selects from his first class of intellects, specimens of fine open countenance and handsome form; for dogs and doguines are not, in this respect, so vain of personal appearance as to be silly and affected, like human coxcombs and flirts. They are only the more sensible and instructible. Notions of beauty or of superior attractions do not turn their brain, and make them foolish in their bearing and behaviour. Indeed, no animal has any idea of grace, form, or size: a cur will bark at an elephant as pertinaciously as at a mouse; and a horse will as readily consort with a dustman's high-boned drudge, as with a duke's high-spirits (esprit), it is absolutely necessary to correct bred hunter. It is annoying to add M. Leonard's conviction that all animals fear man, and that all the stories of their attachment, having the semblance of moral action, are dressed-up fabrications or illusions. The dog of Montargis, and other similar sagacious celebrities, are but shams and impostors. He has proofs in abundance, and no end of experiments, to shew that the animal does not love his master; that he sees in him only an instrument of conservation; and if he attaches himself, it is but as the dog licking the hand about to strike him. 'The two dogs,' he says, which I submitted to examination by the Instituts of France and Belgium, and learned scientific societies of London, leaped, at my voice, from a high bridge into the river, one of them with a bit of bread in his mouth. Whilst they were swimming, I ordered the other to take it, and he did so in a moment, although I was at a considerable distance, and self-preservation in the stream must have had a powerful influence over their action.' This was certainly a striking example of obedience to command, as the result of instruction; and from what we witnessed of their talents,' as previously noticed, we could readily credit even more surprising evolutions of Braque and Phylax, such being the proper names of these most obedient quadruped servants. At a given order, they would come to be beaten, exhibiting at the same time signs of the utmost joy. M. Leonard called de la gaieté in a threatening tone, even accompanied by the lash, but nevertheless they leaped, barked, wagged their tails, pricked up their ears, and, in short, displayed every demonstration of pleasure. From such premises, he contends for the probability at least of reflection, as well as of memory and understanding in the animal, since, by means of a kind of formulary, he could cause them to execute what he desired, though the command involved the most opposite conduct. Thus, he would say: Allez vous coucher, and in an instant arrest their impulse and bring them to his feet by the contrary Come hither.' Or he would, in the same manner, and with the same effect, almost instantaneously give and reverse the orders' Be gay' and 'Be sad;' or he would put a piece of bread before Braque, saying: "That is for Phylax;' and vice versa, a second bit before Phylax, with the remark that it was for Braque; and leaving them untouched during an indefinite time, the word 'Eat' (mangez) sent each to the morsel assigned to him, neither venturing to trespass on his neighbour's lot. This, M. Leonard observes, affords strong presumption of the intellectual faculty for which he has hazarded the term reflection, since, to a certain extent, it implies a combination of reasoning and comparison. We ought to state that Braque and Phylax were large handsome animals, white, with reddish-brown spots, and in shape resembling the Spanish pointer. The well-educated dog is a wonderful physiognomist. The instinct of self-preservation, and the natural fear it inspires in man, are equally powerful in the animal, and he knows well how to read in your countenance all you approve. If he perceives in the movement of your brow the slightest indication of discontent, he is puzzled, bewildered, stupified. Raising your voice produces a like effect; and if shewn merely for the sake of teaching, it is expedient to add some gesture which brings to recollection a preceding infliction of which he has experience. When the animal has comprehended what you want, you ought to be careful not to distract his attention; and to evince your satisfaction, and reward by a dainty, his habit of observation, which gradually diminishes his sense of fear. As the animal, like the child, is fickle, jumping from one idea to another, and happy to deliver himself from the fatigue of any long-continued strain upon his this fault, which would otherwise compromise the success of the best means resorted to for his instruction. In pursuing the illustration of his subject, the author mentions some curious phenomena, not uninteresting to the student of natural history. For example, he states: 'In giving myself up to the education of my two dogs, I have made an important remark, which I will set down here. When I was occupied in instructing one of them-Braque, for example-the other, Phylax, who was left to himself during the time, was, notwithstanding, attentive, and appeared as if he took an interest in the lesson. When, afterwards, I undertook to teach him the matter I had been explaining to Braque, I found that he comprehended it far more readily and quickly. I fancied that I was the dupe of an illusion; but recommencing my course, I tried the experiment very many times, sometimes with Braque in the first instance, and sometimes with Phylax, but always with the same result. From this I conclude that animals are, like children, more apt to learn voluntarily what is taught to their companions, than what is directly impressed upon themselves. Thence we might believe that the instinct of imitation exists in the dog as in man, and is a useful auxiliary in the education of both; and perhaps,' he modestly adds, with the former as with ourselves, it may develop those potent contributors to success by giving birth to emulation and amour propre. In hazarding this supposition, however, I place limits on these precious qualities in animals as in all other intellectual faculties compared with those in man.' At all events, it evidently facilitates canine education to have two pupils at a time. Although M. Leonard has defined the races among which the most intelligent or intellectual dogs are found, he allows that all are capable of some improvement, even the greyhound; respecting which he probably never heard the anecdote, that when the unfortunate Charles I. was asked which was the most pre-eminent of dog-kind, he replied the greyhound, for he has all the good-nature of the others without their fawning-a fine reproof to spaniel courtiers. It is conceded by M. Leonard that the pretty lapdog breed of Charles II., as well as the mastiff, may be educated to a degree of intelligence which renders them very agreeable or useful-almost as much so as 'the spaniel with his eye so full of expression, or the setter, so animated in his looks and movements. We would match the Scottish shepherd dog, in a lesser degree the English butcher-drover's uncouth-looking assistant, the cur in charge of goods on a cart in London streets, and the Skye terrier, against any of their congeners, however highly favoured by nature. But the sagacity, as it is called, of the dog, whether instinctive or trained, has been so universally chronicled, and the tales of its wonderful manifestations so fully believed, that without denying the success of M. Leonard's curriculum, we are strongly disposed to take a more loving view of the social relations between the animal and man; resting principally, as they seem to do, on the faculties and dispositions of the former. From the days of the scriptural Tobit to the present time, amid classic and religious miracles (from Ulysses to St Bernard), down even to the latest experiences of canine intrepidity, discernment, or affection, there is no end to the stories of the bravery, discrimination, and attachment to humanity of the dog. Was it not Argus, the dog of Ulysses-intelligent as if he had the thousand eyes of his unlucky name-fatherthat recognised his master on his arrival, after twenty years' absence, at Ithaca, when his fellowcreatures knew him not? Him, when he saw, he rose and crawled to meet; 'Twas all he could, and fawned and kissed his feet, Seized the dumb joy-then falling by his side, Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died. The St Bernard breed now patronised by Albert Smith, are, we are informed, taught how to set about their excavations in the snow; and the larger water-dogs, accustomed to drag substances from the water, will frequently, not always, include a drowning individual in their efforts to perform a usual service. M. Leonard taught his pupils to be constant in this respect, by practising them on rag-stuffed figures of men artificially convulsed, as if perishing. Of the depreciated greyhound we can vouch from personal knowledge that one stolen and carried off fifty miles in a covered cart, was no sooner liberated, than she bounded away at full speed, and in a very few hours I was safe and sound at home. But almost everybody has had, or has the familiar acquaintance of, dog-companionship, and been astonished by acts for which it was difficult, if not impossible, to account. 'Our philosopher of the objective school,' observes William Smith, the author of Thorndale, 'proceeding from the simpler to the more complex organisations, finds himself far advanced in the study of man, whilst as yet he is only studying the animal life around him. The unity of parts in each organic whole has struck him with admiration. In this unity or harmony of many parts lies the oneness of the creature. Wonderful is the dog that looks up at him with its manifest though limited intelligence. Eye and foot, nostril and throat, every limb and organ displays an admirable consent. He is one-this dog; one through the perfect harmony of powers and sensations, desire, and act. He sees you, he remembers you; he in some sort loves you; your presence, at least, gives him pleasure; he courts your caress; he has gentleness and joy, as well as anger and ferocity. He, too, perceives, remembers, and combines his memories, so as, in his limited sphere, to employ the knowledge of the past in the present emergency; but that the phrase would imply an imperfection-and he, too, is perfect in his kind-what is he less than an "arrested development" of man?' After such descriptions as these, we may hope that it will be thought an abuse of language to speak of a ruined man having 'gone to the dogs,' or of throwing an impertinent fellow, or even physic, to the same animals, seeing that we are so nearly on an equality, and that they can find physic in the grass-field, if they need it, without a doctor. As for M. Leonard's educated specimens, we recollect playing a game at dominoes with Braque or Phylax-we forget which-his master having left the room, and what signals he might make through the wainscot being inaudible to us; but the result was, that our adversary would never permit us to put a wrong number down, and finally beat us with the apparent delight of a successful gambler ! The detail of the ways by which M. Leonard brought his pupils to such accomplishments would be uninteresting to the general reader, though some of them might probably be introduced with benefit into the training of sporting-dogs, against the cruelty of whose breaking-in, he earnestly protests, and insists on the greater perfection that could be attained by a milder mode of instruction. Yet a few of his leading rules may be noticed, and whoever likes to try the experiment, more or less completely, may witness the effect on pups of their own. He never terrified them, especially at first, with severe punishments; on the contrary, he began with merely prohibitive displays or cracks of the whippatience and moderation being his watchwords. He taught them distinctly to understand their names, and pay instant attention when they were pronounced. Rewards of caresses and meat, accompanied by words of approbation, were constantly given, as lessons were comprehended; and by degrees, only the words were retained to the entire satisfaction of dog and teacher. Lessons were never prolonged so much as to partake of the nature of punishments, and excite lassitude and disgust. Much depended on regular and judicious feeding. The devoted attachment of dogs to owners of the lower classes is ascribable to their frequent sharing of the bit and the buffet.' Even a Bill Sykes will have his faithful and ferocious associate, the ugliest of brutes, owing to this sort of treatment. At the same time, it is the brutal usage they receive from their masters, and which they endure out of their dread for them, that renders the bull-dog and other fierce crosses so savage towards strangers and all the rest of the world. Leave to go out was requisite, and the open door and the word liberty, with perhaps a piece of meat thrown forth, were the signs of assent: obedience was the one thing insisted on. If it were required to teach the animal to abstain from the food, balls of the size of billiard-balls, with small spikes on their surface, were thrown at, or between the animals and the temptations, and by persevering in this line, accompanied by certain expressions, they were taught not to approach or touch meats even if left alone with them for whole nights. In issuing commands, they were ingeniously brought to attend to the terminations of the words, and not to the tone in which they were pronounced. There are many other curious ruses and contrivances to facilitate the progress of instruction; but as we do not pretend to supply a vade-mecum for a complete learned education, we shall close with the author's aphorism, that Education forces Nature to correct itself.' Canine civilisation! After dwelling on the value of a dog, well-taught in the degree according to the wish and pleasure of its teacher, M. Leonard draws the opposite picture of the effects of spoiling, and ignorance, and consequent disobedience, in a manner so thoroughly French, that we are tempted to copy it for the amusement of our readers. 'Par exemple,' he says, 'you enter the boudoir of a pretty lady, and lo! there is a villainous Shock that leaps from under the sofa, where he is keeping company with his mistress. He is not bigger than your two fists, and yet he makes more noise than the largest mastiff. He yelps at you with a sharp bark and hubbub, very disagreeable to the tympanum. "Be quiet, Bichon!" says his mistress, in a tone of voice which has nothing of the air of a command. Accordingly, Bichon takes good care not to obey. He yelps the louder. You advance into the apartment; you would pay your compliments to the fair dame; you assume a gracious air; you throw your body into A NEW CALLING. THERE are at least some novelists of our own day who possess a genuine right to their title, in having introduced a system of entertainment which would not a little have astonished their predecessors. Half a century ago, it was a subject for boasting to have read a recent book; until very lately, it was unusual for people out of literary circles to know a real live author even by sight. Now, not only have cheap editions brought the works of great living writers within the reach of everybody, but the great living writers themselves have been made cheap, and are introduced to the world in their own proper persons. There is no more marvelling now about what sort of being in the flesh may this or that rich spirit be who has dowered us with this or that immortal creation, because, if we choose, we can see him, body and breeches, once every week at least, and for the moderate charge of half-a-crown, hear him read one of his own productions. The thing will get so common soon, that there will be nothing to be said about it, nor is there novelty enough in the matter even now more than may suggest a few brief ideas. Many of us, dead and alive, have at some time or other ardently longed to feast our eyes upon those whose writings have even whiled away a weary hour, or given to us a hearty laugh; and surely much more to look upon the thoughtful faces of those who have made us wiser and better, who have reached out to us the shining hand' to help us out of the slough of the world, or, at all events, to scatter flowers on the road. Now that we can do this, we may not perhaps appreciate the opportunity as we ought; and as it gets more common, we shall be doubtless less grateful still. What would we not have given to have heard old Chaucer, 'the morning-star of song,' describe his own pilgrims on their road to Canterbury! or Spencer read to us his Faery Queen, which nobody (as a wicked critic has said) was ever known to read for himself from end to end! Yet a time would doubtless have come when we should have tired of both of them. How highly should we have prized an hour of the 'native wood-notes wild' of Shakspeare, warbled by 'Fancy's child' himself-a sight of that noble brow, of those eyes that saw into the hearts of all mankind! Yet, doubtless, Queen Elizabeth and court listened, if they did listen, to his dramatic readings' with much equanimity and a most aristocratic lack of enthusiasm. Think what a vision of transcendent glory must blind John Milton have presented, rapt in his heavenly dreams, and uttering aloud his own immortal inspirations! And yet to those charming short-hand writers, the Misses Milton, their task became soon prosaic enough. Would it not have been grand-we are descending, but we are yet a great way up, and in noble company—to have seen Samuel Johnson, massive, ungainly, but yet not without a certain majesty, rolling forth, pleno ore, his Vanity of Human Wishes! Pleasant to have sat beneath Dr Sterne, and listened to his wilful digressions, and watched his eyes sly-twinkling over his solemn double entendres! And better still, to have heard Fielding reading aloud, and relishing as he read, the woes of his own Partridge, the triumphs of his own spoiled favourite, Tom Jones! Our descendants, be sure, will envy us the having seen and heard the Fielding of to-day-the biographer of the Blifil of our own times, Mr Barnes Newcome the younger-at his lecturer's desk. Mrs Blimber would have died happy, she thought, could she but have seen Cicero in his retirement at Tusculum. How many of our children, nay, as we believe, of our great-great-grandchildren, will envy us the having seen and heard that man who gave us Mrs Blimber, and a hundred other ladies and gentlemen with whom we have a very real acquaintance; envy us, especially, the having witnessed his impersonation of Mrs Blimber's favourite, and the favourite of us all, little Paul Dombey! child, who more than all other fictitious children, has touched the universal heart of England. We ourselves remember travelling in a city cab to the Bank, in company with a director of the same, with an old London lawyer, and with a copy of that number of Dombey and Son that contains the account of the death of little Paul, which, as we read it aloud, drew tears from Pluto's eyes (and Plutus's), caused both the lawyer and the banker to weep. Over such a pair of unsympathising folks, in such a vehicle and on such an errand, sure never was the victory of genius more complete. Consider, then, how much greater must be her power when her rightful owner is wielding his own weapon in his own hand! Who can forbear to weep for Tiny Tim, when he himself who created Tiny Tim is weeping with us? Who but must despise, and yet must pity, the iron Scrouge, when he who drew him himself exhibits the portrait, and marks out so unerringly the cruel lines upon the brow, and the place where the lines are in we say, and success to the beginners of it! What mercy smoothed away! Hail to this new-born art, matters it, that a hundred imitators, miserables, whose stock-in-trade is, not ideas, but a couple of candles, and somebody else's book, have started up and overrun the land. For our parts, we only wish that the example of our novelists were followed by our poets, that they would lend the music of their voice, and of which, as we understand, there is some likelihood; the illustration of their inspired looks-as they were wont to do in the golden age-to their own verses; and that it might be permitted to us, for instance, to hear the deep-voiced laureate pour forth his hollow oes and aes' in his own Mort d'Arthur, like Noise of battle rolled BALLAD OF DARNICK TOWER. THE correspondent of a Scotch newspaper lately brought forward the following little grotesque ballad, with an inquiry as to the authorship and the circumstances referred to: The devil sat in Darnick Tower, Out of a shot-hole keekit he; He saw Jamie Leitch come ower the brig, Quoth he: Lang have I tarried here, Farewell to Darnick Tower and tree, And ower the Tweed essayed to flce; And he has dippit Auld Clootie. Darnick, it must be understood, is a little village about three miles from Galashiels, and an equal distance from Abbotsford, the poetical laird of which was extremely anxious to add it to his domains on account of the abovementioned old tower. A gentleman sent the following answer to the inquiry in the newspaper: 'In those remote times, as we all know, when witchcraft and sorcery held possession of the minds of the people, it was customary, as in the case of Sonlis, Michael Scott, and others, to attribute Satanic agency to men secluded in old towers, and possessed of more than ordinary energy and knowledge. The Heitons, lairds of Darnick (see Tales of the Borders, vol. vii.), were great fighters, as old Watt Scott knew to his cost. Their crest was a bull's head, armed, which, according to the custom of the times, was prominent on the keystone of the portal. The character of the old laird at the time of the ascendency of Angus was "deevilish" enough to make him a good representative of "Clootie;" and the horned head looking through a shot-hole would help the ballad-monger to his metaphor. As for wee Jamie Leitch," he might be some noted borderer who had joined Hertford when he burned Darnick Tower in September 1545, and whom Heiton eyed with a true border feeling through a loophole-the act being very well represented by the head and horns of the crest on the walls.' 66 Now, the fact is, that the verses were written by a person recently living, and are simply a jeu d'esprit on a fellow-townsman of their author, who had adopted a habit of preaching in his native village, and who, not content with his mission in that home-field, was finally ambitious enough to extend his ministrations to the equally benighted hamlet of Darnick. We put it to our readers, Could there be a better example of the conjectural history indulged in by antiquaries where nothing is known, than the above answer to the newspaper inquiry? David Thomson, the writer of the verses, has a place in Lockhart's Memoirs of Sir Walter Scott, as the person who always wrote the poetical invitations to the Sherra' to come to the Galashiels annual dinner. He was a cloth-manufacturer, a simple-hearted worthy man, with a great fund of natural humour, which doubtless Sir Walter failed not to appreciate. Hogg came to breakfast this morning,' says Scott in his diary, 12th December 1825, and brought for his companion the Galashiels bard, David Thomson, as to a meeting of hus Tweeddale poets. The late Thomas Tegg, who was a relation of Thomson, was taken by him to Abbotsford, and introduced as the publisher of Jokeby; which the prudent bibliopole thought rather daring on his friend's part. However, Sir Walter merely remarked: "The more jokes the better,' and gave him a very kind reception. ARTIFICIAL DIAMONDS. Another progressive step towards the possibility of creating diamonds by a chemical process has been realised in the fact that sapphires have been so produced. M. Gaudin has communicated to the Academy of Sciences, Paris, a process for obtaining alumina-the clay which yields the new metal called aluminum-in transparent crystals, which therefore present the same chemical composition as the natural stone known under the name of sapphire. To obtain them, he lines a common crucible with a coating of lamp-black, and introduces into it equal proportions of alum and sulphate of potash, reduced to a powder and calcined. He then exposes it for fifteen minutes to the fire of a common forge. The crucible is then allowed to cool, and on breaking it, the surface of the lamp-black coating is found covered with numerous brilliant points, composed of sulphuret of potassium, enveloping the crystals of alumina obtained, or, in other words, real sapphires or corundum. The size of the crystals is large in proportion to the mass operated upon; those obtained by M. Gaudin are about a millimètre, or 3-100ths of an inch in diameter, and half a millimètre in height. They are so hard that they have been found to be preferable to rubies for the purposes of watch-making. It is thus that chemistry, by pursuing the recognised course of natural causes, will in its operation achieve similar results, and produce the diamond.-Willis's Current Notes. THE PATH THROUGH THE CORN. Wandering thus on the path through the corn? A short space since, and the dead leaves lay Blushed rose-red in the red sun-glow: Shot up into life the young green corn. On either side of the path through the corn. The lark out-carols the murmuring corn. O strange, sweet path, formed day by day, Or whether our eyes shall ever see The wheat in the ear, or the fruit on the tree. Heaven, that watered the furrows, will ripen the corn. Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. Also sold by WILLIAM ROBERTSON, 23 Upper Sackville Street, DUBLIN, and all Booksellers. OF POPULAR Science and Arts. CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS. No. 236. SATURDAY, JULY 10, 1858. MOTHERS-IN-LAW. PRICE 1d. highly indignant he should feel if Mrs Jones and himself were to be grudged hospitality by missy's In a recent discussion on the subject, it was suggested future spouse-little, laughing, fondling missy, whom as an argument in favour of a man's marrying his he somehow cannot bear to think of parting with, at deceased wife's sister, that in such a case he would any time, to any husband whatsoever; nay, is conhave but one mother-in-law. The general laugh|scious that should the hour and the man ever arrive, which greeted this remark, proved how strong is the prejudice against that luckless relationship, upon which has been immemorially expended all the sarcasm of the keen-witted, all the pointless abuse of the dull. Dare any bold writer, taking the injured and unpopular side, venture a few words in defence of the mother-in-law? Unfortunate individual! the very name presents her, in her received character, to the mental eye. A lady, stout, loud-voiced, domineering; or thin, snappish, small, but fierce; prone to worrying and lamenting. Either so overpoweringly genteel and grand, that my son's wife,' poor little body, shrinks into a trembling nobody by her own fireside; or so vulgar, that my daughter's 'usband' finds it necessary politely to ignore her, as she does her h's and her grammar. These two characters, slightly varied, constitute the prominent idea current of a mother-in-law. How it originated is difficult to account for; and why a lady, regarded as harmless enough until her children marry, should immediately after that event be at once elevated to such a painful pedestal of disagreeableness. Books, perhaps, may be a little to blame for this, as in the matter of step-mothers-of whom we may have somewhat to say anon-and surely that author is to blame, who, by inventing an unpleasant generalised portrait, brings under opprobrium a whole class. Thus Thackeray may have done more harm than he was aware of to many a young couple who find 'the old people' rather trying, as old folks will be, by his admirably painted, horrible, but happily exceptional character of Mrs Mackenzie. He does not reflect that his sweet little silly Rosie, as well as the much injured wives among these indignant young couples, might in time have grown up to be themselves mothers-in-law. But that is quite another affair. Mrs Henry, weeping angry tears over her little Harry, because the feeding and nurturing of that charming child has been impertinently interfered with by Henry's mother, never looks forward to a day when she herself might naturally feel some anxiety over the bringing up of Harry's eldest born. Mr Jones, beginning to fear that Mrs Jones's maternal parent haunts his house a good deal, and has far too strong an influence over dear Cecilia, never considers how papa's first impulse towards the hapless young gentleman would be a strong desire to kick him down stairs. Thus, as the very foundation of a right judgment in this, as in most other questions, it is necessary to put one's self mentally on the obnoxious side. Few will deny that the crisis in parenthood when its immediate duties are ceasing, and however sufficient its pleasures are to the elders, they are no longer so to the youngsters, already beginning to find the nest too small, to plume their wings, and desire to fly-must be a very trying time for all parents. Bitter exceedingly to the many whose wedlock has turned out less happy than it promised, and between whom the chief bond that remains is the children. Nor without its pain even to the most united couple, who, through all the full years of family cares and delights, have had resolution enough to anticipate the quiet empty years, when, all the young ones having gone away, they two must once more be content solely with one another. Happy indeed that father and mother whose conjugal love has so kept its prior place that they are not afraid even of this the peaceful, shadowy time before they both pass away into the deeper peace of eternity. Nevertheless, the first assumption of their new position is difficult. Young wives do not sufficiently consider how very hard it must be for a fond mother to lose, at once and for ever, her office as primary agent in her son's welfare, if not his happiness; to give him over to a young lady, whom perhaps she has seen very little of, and that little is not too satisfactory. For young people in love will be selfish and foolish, and neglectful of old ties in favour of the new; and almost every young man, prior to his marriage, contrives, without meaning it, to wound his own relations in a thousand insignificant things, every one of which is reflected back upon his unlucky betrothed, producing an involuntary jealousy, a tenaciousness about small slights, a cruel quick-sightedness over petty faults. All this is bitterly hard for the poor young stranger in the family; unless, having strength and self-control enough to remember that a good son makes a good husband,' she uses all her influence, even in courting-days, to keep him firm to his affection and duty. Also, her own claim being, although the higher and closer, the newer, the more |