the fountains of their deepest sympathies, which | fashioned book open before him comes to his relief, they cannot, strive as they will, altogether restrain, but express at intervals in audible sighs and halfuttered words. The speaker concludes ere the sands of the hour-glass which stands before him are run out. Another psalm-another brief prayer -and again the warning bell tolls the congregated prisoners each back to his separate abode.

When our preacher, after a hurried grasp of fifty outstretched hands, gets back to his cell, he finds it occupied already by an elderly man, in goodly garb, who is waiting for him.

"I have come to see thee again, John," says the stranger, and I have brought thee news, which may be good news, if thou art inclined to think it so."

"I am thankful to you," said John, "whether it be good or bad, so thou thinkest it good; but tell me thy present news, that I may judge."

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Thou mayest depart from prison if thou think proper."

"That is good news indeed; but I promise me there goes a condition along with it."

"The condition cannot be so hard, surely, as thy present durance; think of thy wife and children thy little blind Mary. It is only that thou promise not to preach again when thou art free: promise me that, and I will be surety for thee, relying on thy word, in the sum demanded-and thou goest forth on the morrow."

"That will I never promise," said John, "and by God's help I will preach his gospel the moment I am free woe is me if I preach it not."

:

"And wilt thou spend all thy days in tagging of laces for bread and water, while those thou lovest need thy helping hand ?"

"If it be God's will I must do even so," said John; "though it is like a rending of my flesh from my bones to be forced away from my own flesh and blood. But what help I can give them, they shall not lack."

With that the poor man sat down to his bench; and again the tap, tap, tap of his unending labour were the only sounds to be heard.

and he instinctively dashes the moisture from his eye, as in a stern tone of self-upbraiding he repeats aloud, "Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let thy widows trust in me." Something like a smile succeeds to the expression of grief upon his face, as he rises from his seat, and, gathering up the laces (for he has finished them all), and hanging them upon a nail, clears the bench for writing.

While thus occupied, the keeper enters with the prisoner's supper, and, setting down the brown earthenware pan, retires, locking the door for the night. After a silent grace, the bread is eaten and the water drunk; and then the prisoner, opening his unfinished manuscript, runs his eye over it for a few minutes, and begins to write. The dim light of the candle reveals nothing but the broad shoulders of the writer and the somewhat shaggy head stooping over the white sheet; and the audible passage of the pen over the wiry paper tells no other tale to our ears, as it goes scratching deliberately on hour after hour till midnight has long passed, save one of dogged perseverance and the pursuit of some cherished object under difficulties of no common character. But could we decipher the words now trickling forth from that goose feather, we should find ourselves in a strange land, where we have often wandered and loved to wander from the days of our childhood to the present hour. We should either be toiling through the miry slough towards the wicket-gate; or gazing with wonder on the fair shows in the Interpreter's house; or lingering pleasantly in the verdant Valley of Humiliation; or wielding breathlessly a manful sword against Apollyon; or groping fearfully amid snares and pitfalls, and the bones of dead men, and hideous monsters dimly discovered through the darkness; or hurrying from the tortures and the tinsel of Vanity Fair; or groaning in captivity under the grim giant; or walking hand in hand with the shining ones in the land of Beulah; or breasting with beating heart the icy billows of the dark river that laves the shore of the golden land. Yes! for the tagger of laces is the "prating tinker," the

The stranger, after a few minutes, again broke the silence: And what am I to say to thy wife," pestilent puritan," the "ignorant conventicler," who awaits my return at the prison-gates? and what is she to tell thy little ones whom I left an hour ago rejoicing in the hope of thy return ?"

"Tell them I must do my Master's work, and that their father cannot come forth of the prison until He opens the door. Tell them to love me and to love one another, and, by God's grace, they shall lack for nothing. And now, good friend, speak to me no more of liberty at the price they offer. I cannot serve God, and be a dumb thing. Leave me, pray thee now; thou hast my thanks and my love; but I have work to do that you wot not of, and would fain be alone to-night."

The kind-hearted citizen withdraws, and the prisoner resumes his task at the tags. Now and then a big round tear drops upon the bench. That blind child is tugging at his heart-strings: the thought that she, upon whom he cannot endure that the wind should blow, may perchance be driven to beg, or be beaten, or suffer hunger or cold or nakedness-this thought unmans him, and for a time his eyes overflow with a father's grief. But this endures not long a word in the old

of the seventeenth century; the "natural orator," the "self-denying martyr," the "unrivalled genius," of the nineteenth. And here, from the chambers of his capacious brain and the depth of his great and loving heart-plunged as he is in domestic sorrow, battling with hard poverty, and shut up between cold stone walls-he is giving birth to that marvellous fiction which embodies the history of man's spiritual life, whose every word is to be a household word as long as language endures, and which, hand in hand with the bible, is to make the circuit of the world.

Here we drop the veil of years upon that cell in old Bedford gaol. There is no need for us to relate how, after honest John Bunyan had spent twelve years in prison, the good Barlow, bishop of Lincoln, bestirred himself to accomplish his deli verance; and how John came forth and resumed the life of an apostle, preaching to his own people, visiting the sick, reconciling differences, and suc couring the poor; and how, lastly, on a mission of kindness, "being overtaken with excessive rains, and coming to his lodgings very wet (which was at

Mr Shaddock's, a grocer upon Snow-hill), he fell ill of a violent fever," and there died, "following his happy Pilgrim from the City of Destruction to the heavenly Jerusalem;" and how they buried his body in Bunhill-fields, and raised a handsome tombstone over his grave. Are not these things written in the memories of us all ? Only,, when we think of the Delectable Mountains-as many of our readers, we hope, do-it may do us no harm to look back in imagination upon the grim fortune of the man to whose iron fortitude, childlike faith, and celestial fancy, we are indebted for the vision.

The young gums have a very beautiful appearance. Some species afford valuable timber, and attain truly enormous dimensions.. They have been found to be forty-five feet in circumference at four feet from the base; and it is not uncommon to see a tree forty feet in girth, rising a hundred feet without sending out a branch. One of these giants would be more than sufficient to build a house for the accommodation of a family. In the Illawarra district, to the south of Sydney, there was formerly, on the slope of a mountain, or by the side of a rugged bridle-road, a dead tree of immense size, which bore the name of "the big tree;" and served as a resting-place for travellers. It was MARVELS OF AUSTRALIAN VEGETATION. the internal parts having been consumed by fire. about a hundred feet in height, perfectly hollow, EXTREME uniformity characterizes the vegetation There was one entrance on one side, as wide as a of the Australian colonies. The same trees, or church-door, capable of admitting two horsemen nearly so, perpetually occur, giving to the wood- abreast. Three horses of the ordinary size, and lands a tame, monotonous aspect. Eucalypte, the their riders, have been accommodated at the same 'gum-trees" of the settlers, and acacia, or "wat-time in the interior of " the big tree." tle-trees," are the predominant members of the forest. These two kinds are not only more widely diffused than any other, but, if taken together, and considered with respect to their mass of vegetable matter, they are supposed to be nearly equal to all the other plants of the island-continent. It is a striking and very general peculiarity of their eco- | nomy, that the leaves are inserted vertically, instead of extending in a horizontal direction, as in Europe. In consequence of thus presenting their edges to the light, they afford but little protection from the scorching rays of the summer sun. This result is aided by the foliage of all the Australian timber being very scanty, and wanting that dense and massive appearance with which we are so familiar. The woods have, therefore, no sombre shadows, no glades of profound gloom, but are comparatively light and airy scenes. If this is a disadvantage to the traveller, needing a “" shadow in the daytime from the heat," it is a gain to the farmer, as it allows the grass to grow where it otherwise would not. In common with the prevailing character of vegetation in the southern hemisphere, South America and South Africa, the trees are not of the deciduous class, or those which cast their leaves periodically. Thus one of the most glorious spectacles of nature is entirely wanting in the landscape, the gradual and general change of the forest from leaflessness to foliage in the vernal season. But though technically "evergreens," the term is a misnomer with reference to the colour.. "Never-green," or "ever-brown," is far more true to the reality; dull reddish, brownish, and leaden hues prevailing, corresponding to those of our autumn. Owing to these tints, and the leaves being without gloss, the woods have not that bright reviving external aspect so characteristic of their appearance with us in spring and summer. They have also a desolate, untidy, and ragged air, arising from the bark of several species falling annually, or hanging down in long shreds waving to the breeze. Intermixed in the forest. with the gum-trees, of which there are not less than a hundred species, and with the still more numerous family of wattle-trees, are many cedars, tall and cypress-like casuarinas, native cherries, great quantities of the grass-tree, wild figs, mystaceous plants, and others of a parasitical kind.

The wattle-trees, distinguished by countless my.. riads of yellow-tufted flowers and bean-like pods, furnish timber for rude dwellings in the interior, and various domestic purposes. Yellow-wood and rose-wood trees, with numerous cedars, supply ornamental material for cabinet-work, household furniture and fittings. The red cedar grows abundantly on alluvial lands by the borders of rivers, yields a soft, light wood of beautiful texture, which takes a fine polish, and in colour resembles Honduras mahogany. Churches, chapels, and other places of public resort, are generally fitted up with this wood, and have a very elegant appearance.

The wild figs are remarkable for their colossal proportions. The zicus macrophyllus, called at Sydney the Moreton Bay fig, has a leaf about a foot long and four inches broad, of a regular oval shape, very similar to that of the common laurel. An example, growing on the bank of the Manning river, exhibited a bulk superior to any of the baobabs of Africa, or chestnuts of Etna; in fact, larger than any tree with a single stem which had ever been mentioned by travellers. It is a peculiarity of this tree to throw out buttresses of wood ail! round. the trunk. These projections are thin im comparison with their height and length, and very gradually slope for many feet from the trunk to the ground. As they do not grow in contact with each other, it would be unfair to give the measure.. ment of a line drawn round them for the dimen sions of the tree; but at six feet from the ground the circumference of the real cylindrical part of the trunk was sixty-six feet, measured as if the tape had been passed through the projecting parts. At the same height, if the buttresses had been in cluded, the measurement would have been one hun dred and ten feet; and at half the height, three hundred feet. These partitions would have afforded stalls for the horses of a squadron of dragoons. The wild figs furnish a grateful food to various tribes of birds, as well as to the aborigines. Ferns, reeds, and nettles, likewise attain extraordinary stature and thickness in the neighbourhood of rivers, and other situations favourable to their growth. They have quite an arborescent habit, and form impenetrable jungles. A gigantic sting. ing nettle, Urtica gigas, is sometimes forty feet in: height, with a stem nine or ten feet in girth, the

THE BANKS OF THE THAMES.

bark of the rower, through a hazy light, so as to form a river-picture rich and mellow, even in that tame and unpicturesque portion of the Thames between Putney and Hammersmith. And-artistic reveries apart-only yielding to the simple and most untutored impulses, 'tis very pleasant to glide` under the noble trees of lord Londonderry's garden, just past the bishop's palace-to wind under the drooping branches where they kiss the stream-to feed the swans-to watch the clouds-and to mark the sun, like a great fire-ball, rolling behind their yellow edges.

the floral tribe is the tharatah or native tulip, a tall, stately, regal plant, straight as an arrow, with a woody stem from three to six feet in height, growing on the slopes of the hills. It bears leaves of the richest green all the way up, in shape resembling those of the oak, but considerably larger. The flower at the top of the stem is entirely of the most vivid crimson, and looks like a flambeau lighted in the forest. The gigantic lily, or spear-flower, is another splendid indigenous production of vegetable nature. From the centre of an immense group of long, broad, curving leaves, the stalk rises to the height of fifteen or twenty The banks of the river, above the grounds of feet, and of proportionate thickness, crowned with Fulham-palace, up to the Suspension-bridge, have, a huge cluster of gorgeous crimson lilies. The on the right hand side, seen better days. Cholprincipal grasses are the oat-grass and kangaroo-mondelly-villa, now in the possession of lord Longrass, with two species of rye-grass, and other donderry, according to accounts in topographical varieties. Of these, the oat-grass is the most histories, must have been formerly far different generally diffused. It affords excellent pasturage, from what it now appears. And as to Brandenis eaten by all kinds of stock, but does not stand burgh-house-the residence of the margravine, the winter. The seeds, bruised between stones and still more famous as the abode of queen Caroand baked with cakes, form an article of diet to line-where for a while was a centre of excitement the natives. The kangaroo-grass abounds in low that shook the nation to its furthest borderswarm places, and is remarkable for its succulent where crowds assembled, and deputations were properties. But the grasses do not uniformly received, and councils met-where, thirty years clothe the surface, as in the instance of our own ago, the bustle, dust, and noise, and the strong pastures. They grow in tufts, with spaces of bare political feeling, of which these were the patent ground between them, and hence a very considera- signs, vied with and seemed a revival of those ble area of country is required to sustain a flock of scenes and struggles which the usually quiet parish sheep or drove of cattle.* of Fulham had witnessed two centuries earlier, as the parliamentary army encamped hereabouts; -Brandenburgh-house, with all its memories, is swept away, and only a stunted stone pillar, amongst clumps of may and lilac, remains to mark the site. The mansion had another association, which it is interesting to remember. Here lived, in the time of Charles 1, a famous royalist of the name of Sir Nicholas Crispe, a chief among Hammersmith worthies, whose name is emblazoned in its church and embalmed in its history. Indeed, he built the original mansion at a cost of 25,0007. -a sign in those days of great wealth-and by his tact in farming the customs for his royal master he greatly raised the revenue, and carried on such a trade with foreign ports as produced to the king nearly 100,000l. a year. 'Nothing," we are told, "could exceed the zeal and ardour which he displayed in his sovereign's cause. In matters of secrecy and danger he seldom trusted to any hands but his own, and sometimes, when he was believed to be in one place he was actually at another; when he wanted intelligence, he would be at the water-side with a basket of flounders upon his head, and often passed between London and Oxford in the dress of a butter-woman on horseback, between a pair of panniers." The bricks for his house were made just by, at the spot called the Crab-tree, according to the modern fashion of burning in the open field-the first instance, it is said, of the kind in this country-bricks having been previously prepared in kilns, as tiles are now. In the times of Crispe and the civil wars, probably many a deed of violence was perpetrated in this neighbourhood. The silent Thames covers some dreadful secrets. They are also buried within its banks. Two skele tons, some years ago, were found lying close toin it. Two others were not far off. The engraving gether, the one headless, the other with a dagger on the dagger pointed to the reign of Charles I.

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II. CHISWICK.

BUT, Mr. Turner, I do not see in nature all that you describe there," said a lady to that incomparable artist, as she watched him bringing out his magic tints. 'Ah, madam," rejoined he, "do you not wish you could ?" We must confess, for ourselves, we wish we could see nature with Turner's eyes. All perception is partly subjective. According to the genius, taste, education, and feeling of the individual is the view he gets of creation's wonders. It requires rare endowments and acquisitions to sympathize with our late illustrious landscape painter, in those ecstasies of delight which gushed from his soul while he was catching glimpses of scenery, under phases of which he has left marvellous traces in some of his works. Trying to follow him in our rambles by rivers, as Iulus followed his father, non passibus aquis," we have caught now and then, or fancied that we caught, some dim insight into visions of the Turner-kind. Memorable is a moment we once enjoyed on the river Wye, near Monmouth-bridge, as the slanting rays of the sun fell like a shower of golden fire over water, tree, and stone. It was a sight to educate one in the Turner school of painting. It did give us an elementary lesson. Since then, we have had elsewhere some similar studies. The Thames, at times, will afford them. In a degree, though not the highest, we have seen the sparkling waters, and the green willow bank, and the graceful swan sailing past it, and the distant

This

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logical Curiosities of Australia," are extracted from a Monthly paper and one in a previous number, entitled, "ZooVolume on Australia, just published by the Religious Tract Society.

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