion falls with the leaves that fall around us; and we return slowly to our homes, and to the society which surrounds us, with the wish only to enlighten or to bless them.

3. If there were no other effects of such appearances of nature upon our minds, they would still be valuable, they would teach us humility, and with it they would teach us charity. In the same hour in which they taught us our own fragility, they would teach us commiseration for the whole family of man.

inspire, more valuable than all; and we know little the designs of Providence when we do not yield ourselves in such hours to the beneficent instincts of our imagination.

It is the unvarying character of nature, amid all its scenes, to lead us at last to its Author; and it is for this final end that all its varieties have such dominion upon our minds. We are led by the appearances of spring to see his bounty; and we are led by the splendours of summer to see his greatness. In the present hours we are led to a higher sentiment; and, what is most remarkable, the very circumstances of melancholy are those which guide us most securely to put our trust in Him.

We are witnessing the decay of the year; we go back in imagination, and find that such, in every generation, has been the fate of man: we look forward, and we see that to such ends all must come at last: we lift our desponding eyes in search of comfort, and we see above us One "who is ever the same, and to whose years there is no end." Amidst the vicissitudes of nature we discover that central Majesty, "in whom there is no variableness nor shadow of turning." We feel that there is a God; and from the tempestuous sea of life we hail that polar star of nature, to which a sacred instinct had directed our eyes, and which burns with undecaying ray to lighten us among all the darkness of the deep.

From this great conviction there is another sentiment which succeeds. Nature, indeed, yearly perishes, but it is yearly renewed. Amid all its changes, the immortal spirit of Him that made it remains; and the same sun, which now marks with his receding ray the autumn of the year, will again rise in his brightness, and bring along with him the promise of the spring, and all the magnificence of summer.

Under such convictions hope dawns upon the sadness of the heart. The melancholy of decay becomes the very herald of renewal; the magnificent circle of nature opens upon our view. We anticipate the analogous resurrection of our being; we see beyond the grave a greater spring, and we people it with those who have given joy to that which is passed. With such final impressions, we submit ourselves gladly to the destiny of our being. While the sun of mortality sinks, we hail the rising of the Sun of Righteousness, and in hours when all the honours of nature are perishing around us, we prostrate ourselves in deeper adoration before Him who "sitteth upon its throne."

Let, then, the young go out, in these hours, under the descending sun of the year, into the fields of nature. Their hearts are now ardent with hope,with the hopes of fame, of honour, or of happiness; and in the long perspective which is before them, their imagination creates a world where all may be enjoyed. Let the scenes which they now may witness moderate, but not extinguish, their ambition. While they see the yearly desolation of nature, let them see it as the emblem of mortal hope; while they feel the disproportion between the powers they possess, and the time they are to be employed, let them carry their ambitious eye beyond the world; and while, in these sacred solitudes, a voice in their own bosom corresponds to the voice of decaying nature, let them take that high decision which becomes those who feel themselves the inhabitants of a greater world, and who look to a Being incapable of decay.-ALISON,

LONDON:

JOHN WILLIAM PARKER, WEST STRAND. PUBLISHED IN WEEKLY NUMBERS, PRICE ONE PENNY, AND IN MONTHLY PARTS, PRICE SIXPENCE.

ALONG the north-west part of Egypt extends a sandy slip of land, on an average four or five miles wide, and about forty in length; having on the one side the Mediterranean, on the other a large lake called Lake Mareotis, or Marrout, and a smaller one termed Lake Maudie, which opens on the north-east into the Bay of Aboukir. About midway, where the land suddenly contracts to half its usual breadth, and thereby forms a commodious harbour, Alexander the Great, in the year 333 B.C., founded a city which still preserves his name. The modern town, called by the Turks Iskenderieh, to which passing events give a peculiar interest, does not indeed occupy the exact site of the ancient city, but it is still, like it, the only important seaport of the country, and the chief link which connects Egypt with Europe. Ancient Alexandria spread along the shore of the bay on the north, and on the south extended to Lake Mareotis. About a mile from the sea-shore was the Isle of Pharos, which was by the second Ptolemy joined to the mainland by a causeway. Upon this causeway stands the modern town, while the site of the Greek city is marked by a double wall with lofty towers and five entrances, inclosing, however, only a sandy waste, strewed with ruins and tenanted by birds and beasts of prey. Modern Alexandria is situated in 31° 13' N. latitude, and 29° 53' E. longitude, and is about 130 miles north-west of Cairo. Its population, which is of the most motley character, has much increased of late years, and is estimated now at about 25,000. The climate is healthy; the plague and other diseases with which the country is afflicted being in great measure traceable to the habits of the population,

VOL. XVII,

The ancient city stood about twelve miles from the Canopic branch of the Nile, with which river it was connected by a canal, and thus participated in the benefits of the periodical inundations. Its circumference, including the suburbs, according to Pliny, was about fifteen miles. One great street, running directly north and south, thus allowing free passage to the northern wind, which alone conveys refreshing coolness to Egypt, was 2000 feet wide, and must have excelled anything of the kind in the world. It began at the gate of the sea on the north, and terminated at the gate of Canopus on the south. This magnificent street was intersected or crossed by another of the same width, which at their junction formed a grand square, half a league, or a mile and a half, in circumference; and from the centre of this great square th two gates were seen at once, and the vessels arriving, both south and north, with the treasures of foreign merchandize, and the wealth of distant climes. In these two streets stood various palaces, temples, and public buildings, constructed of marble and porphyry, and the far-famed obelisks. The palace and gardens of the Ptolemies, the first of whom, Ptolemy Soter, one of Alexander's generals, began a new dynasty of Egyptian kings, were without the walls, stretching along the shores of the Mediterranean, beyond the promontory called Lectreos, and occupied a space equivalent to a fourth part of the city. Each of the Ptolemies who succeeded to the Egyptian throne added to those magnificent buildings and gardens. Within their inclosures were the museum, an academy or university, a stately temple, in which the body of Alexander was deposited, and groves and 534