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rapacity of his stewards. When, at last, by the intercession of his friends, his province was restored to him, the boon came too late to avert the worst calamity which had hitherto fallen upon him. His Guli, loving and beloved, heart-broken by her husband's calamities, slept in death; and her son, Springett, in whom many hopes were centred, died in his father's arms of consumption, that scourge of England, which yearly destroys often the loveliest and best of their race. Two children remained to him-a son and a daughter; the former of whom was a shameless profligate.

In 1696, Penn married Hannah Callowhill, of Bristol, a lady who bore him six children; and it is from this second marriage that his descendants derive their origin. Again he visited Pennsylvania, where he had some happiness, not unmixed with sorrow. The dream of his youth seemed almost like a mocking phantasy. His influence over the colonists was gone. Poor and dependent as he was, the ungrateful Provincial Assembly refused to vote him a supply; and at the close of 1701, he took his last farewell of Pennsylvania and its people, whose ingratitude taught him that which holds true even to-day- that Humanity remembers not its truest friends.

After some years' residence in England, Penn wished to return to America; but he was now sixty-five, and the shadows of his evening began to gather upon him. His had been an active and a varied life, and his mind had done full service in the cause of truth and freedom. He took a country-seat at Ruscombe, in Berks. At the beginning of 1712, the great and good man, wearied and worn out, was seized with paralysis. For a time he lay in a state of torpor, and it was long before he gave signs of recovery. In three months he was again smitten by the unseen destroyer; and when the third blow fell, it was evident to them who loved him best that the lamp of reason, in its decaying tenement, was utterly broken. Surrounded by his wife and children, he drew near, by easy stages, to his end; and on the morning of July 29th, 1718, in the grey light of breaking day, and just before the early reapers went forth to gather in the ready harvest, he fell into a gentle sleep, and in that peaceful slumber his spirit passed away. They carried his body to the quiet village of Jordans, in Buckinghamshire; and, observing the beautiful simplicity of their sect, they laid all that remained on earth of the illustrious patriot by the side of his beloved Guli and her son.

Mr. Hepworth Dixon, the latest biographer of William Penn,* has given an admirable history of him to the public. His work is worthy of its subject, and is a valuable contribution to our literary treasures. Though we cannot agree with all his positions, we heartily thank him for his charming book. He is a skilful limner; and, as an historical artist, he deserves our fullest confidence for careful and clear delineation of one of the world's truest heroes.

William Penn. An Historical Biography. By William Hepworth Dixon. London: Chapman and Hall,

1851.

The Insert Tribes.

The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon;

Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim,

Quick glancing to the sun.'-GRAY.

OCCASIONALLY, some fact is desirable to startle us into the conviction that a change for the better is passing over the face of society, like the earth when brightening beneath the rising beams of its ruling orb. And ever and anon does such a fact occur, as the repeated experience of the reader will attest in response to our own. Grateful, indeed, is the feeling it awakens, blending at once glowing hopes with pleasant reminiscences, and supplying a powerful inducement to hail the advent of every other incident that shall surprise us into a similar conclusion. Not very long ago, it was alleged, in a court of judicature, that a lady was insane because she had a strange penchant for collecting butterflies. And, doubtless, this was likely to be the conclusion, not only of the gentlemen of the jury-box, but of the white-wigged members of the bar, and even of the judge himself; when Ray, the indefatigable naturalist, assured them all that to have a cabinet of insects was no impeachment of an individual's sanity. But now we may sometimes see the juvenile or mature entomologist going from field to field with his clap-net; prying into live fences, especially where trees are intermixed, and when the hawthorn is in blossom; or searching for the wood-eating tribes among old trees, posts, rails, and planks, that have laid prone for a long time without being moved; almost as eagerly as Sir Joseph Banks was said to have once chased a splendid Emperor of Morocco.' In many a house, where, a few years ago, such things were as vainly looked for as fresh-gathered filberts and peaches in spring, there are now some glass-covered and camphor-smelling drawers, where troops of insects of many seasons-it may be of various climes, are all carefully placed in rank and file; not only to be brought forth as curiosities to guests, but to be looked at again and again, by that dwelling's inmates. Amid the hum of the tête-à-têtes going on in an evening party, we have detected such terms as coleoptera,' lepidoptera, diptera; and when we have not joined in such discussions, have overheard fragments of others, about the thorax,' and the 'mandibles,' the tarsi,' and the 'palpi,' interspersed with scraps of adventure and ejaculations, as surprising!' astonishing!' delightful! And now, on our table are lying three splendid volumes, entitled Episodes of Insect Life,' teeming with vivacious and graceful discription, gay with tasteful and humorous engravings, and brilliant in their exterior with colours and gilding; well adapted, in fact, both without and within, to adorn any table or library in the land, not excepting those of royalty itself.

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'Yes,' we said to ourselves, as we looked at these volumes, 'we are certainly making progress; if it is not so great as may be desired, it is not so little as to be rightfully contemned; when the sunbeams are stretching themselves lower and lower down the mountain sides, and are even lighting up the valleys, though it is not noon-tide, yet in due time it will be.'

Pleasant, indeed, is it to know that while men of science and ladies fair,' amidst all the comforts and indulgences of life, find in the examination of insect tribes an ever-flowing source of fresh delights, there are men of humble grade who often sip joyously at the same streams. Scattered all over the manufacturing districts of Lancashire, for example, are artizans, to any of whom Elliott's description is fully applicable :

Learned he was; nor bird, nor insect flew,

But he its leafy home and history knew;

Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well,
But he its name and qualities could tell.'

Among this class are botanists, equally familiar with the Linnæan or the Natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day's walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set out with single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen with real scientific delight.

Nor is it the common and more obvious divisions of entomology and botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of Whitsunweek, so often falling in May or June, that the two great, beautiful families of Ephemeride and Phryganida have been so much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen, while they have, in a great measure, escaped general observation. Nor are the benefit and pleasure of such pursuits always restricted to themselves. Of this, the following is an interesting instance. The celebrated botanist, Sir J. E. Smith, being at Liverpool on a visit to Roscoe, of European fame in literature, made some inquiries as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in Lancashire. The author of Leo the Tenth' and 'Lorenzo de Medici' knew nothing of the plant; but stated that if any one could give his friend the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester, whom he named.

The first President of the Linnæan Society proceeded to that town, and on his arrival, inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to so and so. Oh, yes,' replied the man; he does a bit in my way.' And on further investigation, it turned out that both the porter and his friend the weaver were skilful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E. Smith the very information of which he was in search.

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But a sketch of one of these artizans will gratify the reader; it shall be, then, from the fair hand that, with so much skill and power, has traced the tale of Mary Barton,' to which we are indebted for some of these facts; while others were given but recently, in the Morning Chronicle,' by the writer who described the labouring population of Manchester:

'He was a little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun-coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his forehead was so large, it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had indeed lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence, so keen, so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. Instead of pictures, were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little table was covered with cabalistic books; and a case of mysterious instruments lay beside, one of which Job Legh was using when his granddaughter entered.'

Margaret, the granddaughter, is accompanied by the heroine of the tale, who, having looked especially at one of Job Legh's treasures in the very shape and body of a scorpion, exclaims, I'm glad father does not care for such things.'

Margaret's reply is significant:

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Are you? Well, I'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond of his books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search of more whenever he's a spare day. Look at him now! he's gone back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working away till I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure, but so long as I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter? Then, when he has his talking bouts, you can't think how much he has to say. Dear grandfather, you don't know how happy we

are!'

Job Legh was an enthusiast in his way. A letter was expected from him, but did not come; the chief use of writing, he thought, was that of ticketing his insects!' But with him even some of our Cornish miners have a strong sympathy; while we cannot forget one of Crabbe's striking pictures, sketched either in Norfolk or Suffolk :

Here is my friend the weaver ;-strong desires
Reign in his breast; 'tis beauty he admires :
See! to the shady grove he wings his way,
And feels in hope the rapture of the day;
Eager he looks, and soon to glad his eyes

From the sweet bower, by Nature form'd, arise,
Bright troops of moths, and fresh-born butterflies;
Who brake that morning from their half-year's sleep,
To fly o'er flowers where they were wont to creep.
He fears no bailiff's wrath, no baron's blame-
His is untaxed and undisputed game.'

Extensive and varied, indeed, is the range of the entomologist's pursuits. The insects appropriated to Alpine plants can only be found on mountains and hills, because there their food is provided, and to these repair the northern insects that are impatient of a warmer climate, if they migrate to the southward. Others abound in valleys

and plains, especially those which are fully exposed to the rays of the sun; and minute beetles may be found coursing about amongst the tufts and roots of the grass, which serves those spots as a verdant mantle. The vicinity and borders of woods are especially favourable, and here alone can one treasure of the naturalist be secured, for

'Above the sovereign oak, a sovereign skims,

The purple emperor, strong in wings and limbs."

Heaths have their rarities, though on them insects are not so plenteous as they are on some other spots. Sunny sandy banks invite inspection; and here are to be found some specimens which it were vain to seek elsewhere. The morass has tribes peculiarly its own. Meadows and pastures will repay a search. On the summit of a blade of grass some creatures love to perch, and some of the minims of creation' captured in the midst of their coursing in the ears of corn.

Through subterraneous cells,

Where searching sunbeams scarce can find a way,
Earth animated heaves. The flowery leaf
Wants not its soft inhabitants. Secure

Within its winding citadel, the stone

Holds multitudes. But chief the forest boughs,

That dance unnumbered to the playful breeze,
The downy orchard, and the melting pulp
Of mellow fruit, the nameless nations feed
Of evanescent insects.'

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be

Many of these creatures, occasionally or constantly, haunt the seashore. They may be gathered from the thistles that grow there, and from under the marine plants that have been cast up on the beach. There, too, have been observed troops of Coccinella, which appear to bend their course thither from the inland country, as Kirby says, as if they were about to emigrate.

Öther habitats, however, deserve notice; for

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Of purest crystal, nor the lucid air,

Though one transparent vacancy it seems,
Void of their unseen people.'

Astounding-overwhelming, then, must be their number. At the close of the seventeenth century, John Ray said-The butterflies and beetles are such numerous tribes, that I believe in our native country alone the species of each kind may amount to one hundred and fifty, or more.' He thought that the species on the whole earth, including land and water, would amount to 10,000; but afterwards, as his knowledge expanded, he considered that there might be 20,000 species. Since the time of that eminent man, abundant reason has been supplied for a greatly extended estimate. Mr. Stephens shows, in the most perfect catalogue hitherto produced, that there are not fewer than 10,000 native species; and it is probable that two or three

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