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consulate for its justice, its integrity, and its ability. He committed no extortion, and returned home when his term of office had expired as poor as when he went. One of the highest praises that can be given to a public man, who has a chance of enriching himself is that he remains poor. When a member of Congress, known not to be worth ten thousand dollars, retires to his home worth one hundred thousand, the public have an instinct that he has, somehow or other, been untrue to himself and country. When a great man retires home from Washington poorer than when he went, his influence is apt to survive his power, and this perpetuated influence is the highest glory of a public manthe glory of Jefferson, of Hamilton, of Washington. I wish I could add to this list our modern senators. As a class they retire and there is the end of them-no longer prophets whose utterances are sought and prized like the voice of Gladstone in his retirement. Now, Cicero had preëminently this influence as long as he lived, and it was ever exerted for the good of his country. Had his country been free he would have died in honor. But his country was enslaved and his voice was drowned, and he had to pay the penalty of speaking the truth about those unscrupulous men who usurped authority.

On his return to Rome the state of public affairs was most alarming. Cæsar and Pompey were in antagonism. He must choose between them, and he equally distrusted both. Cæsar was the most able and accomplished and magnanimous, but he prostituted his transcendent genius to win the people. Of highest senatorial family, he was also a demagogue. He was also more unscrupulous than his rival. He ventured to cross the Rubicon-the first great general who ever dared thus to assail his country's liberties. He was the more dangerous man. Pompey was pompous, overrated, and proud, and had been fortunate in the east. But he sided with the constitutional authorities, so far as his ambition allowed. Cicero took his side, feebly, reluctantly, as the least of the evils he had to choose, but not without vacillation, which is one of the popular charges against him. His distraction almost took the form of insanity. His inconsistency was an incoherency; never did a more wretched man resort to Pompey's camp, where he remained until his cause was lost. He returned after the battle of Pharsalia, one of the great decisive conflicts of the world, a supplicant at the feet of the conqueror. This, to me, is one of his weakest acts. It would have been more lofty and heroic to have perished in the camp of Brutus and Cassius. In the midst of these public misfortunes, which saddened his soul, his private miseries commenced. He was now prematurely an old man under sixty years of age, almost broken down with grief.

His beloved daughter, Tullia, with whom his life was bound up, died, and his wife, Terentia, failed him, and he was divorced, the cause of which remains a mystery. Neither in his most confidential letters nor in his conversations with most intimate friends does it appear that he ever unbosomed himself, although he was the frankest and most social of men. In his impressive silence he has set one of the noblest examples of a man afflicted with domestic infelicities. He buried his conjugal troubles in eternal silence, although he is forced to give vent to his sorrows, so plaintive and bitter that both friend and foe were constrained to pity. He expected no sympathy, even at Rome, for the sunderance of conjugal relations, and he communicated no secrets.

In his grief and madness he does, however, a most foolish thing: he marries a young lady one third his age. She accepted him for his name and rank; he sought her for her beauty, her youth, and her fortune. This union of May and December was of course a failure. Both parties were soon disenchanted and disappointed; neither party found hap

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piness, only discontent and chagrin. The everlasting incongruities of such a relation—he sixty, she nineteen-soon led to another divorce. He expected his young wife to mourn with him the loss of Tullia; she expected that her society and charms would be a compensation for all he had lost. In truth, he was too old a man to have married the lady, whatever were the inducements. It was the great folly of his life-an illustration of the fact that the older a man grows the greater fool he becomes, as a general thing, so far as women are concerned-a folly that disgraced and humiliated the two wisest and greatest men who ever sat on the Jewish throne.

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In his accumulated sorrows Cicero plunged for relief into literary labors. It was thus that his private sorrows were the means which Providence employed to transmit his precious thoughts and experiences to future ages, as the most valued inheritance he could bestow on posterity, even as Bacon, on his fall and retirement, wrote the greatest of his immortal treatises. What a precious legacy to the world was the book of Ecclesiastes, yet by what bitter experiences was that wisdom earned. It was in the short period when Cæsar rejoiced in the mighty power which he transmitted to Roman emperors, that Cicero wrote in comparative retirement his "History of Roman Eloquence," his inquiry The Greatest Good and Evil," his "Cato," and his "Orator," his "Nature of the Gods," and his treatises on "Glory," on "Fate," on "Friendship," on "Old Age," and his grandest work of all, his "Officiis," the best manual on ethics that has come down to us from heathen antiquity. In his studious retirement he reminds us of Bacon, after his fall, when on his curate, surrounded by friends, and in the enjoyment of elegant leisure, he formed the most valuable of his immortal compositions; and in those degenerate days of Rome, when liberty was crushed under foot forever, it is beautiful to see the greatest of Roman statesmen and lawyers consoling himself and instructing posterity by his exhaustive treatise on the fundamental principles of law, of morality, and of philosophy.

The assassination of the most august conqueror of all antiquity, in which Cicero rejoiced, as did other great patriots, enabled him to appear once more, unshackled, in the Roman forum and senate. He was now sixty-three; the work of his life was nearly ended. For his last struggle with usurping demagogues and tyrants he braced himself up with singular courage and moral heroism; we see no cringing, no future vacillation. Marc Antony was the greatest of Cæsar's lieutenants, and a favorite of the people, and but for his unbridled love for Cleopatra, would probably have succeeded to the imperial power which Cæsar had bequeathed. But he was the most debauched and cruel of all those usurpers who sought to steal an imperial sceptre. Against this formidable enemy Cicero did not scruple to launch forth the most terrible of his invectives. In thirteen immortal philippics-some of which, however, were merely written and never delivered, after the fashion of Demosthenes, with whom, as an orator and a patriot he can alone be compared, he denounced the unprincipled demagogue and general with any offensive epithet the language affordedunmasking his designs, exposing his forgeries, and proving his crimes. Nobler eloquence was never uttered and wasted than that with which Cicero pursued with passionate vengeance the most powerful and the most unscrupulous man in the Roman empire, and Cicero must have anticipated the fate which impended over him if Antony were not decreed a public enemy by the Roman senate, for he had drawn not merely his sword, but had thrown away the scabbard. But his protests were in vain. He lived to utter them as a witness of truth, and nothing was left to him but to die.

Of course Antony, when he became triumvirate-when

he made a bargain he never meant to keep with Octavius and Lepidus for a division of the empire between themwould not spare such an enemy as Cicero. The brokenhearted patriot fled mechanically with a vacillating mind, when his proscription became known to him, now more ready to die than to live, since all his hopes in his country's liberties were utterly crushed.

Perhaps he might have escaped to some remote corner of the empire, but he did not wish for life any more than Socrates, when summoned before his judges. Desponding, uncertain, pursued, he met his fate with the heroism of an ancient philosopher.

Like Pascal, he meditated on the highest truths which task the intellect of man, but unlike him, did not disdain those weapons which reason forged, and which no one used more triumphantly than Pascal himself. And these great meditations he transmitted for all ages to ponder upon, as among the most precious of the legacies of antiquity.

Thus did he live a shining light in a corrupt and godless age, in spite of all the faults which modern critics have raked out in their ambitious desire of novelties, or in their thoughtless and malignant desire to show up human frailties, when no one is perfect-no, not one. He was a patriot, taking the side of his country's highest interests, a statesman, seeking to conserve the wisdom of his ancestors; an orator, exposing vices and defending the innocent; a philosopher, unfolding the wisdom of the Greeks; a moralist, laying down the principles of immutable justice; a sage, pondering on the mysteries of life; ever active, studious, dignified, the charm and fascination of cultivated circles, as courteous and polished as the ornaments of modern society, revered by friends, feared by enemies, and adored by all good people; a kind father, an indulgent husband, a generous friend, hospitable, witty, magnificent, a most accomplished gentleman, one of the best men of all antiquity. What if he was vain, and egotistical, and vacillating, and occasionally weak? Can you expect perfection in him who is born of woman? We palliate the backslidings of Christians, we excuse the crimes of a Constantine, a Theodosius, a Cromwell-shall we have no toleration for the frailties of a pagan, in one of the worst periods of history? I have no patience with such critics, who would hurl him from the pedestal on which he has stood for two thousand years. Contrast him with other illustrious men. How few Romans or Greeks were better than he! How few have rendered such exalted services; and even if he has not perpetuated a reproachless character, he has yet bequeathed a noble example-and more, has transmitted a legacy, in the richness of which all forget the faults of the testator; a legacy of imperishable thought, clothed in language of imperishable art; a legacy so valuable that it is the treasured inheritance of all civilized nations, and which no nation can afford to lose.

THE BELOVED DISCIPLE.

But one of the twelve, at supper,
Leaned on the Master's breast;
One alone in the Master's love
Found perfect peace and rest.

But one at the cross stood, weeping,
And he, with joy untold,
Followed the Master's footsteps,
Saw the gates of heaven unfold.
Upon him, fainting, praying,
Was the mystic vision flung,
The glory of the heavenly host,
The song by angels sung.
The divinely sweet communion,
As once at Galilee,

Touched the lonely isle of Patmos
With holy mystery.

CHRISTIANITY IN ART.

IX.

RAPHAEL'S " SAINT CECILIA."

In our remarks on Romantic art we have indicated the place that music holds among the special arts. It uses time instead of space-filling material, and is peculiarly internalin its effects. This makes it a favorite means of expression for the ideas of Romantic art. To depict the most internal states of the soul-"that within, which passeth show"— music is far more adequate than painting, although painting is superior to sculpture in this respect.

We should

The patron saint of music is Saint Cecilia. expect that even in the sphere of painting she would be a favorite subject-to show Saint Cecilia in the act of listening to celestial music; this would bring into requisition all the painter's resources.

One of the paintings in the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome is a Saint Cecilia said to have been painted. by Saint Luke (probably the Greek Saint Lucas, and not the evangelist). The face has a very absent look, as though the soul was far away-or far within-absorbed in hearing divine harmonies. The eyes are cast down, but seem fixed and sightless, as in cases of somnambulism. The expression of listening is obtained chiefly through this absent look in the eyes, and one may pronounce those pictures of Saint Cecilia which have not this absent look to be inferior.

In Raphael's Saint Cecilia we have the expression of listening reflected in the most wonderful manner in the surroundings. About the Saint there stand four persons forming. a group. On her left in front is Mary Magdalene; in the rear is Saint Augustine. On her right hand is Saint Paul in the foreground, and Saint John in the rear on a line with SaintAugustine. She stands facing us, her face lifted up and turned a little to one side. In her hands she holds an organ, carelessly inverted so that some of the pipes are slipping out and ready to fall. She neglects even the organ, the king of musical instruments (which, according to tradition, was invented by her, on account of the inadequacy of other means of musical expression). On the ground we discover other instruments still more neglected. There is the bass-viol, its strings broken, and its surface full of holes and cracks. Beyond it we see two tabours, or drums, the oneturned toward us having its head burst. To the left of the viol we see the two pieces of a broken reed-pipe; a broken rim of a tambourine; a triangle with its metallic striker. On the right of the viol is another pipe with a complete tambourine and two cymbals; beyond it,.two drumsticks. What are earthly instruments to the saint who can hear celestial music with the inner ear of the soul? Does the artist intend to represent the entire group as listening to music, or is Saint Cecilia the only one of the group that hears, while the other persons are impressed solely by the countenance and attitude of Saint Cecilia? In the upturned face of the saint we see a light that shows us the ecstatic state of the soul. The surrounding group seem variously affected. Mary Magdalene holds up toward Cecilia her vase of alabaster, and turns her head toward us with the same dreamy look and lack-lustre eyes. Her left hand holds the vase, while her right seeks its lid, which she holds down with her fore-finger. The odor of the precious ointment must not be allowed to escape at this moment-the sense of smell is of the earth, earthy. The sense of hearing is receptive at this moment of divine harmonies.

Saint Augustine holds his crozier with his right hand; its spiral-shaped top enfolds a praying cherub. His left hand is lifted as if to enjoin silence or express his desire to respect Saint Cecilia's trance.. He directs his face toward St. John expressively as if to answer the look of the latter. John lays his hand on his breast and turns his face toward

Saint Augustine with a look partly expressive of listening, and partly of recognition of the gesture of Saint Au- | gustine. His symbol or emblem, the eagle, stands or perches on a book on the ground. It is very singular that the eagle opens his bill and seems to sing or hum to himself the harmony that the saint hears. We associate a scream with the voice of an eagle. But the emblem of Saint John, the Evangelist, suggests the eagle's flight toward the sun, and his full unshrinking gaze into its brightness. It is the symbol of divine inspiration. The book is the gospel which he has inspired. That the eagle sings here, signifies that the celestial harmony is an inspiration. John's eagle reveals to him: "And I heard as it were the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thunders, saying hallelujah! for the Lord our God, the Almighty, reigneth."

Saint Paul holds his symbol, the sword, in his left hand, resting its point significantly within the triangle on the ground, and holding also a manuscript in the hand, which is placed on the hilt of the sword. The triangle is the symbol of the trinity, the sword the symbol of martyrdom, the manuscript is one of his epistles. The elbow of his right arm rests on the left hand on the hilt of the sword, and the hand receives his chin bent down in a contemplative mood. His eyes are cast down and he seems reverently listening and reflecting deeply on what he hears.

The artist has materialized the conception of divine music by representing a choir of angels visible in the clouds overhead. Six angels-four look over one book and sing with intense rapture, while two bend over a second book which one holds while his fellow points at the passage; they are singing. A mighty wind rolls back the clouds and tosses the hair of their uncovered heads. The painting shows the clouds underneath the choir as brightened with the radiating light. The heads of the group below have aureolas to denote their saint-hood.

In the drawing that Raphael executed of this picture, or rather, of the figure of Saint Cecilia, before painting it, the gaze seems to be more outward than it does in the completed picture. Marc Antonio's engraving of this drawing is a great favorite.

The ordinary engraving has not presented the difficult fore-shortening of the chin in a satisfactory manner. The painting has not this defect.

The legend of Saint Cecilia tells of her martyrdom under the reign of Alexander Severus; of her burial by Saint Urban, her body being embalmed; of the discovery of her body in the time of Pope Paschal I, in A. D. 820, and of its reinterment in the church of Saint Cecilia-in-Trastevere; of the repair of this church in the sixteenth century, and of the exhuming of her body a second time with great solemnity in the presence of several cardinals. This was in 1599. Clement VIII ordered the reinterment with great solemnity, and a sculptor executed the statue of Saint Cecilia lying dead, in the attitude that she was found in the tomb when exhumed.

Raphael's picture was painted for the altar-piece in the church of San Giovanni-in-Monte.

CORREGIO'S "DAY."

As a companion piece to the Holy Night of Corregio, one may like to have Corregio's "Day," or, as it is sometimes called, "The Infant Jesus Reading." It was called "The Day" (Il Giorno), as a suggestion of the more celebrated picture of the "Night," and it has also been called the "Saint Jerome," from its principal figure.

The angel Raphael holds out the new translation of the Scriptures made by Saint Jerome, to the infant Christ, who looks with precocious interest at the passage which the angel points out, and stretches his little hand toward the book. Saint Jerome stands in the foreground at the left with a manuscript in his hand, looking intently at the child, a pleased smile on his grim features. We can see the head of a lion near the scroll—the lion is the symbol of Saint Jerome—his hermitage in the desert being indicated. Mary Magdalene leans toward the child on the other side, and takes his foot in her hand, as if about to kiss it. A

it with childish curiosity. The Madonna looks on the infant Christ with a motherly satisfaction, and over the heads of the group we see a beautiful landscape stretching away to a far-distant horizon.

If we are to interpret this picture as portraying for us a moment in a series of actions, we shall suppose that the Magdalene has approached to take part in the conversation between Saint Paul and Saint Cecilia when Saint Cecilia suddenly becomes entranced with the sound of the celestial choir, invisible and inaudible to the others. She (the Mag-child holds her emblem, the alabaster vase, and looks into dalene) stops and turns away reverently, while the apostle to the Gentiles bows his head with respect. In the background Saint Augustine and Saint John were discoursing when they notice the trance of Saint Cecilia and cease their discourse, the former holding up his hand to enjoin silence. If we interpret the picture as representing all as listening to the music, perhaps, as has been suggested,* Saint Cecilia herself is not only listening to the choir, but also sees it. * By Mr. W. M. Bryant, in "The Western," published in St. Louis. Mr. Bryant has written a number of valuable studies of pictures. The Madonna Foligno, by Raphael, the Raising of Lazarus, by del Piombo, besides his essay on Saint Cecilia of Raphael, deserve great praise. Mr. Thomas Davidson printed in "Old and New," Boston, 1870, a fine interpretation of this picture, from which we extract the first three verses:

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FRA ANGELICO'S "CRUCIFIXION."

This celebrated picture is frescoed on the wall of the Chapter House of Saint Mark, in Florence. It is a great. work of a great artist. Fra Angelico belongs to those arHis tists who possessed religious fervor in their work. faces are the impersonation of religious faith and holiness. There is a repose and serenity on them that surpasses what we see on those of the Greek gods of Olympus, as they come down to us from the times of Phidias.

In a semi-circular fresco, our eye rests first on the crucified Redeemer. Above his head is the threefold inscription, in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew,-a placid repose is on his face reclined in death. On the left we see the penitent thief, with rays spreading out from his head, which is turned joyfully on Christ's face inclined toward him. On our right hand we see the face of the other thief convulsed in agony.

Below the cross are several groups. On our left we see first, Saint Damian turning away his face in grief, and covering his eyes with his right hand. Next, Saint Cosmo, with clasped hands, looks up reverently to the cross, and at his side Saint Lawrence, with upraised hands, looks with deep sorrow and love at the lifeless body of Christ

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Next to these kneels Saint Mark, the patron of the convent, holding in his left hand his Gospel, and pointing to it with his right. Against the cross of the penitent thief stands John the Baptist, clad in a close-fitting vest of camel's hair, over which is wound a loose flowing robe. He points with his right hand to the cross of Christ, and holds a small crucifix in his left hand.

Next we see the Virgin Mother, fainting, and leaning forward into the arms of Mary, who kneels before her, while John on her left, and Mary Magdalene on her right, support her arms and prevent her from falling.

First to the right of the cross of Christ is the figure of Saint Dominick, kneeling and lifting his hands beseechingly to Christ. Next is the standing figure of Saint Augustine, holding his crozier in his left hand, and pointing up to the cross with his right hand as he looks down at the face of Saint Jerome, who kneels at his left, and in front. Saint Francis kneels in the rear of Saint Jerome, and the tall figure of Albert, founder of the Carmelites, stands beyond, with a crozier, and holding a palm branch in his hand as a martyr. In the rear of Saint Francis is seen St. Bernard, kneeling, with a book clasped to his breast. Beyond him stands Saint Benedict, with his wand for sprinkling holy water, in his right hand. To his right is seen Saint Romualdo, standing with right hand folded over the left. In front of Saint Romualdo kneels Saint John Gualberto, toward the spectator, his left hand held to his face, which looks down. To the extreme right kneels Saint Peter Martyr, with his hands on his breast. Beyond him stands Saint Thomas Aquinas, greatest of theologians; on his breast the blazing sun as his emblem.

This picture makes us acquainted with the most famous founders of monastic orders.

CORRECTION.

"Correction means, a tending, through pain and evil, to good and love just what this state is."--James Hinton.

Though the little fingers-learning how to write,
Trying to be steady, grasp the pen too tight,
Making crooked letter-causes many a tear,
Yet in time they master-writing bold and clear.
Who would think blameworthy every stroke not good?
"Only keep on trying," is your cheering word.
"You are sure to conquer, doing still your best"—
Not success, but trying-that's the teacher's test.
Little feet too, stumble, falling on the floor,
For to walking bravely, tumbling is the door.
"Babies mustn't tumble," would be nonsense quite;
They must learn by falling how to walk upright.
Life is full of lessons, just for every day,
God has set for practice in the selfsame way.
We, too, learn by grasping earthly things too tight,
Holding far more loosely when we see aright.
We must slip and stumble in our upward way,
Till we learn to journey onward to the Day.
Let us, then, be patient with each other's faults;
They're but crooked "pothooks," as our progress halts.
Like the elder children, patient with the rest,

We will still with kindness help them "do their best."
God, with utmost patience, waits for greater skill,
Giving by the practice, power to do his will.

Striving to do better, not content to blot,
We shall live "epistles," fair, without a spot;
And attain to walking--as God's children dear,
Through mistakes still growing to his image here!

WORMS AND THEIR WORK.

It is a happy thought that the earth which fills our lap with beautiful things and things for life is a servant sent of God to dispose of his bounty, that all its gifts are fresh with the glow and warmth of his presence. All things gain singular beauty and joy when the truth of the Good Giver of them all enters into them and us. What charm is it to know that our flowers are as it were roses growing over the | walls of Heaven; the lark's trilling rapid song, dizzy with exquisite delight, is but drifted music through the gates of the palace above; the smiles which, rippling up out of the hearts of friends, break in the light which never shone on brightest sea or transfigured land, are the caught and mirrored rays of the Uncreated Loveliness? By such truths nature gains here color and is glorified. We do not doubt that she has beauty apart from all such thoughts. Roses and songs and smiles are ever lovely. But there is one glory of the terrestrial and another glory of the celestial; there is the glory of the earth without the feeling of a beautiful bountiful God, and without the strong transcendent hope the sight of him and his fair ways inspire; and there is the glory of the earth with him and his hope coloring and illuminating it all.

Let us summarize the principal facts given by Mr. Darwin, in his recent book on "Vegetable Mould and Earth Worms." He tells us that earth worms are found throughout the world. There are but few varieties of them, and these closely resemble one another. The vast majority of them bring up earth to the surface in the form of little spiral castings. These are found in many different stations; on chalk downs, in boggy peat, in country meadows, London parks, and court-yards of houses; but wherever they are found there are invariably a layer of fine earth and moisture, both of which seem necessary to a worm's existence.

Worms are too wise to go where they can not live. Even where the surface of the ground would meet the conditions of their life in summer, they do not settle unless it would also meet them in the depth of winter. Where suitable soil covers rock into which, of course, they could not burrow to escape the dangers of frost, they are never found.

They carry on their work at night, and seldom entirely leave their holes. They reach out for objects which surround their burrows by stretching the body to its full length, keeping the tail still inserted in the burrow. They live chiefly in the fine mould which they have made and brought to the surface, which varies in thickness from an inch or two at its least to about half a yard at its most. Their burrow runs down into the earth to a much greater depth than this. But their home, their dwelling and resting-place, is the upper story, where they prefer to lie just inside, with their head near the level of the ground. This they do probably for warmth, for which reason, too, they line these quarters with leaves. They do not appear to object to cold, damp earth while at work, but they avoid contact with it when at rest. Except when sick and at pairing time they always pass the day in their burrows. Occasionally by night they leave their burrows "on voyages of discovery,” and in these cases they never attempt to return to the home they have left.

The body of a large worm consists of from one hundred to two hundred almost cylindrical rings, which act as a sort of "flexible telescope," and each ring is furnished with minute bristles. By the use of these rings worms can go backward and forward. They have a mouth which serves to swallow food and to lift objects by suction. Behind the mouth is a pharynx; behind that is en æsophagus (or gullet), and in this, dividing it into two parts, are calciferous glands, which Mr. Darwin says are "highly remarkable, for nothing like them is known in any other animal.'

These organs are followed by a crop which leads into a gizzard, and this, again, is followed by an inner and an outer set of intestines.

These are Mr. Darwin's words on this point:

"If a man had to plug up a small cylindrical hole with leaves, foot-stalks of leaves, or twigs, he would drag or push them in by their pointed ends; but if these objects were very thin relatively to the size of the hole, he would probably insert some by their thicker or broader ends. The

Worms have neither jaws nor teeth of any kind. They swallow small stones, by which their food is triturated as the miller by his larger stones triturates his corn. Some kinds of worms live in mud and water, and though they feed on veg-guide in this case would be intelligence. It seemed, thereetable matter as earth worms do, they have no duties to discharge toward the soil. These have no gizzards, and do not swallow small stones. The virgin particles of soil swallowed by the earth worm are ground down between the stones, moved about by the tough lining membrane of the gizzard, and mixed with the fertilizing secretions of the worm, they are passed out again.

Worms breathe through their skin. They are blind, and have no kind of eyes. But their mouth-end is sensitive to light. When artificial light is suddenly thrown upon them as they lie in the darkness near the tops of their burrows, they generally retreat down into them. They do not all act alike,-some, seeming more timid and nervous than others, "scamper off" at once; some remain a moment, then quietly withdraw; while others raise their heads (if we may be allowed to call the place where some kind of cerebral ganglia exists, a head) from the ground, peer about as if, like startled blind people, they were trying to understand the situation. Though without eyes, they distinguish day and night. There are clear signs, too, that they possess same sort of mind. When busy, their attention is not easily attracted. They are preoccupied, a fact which Mr. Darwin says relates them to "the higher animals.” They have no sense of hearing, but they are extremely sensitive to vibration, and are still more sensitive to contact. They shrink from being handled as much as a sensitive person shrinks from handling them. They have a limited sense of smell, which is also very feeble, by which they discover their savory dishes. They are decidedly possessed of a sense of taste. And when feeding they prefer the textures which are the most palatable and tender. They are eager for certain kinds of food, and appear to enjoy the pleasure of eating. This point please bear well in mind for use a little farther on. They have their social pleasures and family life. Their parental relations are peculiar. Each worm is both father and mother; father to its neighbor's children, and mother to its own.

In the winter, when their season is over, they plug up their burrows, plunge deep enough down into the earth to be beyond the reach of frost, have little meetings, roll themselves together into balls, and await the time of spring. More than a passing word must be given on the intelligence of worms. When engaged they neglect impressions to which, when not engaged, they attend, and absorption, says Mr. Darwin, clearly indicates the presence of mind. But worms also exercise judgment. It is their habit to seize leaves and other objects, not to serve as food only, but for plugging up the mouths of their burrows. This action they perform instinctively, that is, all the individuals, including the younger, perform it in the same manner. They seize the leaf with their mouth, drag it a little way into the burrow, which is cylindrical, by which process it is crumpled and rolled up a little. The first leaf is the center one and the next is drawn into its place outside of it, and so on till sufficient leaves have been arranged, when the whole are drawn deeper down into the burrow and become closely forced and packed together. The submerged end is then covered with moist earth and the burrow is securely plugged against cold and rain. Failing to obtain leaves or sticks for this purpose, they often make a covering of a little pile of stones. The intelligence of the worm is, however, not shown in the ordinary practice of this habit, but in its practice under strange and difficult conditions.

fore, worth while to observe carefully how worms dragged leaves into their burrows; whether by their tip, or base, or middle parts. It seemed more especially desirable to do this in the case of plants not native to our own country; for although the habit of dragging leaves into their burrows is undoubtedly instinctive with worms, yet instinct could not tell them how to act in the case of leaves about which their progenitors knew nothing. If, moreover, worms acted solely through instinct or an unvarying inherited impulse, they would draw all kinds of leaves into their burrows in the same manner." Then Mr. Darwin proceeds to give the results of patient experiments and observations which he made with worms, which show far more than a blind following of instinct, viz., a sensible and purposeful adaptation to novel and varying circumstances, a decided disposition to experiment, and a profiting by the lessons of experience; all of which shows that although standing low in the scale of organization, worms possess some degree of intelli, gence; a result which, Mr. Darwin says, has surprised him more than anything else in his study of worms.

A curious fact incidental to the work of worms is their preservation of ancient relics and buildings. By bringing up soil to the surface of the ground they have slowly cov ered, and excavating soil from underneath they have slowly sunk down into secret places much which, being discovered, is precious to antiquarians and historians.

The active life of the worm is divided into two distinct parts, its activities when feeding and its activities when working. For though the worm, like most of ourselves, works to live, it also lives to work, and this fact opens up to Christian believers in God all the pleasures of new delight. Side by side with the glorified instincts of prophets of Israel, heathen sages, and Christian poets, the very mould joins to praise the foreknowledge of an Almighty Benevolence.

Here, then, is a summary of Mr. Darwin's facts-for my conclusions from them Mr. Darwin is in no way responsible. 1. The worm, as I have said, works to live. It seeks nourishment; has a hearty relish for certain foods; shows evident signs of pleasure in palatable things.

2. The worm also lives to work. Nourishment is not the end of its existence, but labor. It feeds to get strength, it gets strength to transform useless into useful soil, but instinct compels it at certain times to leave the surface and all that it enjoys there, and plunge, like a collier after his morning meal, down into the bowels of the earth, to dig out and to bring up to the surface what is needed there. It plunges down, therefore, into the raw soil below, bores its way, filling itself with it, sifting the finer from the coarser particles, mingling it with vegetable débris, finely grinding it between stones taken into the gizzard for the purpose, and saturating it with intestinal secretions. Then crawling upward, it casts out upon the surface a little pile of earth transformed into fine vegetable mould. The plant-nourishing matter the worm has left above is, from a cultivator's standpoint, a totally different substance from the raw, chiefly mineral, material out of which it has been made. Thus the worm is a miner to excavate, a miller to grind, a chemist to change the substance.

Mr. Darwin finds that on an average each English worm plays these parts to about twenty ounces of matter in the course of one year. He further estimates that each suitable acre of land in England contains from twenty to thirty

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