ing terminology of fern science. The mental powers of new-made man were tested by setting him to give appropriate names to the rest of the creatures (Genesis, ii. 19). How is it that the faculty of doing so has so departed from us, his descendants? Our English ancestors of old time had it in a high degree. The names, for instance, which they gave to plants are as good as can be-often the perfection of poetic suggestiveness. A fern there is whose name is a spell to call up a picture—a picture of a hunted, panting deer, pausing for breath in some forest glade where in the well that he dares not stop to drink of, dips the hart's tongue fern. By water it grows longer, and is of a more graceful, flexile habit; but it thrives in any aspect. On a sunny bank, however, it is upright in growth instead of pendulous. There are forked and frilled varieties, but more beautiful than any are the long, slender, glossy, green leaves of the common kind. Finely they contrast with the plumy tufts of other ferns.

Common polypody is another fern that is leafy instead of feathery. It is cut into deeppointed jags, is of an olive green colour, and is studded on the under-side with large circular patches of golden spore cases. An old basket maker, a particular friend of mine, informs me that "polypody is the most physickest herb there is." I cannot think of all the diseases that, according to him, it is good for.

Ague,

colic, cough, consumption, and stitches in the sides are not the half of them. Smooth threebranched polypody is not often seen in perfection. Heat makes it rusty, cold winds wither it, and frost cuts it off at once; when, however, it has everything it wants, and nothing it does not want, it is a beauty; almost as pretty as maidenhair, and more fragile-looking.

Mountain polypody, as well as rockbrakes and alpine shield fern--But stay, I really must be excused from climbing mountains, even in idea, while this hot weather lasts. Writing about shade-loving ferns was all very well.

to describe this process of the human mind by saying that men ride their arguments as children their horses. They put their legs over a stick, run far a-field, and make believe that the stick has carried them. So Bacon proved that usury must be evil, because it runs on Sundays. So Northbrooke proved the sinfulness of gambling from the third commandment, because to draw lots in idleness is to take the name and Providence of God in vain. So John Foster proved that sleeping too long is constructive blasphemy, for by abridging our conscious existence we tell God that he created us too soon; and worse than atheism, for whereas the atheist believes only in future annihilation, we choose in this world not to be. So Tertullian argued that to wear high heels is a device of Satan to give Christ the lie, who said that no man can add a cubit to his stature. And so nothing has been more curious in this Milton controversy than the absurdity of many of the reasons which have been advanced for and against the authorship of the following poem:

AN EPITAPH.

He whom Heaven did call away
Out of this Hermitage of clay,
Has left some reliques in this Urne
As a pledge of his returne.
Meanwhile ye Muses doe deplore
The losse of this their paramour
Wth whom he sported ere ye day
Budded forth its tender ray.

And now Apollo leaues his laies
And puts on cypres for his bayes.
The sacred sisters tune their quills
Onely to ye blubbering rills

And whilst his doome they thinke upon
Make their owne teares their Helicon.
Leaving ye two-topt mount divine
To turne votaries to his shrine.

Think not (reader) me less blest
Sleeping in this narrow cist
Than if my ashes did lie hid
Under some stately pyramid.
If a rich tombe makes happy yn
That Bee was happier far ya men
Who busie in ye thymie wood
Was fettered by ye golden flood
Wch fro ye Amber-weeping Tree
Distilleth downe so plenteously.
ffor so this little wanton Elfe
Most gloriously enshrind itselfe.
A tombe whose beauty might compare
With Cleopatra's sepulcher.

In this little bed my dust Incurtaind round I here entrust, Whilst my more pure and nobler part Lyes entomb'd in every heart.

Then passe on gently ye yt mourne, Touch not this mine hollowed Urne. These Ashes wch doe here remaine A vitall tincture still retaine

A seminall forme within ye deeps
Of this little chaos sleeps
The thred of life untwisted is
Into its first consistencies
Infant Naure cradled here
In its principles appeare.

This plant th[us] calcin'd into dust
In its Ashes rest it must.

Untill sweet Psyche shall Inspire
A softning and p[ro]lifick fire
And in her fost'ring armes enfold
This Heavy and this earthly mould:
Then, as I am Ile be no more
But bloome and blossome.....
When this cold numnes shall retreate
By a more ya Chymick heat.

P. M., 1ober 1647.

The poem was found in manuscript on a flyleaf of a copy of the first collected edition of Milton's poems, which belongs to the King's Library in the British Museum. The volume bears the date of 1645, and the poem itself that of 1647. Mr. Henry Morley, a critic of great ability, lighting upon the verses, declared them to be both in the style and in the handwriting of Milton. Another critic of still greater authority in any question concerning Milton, Mr. Masson, had more than once before examined the poem and had deliberately refused to assign its parentage to the poet. Mr. Morley's conviction on the subject, however, was so strong, that in the absence of any other known writer to whom the epitaph could be ascribed, there seemed to be room for doubt, and a great dust has been raised by dozens of writers, skilled and unskilled, who fancy that they detect in the style of the poem glaring evidences of identity, or of difference, with the known style of Milton.

How strong the force of conviction can be apart from reason is proved by the fact that when the chief argument for fathering the poem upon Milton has been washed away, namely that derived from the handwriting, the belief in its Miltonic character seems no whit altered in those who held it before. The poem was originally supposed to be Milton's because the signature was supposed to be J. M., and the handwriting that of the poet. But the chief authorities have now decided that the handwriting is not Milton's, and that the signature is not J. M. It is difficult to say what the signature is, because of the Museum stamp which is made upon it with yellow ink. Some take it for P. M. It seemed to me to be more like R. M., and I have since ascertained that Mr. Masson took the same view of it. But it does not much matter what the initials are, so long as we know that the writing is not Milton's. It is fair, however, to add that the

believers in the poem, notwithstanding the decision of all the chief authorities, still stoutly maintain that the handwriting is that of Milton. It is easy to detect resemblances in old handwriting of a particular period with which we are not familiar. It is not so easy to determine what are vital differences; and it seems to be pretty clear that the settlement of such questions should be left to those who have made a special study of them.

The decision of the Experts being dead against the penmanship and the signature of Milton, one would fancy that the conclusion is clear. But no: those who back the poem ask -Who then, could have written it? The question is natural, although not quite fair. It is not fair to argue that the poem must be Milton's because we cannot find the real author. Anyone well acquainted with the obituary poetry which was common in the first half of the seventeenth century, and which appears sometimes in the form of epitaphs, and sometimes as commendatory verses prefixed to volumes, must have been struck with a curious felicity of style pervading it, and that even in the effusions of men otherwise unknown. I do not say that in these laments and commendations one finds much originality; but one does find a certain distinction of thought, and a certain knack of diction, appearing in the verses of nobodies, which makes one feel that the poetical faculty (if only imitative) was more common in the scholars of that period than we are apt to imagine, and which makes one wonder that men who could do so well, are not better known for still better work. There ought to be nothing surprising in the fact that of these almost unknown scholars, one whose surname began with M, admired Milton, caught somewhat of his style, and, in a favourite copy of his works, wrote a poem, in which he attempted to follow in the footsteps of the master. There was no lack of imitators in those days; and where would one of the numerous amateurs, who thought that he had made a tolerably good poem in Milton's manner, be more likely to inscribe it than on a flyleaf of the work he studied? Thus it is no argument to say that because one cannot name the imitator of Milton, therefore there is no imitator at all, but the author is Milton himself. The names which have been suggested as possible, are scarcely worth discussing. Henry More could not have written the epitaph. Jasper Mayne was incapable of the compression of the couplets. Andrew Marvell was quite equal to the blubbering rills and to the making their own tears their Helicon ; but to little else, and

certainly not to the most Miltonic characteristic of the poem-the rhythm. The alternation of lines of seven and eight syllables creates a peculiarly subtle melody which, if not invented, was at least made familiar to our ears by Milton's use of it in L'Allegro and Il Penseroso. It needed an ear far more subtle than Marvell's, Mayne's, or More's to appreciate it, and to think it worthy of imitation.

The question, then, at last, resolves itself into this Are the resemblances to Milton's style, which may be found in this poem, beyond the reach of a good amateur; and so far beyond him that they must countervail the weight of evidence against the genuineness of the poem? Conceive what this great weight of evidence is.

1. In the first place, the handwriting is not Milton's, and it is extremely difficult to say what is the first of the two initials with which it is signed. It is very unlike J. It is more like Por R.

And the M is not Milton's M.

2. Again, and this is very important, Milton never claimed the poem in any edition of his works. It is all the more important inasmuch as he did not think it beneath him to scrape together, and to preserve, in the same volume with his finest work, awful rubbish which had better have been forgotten. He appears to have had the most affectionate, paternal regard for the issue of his pen, however worthless, and we may therefore be pretty sure, that if this poem had really been his, he would have taken care of it.

On the other hand what is to be said? The poem contains some pretty touches, but none beyond the reach of a clever amateur. The finest line is the second, where the solitude of the soul is indicated in the description of the body as a hermitage of clay. But there is nothing specially Miltonic in this, nor very original; and what there is of Miltonic in the poem-as, the arrangement of the rhythm ; the selection of such terms as amber-weeping and quills, and the untwisted thread of life; together with the combination of coldness and hyperbole, or of christianity, paganism and science, in an elaborate strain of lament ;-is precisely what we should expect from any skilful amateur who should try to take after Milton. That the poem is rough, and in its rhyming licentious, is no argument against its being by Milton. But it is not easy to follow the reasoning by which it is made out that a poem which some one, (not Milton,) has written in a copy of Milton's poems, must have been composed by Milton because he who possessed this volume and wrote in it caught some echoes of its pervading style.

ON

TABLE TALK.

N the first day of the first year of this century, the Italian Astronomer Piazzi discovered a little planet, the first member of the extensive group of planetoids which, as subsequent research has taught us, circulate

Infant nature, cradled here, In its principles appear.

4. Lastly, there is a word of constant recurrence in modern English which Milton carefully avoided-its. The word had not then perfectly established itself in classical English, and Milton was in the habit of using in place of it, his or her. He has written a great deal of poetry; and, in the whole mass of it, this word its occurs but twice. But what do we find here? That in a short poem of 54 lines it occurs four times. In a short poem which is not in his handwriting, which is not signed with his initials, which he who was most careful of his literary progeny never acknowledged, and which contains an error of grammar he could not have committed, the word in question occurs twice as often as he has used it in the thousands upon thousands of lines which are undoubtedly his. There is no escape from such a fact as this.

that the hundredth of these tiny worlds has just lately been found; and connected with its discovery there is a curious circumstance. It was independently detected by three different and distant observers. One, Watson by name, at Ann Arbor, in Michigan, U. S., found it on July 11; another, Professor Peters, of Clinton, New York, caught it on July 14; and, lastly, M. Coggia, at Marseilles, picked it up on July 16. The first-named will, of course, be credited with the find, but the others were true discoverers, as they knew nothing of Mr. Watson's detection of the planet. If the object were at all striking or attractive, there would be nothing remarkable in three people thus seeing it. But a planet of its size is as a grain of sand upon the sea-shore, undistinguishable from the host of minute stars about it, except by a very small motion that it has, and that the stars have not. It may be asked, how is such a thing found at all? By the laborious process of charting down with great accuracy all the stars within a selected area, however small

they may be, and then going over the chart a few hours after, or the next night, to see if any one has slightly shifted its position. If a wanderer is suspected, it is watched and followed till the suspicion is confirmed, and its planetary character determined, or till the supposed motion is negatived, and it is conclusive that it is only a star. Is it not, therefore, curious that this little speck of light, after glimmering for centuries unknown, should all at once be picked out from its obscurity by three independent eyes within twice three days? That in the immense area of the planetary zone, three men, widely separated, should chance to be sweeping one small corner at one particular time? Surely such an event deserves to be recorded among the curiosities of science. Yet it is not unique ; an older planetoid-reckoning age by discovery-ycleped Amphitrite, was found from the Regent's Park Observatory on March 1, 1854, from Oxford on March 2, and from Marseilles on March 3, without either of the later observers knowing anything of the antecedent discovery. One might be disposed to ask what is the use of these paltry little mites of the solar family; but perhaps we should be met with the reply that Franklin gave to the cynic who demanded the utility of his electric kite :-"What is the use of a child?

it may become a man." There they are, and for the present we must be content to accept each new one as another letter in the cipher that may one day tell their purpose.

AMID the Acanthus leaves and scrolls forming the capital of the Nelson Column at Charing Cross, a colony of wild pigeons has taken up its abode, where they make their nest and bring forth their young. These nestlings of peace seem strangely placed beneath the feet of the great naval warrior. Nothing would have pleased the little hero better, however, than to have known that his monument would afford a resting-place for weary wings; better this than Westminster Abbey. Pigeons seem to have a fancy for the metropolis. The

Guildhall Yard is more like a fancier's esta

blishment than the Court of the Civic Hall of London, and the new Houses of Parliament afford a roosting-place for large flocks of these birds, which find secure retreats in the elaborate carved work, and breed in the Tudor crowns so plentifully scattered over the face of the building. So also Somerset House and the Custom House.

VERITABLE mosquitoes are at our doors without a doubt. I saw a pillboxful, that

had been caught last week in the Plumstead Marshes, near Woolwich, and had been stamped as genuine by the Microscopic Society. Very little larger than the common gnat, they scarcely seem capable of making themselves a nuisance; indeed, they look quite contemptible-now they are dead!

THERE are few situations in life, during the present tropical weather, more unpleasant than broiling for half an hour in some photographic studio, whilst the artist is posing you for a portrait. Such establishments are almost univer

mon.

sally on the top of the house, full in the glare of the midday sun; modified doubtless by blinds, but still sufficiently full of glare to make the sitter screw up his eyes, especially at the moment when the manipulator says, Now. The very effort required to mount the stairs gives more than a blush-rose tint to the faces of sweet seventeen, and to ladies of a certain age red of a deeper dye is not uncomNow, red as a colour does not come out well in the photograph. The soldier's coat appears black, the flushed face is represented in the portrait by a complexion very like that of a half caste. Under such circumstances, very hot weather is not favourable to photographic portraiture. In New York, where the present exceptional heat is only the ordinary summer temperature, they take measures to obviate the difficulties that are now annoying our photographic artists. Whilst the sitter is arranging himself at his ease, a deliciously cool air is directed towards him. The apparatus that cools his features and gives animation to his eye, may be counted as one of those ingenious American inventions with respect to domestic appliances, in which they are far in advance of ourselves. By means of a gas engine, easily managed and applied, a small winnowing

machine gives out a continuous current of air. The addition of a little ice affords the necessary coolness. This admirable engine may be used with advantage in many situations. Imagine, good reader, the delight, after being closely by the application of an arctic current ! cropped by Marsh, of having your head iced At a dinner-party, again, how we should bless the for a few minutes. In short, iced air, if this host for ordering John to turn on a Polar gale weather continues, will be as much in demand as iced drinks.

A theatrical speculator once set up an iced theatre in New York. I think it was New York; but wherever it was, the theatre was an

iced one. The auditorium was cool to the nth-cucumber power. There was an afternoon performance, and pedestrians in the broiling sun found the attraction of the announcement too great to be resisted. The theatre was soon crowded with a paying audience. For the first quarter of an hour the effect was delicious. In half an hour every one was perfectly cool and comfortable. In three quarters, some here and there, thought they felt draughts. After an hour was over most of the audience began to feel a little chilly. Some, during the entr'acte, returned to the sun, over-heated themselves and came back to the theatre. During the third act the exciting drama was interrupted by sneezes and coughs. In the fourth there was a row in consequence of several persons in the front seats insisting upon putting their hats on. The next day, and during the following week, the manager was inundated with letters threatening lawsuits for damage to health sustained by visiting his iced theatre. Poorer people, who had affected the gallery and pit, which in return had considerably affected them, called upon him with swollen faces, husky voices, lumbago, bad coughs, incipient catarrhs, and painful rheumatics, all brought on by sitting in the new iced theatre. The manager did the wisest thing he could do under the circumstances. He promised immediate redress to every one, and immediately left New York for London.

A FRENCH paper gives an odd mnemonic rhyme for those who desire to remember in chronological order the councils of the Church :

Ni-Co-E

Chal-Co-Co

Ni-Co-La

La-La-La

Lu-Lu-Vi

Pi-Con-BAFlo-La-Tri

Which, being interpreted, stands for,-Nice; Constantinople twice; Nice; Constantinople Constantinople; Ephesus; Chalcedon; then again; Lateran four times: Lyons, that is, Lugdunum, twice; Vienne; Pisa; Constance; Bâle; Florence; Lateran; and Trente (Tridentinum).

HERE is a trifle for an album, if anyone

keeps that style of book on the drawing-room table now-a-days. It is from Paris-Caprice, and arose out of a divorce case:

O charmante Mariquita !
Que ton premier mari quitta,
O charmante Mariquita,
Heureux l'autre mari qui t'a!

CHERUBINI was standing in a doorway, trying to shelter himself from the beating rain, under an umbrella rather the worse for wear. A gentleman passing in a cab recognised the maestro, and, pulling up, politely placed the vehicle at his disposal. Cherubini accepted the offer; and the kindly stranger, who had acted thus solely in the interests of art, on taking Cherubini's place in the doorway, requested the loan of the umbrella. "I never lend my umbrella," returned Cherubini, and drove off.

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