Mr. Gould also thinks the opinion that the eggs, once deposited, are never disturbed afterwards, to be corroborated by the fact that they are always found upright. But it may here be remarked, that though the parent birds may occasionally uncover the eggs, it does not follow that they alter the position of them. Nor is the discovery of a young bird feathered, which appeared as if newly hatched, a proof, either that the parents neglect the eggs or the young. These points yet remain to be determined.

Mr. Gould saw several of the mounds formed by these birds, both in the interior of the country, and at Illawara. "In every instance, they were placed in the most retired and shady glens, and on the slope of a hill." The ground above the nest was always scratched clean, while that below the nest appeared to be untouched; as if the birds had found it most convenient to bring the materials for its construction down the hill, than to throw them up.

The eggs are perfectly white, of a long, oval figure, and three inches and three quarters in length.

The wattled talegalla is about the size of a common turkey, three parts grown. The adults have the whole of the upper surface of a blackish brown. The feathers of the chest are edged with silvery grey. The skin of the head and neck is of a deep red, and thinly sprinkled with short hair-like feathers; the sides of the neck, at its lower part, are ornamented with a bright yellow wattle, or fleshy excrescence, capable of being expanded or contracted at will, as in the common turkey. The female is rather less than the male, and the wattles are not so much developed ; her colour is the same.

That this bird is capable of domestication, and of being added to the list of the gallinaceous birds, which man, for his own advantage, has taken under his care, there can be no doubt. A

fine male specimen was living at large, like an ordinary fowl, in the possession of Mr. A. Mac Leay, at Sydney, where it was seen by Mr. Gould. For two successive years it had laboured in the construction of a mound, and the lawn

and shrubbery over which it was allowed to range presented an appearance as if regularly swept, the bird having scratched to a common centre every thing that lay upon the surface. The mound which, by its unassisted labours, it thus formed, was about three feet and a half high, and ten feet in diameter. The heat of it internally was about ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit. "The bird itself," says Mr. Gould, was strutting about with a proud and majestic air, sometimes parading round the heap, at others perching on the top, and displaying its brilliantly coloured neck and wattle to the greatest advantage." Before Mr. Gould quitted New South Wales, this specimen was accidentally drowned. M.

66

THE PERAMBULATOR.

THE COLOSSEUM.

THE Colosseum is truly one of the lions of London, and few strangers visit the Metropolis, with the intention of seeing the wonders of the place, without entering the gates of the Regent's Park, looking with surprise on the colossal dome before them, mounting by the staircase, or ascending-room, to the grand painting it contains, and gazing with wonder and admiration on the panoramic view of the capital of England. Often and often have I been here before with city friends or country cousins; and now I am here again. Carriages are standing opposite the gate, the sun is at its greatest height in the clear blue sky, and visitors of both sexes, and of all ages, are passing onwards to see the Colosseum.

It has been said, with some truth, that of all the panoramic pictures that ever were painted in the world, of the proudest cities formed and inhabited by the human race, the view of London, contained in the Colosseum, is the most preeminent, exhibiting, as it does, at one view, "to the eye and to the mind the dwellings of near a million and a half of human beings, a countless succession of churches, bridges, halls, theatres, and mansions; a forest of floating masts, and the manifold pursuits, occupations, and powers of its ever-active, everchanging inhabitants."

This splendid picture, painted by Paris, from sketches taken by Hornor, as he sat in a suspended house or box, fixed

for the purpose, above the highest cross of the cathedral of St. Paul, is now before me, and the almost universal encomiums pronounced upon it, have a tendency to repress that freedom of remark, in which it is pleasurable to indulge. If I venture an observation, it will only be with the design of preventing disappointment in the mind of the spectator, whose high-wrought fancy, fed by intemperate descriptions, may have made him somewhat unreasonable in his expectations.

It should ever be borne in mind, that in works of art, there are unavoidable difficulties in the way of affording a correct representation of persons and things. The most glorious statue that Phidias ever formed, has neither colour nor motion. Think of the arduous task of representing, by colourless and motionless marble, breathing beings who possess both motion and colour! an illustration sufficiently homely to be at once comprehended by those who have little taste for works of art, I would say, that we should hardly know the most intimate friend we have in the world, did he stand before us, arrayed in a surplice, with his face whitened.

To use

Paintings, it is true, have colour; but the most glowing picture that was ever flung by a Rubens, or a Raphael, on his canvass, is on a flat surface. Think of the difficulty of representing the rotundity of the human figure, trees, and pillars; and the projection of capitals, cornices, and pediments, by a perfectly flat surface! Such considerations as these are calculated to prevent unreasonable expectations, and to qualify us for the more correct estimation of works of art. I have noticed visitors, who have evidently expected, when looking at this panorama, the water of the Thames to flow, the boats to move, the smoke from the chimneys to rise in the air, and the carriages, of different kinds, to rumble along the streets: that such persons should not find the panoramic painting of London realize their expectations, can be no matter of wonder.

The printed account of the picture sums up almost all its points in the following words: "From a balustraded gallery, and with a projecting frame beneath it, in exact imitation of the outer dome of St. Paul's cathedral, the visitor is presented with a picture that cannot fail to create, at once, astonishment and

delight; a scene, which will inevitably perplex and confuse the eye and mind for some moments, but which, on further examination, will be easily understood. It presents such a Pictorial History of London, such a faithful display of its myriads of public and private buildings; such an impression of the vastness, wealth, business, pleasure, commerce, and luxury of the English metropolis, as nothing else can effect. Histories, descriptions, maps, and prints are all imperfect and defective, when compared to this immense panorama. They are scraps and mere touches of the pen and pencil; while this imparts, at a glance, at one view, a cyclopædia of information; a concentrated history; a focal topography of the largest and most influential city in the world. The immense area of surface which this picture occupies, measures forty-six thousand square feet, or more than an acre in extent."

This is unquestionably a coloured account; but it may, I think, with truth be said, that almost all who visit the exhibition are greatly surprised, and abundantly gratified. There are now some twenty or thirty persons in the gallery; children are climbing up to peep over the rails. Ladies are looking through the perspective glasses, and gentlemen are pointing out such objects as engage their attention. One discovers Westminster Abbey, Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens. Another finds out Primrose Hill, Chalk Farm, Highgate Archway, and Epping Forest; while a third turns towards the downward course of the river, the Docks, and Greenwich Hospital. Now and then a visitor traces his way to his own dwelling, and regards it with a look of surprise and pleasure, almost expecting to see some one step up and rap at the door.

The two turrets at the western end of St. Paul's cathedral, attract the eyes of all; the boldness, the freedom with which they are painted, produces an admirable effect; and scarcely is the stranger convinced that he is not gazing on a real and tangible pile of beautifully carved stone. The river and shipping are great attractions to the young; while the thoughtful eye of the more sedate and serious roams over the goodly towers and spires of the different churches, and other temples erected to the service of the Most High.

London is a highly-favoured city; for

though ignorance and crime are far too prevalent among its numerous population, yet here is the gospel of peace faithfully proclaimed; and here thousands and tens of thousands find the sabbath to be, indeed, a day of rest. Wealth, and power, and reputation among the nations of the earth are costly things; but they are mutable and perishable. The proudest and the costliest things of time are as dust compared with those of eternity. Thebes, and Nineveh, and Babylon had power, and wealth, and reputation; but their transgressions multiplied, and they were swept away from among the kingdoms of the world. The almighty Ruler of the earth and skies spared them not. Take heed, highly-favoured city, lest he also spare not thee!

There is a youthful group about to ascend the galleries above, and as I am pleased to hear their childish questionings, and to witness their wonderment and delight, I will ascend with them. In this second gallery, and still more so in the one above, the spectator experiences a disappointment. Expecting to see more as he ascends higher, he is scarcely prepared to find his prospect bounded within apparently narrower limits than before. The lower gallery is unquestionably the best and the most agreeable of the three from which to witness the exhibition. One more glance at this shadowy resemblance of the first city, in the first country under heaven, and I take my leave. Ages have heaped together this pile of dwelling places, temples, and marts of traffic. Again and again have their possessors been swept into eternity. The feeble have sunk into the tomb; and the great, where are they? Yet still undisturbed the game of life goes on, in thoughtless merriment.

"Oh what is human glory, human pride?
What are man's triumphs, when they brightest
seem?

What art thou, mighty one! though deified?
Methuselah's long pilgrimage a dream;
Our age is but a shade, our life, a tale,
A vacant fancy, or a passing gale."

I have walked round the ball and cross which originally stood on the top of the dome of St. Paul's cathedral, and am now on the roof of the building, with the park spread out before me. How grateful is the fresh air! how pleasant the sight of the green trees, and the clear blue heaven above me! The eye took in so many objects at once, in the painting below, that it now seems, by compari

son, to have but little to gaze on. One peep at nature, however, compensates for the loss of much art.

Every time I visit this place, the park appears more lovely; the trees and shrubs which have hitherto been of diminutive growth, begin now to put forth their strength and verdure. Were there but one tree in the world, we should be struck dumb, with admiring wonder, at its loveliness and beauty; but now, we pass by a wood without a thought-a forest, without a word in its praise!

If it appears a long way up these winding staircases, when the desire is impatient to behold the picture, no wonder that it should seem a long way down them when that desire has been gratified. The music of prattling tongues, and the footfall of childish feet, have preceded me from the very roof to the door of the ascending room, on the ground floor! Now for another scene!

On entering the saloon, I find public singers, of both sexes, accompanying, with their voices, the harmonious tones of a well-played pianoforte. The company are gathered around them; the ladies seated, and the gentlemen uncovered; while the vocal and instrumental strains are rising and falling; now filling the air with swelling cadence, and now dying away into fainter and sweeter sounds. I am stealing on tiptoe from one cast or sculptured statue to another.

Apollo, Jupiter, and Juno strive

To keep the fame of ancient Greece alive;
Minerva spells me where I stand; and now
I gaze delighted on a Dian's brow.

The gigantic figures of Moses, and Melpomene, with the head of Alexander; the cast of the Apollo Belvedere; the Discobolus, or quoit player; the fall of Phaeton; Perseus and Andromeda; and the Dying Gladiator; are all well known to the lovers of sculpture.

The statue whence the head of Jupiter Olympus is taken, was the great work of Phidias, and was esteemed as one of the seven wonders of the world. Though in a sitting posture, the figure of Jupiter was sixty feet high, composed of ivory, and adorned with precious stones.

The head of the Dancing Fawn is from a statue, a chef-d'œuvre of the chastest sculptor of Greece. Though there is some doubt whether the figure was executed by Praxiteles, there is none that the head and arms were restored by Michael Angelo. As there were giants in stature, in the ages of old, so were there giants

waters, though on a miniature scale, has, when in better trim, been very effective, assisted by the sea-like sound that accompanies its rising and sinking amid the foamy surge. I can fancy myself on the pebbled beach, gazing on the heaving ocean.

"The sea it is deep, and the sea it is wide,
And it girdeth the earth on every side.
Like a youthful giant roused from sleep,
At creation's call uprose the deep;

And his crested waves tossed up their spray,
As the bonds of his ancient rest gave way;
And a voice went up, in that stillness vast,
As if life through a mighty heart had passed.
O, ancient, wide, unfathomed sea,

Ere the mountains were, God fashioned thee!"

Whatever may be the disposition of the visitor to this place, he cannot, with any colour of propriety, complain of the scantiness, or want of variety in his entertainment. The panorama of London, the conservatories, fountains and waterfalls, the grotto and marine cave, the Swiss cottage, rock scenery, camera obscura, and cosmoramic views, supply as much amusement as can reasonably be expected, and occupy quite as much time, in their enjoyment, as the generality of people have at command.

The Swiss cottage has four apartments, fitted up in the manner in which cottages in Switzerland are usually furnished; and the attendant, a civil attentive man, habited in the costume of a Swiss peasant, helps to carry on the agreeable delusion, that Mont Blanc and the Lake of Geneva are at no great distance from the place. The view from the recessed window is of a very romantic kind. Mountains, rocks, pointed crags, and caverns; waterfalls, lakes, and streams; with birds of prey, wild ducks, and creeping plants are so agreeably blended, and so beautifully reflected in the water, that imagination has much to assist it in conjuring up all that is wild and wonderful in nature.

There is something in a waterfall that affects us in a different manner to other things, especially if it assume the ungovernable rage of the thundering cataract. The broad-breasted mountain, the rifted crag, the fearful precipice, are arresting; but the headlong torrent, dashing its foaming waters over the pointed rocks, adds heart-stirring motion to its imposing appearance, and creates a more active and turbulent interest in the mind. It seems a correct image of that glory for which so many jeopardize their bodies and their souls.

The Swiss view, with the chapel erected in remembrance of the patriot William Tell; the Lake of Lucerne; the silver mine of Mexico; the missionary station at Malacca, with the Anglo-Chinese college, where Dr. Morrison carried on his Chinese translation of the holy Scriptures, and composed his Anglo-Chinese dictionary; all these have their several interests, and the visitor lingers, or hurries on, as his mind is impressed, or his associations called forth.

Independent of the things immediately appertaining to the exhibition, there are so many fortuitous circumstances, always occurring to the quick eye and active mind, that vary the scene and increase the amount of pleasure. A well-dressed young woman, perhaps, seats herself in "Queen Adelaide's, or the Stuart's chair;" and it is plain, that for the moment, she is fancifying herself to be a queen. An ardent young man reclines at full length on "the bench of Napoleon Buonaparte," his imagination supplies all that is wanted to make him an emperor, and a visionary diadem is glittering on his brow.

Nor are the more sober and reflective less likely to be moved to follow out their contemplative inclinations. Here a faded branch gives a colour to their shadowy thoughts; and there the willow, a scion of the one that bloomed over the St. Helena grave of Napoleon, whose body is now in the splendid mausoleum, prepared for its reception, in the capital of France. While I note down these remarks, a spider is weaving his fragile thread-an emblem of the precarious tenure of earthly things-across the statue of sir Jeffry Hudson, the favourite dwarf of Charles 11., as it stands before