THE KINGDOMS OF NATURE.* LIFE depends on certain conditions; and these conditions depend on a certain arrangement of substances; which arrange. ment is called "organization.' In an organ we observe, first, a peculiar arrangement; and, secondly, a specific function performed by it. The body is an aggregate of organs, formed of various textures; each texture being more or less common to all the organs. The textures, or tissues, are bone, cartilage, ligaments, muscles, tendons, vessels, and nervous matter. There is no solid, even in the most perfect animal, which cannot be ranged under one of these heads; and they are all reducible to the cellular, the muscular, and the nervous. The cellular is the most simple, and the most abundant; for the enamel of the teeth is said to be the only solid in the body, in which it has not been discovered. If all the earthy part of the bones, all the mus cular fibre, all the fat, &c., were removed from the body, the latter would still retain its general shape, if the cellular tissue were left; whence the latter may be considered as the basis of the whole. It is composed of an infinite number of small globules, about the eight-thousandth part of an inch in diameter; and arranged in lines, which cross each other in every direction. The muscular tissue is arranged in two different modes;-in masses, and in membraneous expansions, or muscular coats; but there is no essential difference between them. The muscular tissue is formed of filaments, which compose fibres, which (in their turn) are 'made up into fasciculi;-each filament (which is the smallest divisjon) having an investment of cellular membrane. By the microscope, the muscular tissue, like the cellular, is found to be composed of globules; as are also many of the animal fluids. With regard to the structure of vegetables, our information is less satisfactory. The study is in its infancy; and no two authors agree respecting it. They are fur ished with fibres, vessels, &c.; and appear to be composed of globules. For further information, we may refer to a series of articles on Botany, in our last volume. In animals, the globules vary in different species, and even in different parts of the same animal. The elementary particles of inorganic matter are found to be angular. Even water and mercury, when in a state of crystalization, exhibit an angular form. Dr. Brown, of Edinburgh, found that small particles of inorganic matter, put into water, moved about like infusory animals; from which it has been concluded, by speculative men, that organic and inorganic matters are of the same description. Some say that • Concluded from page 52. these particles, floating in the water, are round; but this form is adventitious ;being produced by the trituration in the mortar; for if the substance be only broken with a hammer, the particles are found to be angular. If you pour an acid, or salt, or laudanum, into the water, no effect is produced on the motion of these inorganic particles; but if infusory animals be so treated, their motion is quickened at first, but they are soon killed. The cause of this motion of inorganic particles, has not been ascertained in all cases; but in some it is owing to currents in the water; in others, to the attraction of different particles for each other; and in others it is apparently magnetic, or electrical. Animals are divided into two great classes; those without an internal skeleton,-called invertebrated animals; and those with an internal skeleton,-called vertebrated (from vertebra,-the bones of which the spine is composed). The invertebrated animals are subdivided into the following classes :-). Zoophytes. These stand at the bottom of the scale; and include corals, sea-eggs, infusory animals, &c. They have a stomach, something which resembles a nervous system, and an imperfect apparatus for the circulation of the fluids; that is, "imperfeet," when judged by the standard of higher animals; but quite complete as regards their own organization. Corals are produced by polypi; which have numerous genera and species. Near Edinburgh there are limestones filled with corals, though the latter live only in tropical climates; from which, and from many analogous facts, it is evident that our climate must once have been tropical. 2. Articulata. These animals are so called from having their body and limbs variously jointed; as the beetle, &c. Similar animals are found in the sea; as the sea mouse, &c. 3. Mollusca. The animals comprised in this division are so called from their being generally very soft. All animals furnished with shells, whether they inhabit the land or the water, belong to this class; such as snails, muscles, oysters, the cuttlefish, &c. Shells are either univalve, bivalve, or multivalve; and their study constitutes the science of conchology. The vertebrated animals consist of four classes. I. Pisces, or fishes; including all animals which breathe by gills; and excluding what we call "shell-fish." Whales, and animals of that tribe, are also excluded; for they are not fish, but breathe by lungs; and, instead of spawning, bring forth their animals that can live both in water and in young alive. 2. Amphibia; including all air; as crocodiles, turtles, tortoises, serpents, frogs, lizards, &c. 3. Aves, or birds. 4. Mammalia; comprising all animals which suckle their young; and including, therefore, whales, dolphins, porpoises, &c. The mam malia stand at the summit of the zoological series; and man stands at the head of the mammalia;-having only one genus, and one species; but divided into races, suh-races, families, and varieties. The ape is considered to come nearest to man in perfection of struc ture. Animals, like plants, are found in all parts of the globe; except in tracts which are always covered with snow. Above the snowline, animals and plants are not found; and their number increases as we descend from this. It is supposed that, below a certain depth from the surface, both the land and the sea are destitute of living creatures. There are sandy tracts on the surface of the earth, in which animals and plants are very rare; and the same state of things occurs near volcanoes; for it is often centuries before streams of lava admit of vegetation; and before that time no animals can exist on them. Animals are most abundant under the equator; and lessen in number towards the poles. In the latter situation, their tints are most simple; being often white. The hare and the ptarmigan are quite white in the arctic regions; and hawks are sometimes found white below, and black above. The Museum in the University of Edinburgh contains a white hare, which was killed by Captan Parry, in 82° north latitude; the highest point which had then been reached by man. Tropical birds have very beautiful plumage; and one bird found in temperate regions (the kingfisher) resembles them. With respect to the size of animals, there is great diversity;-from the whale, which is sometimes nearly a hundred feet long, down to animals so small, that five millions would not fill a cubic line ;* or of which (as it has been otherwise expressed) hundreds might play on the point of a pin. It would require eight hundred millions of these to fill a cubic inch; and nine hundred billions to fill a cubic foot. All water contains these animals. In general, the largest animals are found in the warmest countries, whether on the land, or in the sea; but the whale is a well-known exception to this rule. N. R. A "line" is a convenient measure, much used by the French. It is the twelfth part of an inch. Manners and Customs. SKETCHES OF PARIS. A French School. THE Continual minor annoyances and ludicrous mistakes to which our knowledge of school, French perpetually subjected us, induced us to think about some means of acquiring the language, not as we learn it in England, but as they speak it in France. We applied to several friends, touching the best means of attaining this end, and every body said, " Go into a school for a short time, it is your only way.' Thinking of the old adage, which teaches us, what every one says must be right, we accordingly made up our minds to become a schoolboy once more, and started one morning in quest of an "institution” likely to suit our purpose. We called at several, but none had the least idea of what a parlour-boarder meant, at least, in our sense of of the word; and after splitting our boots to pieces in running up and down the Rue D'Enfer, (whose miserably unpaved state entirely contradicts the statement, that the “descensus Averni" is so easy, and shows Virgil had not Paris in his eye when he wrote the Eneid), we at length settled with one in the Faubourg St. Jacques, where we stipulated to have a bedroom to ourselves, to dine with the principal, and to be instructed in the French language, for one hundred francs per month. Now, we had three reasons for going here. Firstly, it was cheap; secondly, it was near the Barriere Mont Parnasse, to whose amusement on fête days we had a great predilection; and, lastly, (we blush to own our cowardice) the eléves were all "small boys," whom we could thrash into subjection, if they were impudent, or halloo'd after us," Rosbif Anglais," "Goddem," or any other entertaining polyglot witticisms, that the said "small boys" of Paris, there called gamins, were apt to indulge in at our expense. It was a wet dirty day, in the beginning of Nevember, that we left our lodgings at the Hotel Corneille, Place de l'Odeon, and hiring a porter at the corner of the Rue Ricine, paddled up the never-ending, and always dirty, Rue St. Jacques, to our new abode. On arriving, we entered the great gates, with which all French schools are embellished, and immediately carried our effects to our bedroom, which was a closet with a tiled floor, about eight feet square, and whose sole furniture was comprised in a little wooden bedstead without curtains, a deal chair, and a corresponding table, on which was a pie-dish to wash in, and a pint white jug for water. Had we been astronomers, the room would have had many advantages, since it was ingeniously lighted by a window in the ceiling, which, in fine weather, illuminated our chamber very well, but in the event of a heavy fall of snow, left us nearly in total darkness. It was late in the evening when we arrived, so we went to bed at once, supplying the want of sufficient bedfurniture by an English great-coat spread over the counterpane, and a carpet-bag, emptied of its contents, made a sort of mat to lay on the ground, and stand upon while we undressed. Long before daylight the next morning we were aroused from our slumbers by a bell ringing, to summon the poor devils of eléves to the commencement of their studies. We heard much yawning and scrambling after clothes, and then a silent and measured step as the usher assembled them, two and two, to march down stairs to school. About seven, the cook of the establishment, a dirty fellow, in a dirtier white night-cap, brought us a cup of milk and a piece of bread, which we were informed was to be our first breakfast, the other was at half-past eleven. Unfortunately for us, we always had a great aversion to bread and milkwe think it is neither one thing nor the other, and appears to hold an intermediate rank be tween tea and water. Although we remembered in our infancy to have possessed a book of nursery rhymes, written by some anonymous poet of the dark ages, of infantile literature, where there was a picture of a little child, with very curly hair, dragging a respectable female, who looked something between a Sunday-school teacher and a barmaid, towards a cow feeding in a romantic meadow; and, moreover, some lines, which commenced, as far as our memory serves us: "Thank you, pretty cow, that made, Pleasant milk to soak my bread;" and followed by some well-founded cautions to the animal not to chew hemlock and other rank weeds; still, we repeat, in spite of all these associations, we do not like bread and milk. Accordingly, when we found this was all we were to be allowed before noon, we were out of temper, and getting up very cross, we sauntered down into the play ground to inspect our new residence. The reader must imagine a large court, enclosed on three sides by buildings and walls, and on the fourth by some palings communicating with the garden. The edifices on the right hand were divided into numerous little cells, each having a door, and those were dignified by titles placed over the said doors. The first was called, " Salle de musique," and, in consequence, was fitted up with a cistern and leaden trough, where the eléves performed their morning ablutions, when there happened to be any water. Next to this, was the "Salle du dessin," or drawing academy, and some empty easils, with a very ricketty form. or two, showed a great deal went on there. Then came the "classe," or school-room, where the eléves studied under the surveillance of two ushers, who crdained a rigid silence amongst their pupils, save and except such times as the said ushers were on duty as national guards. On the other side the court was the dwelling-house and bed-rooms, with the "refectoire" of the pupils, where they fed; and in the middle of the playground, which, from having two trees in it, was denominated the park, were divers gymnastic poles and bars, and a deep well, which supplied the establishment with water, when anybody was at leisure to wind it up an operation of half an hour. We were tolerably hungry by eleven o'clock, and were not sorry to hear the bell for the boys' breakfast, as we knew ours came after. The pupils silently marched two and two into their room, and took their places at two long tables, where each boy had a fork, cup, and napkin laid for him-table-cloths and knives were unknown. An allowance of potage, seemingly composed of cabbage-water, and bits of bread, was first served out to each; after that they had some vin ordinaire and water, but such wine-the only thing we could compare it to, was ink and small beer mixed together; and when this was well diluted with water, we could imagine how delicious it was. A course of boiled spinach came next, and the breakfast concluded by a dab of currant jam being distributed to each, which was eaten with their bread, of which, however, there was an unlimited supply. This meal was repeated at five o'clock, with such agreeable variations as the taste of the cook directed; but beyond small pieces of hard boiled beef, and little bits of calf's liver, we did not see much meat. Potatoe sallads, cold artichokes, boiled lentils, and sorrel soup, appeared to be the staple articles of refreshment. The meals which we partook with the master and his family were about the same standard, except that the wine was superior, and some cotelettes of mutton and veal were occasionally displayed. The eléves themselves had none of the spirit of English school-boys, and indeed it was not to be wondered at. We could not help often contrasting the washy mess they were eating to the wholesome roast and boiled joints of our schools. They appeared to have no regular games or toys of their own, and all their play-time was spent in running after one another, with no other end that we could perceive but to warm themselves, for although the weather was desperately cold, there were no fires, or even fire places in several of the rooms. They never inflicted corporal punishment, but offenders were ordered to stand against a particular tree for half an hour, or be deprived of a dish at dinner. We thought it would have had a better effect, to thrush them well, and feed them well. As we may imagine, from their early rising, they were generally pretty well fatigued at night, and they were always in a deep sleep when we went to bed. As the way to our chamber lay through that of the eléves, we had frequent opportunities of inspecting it. It was a large bare room, with the beds arranged round it, and down the middle, like Roux's ward, at the Hôtel Dieu, only the beds had no curtains. Some of the boys had little round mats by the beds to stand upon, but the majority, who could not afford to hire these luxuries of the master of the school, had the gratification of planting their naked feet on a tiled floor every morning. A dim and solitary lamp burnt all night in the chamber, barely lighting its extreme ends; not an article of furniture but the beds themselves, and one chair for the usher, was in the room, and the windows all closed with that unattractive irreconcilability which is only known to the windows of the Continent. We contrived to get through a month at our institution, and then we left. We had, it is true, picked up a good deal of French, but in point of expense, it had not saved us much, for-the truth must out-we never got enough to eat, and in consequence, generally dined again at the nearest restaurant; nay, more than once we detected ourselves eating broiled herrings at a wine-shop outside the Barriere d'Arcueil. THE SEDUCER. KNIPS. PIERRE MARCEL was the cultivator of a small but profitable vineyard, on the banks of the Garonne, a few leagues from Toulouse, where the principal part of his life had been passed in the almost daily occupation of tending his vines, and rendering his little plot of ground the fairest for many a mile around. In early life his wife, whom he had passionately adored, had fallen the victim of a lingering illness, leaving him an only child, a daughter, whom he cherished both for its own and mother's sake, with unusual tenderness. The little Louise was the solace of his days, and the prattle of her infant tongue sounded to him the sweetest music nature could invent; but when her growing years gave token of equalling her mother's beauty and symmetry of form, his satisfaction was unbounded to think that he alone, without a mother's fostering hand, had reared a flower so lovely. Oft, when working in his vineyard, would he pause as his daughter tript by with fawn-like step, and gaze with true affection on his heart's dearest object, whilst in his mind he conjured up bright dreams of the future, and tried to trace her coming years. A short distance from Marcel's house was the chateau of the Marquis de St. Brie, who was usually resident there with his daughter. The family of the Marquis consisted only of his daughter and a son, an officer in a light cavalry regiment. A friendship more strong than those usually subsisting between persons of different stations in life, had grown up hetwixt Louise and Emile de St. Brie; and it had been one of the chief amusements of the latter to instruct Louise in those accomplishments she herself so much excelled in, often remarking, that her pupil was so apt that she should soon have little left to teach her. The notice taken of his daughter by Mam'selle St. Brie, was most gratifying to the feelings of Marcel, who daily saw her gaining those accomplishments he so much coveted for her, but which he had feared he should be unable to obtain. But few pleasures are unalloyed, and however great might have been the satisfaction he felt at the notice taken of Emily, yet there was but little in the reported attentions of Henri St. Brie, who was staying at the chateau. Henri was by nature formed for woman's admiration. He was of that manly dashing cast which so often takes the heart by storm, ere reason has time to bring its tardy succours, and show that the advantages of a handsome person and fascinating manners are totally eclipsed by the blackness of a heart formed in total contrast to the rest. He had been but a few days at the chateau before Louise was marked as the victim of his seductive arts. He foresaw that her simple and confiding disposition would render the acquirement of her affections an easy task; but with all her simplicity, she entertained such high notions of honour, as to make his success rather doubtful; but still he thought that one who had seen but the fairest side of life, could but ill combat against the wiles of one versed in all its deadliest ways. He sought every opportunity of being in her company, and by a thousand assiduous attentions won his way, imperceptibly, in her affections. He pretended his passion was of that fervent kind which drove every object but respect from his imagination; and vowed, could he but gain her reluctant consent, to make her the future Marchioness de St. Brie. There was but one thing he stipulated; and that was, for the marriage to be performed in private, since he feared his father's anger, unless he could, by degrees, break the circumstance to him. There was so much plausibility in this, that she could not believe he spoke other than the language of truth. The cloven foot had in no one instance as yet shown itself, and she felt convinced his affections were as pure, and as fervent, as her own. She yielded her consent to a private marriage. Henri protested she had made him the happiest of men, by her consent; but still there was one thing more, the marriage could not be performed with that secrecy which was so necessary, elsewhere than in Paris. Would she go there? To this she demurred that the absence from her father, without any reasonable excuse, would be the cause of so much anguish to him, that she would not for the world he should feel; but even this scru ple was overcome by the promise of Henri, that on their return her father should be informed of all that had taken place, when the few hours of uneasiness would be more than compensated by the pleasure he would receive on hearing of her happy marriage. Paris, with all its charms, had less attraction for Louise than her simple home on the Garonne's banks. She lived in the most studied seclusion; passing her melancholy hours in thinking of her father, and what must be his feelings concerning her longcontinued absence. She felt she had made but a poor return for all the care and solici tude bestowed upon her. Henri, it was true, had been unremitting in his attentions, and his love appeared still as fervent as ever; but he always evaded the conversation when she pressed him concerning their marriage, and she found herself in a fair way to be a mother, ere she was a wife. "Henri," said she, one day, "will you fix the day for our marriage? When you consider my situation, your delay is cruel in the extreme." "Yes, yes, dearest, next week. By-thebye, has Madame Girau sent home the beautiful shawl I ordered for you?" "Some time ago; but I have not looked at it; I have been thinking of something else." "Of what, dearest ?" "Of the time when you mean to fulfil your promise." "Just look out of the window, dearest, and tell me what you think of the horse I purchased yesterday?" “Oh, Henri! if you love me, I beseech you name the day; I have been unhappy, very unhappy." "Now you are beginning to teaze me again." "Nay, do not say I teaze you; I ask you but to keep your faith with me.' "Really, you are more pertinacious than ever; but I cannot stop now, I have an appointment with-” "Henri, answer me! Am I to be your wife or not ?" "My wife! why are you not my wife as firmly as you can be such? What are the cold formalities of the world that would give you the right of being called my wife? Would they bring affection? No; they would rather bring abhorrence and disgust. As Louise Marcel, you will ever be to me the dearest object of my heart; but as my wife I could not love you, and will not do that which would make me hate you for ever." Louise was almost motionless with surprise; it was so different from all he had ever said. These then were his true feelings. "I thank you, sir," she at length replied, "at least for your frankness. I will be equally so; and since I am not to be the wife, I will not submit to the dishonour of remaining another day as the mistress of Monsieur de St. Brie. We part, sir, this instant, for ever." her return. She was too amiable-too good to listen to such a villain. Bad even as St. Brie was, he would not rob him of such a daughter, the only hope of his declining years, Could he have the heart to dishonour one so beautiful, so fair? No, no; it was not in human nature to be so black. But months rolled on, and his dear Louise came not; every search and every endeavour to obtain tidings of her had proved fruitless; but amidst all his complaints he never uttered one word of reproach against her. He became altogether an altered man; neglectful of everything, avoiding the society of his former friends and associates, and scarcely ever going beyond the limits of his own dwelling. It was a cold and bitter morning, in the middle of an unusually severe winter, that he went, more by the force of habit than otherwise, to look after the inmates of his stable. He had his hand upon the stable door, and was entering, when he thought he heard a low moan; he turned round to look from whence it proceeded, and a few steps before him saw a woman lying on the ground, partly covered by the falling snow. "Poor creature," said he, "hast thou lain here during this bitter night; hadst thou been my worst enemy I could not have refused you shelter. Here, let me lift you in my arms, and carry you into the house. Eh! what do I see! Merciful heavens! it is my poor Louise. She is dying fast, and there is no help at hand. Oh! speak to me, Louise! for heaven's sake, speak! Not a look! not a word!" The distracted father carried her into the house, and by the aid of some warm cordials brought her to herself; it was but to hear the recital of her sufferings, and her prayers for forgiveness. She had arrived at her father's house on the preceding evening, but had not dared to enter, and overcome by fatigue and cold, she had fallen where he found her. Her delicate frame was unable to withstand the shock she had sustained, and after lingering a few days, closed her eyes for ever on the world, happy in the assurance of her father's true forgiveness. Marcel had attended his daughter day and night, indulging to the last in the vain hope of her recovery; and even when life was no more, watched her cold corpse with the utmost anxiety, to see if it were not death's semblance. But when the last worldly offices were performed, and he found that he was then alone in the world, for weeks he shut himself up in the chamber where she died, refusing to see or speak with any one. It was some months after the death of Louise that I was sitting in the Tuileries' Gardens, watching the crowd of loungers passing to and fro along the principal avenue; amongst those who seemed to attract most attention was Henri St. Brie, upon whose |