THE BRUSH TURKEY OF AUSTRALIA. No portion of the globe contains animals so singular in their structure, as Australia; in no other region does the naturalist find beings so strangely organized, or so extraordinary in their habits. We need not offer proofs of this assertion; they will suggest themselves to the mind of every one who is acquainted with the ornithorhynchus, the echidna, the kangaroo, and the wombat. The truth, however, of the proposition, as far as regards habits, is strikingly exemplified in the history of two birds peculiar to Australia, and of which we are about to give the details. The two birds to which we here allude, are the brush turkey of the colonists, called wee-lah by the aborigines, (Talegalla Lathami, Gould,) and the native pheasant of the colonists, called ngow or ngow-oo by the aborigines, (Leipoa ocellata, Gould.) The first was originally described by Latham, under the name of the New Holland vulture; but subsequently he removed it from among the vultures, and placed it among the birds of the gallinaceous order to which it really APRIL, 1841. belongs. The second is also a gallinaceous bird, and has been recently made known to science by that enterprising naturalist, Mr. Gould. It is from his magnificent work on the birds of Australia, which, from its expense, can only be in the hands of the few, that we derive our account. The brush turkey, or, as Mr. Gould terms it, the wattled talegalla, inhabits various districts of New South Wales, from Cape Howe on the south to Moreton Bay on the north. In some places, where it was once common, it has now become rare; and we learn that the cedar cutters, and others who are in the constant habit of hunting through the brushes of Illawara and Maitland have nearly extirpated it from these localities. It is, however, still abundant in the dense brushes of the Manning and Clarence, and along the sides of the lower hills that branch off from the great range into the interior; on the Brezi range to the north of the Liverpool plains, and also on the hills on each side of the Samoi. In its habits, the brush turkey is gregarious, associating in small flocks, L which wander among the dense covert | labours of several; the same site appears to me from the great size, and the entire decomposition of the lower part, to be resorted to for several years in succession, the birds adding a fresh supply of materials previously to laying. of the brush wood; and it is shy and distrustful. It runs with great facility, and from the nature of the localities it frequents, easily eludes pursuit. One of its greatest enemies is the dingo, or wild dog; and when hard pressed by this ferocious beast of prey, it springs to the lower branch of a tree, and, by a succession of leaps from branch to branch, ascends to the top. Thew hole flock act in concert, and having ascended as high as they can, they either remain perched in security, or fly to a distant spot, where the tangled brush wood promises a more effectual concealment. They are also in the habit of resorting to the branches of trees, as a shelter from the mid-day sun; and while thus reposing, they offer a sure mark to the sportsman, who may kill the whole flock, for they will allow a succession of shots to be fired, without moving, or being roused from their lethargy. It is by taking advantage of their midday repose, that the colonists destroy them in great numbers for the sake of their flesh, which is extremely delicate and tender, and is consequently in high esteem. While wandering through the brush, these birds utter a clucking noise; their food consists principally of berries and various seeds; and, like our common poultry, they dust themselves in the soft ground, making bare depressions in the spots which they frequent. 66 ec "The mode in which the materials composing these mounds are accumulated, is equally singular; the bird never using its beak, but always grasping a quantity in its foot, throwing it backwards to one common centre, and thus clearing the surface of the ground for a considerable distance so completely, that scarcely a leaf or a blade of grass is left. "The heap being accumulated, and time allowed for a sufficient heat to be engendered, the eggs are deposited, not side by side, as is ordinarily the case, but planted at the distance of nine or twelve inches from each other, and buried at nearly an arm's depth, perfectly upright, with the large end upwards. They are covered up as they are laid, and allowed to remain until hatched. I have been credibly informed, both by natives and settlers living near their haunts, that it is not unusual to obtain nearly a bushel of eggs at one time from a single heap; and as they are delicious eating, they are eagerly sought after." Some of the natives assured Mr. Gould, that the females are constantly in the neighbourhood of the heap, waiting for the time at which the hatching The most interesting and remarkable of the eggs takes place; and that they circumstance connected with the eco-frequently uncover and cover again the nomy of the brush turkey is, that it does not hatch its eggs by incubation, it does not sit upon them like other birds, not even occasionally or during the night, but forms for them an caleobion," in which they are hatched without the weary duties to which other birds are called by the laws of nature. The brush turkey, says Mr. Gould, "collects together an immense heap of decaying vegetable matter, as a depository for the eggs, and trusts to the heat engendered by the process of decomposition for the developement of the young. The heap employed for this purpose, is collected by the birds during several weeks previous to the period of laying; it varies in size from two to four cart loads, and is of a perfectly pyramidal form. The construction of the work is not the work of one pair of birds, but is effected by the united eggs, as if for the purpose of ascertaining their progress, or of assisting the young to liberate themselves from their imprisonment. Others, however, denied this, and stated that the eggs were altogether forsaken, the young being left to liberate themselves. Unfortunately, Mr. Gould was not in the districts inhabited by these birds during the breeding season; but he inclines to the latter statement, and thinks that from the great size of the egg, there is room for the young to become more fully developed, than in ordinary cases, and that they are hatched capable of taking care of themselves. In confirmation of this, he observes that, in searching for eggs in one of the mounds, he discovered the remains of a young bird, apparently just excluded from the shell. It was clothed, not with down as is usual, but with feathers, a proof, if Mr. Gould also thinks the opinion that the eggs, once deposited, are never disturbed afterwards, to be corroborated by the fact that they are always found upright. But it may here be remarked, that though the parent birds may occasionally uncover the eggs, it does not follow that they alter the position of them. Nor is the discovery of a young bird feathered, which appeared as if newly hatched, a proof, either that the parents neglect the eggs or the young. These points yet remain to be determined. Mr. Gould saw several of the mounds formed by these birds, both in the interior of the country, and at Illawara. "In every instance, they were placed in the most retired and shady glens, and on the slope of a hill." The ground above the nest was always scratched clean, while that below the nest appeared to be untouched; as if the birds had found it most convenient to bring the materials for its construction down the hill, than to throw them up. The eggs are perfectly white, of a long, oval figure, and three inches and three quarters in length. The wattled talegalla is about the size of a common turkey, three parts grown. The adults have the whole of the upper surface of a blackish brown. The feathers of the chest are edged with silvery grey. The skin of the head and neck is of a deep red, and thinly sprinkled with short hair-like feathers; the sides of the neck, at its lower part, are ornamented with a bright yellow wattle, or fleshy excrescence, capable of being expanded or contracted at will, as in the common turkey. The female is rather less than the male, and the wattles are not so much developed; her colour is the same. That this bird is capable of domestication, and of being added to the list of the gallinaceous birds, which man, for his own advantage, has taken under his care, there can be no doubt. A fine male specimen was living at large, like an ordinary fowl, in the possession of Mr. A. Mac Leay, at Sydney, where it was seen by Mr. Gould. For two successive years it had laboured in the construction of a mound, and the lawn and shrubbery over which it was allowed to range presented an appearance as if regularly swept, the bird having scratched to a common centre every thing that lay upon the surface. The mound which, by its unassisted labours, it thus formed, was about three feet and a half high, and ten feet in diameter. The heat of it internally was about ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit. "The bird itself," says Mr. Gould, was strutting about with a proud and majestic air, sometimes parading round the heap, at others perching on the top, and displaying its brilliantly coloured neck and wattle to the greatest advantage." Before Mr. Gould quitted New South Wales, this specimen was accidentally drowned. M. 66 THE PERAMBULATOR. THE COLOSSEUM. THE Colosseum is truly one of the lions of London, and few strangers visit the Metropolis, with the intention of seeing the wonders of the place, without entering the gates of the Regent's Park, looking with surprise on the colossal dome before them, mounting by the staircase, or ascending-room, to the grand painting it contains, and gazing with wonder and admiration on the panoramic view of the capital of England. Often and often have I been here before with city friends or country cousins; and now I am here again. Carriages are standing opposite the gate, the sun is at its greatest height in the clear blue sky, and visitors of both sexes, and of all ages, are passing onwards to see the Colosseum. It has been said, with some truth, that of all the panoramic pictures that ever were painted in the world, of the proudest cities formed and inhabited by the human race, the view of London, contained in the Colosseum, is the most preeminent, exhibiting, as it does, at one view, "to the eye and to the mind the dwellings of near a million and a half of human beings, a countless succession of churches, bridges, halls, theatres, and mansions; a forest of floating masts, and the manifold pursuits, occupations, and powers of its ever-active, everchanging inhabitants." This splendid picture, painted by Paris, from sketches taken by Hornor, as he sat in a suspended house or box, fixed for the purpose, above the highest cross of the cathedral of St. Paul, is now before me, and the almost universal encomiums pronounced upon it, have a tendency to repress that freedom of remark, in which it is pleasurable to indulge. If I venture an observation, it will only be with the design of preventing disappointment in the mind of the spectator, whose high-wrought fancy, fed by intemperate descriptions, may have made him somewhat unreasonable in his expectations. It should ever be borne in mind, that in works of art, there are unavoidable difficulties in the way of affording a correct representation of persons and things. The most glorious statue that Phidias ever formed, has neither colour nor motion. Think of the arduous task of representing, by colourless and motionless marble, breathing beings who possess both motion and colour! To use an illustration sufficiently homely to be at once comprehended by those who have little taste for works of art, I would say, that we should hardly know the most intimate friend we have in the world, did he stand before us, arrayed in a surplice, with his face whitened. Paintings, it is true, have colour; but the most glowing picture that was ever flung by a Rubens, or a Raphael, on his canvass, is on a flat surface. Think of the difficulty of representing the rotundity of the human figure, trees, and pillars; and the projection of capitals, cornices, and pediments, by a perfectly flat surface! Such considerations as these are calculated to prevent unreasonable expectations, and to qualify us for the more correct estimation of works of art. I have noticed visitors, who have evidently expected, when looking at this panorama, the water of the Thames to flow, the boats to move, the smoke from the chimneys to rise in the air, and the carriages, of different kinds, to rumble along the streets: that such persons should not find the panoramic painting of London realize their expectations, can be no matter of wonder. The printed account of the picture sums up almost all its points in the following words : "From a balustraded gallery, and with a projecting frame beneath it, in exact imitation of the outer dome of St. Paul's cathedral, the visitor is presented with a picture that cannot fail to create, at once, astonishment and | delight; a scene, which will inevitably perplex and confuse the eye and mind for some moments, but which, on further examination, will be easily understood. It presents such a Pictorial History of London, such a faithful display of its myriads of public and private buildings; such an impression of the vastness, wealth, business, pleasure, commerce, and luxury of the English metropolis, as nothing else can effect. Histories, descriptions, maps, and prints are all imperfect and defective, when compared to this immense panorama. They are scraps and mere touches of the pen and pencil; while this imparts, at a glance, at one view, a cyclopædia of information; a concentrated history; focal topography of the largest and most influential city in the world. The immense area of surface which this picture occupies, measures forty-six thousand square feet, or more than an acre in extent." a This is unquestionably a coloured account; but it may, I think, with truth be said, that almost all who visit the exhibition are greatly surprised, and abundantly gratified. There are now some twenty or thirty persons in the gallery; children are climbing up to peep over the rails. Ladies are looking through the perspective glasses, and gentlemen are pointing out such objects as engage their attention. One discovers Westminster Abbey, Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens. Another finds out Primrose Hill, Chalk Farm, Highgate Archway, and Epping Forest; while a third turns towards the downward course of the river, the Docks, and Greenwich Hospital. Now and then a visitor traces his way to his own dwelling, and regards it with a look of surprise and pleasure, almost expecting to see some one step up and rap at the door. The two turrets at the western end of St. Paul's cathedral, attract the eyes of all; the boldness, the freedom with which they are painted, produces an admirable effect; and scarcely is the stranger convinced that he is not gazing on a real and tangible pile of beautifully carved stone. The river and shipping are great attractions to the young; while the thoughtful eye of the more sedate and serious roams over the goodly towers and spires of the different churches, and other temples erected to the service of the Most High. London is a highly-favoured city; for though ignorance and crime are far too prevalent among its numerous population, yet here is the gospel of peace faithfully proclaimed; and here thousands and tens of thousands find the sabbath to be, indeed, a day of rest. Wealth, and power, and reputation among the nations of the earth are costly things; but they are mutable and perishable. The proudest and the costliest things of time are as dust compared with those of eternity. Thebes, and Nineveh, and Babylon had power, and wealth, and reputation; but their transgressions multiplied, and they were swept away from among the kingdoms of the world. The almighty Ruler of the earth and skies spared them not. Take heed, highly-favoured city, lest he also spare not thee! There is a youthful group about to ascend the galleries above, and as I am pleased to hear their childish questionings, and to witness their wonderment and delight, I will ascend with them. In this second gallery, and still more so in the one above, the spectator experiences a disappointment. Expecting to see more as he ascends higher, he is scarcely prepared to find his prospect bounded within apparently narrower limits than before. The lower gallery is unquestionably the best and the most agreeable of the three from which to witness the exhibition. One more glance at this shadowy resemblance of the first city, in the first country under heaven, and I take my leave. Ages have heaped together this pile of dwelling places, temples, and marts of traffic. Again and again have their possessors been swept into eternity. The feeble have sunk into the tomb; and the great, where are they? Yet still undisturbed the game of life goes on, in thoughtless merriment. "Oh what is human glory, human pride? What art thou, mighty one! though deified? I have walked round the ball and cross which originally stood on the top of the dome of St. Paul's cathedral, and am now on the roof of the building, with the park spread out before me. How grateful is the fresh air! how pleasant the sight of the green trees, and the clear blue heaven above me! The eye took in so many objects at once, in the painting below, that it now seems, by compari | One son, to have but little to gaze on. peep at nature, however, compensates for the loss of much art. Every time I visit this place, the park appears more lovely; the trees and shrubs which have hitherto been of diminutive growth, begin now to put forth their strength and verdure. Were there but one tree in the world, we should be struck dumb, with admiring wonder, at its loveliness and beauty; but now, we pass by a wood without a thought-a forest, without a word in its praise! If it appears a long way up these winding staircases, when the desire is impatient to behold the picture, no wonder that it should seem a long way down them when that desire has been gratified. The music of prattling tongues, and the footfall of childish feet, have preceded me from the very roof to the door of the ascending room, on the ground floor! Now for another scene! On entering the saloon, I find public singers, of both sexes, accompanying, with their voices, the harmonious tones of a well-played pianoforte. The company are gathered around them; the ladies seated, and the gentlemen uncovered; while the vocal and instrumental strains are rising and falling; now filling the air with swelling cadence, and now dying away into fainter and sweeter sounds. I am stealing on tiptoe from one cast or sculptured statue to another. Apollo, Jupiter, and Juno strive To keep the fame of ancient Greece alive; The gigantic figures of Moses, and Melpomene, with the head of Alexander; the cast of the Apollo Belvedere; the Discobolus, or quoit player; the fall of Phaeton; Perseus and Andromeda ; and the Dying Gladiator; are all well known to the lovers of sculpture. The statue whence the head of Jupiter Olympus is taken, was the great work of Phidias, and was esteemed as one of the seven wonders of the world. Though in a sitting posture, the figure of Jupiter was sixty feet high, composed of ivory, and adorned with precious stones. The head of the Dancing Fawn is from a statue, a chef-d'œuvre of the chastest sculptor of Greece. Though there is some doubt whether the figure was executed by Praxiteles, there is none that the head and arms were restored by Michael Angelo. As there were giants in stature, in the ages of old, so were there giants |