giraffes have been born. The first of these was a healthy male born on the 19th of June, 1839. From over-anxiety on the part of its curators, to assist the mother in nursing it, this interesting tropical stranger died in ten days; but the others having been treated less artificially have thriven as well as any domestic animal could have done. At present there are three specimens, two of which, a father and a fawn, have been "born and bred" in the Gardens. The female, named Alice, was the gift of Ibrahim Pacha in 1849, and was caught in the deserts of Nubia. The male is named Ibrahim; he was born on the 23d April, 1846, and promises to be as long-lived as was his mother Zaida, who spent at least sixteen years of her life in a climate as opposed to that of her birth as can well be imagined. She bore an excellent character as a nurse, and has left her name to the youngest of the three, who is about one year old. The two adults are fed on clover-chaff, chopped turnips, and oats, and beans, of which they eat from 30 to 36 lbs. a day; and, judging by their glossy coats and healthy appearance, this nutritious mixture must be at the least as palateable as any mimosa-branches however delicate. We may mention that some naturalists, Dr. Shaw for instance, have regarded the zômer of Deuteronomy, xiv. 5 (called by our translators "chamois"), to have been the giraffe; but it seems improbable that an animal confined to the remote parts of Africa was ever intended to afford food to the Israelites, even if, to quote Dr. Shaw's words, we presume "that the Israelites during their long captivity in Egypt were not only well acquainted with it, but might at different times have tasted it." A. W. * "Travels or Observations relating to Barbary and the Levant," p. 417. HEARTS OF OAK. GENEROSITY. Ir generosity be the offspring of sympathy and unselfishness, we might well expect to find it strongly developed in the character of a seaman; for he is almost proverbially regardless of his own interests and full of consideration for the calamities of others. Perhaps his intimacy with danger and want of forethought may render him forgetful of himself; perhaps his isolation from general society may make him ready to commiserate all the distressed. Of the propensity there can be no doubt. 44 Why what's that to you if my eyes I'm a wiping? Says the captain, says he, (I shall never forget it,) If of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham, "Tis a furious lion in battle, so let it, But, duty appeased, 'tis in mercy a lamb." There never yet was a true sailor in whose career we might not find some illustration of a virtue so characteristic of the profession, and so honourable to humanity. A few instances may be profitable and interesting to all of us. On the 29th December, 1807, the Anson, Captain Lydiard, was wrecked on the coast of Cornwall, about three miles from Helstone, and the captain's generous self-devotion was seen to be equal to the valour which he had lately displayed in the celebrated reduction of Curaçoa. When the ship first struck all was confusion, and the roar of the tempest only mocked the noise of the falling masts and the shrieks of the women. But the voice of the captain, as, self-possessed and undaunted, he issued his orders to the panic-struck crew, restored hope and created confidence. When the mainmast went overboard it formed, very providentially, a communication with the shore, by which Captain Lydiard encouraged his people to save themselves. Holding on by the wheel, he continued to cheer and direct them as they, one by one, essayed the dangerous passage; and anxiously he watched their happy success or their miserable failure. At last he was about to cross himself, when he was arrested by the cries of some one in the extremity of terror, and, proceeding to ascertain their origin, he found a boy, whom he had lately entered, clinging in despair to part of the wreck, without strength or energy to attempt his own deliverance. Captain Lydiard did not hesitate, for he was resolved that none should perish whom he could preserve. With one arm he held the boy, with the other he endeavoured to support himself over the slippery and dangerous bridge by which he hoped to reach the shore. But his bodily strength, worn out as it had been by toil and anxiety, was not equal to the determination of his soul: the mast escaped from his hold, and the gallant and bravehearted Lydiard shared a watery grave with the poor child he had so nobly attempted to rescue. Many such examples of heroic self-sacrifice must occur to the minds of our readers; but among them, perhaps, none has surpassed the noble and determined devotion of Captain Charles Baker and the crew of H.M. Brig Drake. This ship was wrecked in a fog on the coast of Newfoundland, on the 20th June, 1822. Scarcely was she aground before her condition was hopeless. The sea was so heavy that her boats were successively swamped or stove; and the best swimmer of the crew, who endeavoured to take a line to the shore, was dragged back to the ship, exhausted by the violence of the waves; but Captain Baker and his CAPTAIN BAKER AND HIS CREW. 41 men remained undaunted, and were, each one, ready to attempt any desperate enterprise for the safety of their companions. At length the boatswain succeeded in reaching the shore in the dingy (the only boat that would swim), which was, however, crushed against the rocks as he landed. While he was doing so, the wreck was driven near to a dry rock, and Captain Baker ordered the crew to take refuge on it, but he was obliged to reiterate his resolution of being the last to leave before he could induce any of these brave fellows to precede him. When they had all gained this temporary refuge they found themselves but a few yards from the mainland, but they also made the terrible discovery that their asylum would be covered at high water, and the waves were so boisterous that no man could hope to cross the narrow channel. Still none showed a sign of fear or impatience; but the commander and his gallant band waited calmly for what seemed to them inevitable death. The boatswain now threw across to his comrades the rope which he had taken on shore, and there was another generous struggle among them, every man refusing to be saved until he had been commanded to go by the captain. Forty-four thus landed; six remained on the rock, but one of these was a woman whose hardships had taken away all her energies. The next man to cross took her in his arms and committed himself, thus burdened, to the rope; but that proved unequal to the increased strain, and neither of them reached the shore. The breaking of the rope deprived those who were left of all hope. In vain their friends on shore tied every available shred together to make a line; in vain they sought the nearest inhabitants for help; before they could return to the beach the waves rolled over the last refuge of Captain Baker and the remnant of his noble crew. Single individuals have before and since displayed similar generosity and heroism; but, perhaps, no body of men can be pointed out who have done greater honour to the name of seamen, or who have evinced more calmness, intrepidity, and selfdevotion, than the crew of H.M. Brig Drake. We are proud to see our sailors still emulating such glorious examples whenever they are placed in the like unhappy positions. We have not forgotten how they provided for the safety of the women and children when the Birkenhead was lost; nor how the crew of the Britannia nursed their messmates with the tenderness of women whilst exposed to the ravages of a most malignant and mysterious disease. In those cases which we have mentioned, we have seen men in a common danger disregarding themselves for the sake of their companions; it remains for us to give an instance of one, who was himself in safety, voluntarily risking his life to save those of his fellow-creatures. We shall select an incident in the life of Sir Edward Pellew (afterwards Lord Exmouth) when in command of the Indefatigable, which not only shows generosity and humanity, almost unparalleled, but is also calculated to teach us of how much value is the influence of a single decided and well-ordered mind in circumstances of danger and confusion. In January 1796, when the Indefatigable was lying in Hamoaze, the Dutton, a large East Indiaman, with part of the 2d regiment and many sick on board, was driven into Plymouth by stress of weather; and, in consequence of a buoy having broken adrift, came ashore under the citadel. Sir Edward, accompanied by Lady Pellew, was on his way to dine with Dr. Hawker, the excellent vicar of Charles, when he noticed the crowds running to the Hoe; and, having learned the cause, he sprang out of the carriage and ran off with the rest. Arrived at the beach, he saw at once that the loss of nearly all on board, amounting to between five |