They led the vine To wed her elm; she spoused about him, twines twenty pecks of these leaves dried, would | and Milton, describing the employments go as far as thirty pounds of hay. Evelyn of our first parents in Paradise, says :also recommends them; "being suffered to dry in the sun upon the branches, and the spray stripped off about the decrease in August, they will prove," says he, 66 a great relief to cattle in winter when hay and fodder are dear; they will eat them even before oats, and thrive exceedingly well with them; remember only to lay your boughs up in some dry and sweet corner of your barn. In some parts of Herefordshire, they gather them in sacks for their swine;" and in France and Norway they are similarly used. The elm is often referred to by the ancient poets, and especially in their treatises on husbandry. The young trees, while growing, were carefully bent to form the proper shape for the buris, or plough tail; but it was most generally cultivated by them to form living props to their vines, and for this purpose its durable and straight stem peculiarly adapted it. Once in two years they were carefully pruned, to prevent their shade from injuring the fruit. Virgil mentions a careless husbandman as censurable for neglecting this. Hence many of the classic authors fancifully describe the lofty elm as married to the weak yet beauteous and fruitful plant it thus supported. Pliny tells us that an elm is a poor spouse which does not support three vines; and Ovid thus describes each party as benefited by the union : "If that fair elm," he cried, "alone should stand, No grapes would glow with gold and tempt the hand; Or if that vine without her elm should grow, 'Twould creep a poor neglected shrub below." From this association have originated many beautiful allusions of our modern poets: As the high elm whom his dear vine hath twined Spoils his own leaves, faints, withers, dies at last, HARRIS. Thus Spenser designates our tree as, Thus, too, Wordsworth beautifully illus- It ceed the elm in height, and the epithet five feet in diameter. The branches also deeper green," when fully matured, than A modern traveller tells that in the Val d'Arno, and other districts of Italy, where the vine is most carefully cultivated, "it is married to the elm, mulberry, or other trees, rows of which line the roads, and divide the enclosures. These trees are generally shortened, as are also the branches which spring from the truncated top, so that they possess something of the appearance of huge candelabra ; and when seen without their leaves in winter, are any thing but picturesque. But the long tendrils of the vines are led across from one tree to another, so that when the whole of them are in leaf and in fruit, nothing can be more beautiful than the festoons they form, weighed down as they are by the heavy purple branches which they sustain." thicken and enrich the spray exceedingly, even to the fulness of foliage." It appears very early in the spring, some time before that of any other tree, and is immediately succeeded, in equal abundance, by the samera, or seed capsule, of a reddish tinge, embedded in an oblong membranous wing, which assumes the same green tint as the young leaves. These, however, rarely ripen, and fall off almost as soon as the young leaves appear; and at that season the wanderer in an elm-tree grove is often surprised to observe the ground covered and the air filled as with verdant flakes of the same delicate hue which tinges the boughs above. Gilpin regards the elm as deficient in the distinctness of character which distinguishes the oak and the ash; "and this," he adds, "is a great defect, for strong characters are a great source of picturesque beauty." But though it may want the twisted massive limbs, the stupendous trunk, the thick expansive head of the one, and the easy graceful stem and drooping airy foliage of the other; yet, in the upright dignity of its form, in the loose yet light masses. of its foliage, in the beauties of its spring and autumn tints, the elm possesses characters peculiarly its own, and those which render it one of the principal ornaments of our plantations. Not only is it the last of our forest trees to yield its golden mantle to the stern tyranny of winter, but it is the very first to throw off that dreary yoke and don the livery of returning spring; and not even the chill showers of February and nipping blasts of March, though they may, for a time, retard the progress of that genial season, can repress the adventurous daring of its welcome harbinger. Even in the depth of winter, it is not devoid of interest, displaying the noble and erect, yet easy contour of its stately form, and the orderly confusion, (if so descriptive a term may be permitted,) of its closely ramified twigs, which, intersecting and crossing each other in every direction, enwrap the majestic skeleton with a mantle of open net work. And when the upper or exterior sides of these are encrusted with the fleecy snows or "glazed over by the fringing rime," while the lower or more sheltered surfaces appear in dark shadow; or when on each bud and angle the rain or dew hangs as a clear and pearly drop, the elm presents as unique, as interesting a spectacle, as when "it stands ar rayed in the full glory of its leafy luxury," equalled by few and surpassed by none of its sylvan brethren. Beneath its shadowy foliage, even the vertical rays of a summer's sun can scarce find entrance, save in fitful beams which dance with every breeze that stirs the verdant canopy, and vary the gloomy coolness of the spot, "Where branching elms exclude the mid-day heat," rendering "the lingering noon " of a July day, a season of refreshment and enjoyment. Even its stern critic admits that "no tree is better adapted to receive grand masses of light, and that, in this respect, it is superior both to the oak and the ash. Nor is its foliage, shadowing as it is," adds he, "of the heavy kind. Its leaves are small, and this gives it a natural lightness; it commonly hangs loosely, and is in general very picturesque." Hence, from the large yet varied masses of light and shade which it affords, the elm has ever been a favourite with the artist. This tree grows very rapidly, more so, perhaps, than any other timber tree of equal size. According to Evelyn, it will produce, in a favourable situation, "a load of timber in little more than forty years. At sixty or seventy years, it is considered to be in the greatest perfection, though it will continue growing much longer, and lives for many centuries. Martyn mentions an elm planted by queen Elizabeth's own hand at Chelsea, where many of her early years were spent. "It went always," says he, “by her name; and I remember it a stately flourishing tree, except that the top was decayed. It was felled, to the great regret of the neighbourhood, in November, 1745, and sold for a guinea, by the lord of the manor. It was thirteen feet in circumference at the bottom, and six feet six inches at the height of forty-four feet; the height was one hundred and ten feet, of which fifteen feet at the top were decayed, the tree having suffered in the hard frost of 1739-40." Another tree also, bearing the name of queen Elizabeth's elm, is, however, yet standing on Richmond Green, and lays claim to a yet earlier date than that above mentioned, it being supposed to have been planted by a courtier of king Henry vII., when that monarch kept his court there. Tradition states it to have been a great favourite with "the virgin queen," The inhabitants, anxious to protect it from injury, have, of late years, surrounded it with a fence, and planted ivy, which now enwreaths its venerable trunk. At Fulham, some elms, planted in the reign of king Edward vi., are or were recently standing; and two trees at St. John's College, Cambridge, are recorded as of considerable size in the reign of queen Mary. The elms standing in a group near the residence of the late bishop of Durham at Mongewell, Oxon, a place celebrated by Leland, for its "faire woods," are considered by some to be the oldest in England. The principal tree among them, Strutt describes as "seventy-nine feet in height, fourteen in circumference at three feet from the ground, sixty-five feet in the extent of the boughs, and contains two hundred and fifty-six feet of solid timber." In the centre of the group stands an urn, erected by the venerable prelate to the memory of two highly valued friends, and bearing the following inscription from his pen : In this once favoured walk, beneath these elms, S. DUNELM. An elm now growing at Sprotborough, Yorkshire, eighty feet high, the diameter of the trunk five and a half feet and of the head one hundred and fifteen feet, is mentioned by Loudon as one of the finest in our island, though doubtless the demesnes of many a British mansion could furnish noble specimens of this tree, coeval in age and co-equal in majesty with any that have been alluded to. LONDON CRIES. THE cry of "Water-cresses" used to be heard from some bare-foot nymph of the brook, who at sunrise had dipped her feet into the bubbling runnel, to carry the green luxury to the citizen's breakfast tables. Water-cresses are now grown like cabbages in gardens. The cry of "Rosemary and lavender, once resounded through the thoroughfares, and every alley smelt like Bucklersbury in simple time,' when the whole street was a mart of odoriferous herbs. Cries like these are rare enough now; yet we have heard them. Crossing a bye-street a week ago, we felt an unwonted fragrance in the air, and as some one has truly said, that scents call up the most vivid associations, we had visions of a fair garden afar off, and the sports of childhood, and the song of the lark, that "At my window bade good morrow There was a pale-looking man with little bunches in his hand, who, with a feeble voice, cried, "Buy my sweet-brier." There are still, however, silent damsels in the less crowded and fashionable thoroughfares who present the passengers with moss-roses and violets. Gay tells us, "Successive cries the seasons' change declare, And mark the monthly progress of the year. Hark! how the streets with treble voices ring, To sell the bounteous product of the spring." We no longer hear the cries which had some association of harmonious sounds with fragrant flowers. They degenerated, no doubt, as our people ceased to be musical; and the din of "noiseful gain" exterminated them. Of the street trades that are past and forgotten, the small-coal man was one of the most remarkable. He tells a tale of a city with few fires, for who could now imagine a man earning a living by bawling "Small coals," from door to door, without any supply but that in the sack which he carries on his shoulders? His cry was, however, a rival with that of "Wood to cleave." In a capital full of haberdashers, what chance would an aged man now have with his flattering solicitation, of "Pretty pins, pretty women?" He who carries a barrel on his back, with a measure and funnel at his side, bawling "Fine writing ink," is wanted neither by clerks nor authors. There is a grocer's shop at every turn, and who, therefore, needs him who salutes us with "6 white vinegar?" The history of cries is a history of social changes. The working trades, as well as the vendors of things that can be bought in every street, are now banished from our thoroughfares. "Old chairs to mend," still salutes us in some retired suburbs; and we still see the knife-grinder's wheel; but who vociferates 66 Lily Any work for John Cooper?" or, "A brass pot, or an iron pot to mend?" The trades are gone to those who pay scot and lot. What should we think of our prison discipline now-a-days, if the voice of lamentation was heard in every street, "Some broken bread and meat for the poor prisoners; for the Lord's sake pity the poor?" John Howard put down this cry. Or what should we say of the vigilance of excise officers, if the cry of "Aqua vita" met our ears? The chiropedist has now his half-guinea fee: in the old days he stood at corners, with knife and scissors in hand, crying "Corns to pick." There are some occupations of the streets, however, which remain essentially the same, though the form be somewhat varied. Knight's London. THE GREATER BIRD OF PARADISE. (Paradisea major.) THIS splendid bird is a native of New Guinea and the adjacent islands, as arroo, (or aru,) and numbers are annually killed for the sake of their skins, which are highly prized in Europe. No living specimen, however, has yet reached our shores; and as the skins received are always destitute of the legs, it was for a long period believed, even by naturalists, that these parts were naturally wanting. Hence, Linneus gives to this bird the specific appellation of Apoda, or footless. This error is, indeed, now no longer entertained; in fact, it ought never to have been, for Antony Pigafetta, who, in 1522, brought specimens of the bird of paradise to Europe, and who introduced it to science, distinctly stated that its legs, which are large and strong, are cut off by the natives in making up the skins for sale. Nevertheless, such men as Aldrovandus, Scaliger, Buffon, and Linneus, considered the assertion of Pigafetta a falsehood, We have said that no living specimen of this beautiful bird has reached Europe; and it may be added, that our knowledge of its habits in a state of nature, is restricted to few details. Its wings and the long loose plumes which ornament its sides, indicate, at once, that its power of flight cannot be rapid; it will, however, sweep gracefully through the air, and execute aerial evolutions with facility. Its food is most probably varied, consisting of fruits, berries, and insects; and it frequents the branches of the forest, seldom visiting the underwood, and still more seldom the ground. That the bird of paradise will endure confinement is evident. An individual of this species has lived long, and is, we believe, still living, in the possession of Mr. Beale, at Macao. The following account of it, communicated to the Zoological Society of London, by Mr. G. T. Lay, is very interesting:- "This bird has been in the possession of Mr. Beale upwards of fourteen years, and seemed, when I left China, to be in full health and vigour. It is fed mainly on boiled rice, with a few grasshoppers, as meat with its vegetables. These it eats whole when they are small, but pulls off the legs and wings when they are large. The tip of the abdomen, with the viscera contained therein, are rejected, but the rest is devoured as a choice morsel. It seizes the insect near its head with so firm a gripe that life is soon extinct: a mode of proceeding which answers the double purpose of securing its prey and of shortening the dying throes of the poor victim. The bird is very careful to cleanse its bill after every such operation, wiping it upon the perch, and shaking it with a peculiar jerk. I have heard the remark, that it is not a clean feeder, but this is true only of the mode of eating, which is gross and eager, as the largeness of the mouthful is incompatible with much grace or nicety in the act of conveying the food to the place of its destination. "The voice of this bird is loud and sonorous when he calls in a rapid succession of notes. This is probably the strain in which he answers his fellows in the wild state; and may be heard, from its clearness, at a great distance, where walls and dwellings do not interfere with the atmospheric vibrations. When you approach his cage, he often treats you with a ditty which I have called, in my memorandum, the song of solicitation. It is short but very pleasing, and not a little curious, for the notes are repeated in harmonic succession, as follows: "The first four notes are very exactly intonated, very clear, and very sweet. The three last are repeated in a kind of caw, a very high refinement of the voices of a daw or crow, yet possessing a striking resemblance; and this suggests a lively affinity between the crows and the birds of paradise. While this serenade is uttered, the black pupil, encircled by a golden iris, waxes or wanes, as the creature wishes to contemplate more dis- | tant or nearer objects. The bill snaps as the prelude to a meal, and as the token of appetite, while the body is conveyed from side to side by a succession of high yet very easy springs. "The crow and its congenors love to range upon the ground, having feet formed for walking, but the bird of paradise (in captivity) shuns the bottom of its cage, as if afraid of soiling its delicate plumage; for I must observe, that it is always as clean and well arranged as it is gay and splendid. The Creator, who has lavished so much beauty upon it, has also endowed it with an instinct to delight in these charms, and with the desire to preserve them in their fullest integrity. In a wild state, it is not unlikely that these birds of paradise catch their prey upon the wing, either by taking it in flight like the swallow, or by darting upon it like the Drongo shrike, as it passes by the seat of its pursuer. "The form and disposition of the pennons afford the bird of paradise the power of floating gracefully upon the breeze, but not of cutting the air in rapid flight. The ease with which it glides along, must be increased by the hypochondrial feathers (the side plumes) which are lifted up and displayed in the act of flying. "The feet and legs are of a dark leaden blue colour; the toes are strong, and grasp the perch with great firmness.” Such is Mr. Lay's account of the individual in the possession of Mr. Beale. His observation that this bird probably takes its prey upon the wing, like the swallow, is not admissible, although it may dart at it from a branch like some of the shrikes and flycatchers. Indeed, the long ornamental side plumes, though they may give the power of floating gracefully upon the breeze, are inconsistent with that rapid course which we admire in the long-winged swallow. In stormy or windy weather, the plumes of the bird of paradise become blown about and disordered, so much so as to render flight difficult, if not impossible; and it is reported to abstain from flight altogether during the continuance of a storm, which would either hurry it impetuously along, without self-guidance, or dash it to the ground. From the slight details we have been hitherto able to collect respecting the bird of paradise, we were not prepared for its musical serenade. It is said that these birds when flying are noisy like starlings; but that their ordinary cry, which is exerted particularly in windy weather, somewhat resembles the caw of the raven; and this resemblance is not unnoticed by Mr. Lay, though it is restricted in the serenade, to the three concluding notes of the short strain. He, however, compares it to the caw of the crow, but more refined, with a more musical intonation. Of the nidification of the bird of paradise, and of other many particulars in its mode of life, we have M. yet to gain information. TULIPS. THE tulip, so named, it is said, from a Turkish word, signifying a turban, was introduced into western Europe about the middle of the sixteenth century. Conrad Gesner, who claims the merit of having brought it into repute, little dreaming of the extraordinary commotion it was to make in the world, says that he first saw it in the year 1559, in a garden at Augsburg, belonging to the learned counsellor Herwart, a man very famous in his day for his collection of rare exotics. The bulbs were sent to this gentleman by a friend at Constantinople, where the flower had long been a favourite. In the course of ten or eleven years after this period, tulips were much sought after by the wealthy, especially in Holland and Germany. Rich people at Amsterdam sent for the bulbs direct to Constantinople, and paid the most extravagant prices for them. The first roots planted in England were brought from Vienna in 1600. Until the year 1634, the tulip annually increased in reputation, until it was deemed a proof of bad taste in any man of fortune to be without a collection of them. Many learned men, including Pompeius de Angelis, and the celebrated Lipsius of Leyden, the author of the treatise "De Constantia," were passionately fond of tulips. The rage for possessing them soon caught the middle classes of society; and merchants and shopkeepers, even of moderate means, began to vie with each other in the rarity of these flowers, and the preposterous prices they paid for them. A trader at Harlaem was known to pay one-half of his fortune for a single root, not with the design of selling it again at a profit, but to keep in his own conservatory for the admiration of his acquaintance. The demand for tulips of a rare species increased so much in the year 1636, that |