Does Lady Ilshey never take you to drive?" "I do not think I could endure the motion of a carriage; and if I could, I question if her ladyship would lend me one of her many equipages. She never could forgive me for marrying Lord Ilshey's nephew, whom she detested for some unknown reason; and when my husband and his father both died, within a twelvemonth of each other, and the little property they had was swallowed up by the creditors, she hesitated about giving Philip and myself an asylum. But, for a wonder, my lord dared to exert his authority for once, in opposition to my lady's wishes, and so we are here, and not altogether depend- | ant, as Philip is my lord's bailiff. The Earl is very polite and attentive, but the Countess I see as seldom as I could wish. Besides my crime in marrying a man whom she did not like, we were something of rival beauties, notwithstanding the difference in our ages, as I am but thirty-seven now, while she is sixty-two. But she always was extraordinarily youthful in her appearance. I was married when I was only fourteen, and never having had any child but Philip, and having plenty of servants to take my household duties off from my hands, I had a great deal of time at my disposal, which,

being young and gay, I did not always employ in the best manner. When I was eighteen years old-her ladyship, being twenty-five years. my senior, was then forty-three, and looked twenty-five-a certain Hon. George Rosherville came to Ilshey Priory to visit the Earl. He was one of the most elegant men I have ever seen very handsome, about thirty-five years old, had been a great traveller, and talked—, well, as Othello did to Desdemona. That he admired her ladyship was very plain to be seen, and the Countess, having been a coquette from her cradle, and being passionately fond of ad-: miration, commenced an elaborate flirtation with her new and fascinating acquaintance. I was a good deal at the Priory at this time, the Countess being pleased to be quite amiable to me, and seeing how agreeably affairs were progressing, I wickedly determined to play the serpent in their Eden. My youth carried the day against her beauty, and the Hon. George, became, in turn, my devoted slave. Her ladyship could scarcely believe her eyes; but when one day he was admiring the length and profusion of our hair, and had persuaded us to compare it, mine was found to be four inches the longest, and half again as thick as hers, the Countess burst into a passion of tears, and left the room. Mr. Rosherville went away the next day, and my husband read me a long lecture upon the duties of married women, urged thereto by Lady Ilshey's representations, or rather misrepresentations, for I was innocent of any intention but that of tormenting her ladyship." (To be continued.)

On one of the terraces of the bathing establishment at Boulogne there is an aquarium, built on | a larger scale than had ever been attempted previous to its formation, and designed with an ingenious novelty which excites universal admiration.

Overhead is a roof with a flattened arch, rising about 10 feet in height, and supported by enormous blocks of rocks, with monstrously ugly capitals, borrowed from the style of the primitive ages.

The central compartment is about 40 feet long. At the bottom of it is the principal acquarium, upwards of 16 feet in length, and between 6 and 7 feet in breadth.

Two compartments of less length range on each side of the principal one, and in each of them are five aquaria. There are, consequently,

To a person who sees it for the first time, the aquarium looks, from being so large, abrupt and strange in its appearance, and from having no regularity, uniformity, correspondence, or symmetry in its parts, as if it had been formed in the caverns of the deep, and had been left on the shore by the receding of the sea. One fancies that it could only have been the waters of the ocean that perforated the enormous blocks of granite, shaped the galleries and columns, constructed the vaulted roofs and the basins, and cutting the rocks into fantastic shapes, moulded such sharp and pointed angles, and left stalactites here and there as thin as threads, or as fine as lace.

Nothing can surpass the perfectly natural appearance of the large sheets of water and the constantly-falling cascades.

This splendidly-constructed aquarium is built with a depth of from 10 to 12 feet for the seawater, and is surmounted by artificial rocks, from 40 to 50 feet high. The aquarium, properly so called, is approached by a stair of 132 steps from the rocks; and, on getting at a depth of very nearly 10 feet, the visitor goes along a narrow, winding passage, when suddenly, and at a time he least expects it, he finds himself in full view of a spacious gallery, or grotto, through the midst of which runs a stream, or rivulet, broken into cascades. This area is very extensive, approaching half a square acre.

The side compartments are semi-circular at the extremities, and entirely surround the centre one.

These subterranean recesses are glassed over, so as to admit daylight, and exclude the water.

On the right of the aquarium, there is a small lake of fresh water, fit for pisciculture. Into this there does not flow a drop of sea-water.

The total superficial area of this structure, and all that is connected with it, is nearly 4,000 feet. The number of rivulets, cascades, and fountains, large and small, is 155.

The freshness of the water is preserved by a cascade, constantly falling, and forcing itself in all directions through innumerable perforated bricks, of which the structure is composed.

The foundation-stone was laid on the 28th of February last, and in four months' time, the whole aquarium was completed. The rapidity with which the undertaking was begun, carried on, and finished, the whole expenses of which were defrayed by funds liberally provided by the municipality of Boulogne, ought not to allow us to overlook the extraordinary talents which presided over its construction. Monsieur Bétencourt, who combines the united qualities of the artist, the engineer, and the mechanician, brought to bear on the work an astonishingly inventive genius, as we must repeat, an imagination powerful, fertile in resources, and never at fault; the most original taste, the science of calculation, the rarest ability in mechanical performance, and, what we must style a feverish activity of execution.

We may further add, that Monsieur Bétencourt-who has studied the appliances used for preserving fish alive in the various zoological gardens in Europe; namely, in the Regent's Park, in the Jardin des Plantes, Paris, and in Hamburg-was from the beginning confident of success in this praiseworthy experiment, which is now interesting and delighting the whole scientific world.

Had Monsieur Bétencourt lived in the sixteenth century, he would have been, with Lenôtre, the architect of the gardens of Louis XIV., and Versailles would have had its aquarium; and a splendid one it would have been. Possessed of such great talent as Monsieur Bétencourt is, the reader will not be surprised to hear that his services have been engaged to construct, on a magnificent scale, an aquarium for the forthcoming International Exhibition in Paris.

It may be pleasing to the reader to know that an aquarium for sea fish has been constructed on the Boulevard Montmartre; that it is the largest in the world; that it represents quite a little sea bay, surrounded by rocks, and filled with an immense quantity of sea water, of which there is always a fresh supply by rail; and that is filled with delicate monsters from the deep.

One of the greatest attractions, too, at Arcachon is its large aquarium, which is composed of twenty-two compartments, forming a total length of about 100 feet, and is, consequently, larger than those of London or Paris.

As it is situated on the sea-coast, certain spe cies which could not bear being conveyed from place to place, may be found in it, coming directly from the sea, and perfectly satisfied with

their new abode, which is built of marble slabs, the depth of each compartment being 3 feet.

Among the strangest tenants of this watery palace, the Physalis Pelagica, of the same family as what is commonly called the "Portuguese man-of-war," holds the first rank. Its body. consists of a large air-sac, of a beautiful bluish, mother-of-pearl tinge, and surmounted with a crest, presenting the various hues comprised between purple and a brilliant red.

From the body there issue splendid blue peduncles, ending in violet tassels, composed of little filaments, each of which is in constant motion; also long spiral fibres constantly going up and down, and others formed of transparent pearls, presenting all the colors of the rainbow.

Next to this most curious and elegant creature is the cuttle-fish, with its elephant's head and undulating mantle of various hues; and the Aplysia of the coast of Africa, with its head like that of a hare, and its fins bordered with purple. These three magnificent species were never exhibited in an aquarium before.

The task would be too long to enumerate all the strange denizens of the deep that have found hospitality at Arcachon, such as rays, torpedoes, sea-horses, lobsters, sea-spiders, and crabs.

Various curious observations have already been made in this aquarium. Thus the sea-spider cuts off a leaf from some aquatic plant at hand, chews it into a pulp, and afterwards puts the latter upon its back. The consequence is, that its prey, seeing this green stuff, which it takes for an island, or a tuft of grass, gets upon it, and the moment after has cause to repent its act.

Many similar scenes are witnessed by the naturalist in this interesting collection.

thrilled

She is looking far out over valley and stream,
Beyond the hills crowned with gold;

She is peering through days bright in joy's sunny gleam

To the years the hereafter may hold.

Oh, land of sweet promise, what hopes unfulfilled To thee will she trusting bestow !

With the music that floats o'er them now.

God pity the maiden, her pathway illume

With the rays of His own temple light, Ere the shadows of earth wrap the morning in gloom, Or the tempest its sweetest flowers blight.

God pity the dreamer, and pardon us all

That the dust of His footstool we prize, Nor glance toward the palace whose outermost wall Is of costliest gems of the skies.

"Little children should be seen, and not heard!" says the venerable proverb. Should they, indeed? Then why were they not made like little mice, instead of having an instinctive desire to jump, scrape, stamp, caper, laugh, sing, halloo, and make a noise generally? But if children are to be heard as well as seen, are they to be heard to the exclusion of everything else? If not, where shall the hearing begin? and do you believe in discipline or moral suasion, or both? and if so, how many parts of moral suasion?

I

I have, of course, an individual theory. think somebody must govern in a house, or the ship will be without a hand at the helm; and if the largest experience gives the best light, perhaps the parents had better govern the children. If you mean to govern at all, I suppose, also, that it is better to commence early. When the little thing, creeping about on the floor, is told not to pull down the basket, or not to creep out at the door, and pulls down the basket, or slips out at the door the instant the older head is turned, it may fairly be said to know how to disobey. It can then be taught to obey, or left to disobey for the next two or three years, and then taken in hand; the difference being that between building your house properly from the foundation, or laying the stones at hap-hazard, to take them down and lay them over again.

Also, I have always believed that the fundamental principle of discipline was, "As few rules as possible, and those never broken with impunity."

But any theory, rigidly applied, is nothing more nor less than a strait-jacket, and there is no grand educational theory applicable to all cases, though there is a happy medium, and few there be who find it. One of the first and most astounding discoveries made by the young mother who has spent her girl-life over German and the piano, but not even a year in learning to play on human nature, is that you cannot cut your child to fit your theory, but must cut your theory to fit your child. Here is a coil! here is trouble! here is piecing and patching of-the unlucky child, too often. John, the piper's son, walks barefoot in the gutters, makes mud-pies, and eats cucumbers, mince-pies, sausages, fruitcake, gravies, and candies indifferently. What

on earth does your pale, thin-legged little Jack mean by getting ill under the same régime !

Mrs. Dikers punishes her children, who are models of infant virtue, whenever they disobey. Inference, when Jack comes roaring to you, about noon, and refuses to stop when he is bid, you chastise him; but, my dear madam, just one moment. Jack has been broiling over a brick fort since breakfast-time. His legs ache, and the gnats have had a nip at him. His hair is in his eyes. He has a hole in his trousers, and a stone in his shoe. His face is begrimed, and his

fingers are sticky. If your legs ached, your hair was in your eyes, and your fingers were sticky, how do you think you would feel under the circumstances? Would it not be advisable, by washing, brushing, and combing, first to ascertain how many parts are depravity, and how much is dirt; and then, if need still continue, to correct him à la Mrs. Dikers? Worse yet: you can do nothing with Jack. You have warned. him a dozen times, and whipped him two dozen, and you make no impression, except on his skin. It is plain you cannot draw out naughtiness from him by a counter-irritant. But, madam, every human being is an organ, and you can play on him, if you know the stops. You have not yet found out your boy; but he is get-atable, and it is your business never to rest till you do get at him. There is something he loves and something he fears, and you can discover it if you have the patience. He may be open to reason, or touched by an appeal to his honor. He may dread rigidly enforced quiet, or the loss of a pleasure, or, worse than all, the sad coldness of those he loves. But to declare that he is unmanageable is simply to declare that you are too busy or too lazy to experiment till you hit on a motive power; and in that case, to be plain with you, you had better retire with your boy to a hermitage, for Jack howling, and Jack breaking up all conversation, and Jack in your neighbor's trees, and breaking his windows, and in full chase after his chickens, and disobeying you right and left, is insupportable, and not to be endured by society.

Jack has another inconvenient aspect. He is something else besides a sweet little piece of mechanism that must be made to obey, if he is to be tolerable. Be determined fully, within yourself, to

be obeyed on those few grand points on which obedience is necessary for home comfort and the child's safety, and lay no gins and snares for his poor little stumbling feet, in the shape of numerous rules, regulations, and restrictions; and, unless in exceptional cases, you will find discipline an easy matter. But Jack is an individual with rights that you are bound to respect. It is so excessively disagreeable and troublesome to respect the rights of those much weaker than ourselves, that we are apt to dispense with that little ceremony altogether. If Mrs. Glycers wilfully breaks her word, you have ways of being unpleasant to Mrs. Glycers, and vice versa. But if you disappoint Jack, he has no means of holding you to your word. He was a thousand times more eager for his cart or book than you were for Mrs. Glycers' company at your party, and his disappointment goes fathoms below yours; for you are calmly sure that there are more Mrs. Glycers, while he is passionately certain that there will never be another cart, book, or happy moment for him. He has exactly the same right to expect fidelity from you that you have from Mrs. Glycers, and when you brush him away with "Some other time," and "How foolish to cry!" you are trampling on his rights because he is not old enough or strong enough to exact them; and when you do that, you are a tyrant.

Jack has his troubles and his delights. We call them childish. We mean by that they are of slight value and of short duration. They interest us slightly; as a consequence, we argue they take light hold on him, and we laugh often at his eager interest in them, and make him ashamed of them. But I appeal to the Man in the Moon, or the gentleman from Saturn, which is the most childish, a game of hop and skip, or a Polka Redowa? a house of cards, or the life of a rash speculator? a game at ball, battledore, or croquet and billiards? If you like to have your interests and pleasures treated with respect, has not Jack the same desire and the same right? And as for the short duration-which does the man in middle life, or the old man, remember best and most fondly—the years next him, or those in which he was a boy?

Jack has a right to be heard. When he bursts in on your conversation, eager and palpitating, if he is a tolerably well-behaved Jack he will wait for the end of your paragraph, and then it is your turn for politeness and a hearing. Especially should he be heard when under suspicion, and believed, if his truthfulness is up to the aver

age; if it is not, I am afraid you are to blame. If the matter is complicated by relations with Bob, or "some other fellow," he has the moral right to the patient investigation and dispassionate judgment that we accord to our felons, under the name of trial by jury.

It is useless to say, "These are stilted notions, and beyond the appreciation of children," unless you think that your Jack is a small brute, and not a little man. If he is the last, he has the germs of honor, truth, and self-respect. If you mean to develop honor, truth, and self-respect, you must begin by believing in them. Respect him, and he will respect himself. Trust him, and he will feel the full responsibility. Outrage his childish dignity and delicacy, and though he has no words in which to express the sting, it will rankle deep in his little heart. Call on the good that is in him, and it will answer you. Rouse the evil, and it will grow. Be as wide awake for his good points as for his short-comings, and you will find such praise the best guano for the small boy virtue-crop. If you wish him to say "Thank you," thank him yourself when he waits on you. If you desire him to be well-bred, treat him with scrupulous politeness. If you lose your temper, don't flatter yourself that you can wipe it out with ten pages of the Bible; or that it will escape him, even if he does not look up in your face with round, wondering eyes, and ask softly, "Mamma, aren't you quarrelling?" as once happened to a friend of mine. If you have a truth for his digestion, spread it abroad in the atmosphere. Don't make it into a potion or a pill. Live it, speak it, find it in a story, and tell or read it to him; but count it as just so much lost time when you sit down and say, sepulchrally, "My child, we are made of the dust of the earth to teach us humility. We ought to be good in order to be happy, and we shall be happy if we are good." A child is sure to shirk such heavy instruction; he believes little in precept, but looks straight at example.

I am aware that this view of Jack's rights and perceptions is a troublesome one. It will break in often on calls and concerts; on pickling, preserving, and frock-braiding; on reading and writing. It will take a piece here out of the best hour, and nip off a bit there from an agreeable plan. It requires a care and caution with which we are pleasantly apt to dispense in dealing with our children. If we are irritated when Jack bursts in upon our reading or shakes the table in the middle of a long-tailed letter, do we