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ber him, in his dark green hunting suit, looking so bright and so happy, ranging the woods for whole days with the keepers in pursuit of game, and often, too often, on his return he would be seen lounging in the cottage of the Farmer Calas, the father of the pretty Marguerite. Alas, alas! she was then indeed but a child to him, but sadly too much inclined to be the vain coquette she afterwards became. Her beauty was so remarkable that her mother, idly giving way to the pleasure of seeing her admired, indulged and spoilt her in every way she could, and made a cruel difference between Marguerite and her only sister, Jeanne, a plain quiet girl, two years younger. All this was going on when I left La Barthe, and too frequently did I hear Madame Calas murmur at the lectures she was obliged to listen to from my uncle, and declare that she had no idea of teaching Marguerite any hard work, 'She was too handsome for that, and no doubt would do well enough.' She often, as she said this, gave an expressive glance up at the château, the meaning of which I have since too well understood. That mother," said the good man, with a deep sigh, "was, one way or other, the cause of all the mischief. Well, monsieur," resumed he after a melancholy pause, "things turned out very different from what she expected, and what happened was this. Among those attached to the family of Mornay, the first and most respected was the steward, 'Le Rosier.' He and his ancestors had for many centuries filled the same situation, they had all grown old in the service and love of the family, and Mons. le Comte always treated Le Rosier more like a friend than a servant. Their long service and prudent, regular habits had placed them in comfortable circumstances, and their dwelling, which was the largest of the old towers, standing at the far end of the eminence occupied by the château, had been enlarged and improved till a more comfortable dwelling could not be seen. These good people had lost many children, and but one son remained to them, little Paul, as I remember him, for he left La Barthe some time before I did. When he had attained his twelfth year, he showed so much disposition to learn and such anxiety to improve himself, that the Count insisted on his being sent to a good school in Paris, taking upon himself all charges of his education. It was thought a great thing for the boy, and poor Mme. le Rosier, though with many tears at parting from her only child, could not but submit. When I left the village some years afterwards Paul was still absent, and did not return to his parents until he had completed his seventeenth year. At the time of his return he was, as I have since heard, a remarkably fine young man, of that kind of beauty which most people would term interesting. He was tall and dark, with fine features, and a most intellectual expression in his large black eyes. Very quiet and gentle in manner, he had yet a violent temper when roused, but this did not happen often, he seemed devoted to his studies and to his parents, whose joy and pride in their excellent son may be imagined. A greater contrast than that between him and Mons. Gustave could not be, but in spite of their dissimilar habits, they showed great pleasure in being again together, and for long nothing seemed likely to interrupt the harmony in which they lived. It might be a year from the time of Paul's return when the neighbours began to talk, and to observe the wonderful change that had taken place in Marguerite. She was now sixteen, and more beautiful than ever, and of course had many admirers, but she was grown grave and silent, if not sad, was always poring over a book, and received the continued attentions and flatteries of Mons. Gustave with a pettish impatience which few could understand, and which sorely displeased Mme. Calas. For a time all this seemed incomprehensible, but the clue to it was not long in being discovered by the village gossips. Marguerite was in love with Paul le Rosier, and no one who saw the

bright colour in her face, and the sparkle in her eyes when he approached her, could remain in ignorance or doubt of the fact. This explained the book, for Paul was teaching her to read and improve herself.

(To be concluded in our next.)

EARLY DAYS.
No. 1.

MY FIRST VOYAGE.

I MUST have been very young, not more than ten, perhaps, when I took my first voyage. I had been left in England in the care of friends; my mother had died when I was quite a child, indeed, I cannot even remember her, and my father had been sent to India with his regiment. He had been out there some years at the time I speak of, and wishing to have me with him, commissioned the captain of a merchant vessel, whom he knew, to bring me out under his care.

I had but short notice, and having few friends here to care for, was not sorry to go. I joined the ship one morning in July, and by the afternoon we had dropped down the river as far as Gravesend, where the passengers all took leave of those remaining behind; I well remember leaning over the side, watching the parting of parents and children, of brothers and sisters, or friends, and feeling a sort of solitary pleasure in having no trouble or sorrow of this sort on my mind, and thinking I could not have been happy if I had.

My little berth was next the captain's, where I could go in and out as I pleased; and as I gradually became accustomed to all the strange things around me, used to enjoy wandering about the great ship, watching the sailors clambering up and down, and hauling at endless ropes. It always reminded me of the picture of Gulliver caught and tied down by the Lilliputians, only those were such lively little creatures, and the sailors here, to my fancy, seemed all both boys and men, as if they had something on their mind, some great mystery that they could not fathom; all had the same hard, almost melancholy face it used to trouble me at times, wondering whether all sailors were so, and what they were thinking of. I often wished to ask the captain why the sailors looked so sad, for he would talk to me at times, answering my questions, though they were, I now know, foolish and troublesome enough. I forget whether I ever did ask him-I think not. He had a wife in England, he told me one day, and a little daughter about my own age; she was not strong, he said, and he sometimes feared that when he went away he might never see her again. There was a strange light in her eyes, which troubled him to think of, and she was too good for his child, he said. I could not help feeling sorry, though I did not understand him quite; so I began to speak of other things, about the ship's course, where we were, and when we should come to land. We were only setting forth; the end was always suggested to me, as a child, by the beginning.

We had a good voyage, I believe; the weather was very fine, and nothing happened that I remember particularly, except the passing little specks of white, sometimes every day, sometimes two or three together, which they said were great ships like ours; and the sailors told us their names, where they had come from, whither they went, and sometimes who the captains were. It used to puzzle me how, by "speaking," as they called it, they could learn all this; but having been on board so long, and feeling quite a sailor, I did not like to ask about what everybody seemed to understand. One morning early we saw what looked like a misty cloud far away to the north, which they said was the "Cape;" and they talked about

taking in water; which sounded strange, I thought, having seen nothing else for so long. They did not, however; we changed our course, and soon all was sea again. As I did not care for the cabin company, I generally went to bed when it grew dark, and was up and out again sometimes before it grew light, if I could not sleep, for the nights were very fine, though cold. I used to like to walk about the decks in the moonlight, when all but the "watch" were asleep. I have leant over the side for hours, watching the spangled glittering surface of the sea spreading far away on all sides, and wondering what the people on land were doing, whether they who lay awake in soft beds ever thought of the great ships rolling and ploughing the waters all night through, with their living burdens asleep down below the waves, dreaming, perhaps, of home and friends; or when winds blew loud and strong, of sailors struggling with the storm, and braving danger in their silent, hopeful way.

I remember one night, when we must have been nearing land, being restless and unable to sleep, getting up quietly and going on deck; the sky was clear and moonlit, the silvered waves rolled past with a low murmuring sound, and the watch, if not asleep, were very quiet; there was nothing to break the stillness save the gurgling of the water as it parted before us, now and then the creaking or rattling of the rigging, and the soft sighing sound of the wind through the ropes. I thought then of those words which tell us all to watch, of how few there were watching then, and that it did not seem in human nature to be always ready. I can understand now how we can be always watching and yet take rest; but it troubled me then, and in my childish way I wondered why people

seemed so secure.

The morning broke magnificently; I had never seen such a sunrise before, though I seldom missed it when it did not rain; but there was a strange appearance, too, as day approached; long streaky clouds seemed to rise out of the sea, growing larger and blacker as the red glowing light increased. I stood and watched the changing colours in the sky until it was time to go below, feeling uneasy, though not knowing why, at those clouds. We had had such good weather that I never thought of storms, not even when one of the sailors said to another, as I passed by them going below, that "we should have it by and by." The captain did not come down all day; and I, not feeling well, was told to stay below. There was unusual bustle, I thought, on deck towards evening; noises of chains and ropes dragged here and there, and orders hurriedly given; people flitted about below; some sat in corners, as if asleep, and they told me to go to bed, although it was quite carly, and hardly dark; then sailors came and fastened up the port-holes, and said a great storm was coming on. I went to bed, tried to sleep, and had, I think, been dozing a little, when I fancied I heard strange sounds, as of people moaning or in pain, and growing louder every minute; then I felt as though I were being thrown about in the air, this way and that, never falling, though in dread and fear every moment. Soon I got used to this; but the strange noises increased, when presently a voice I knew to be the captain's spoke close to me. I tried to distinguish sounds, and soon half awoke; the captain was gone, the wind was roaring above, and, through it all I could hear his voice calling, "All hands," here and there. I don't know why, but I felt ashamed of lying there helpless and not assisting, when perhaps there was danger, and every one was striving to save the ship. I tried to sleep again, and almost had slept, I think, when through all the rushing noise and fury of the storm I still could hear the same cry of " All hands," but louder, more piercing, almost a yell. I could not stay there; I might help,-I would. I rushed on deck; and there, in the darkness, figures passed to and fro, above and around me. The wind was howling through

the rigging, and the great ship rising every moment like a mountain in the sky. Then came a rush of men past where I stood; up aloft they disappeared in the darkness. I scrambled after, clinging to the hard wet ropes, up, up, to where they stood on the quivering cables, behind a great sail which swayed and flapped in the gale, throwing them backwards and forwards as the ship reeled and plunged beneath. Out on the yard we clambered; I was pushed on first, being the smallest, and they in the darkness not knowing who I was. Here we strove against the wind and the great sail, which seemed too strong for us, clinging to the cold ropes with feet and hands, and hearing from below the captain's cry of "steady," with the hoarse echo from the wheel, coming on the wind. How long we held on here I do not know, but all at once I felt giddy and trembling. The vessel seemed to rise and fall, and the mast almost to touch the waves; and as I held on there, swinging to and fro in the darkness, I felt I must let go, and that no one could see and save me now; then my hands felt stiff and numbed as if nothing could tear them from the ropes; and then a cold shiver, and a rush of water over and around me. I struggled hard, feeling almost stifled and blind, rolling this way and that as though in my little bed again, when all at once it grew lighter; the old noise and roar, foaming tops of waves and showers of spray, black driving clouds above, then a rolling sound, a rush of water overhead, and all was dark again. I tried to cry for help, and crying,-awoke.

I was lying still in my little hammock; it was broad daylight, the ship was rolling heavily. There were one or two people in the cabin who had been watching me, I thought; they said I had been very ill, that the storm had lasted nearly two days, that the cabin boy was carried away one night, and that we were nearing the land. They would not let me get up, and I must have lain there several days; for when I was well enough to leave my bed and sit at the cabin window, the banks of a great smooth river were in sight; large spreading fields and strange-looking houses, with tall trees waving over them; curiously-shaped boats shot by on the stream, and the soft warm air came breathing in, bringing sounds of distant bells and voices from the land, once more.

When I went on deck we were steaming up Calcutta river in the wake of two little splashing tugs. I soon got well again; but I never can forget "my first voyage," nor, on stormy nights, the ships at sea.

LIGHTS.

The following rules in regard to "lights," are likely to be very useful-1. The eye should never view an intense light. 2. The light of a flame should never fall upon any part of the eye during use. 3. Bodies of all colours should be equally viewed, and, after regarding a bright or primary colour, repose should be sought by looking at a tertiary colour. 4. An unsteady flame is hurtful during reading or writing. 5. The eye is liable to damage from being employed on black objects by artificial light, because it is insufficient for the purpose. 6. The observation of objects at the reflecting angle is hurtful from the intensity of the light. 7. All coverings to lights are injurious, as the clearness of the flame is diminished, and ground-glass shades are particularly detrimental. 8. Reading during railway travelling is hurtful, because of the constant unsteady motion which is imparted to the book. 9. The observation of objects during rapid locomotion is trying and detrimental to vision. 10. Glasses of neutral tint, blue or green colour, may be employed to protect the eyes from a bright sun in the middle of the day, but they are injurious when the light is not painfully intense. 11. Rapid transition from darkness to intense light is liable to be followed by blindness."

TO KENNETH.
KENNETH, my hound, you are watching my pen,
As you would the stag in Highland glen;
And as I've no Memoir" nor Sonnet" to do,
I'll just tell in few words what I think of you.
I know you could give a blazoned descent,
With which even a Spaniard would be content;
From the breed of the Gordons and old Glengary,
The noblest of hunters-the fleet and the wary :
But like many with pedigree rare and brave,

You've a taint of something base

You've been stealing the bacon-you know you have,
Dog of an ancient race.

You have strength of muscle, and length of limb,-
Your jaws are deep, and your beard is grim;
Your fangs are strong and ivory-white-
Your mouth is as black as a cloudy night:
No doubt the fangs and the mouth could drag
Down low to the earth the wild red stag.

They could grapple and hold on the trembling haunch, With a wound that the death-chill alone could staunch. "Tis pleasant to hear the wise ones utter

The worth of your power and pace ;

But why did you swallow that pound of butter,
Dog of an ancient race?

Your snake-like tail might fitly serve

As a model of art, with its pendulous curve;
Your body is fine in every line,

With its broad deep chest, and length of spine:
Your skin is the truest of colours, they say,
Neither black, nor blue, nor white, nor grey,
But a mingling of all, which prescats to the eye
A grizzle of most unpaintable dye.
You can lay your paws, with their ebony claws,
On my shoulders, with elegant grace,
But you help yourself from the pantry shelf,
Dog of an ancient race.

Your eyes are as clear, and as brown, and as bright,
As ever kept antlered buck in sight;
They gleam like flames from Vulcan's forge,
As you follow the game through the forest gorge:
They welcome me home with a look of love,
Blending the gaze of the eagle and dove;
They beam and dilate, and sparkle and stare,
Till Laughter itself seems dwelling there.
They are beautiful eyes when they look askance,
From your favourite hearth-rug place,
But at dinner they have a sad "stealing glance,"
Dog of an ancient race.

Your bay is a musical sound I own,

"Twixt the howl of the wolf and the bugle's tone;
But you should'nt "give tongue" with such ready zeal,
When I leave you alone with a cutlet of veal.
Could you speak, you would tell me that breathings of

fame

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PIANOS.

A pianoforte is a most agreeable object. It is a piece of furniture with a soul in it, ready to waken at a touch, and charm us with invisible beauty. Open or shut, it is pleasant to look at; but open it looks best, smiling at us with its ivory, like the mouth of a sweet singer. The keys of a pianoforte are, of themselves, an agreeable spectacle-an elegance not sufficiently prized for their aspect, because they are so common; but well worth regarding even in that respect. It is one of the advantages of this instrument to the learner, that there is no discord to go through in getting at a tone. The tone is ready made. The finger touches the key, and there is music at once. Another and greater advantage is, that it contains a whole concert in itself, for you may play with all your fingers; and then every finger plays the part of a separate instrument. True, it will not compare with a real concert-with the rising winds of an orchestra; but in no single instrument, except the organ, can you have such a combination of sounds; and the organ itself cannot do for you what the pianoforte does. There are superfine cars that profess not to be able to endure a pianoforte after a concert; others that always find it to be out of tune; and more who veil their insensibility to music in general, by protesting against "everlasting tinkles," and school-girl affectation or sullenness. It is not a pleasure certainly which a man would select, to be obliged to witness affectations of any sort, much less sullenness, or any other absurdity. With respect to pianofortes not perfectly in tune, it is a curious fact in the history of sounds, that no instrument is ever perfectly in tune. Even the heavenly charmer, music, being partly of earth as well as of heaven, partakes the common imperfection of things sublunary. It is, therefore, possible to have senses too fine for it, if we are to be always sensible of this imperfection; to Die of an air in a chromatic pain ;

and if we are not to be thus sensible, who is to judge at what nice point of imperfection the disgust is to begin, where no disgust is felt by the general car? As to those who, notwithstanding their pretended love of music at other times, are so ready to talk of "jingling" and "tinkling," whenever they hear a pianoforte or a poor girl at her lesson, they have really no love of music whatsoever, and only proclaim as much to those who understand them. They are among the wiscacres who are always proving their spleen at the expense of their wit.-Leigh Hunt.

To Correspondents.

"A Clerk's Song" limps, there being something wrong about the feet. They decidedly require an orthopedic operation.

"A. B. C." must study his signature before he attempts" Odes to the Moon."

"Verses to Rosalie" are so “tender" that they will not bear the printing-press.

NOTICE TO CONTRIBUTORS.-It is out of our power to add to multiplied and increasing duties that of sending back to the writers articles unsuited to our pages. Contributions which we cannot use, but which the authors expressly request us not to destroy, will be found at the office of this Journal if claimed within a

reasonable time.

The Hood Memorial.

An accidental delay connected with the preparations for this monument has caused the postponement of the intended ceremony at Kensall Green. We have taken care to spare the subscribers unnecessary trouble by advertising the fact in the public papers. Due notice will be given of the event when the time of it is ascertained beyond doubt.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

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HUGH MILLER.

II. THE MAN.

SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1854.

His boyhood over, and his school training ended, Hugh Miller must now face the world of toil. His uncles were most anxious that he should become a minister; for it is the ambition of many of the aspiring Scotch poor, to see one of their family "wag his pow in a poopit." These kind uncles were even willing to pay his college expenses, though the labour of their hands formed their only wealth. The youth, however, had conscientious objections: he did not feel called to the work; and the uncles, confessing that he was right, gave up their point. Hugh was accordingly apprenticed to the trade of his choice-that of a working stone-mason; and he began his labouring career in a quarry looking out upon the Cromarty Firth. This quarry proved one of his best schools. The remarkable geological formations which it displayed awakened his curiosity. The bar of deep-red stone beneath, and the bar of pale-red clay above, were noted by the young quarryman, who even in such unpromising subjects, found matt er for observation and reflection. Where other men saw nothing, he detected analogies, differences, peculiarities, which set him a-thinking. He simply kept his eyes and his mind open; was sober, diligent, and persevering; and this was the secret of his intellectual growth.

Hugh Miller takes a cheerful view of the lot of labour. While others groan because they have to work hard for their bread, he says that work is full of pleasure, of profit, and of materials for self-improvement. He holds that honest labour is the best of all teachers, and that the school of toil is the best and noblest of all schools, save only the Christian one,-a school in which the ability of being useful is imparted, and the spirit of independence communicated, and the habit of persevering effort acquired. He is even of opinion that the training of the mechanic, by the exercise which it gives to his observant faculties, from his daily dealings with things actual and practical, and the close experience of life which he invariably acquires, is more favourable to his growth as a Man, emphatically speaking, than the training which is afforded by any other condition of life. And the array of great names which he cites in support of his statement, is certainly a large one. Nor is the condition of the average well-paid operative at all so dolorous, according to Hugh Miller, as many modern writers would have it to be. "I worked as an operative mason," says he, "for fifteen

[PRICE 1d.

years, no inconsiderable portion of the more active part of a man's life; but the time was not altogether lost. I enjoyed in those years fully the average amount of happiness, and learned to know more of the Scottish people than is generally known. Let me add, that from the close of the first year in which I wrought as a journeyman, until I took final leave of the mallet and chisel, I never knew what it was to want a shilling; that my two uncles, my grandfather, and the mason with whom I served my apprenticeship-all working men-had had a similar experience; and that it was the experience of my father also. I cannot doubt that deserving mechanics may, in exceptional cases, be exposed to want; but I can as little doubt that the cases are exceptional, and that much of the suffering of the class is a consequence either of improvidence on the part of the completely skilled, or of a course of trifling during the term of apprenticeshipquite as common as trifling at school-that always lands those who indulge in it in the hapless position of the inferior workman."

There is much honest truth in this observation. At the same time, it is clear that the circumstances under which Hugh Miller was brought up and educated, are not enjoyed by all workmen,-are indeed, experienced by comparatively few. In the first place, his parentage was good-his father and mother were a self-helping, honest, intelligent pair, in humble circumstances, but yet comparatively comfortable. Thus, his early education was not neglected. His relations were sober, industrious, and "God-fearing," as they say in the north. His uncles were not his least notable instructors. One of them was a close observer of nature, and in some sort a scientific man, possessed of a small but good library of books. Then Hugh Miller's own constitution was happily framed. As one of his companions once said to him, "Ah, Miller, you have stamina in you, and will force your way; but I want strength: the world will never hear of me." It is the stamina which Hugh Miller possessed by nature, that were born in him, and were carefully nurtured by his parents, that enabled him as a working man to rise, while thousands would have sunk, or merely plodded on through life, in the humble station in which they were born. And this difference in stamina, and other circumstances, is not sufficiently taken into account by Hugh Miller in the course of the interesting, and on the whole, exceedingly profitable remarks which he makes his autobiography, on the condition of the labouring poor.

We can afford, in our brief space, to give only a very rapid outline of Hugh Miller's fifteen years' life as a workman. He worked away in the quarry for some time, losing many of his finger-nails by bruises and accidents, growing fast, but gradually growing stronger, and obtaining a fair knowledge of his craft as a stone-hewer. He was early subjected to the temptation which besets most young workmen-that of drink. But he resisted it bravely. His own account of it is worthy of extract:

"When overwrought, and in my depressed moods, I learned to regard the ardent spirits of the dram-shop as high luxuries; they gave lightness and energy to both body and mind, and substituted for a state of dulness and gloom one of exhilaration and enjoyment. Usquebhae was simply happiness doled out by the glass, and sold by the gill. The drinking usages of the profession in which I laboured were at this time many; when a foundation was laid, the workmen were treated to drink; they were treated to drink when the walls were levelled for laying the joists; they were treated to drink when the building was finished; they were treated to drink when an apprentice joined the squad; treated to drink when his "apron was washed;' treated to drink when his time was out;' and occasionally they learnt to treat one another to drink. In laying down the foundation stone of one of the larger houses built this year by Uncle David and his partner, the workmen had a royal 'founding-pint,' and two whole glasses of the whiskey came to my share. A full-grown man would not have deemed a gill of usquebhae an overdose, but it was considerably too much for me; and when the party broke up, and I got home to my books, I found, as I opened the pages of a favourite author, the letters dancing before my eyes, and that I could no longer master the sense. I have the volume at present before me, a small edition of the Essays of Bacon, a good deal worn at the corners by the friction of the pocket, for of Bacon I never tired. The condition into which I had brought myself, was, I felt, one of degradation. I had sunk, by my own act, for the time, to a lower level of intelligence than that on which it was my privilege to be placed; and though the state could have been no very favourable one for forming a resolution, I in that hour determined that I should never again sacrifice my capacity of intellectual enjoyment to a drinking usage; and, with God's help, I was enabled to hold my determination." A young working mason, reading Bacon's Essays in his bye-hours, must certainly be regarded as a remarkable man; but not less remarkable is the exhibition of moral energy and noble self-denial in the instance we have cited. Yes, Hugh Miller had the stamina in him, as a boy and as a youth, and hence he has now the stamina of a Man.

It was while working as a mason's apprentice, that the lower old red sandstone along the Bay of Cromarty presented itself to his notice; and his curiosity was excited and kept alive by the infinite organic remains, principally of old and extinct species of fishes, ferns, and ammonites, which lay revealed along the coasts by the washings of waves, or were exposed by the stroke of his mason's hammer. He never lost sight of this subject; went on accumulating observations, comparing formations, until at length, when no longer a working mason, many years afterwards, he gave to the world his highly interesting work on the Old Red Sandstone, which at once established his reputation as an accomplished scientific geologist. But this work was the fruit of long years of patient observation and research. As he modestly states in his autobiography, "the only merit to which I lay claim in the case is that of patient research-a merit in which whoever wills may rival or surpass me; and this humble faculty of patience, when rightly developed, may lead to more extraordinary developments of idea than even genius itself." And he adds

how he deciphered the divine ideas in the mechanism and framework of creatures in the second stage of vertebrate existence.

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But it was long before Hugh Miller accumulated his extensive geological observations, and acquired that selfculture which enabled him to shape them into proper form. He went on diligently working at his trade, but always observing, and always reflecting. He says he could not avoid being an observer; and that the necessity which made him a mason, made him also a geologist. In the winter months, during which mason work is generally superseded in country places, he occupied his time with reading, sometimes with visiting country friends-persons of an intelligent caste-and often he strolled away amongst old Scandinavian ruins and Pictish forts, speculating about their origin and history. He made good use of his leisure. And when spring came round again, he would set out into the Highlands, to work at building and hewing jobs with a squad of other masons-working hard, and living chiefly on oatmeal brose. Some of the descriptions given by him of life in the remote Highland districts, are extremely graphic and picturesque, and have all the charm of entire novelty. The kind of accommodation which he experienced may be inferred from the observation made by a Highland laird to his uncle James, as to the use of a crazy old building left standing beside a group of neat modern offices. "He found it of great convenience," he said, 'every time his speculations brought a drove of pigs, or a squad of masons that way." This sort of life and its surrounding circumstances were not of a poetical cast; yet the youth was now about the poetizing age, and during his solitary rambles after his day's work, by the banks of the Conon, he meditated poetry, and began to make verses. He would sometimes write them out upon his mason's kit, while the rain was dropping through the roof of the apartment upon the paper on which he wrote. It was a rough life for poetic musing, yet he always contrived to mix up a high degree of intellectual exercise and enjoyment with whatever manual labour he was employed upon; and this, after all, is one of the secrets of a happy life. While observing scenery, and natural history, he also seems to have very closely observed the characters of his fellow-workmen, and he gives us vivid and life-like portraits of some of the more remarkable of them, in his Autobiography. There were some rough, and occasionally very wicked fellows among his fellow-workmen, but he had strength of character, and sufficient inbred sound principle, to withstand their contamination. He was also proud,-and pride in its proper place, is an excellent thing, particularly that sort of pride which makes a man revolt from doing a mean action, or anything which would bring discredit on the family. This is the sort of true nobility which serves poor men in good stead sometimes, and it certainly served Hugh Miller well.

His apprenticeship ended, he "took jobs" for himself, built a cottage for his aunt Jenny, which still stands, and, after that, went out working as journeyman mason. In his spare hours he was improving himself by the study of practical geometry, and made none the worse a mason on that account. While engaged in helping to build a mansion on the western coast of Ross-shire, he extended his geological and botanical observations, noting all that was remarkable in the formation of the district. He also drew his inferences from the condition of the people,-being very much struck, above other things, with the remarkably contented state of the Celtic population, although living in filth and misery. On this he shrewdly observes," It was one of the palpable characteristics of our Scottish Highlanders, for at least the first thirty years of the century, that they were contented enough, as a people, to find more to pity than to envy in the condition of their Lowland neighbours; and

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