From these and many other indications, it is only a fair inference that a foundation must exist, at some hitherto unknown distance, below the sand, and that such sub-stratum is chalk; and certainly as probable as that the Goodwin itself was ever a portion of the county of Kent. To ascertain the depth and nature of this sub-stratum, and to connect such into a foundation for the light-house, is the important problem which it is the object of this projected experiment to solve; though, whether this foundation be at a depth of thirty, fifty, or even one hundred feet, it becomes only a question of cost and labour, for the caissoon is equally capable of accomplishing one depth as well as the other, as a well-shaft can be sunk to thrice the number of feet below the earth-the difference being only the cost and labour of the experiment; and water being the object of search in the one instance, and terra firma in the other. The caissoon may, in one point of view, be described as an enormous diving bell; and a diving-bell it certainly is, as far as affording the means of working under water to an extent hitherto unattempted. But it is something more. It is a diving-bell which, by excavation, will enable these operations to be pursued, to any depth, through the water, and even through this semi-liquid sand. Unlike the diving-bell, when brought to its situation and permanently sunk, and the period of its office over, this caissoon becomes part and parcel of the very foundation which, in the first instance, it was intended to accomplish, for its void will then be filled in with solid masonry, upon which the superstructure will hereafter be erected.

The caissoon is composed of cast-iron plates, of a conical shape, thirty feet diameter at the base, the upper diameter being twenty-five feet, and thirty feet in height. These plates are arranged in courses or tiers, each six feet high, and twenty-four plates in each tier. The whole of the horizontal and vertical joints are connected together with flanches and bolts, and afterwards cemented, with iron-cement, through the joints, to render the machine perfectly air and watertight. The section is divided into three chambers. In the lower chamber the work of excavation will be carried on. This chamber has a domed top, with a covered aperture or air-tight valve, four feet in diameter in the centre, communicating with the chamber above. The second chamber has an upward and external communication, by means of a cylinder, four feet in diameter, also covered by a valve, to be opened as required. This chamber is fitted with air-pumps, valves, and air gauges, to obtain and regulate the necessary supply of air for the workmen during the progress of the works. For the supply of air, another difference will be apparent from the process employed in the common diving-bell: for, instead of the air being forced down from above, according to the usual method, the pumps stationed below draw the air from above, with all the pressure of the atmosphere in favour of their action, instead of forcing against it. As the process of

excavation is carried on in the lower chamber through this cylinder, the sand and spoil removed will be discharged over the top of the aperture into the sea, and the gradual sinking of the caissoon effected by its removal.

The third, or upper chamber, is covered air and watertight, excepting by means of the valves, through which air is supplied, and is fitted as a residence for the workmen during the progress of the works. The caissoon being sunk, the work of excavation will be commenced. This will be carried on in a similar manner to that pursued with the kit of a well, or rather as were the shafts at the entrance to the Thames Tunnel, with the only difference that these are on land. The workmen, however, in each case, are stationed within the cylinder, where they excavate; and, by their operations, and the removal of the spoil, the gradual sinking of either shaft or caissoon is effected, proceeding downwards until a solid foundation is obtained. The surface will then be levelled, and the lower flanch of the caissoon brought to a permanent and solid bearing. After this process has been completed, the masonry will commence, and the whole centrical contents of the caissoon will be filled in with solid masonry, which will be further protected by the outer coating of cast-iron. The conical form of the caissoon thus embedded in the sand, which will silt in upon it, will secure the whole body so firmly, that,

CHILDHOOD.

TO MY ONLY SISTER.

DOST thou remember how we lived at home-
That it was like an oriental place,
Where right and wrong, and praise and blame did come
By ways we wondered at, and durst not trace;
And gloom and sadness were but shadows thrown
From griefs that were our sire's, and not our own?
It was a moat about our souls, an arm

Of sea, that made the world a foreign shore;
And we were too enamoured of the charin

To dream that barks might come and waft us o'er.
Cold snow was on the hills; and they did wear
Too wild and wan a look to tempt us there.
We had traditions of our own, to weave

A web of creed and rite and sacred thought;
And when a stranger, who did not believe

As they who were our types of God had taught,
Came to our home, how harsh his words did seem,
Like sounds that mar, but cannot break, a dream.
And then in Scripture some high things there were,
Of which they said we must not read or talk ;
And we, through fear, did never trespass there,
But made our Bibles like our twilight walk
In the deep woodlands, where we durst not roam
To spots from whence we could not see our home.
Albeit we fondly hoped, when we were men,

To learn the lore our parents loved so well,
And read the rites and symbols which were then
But letters of a word we could not spell-
Church-bells, and Sundays when we did not play,
And Sacraments at which we might not stay.
But we too soon from our safe place were driven;
The world broke in upon our orphaned life.
Dawnings of good, young flowers that looked to Heaven,
It left untilled for what seemed manlier strife;
Like a too-early summer, bringing fruit
Where spring perchance had meant another shoot!
Some begin life too soon,-like sailors thrown

Upon a shore where common things look strange; Like them they roam about a foreign town,

And grief awhile may own the force of change. Yet, though one hour new dress and tongue may please, Our second thoughts look homeward, ill at ease. Come then unto our childhood's wreck again— The rocks hard by our father's early grave; And take the few chance treasures that remain, And live through manhood upon what we save. So shall we roam the same old shore at will! In the fond faith that we are children still.

The Rev. F. W. Faber.

New Books.

THE TEMPTER AND THE TEMPTED. BY THE
BARONESS CALABRALLA.

A NOVEL of high life, possessing the naturalness, (a clumsy but expressive term,) of every-day existence, is a

ing source of love existing in our own souls, that we cannot believe that words of kindness are but lip-deep, that professions are but vain and idle mockeries, and that what the world calls friendship is at best but a name.' And yet, who would thus seek to enlighten youth? Who would withdraw the veil with which nature herself has invested it?

"The Tempter and the Tempted" belongs to the first class of works above indicated. It is so full of truthful nature, that although a fiction, it is as rational as fact. The construction of the story, and the general style, are original; though, possibly, they may occasionally remind us of the powerful fictions of Bulwer, the master-mind of his school. Yet, the work before us differs widely from either of his novels, in its excellent tone of feeling, and its extreme delicacy, such as none but a woman could have displayed. There are, besides, keenness and playful satire of worldly weaknesses; and many temperate and charitable rebukes of social infirmities-especially of those which beset the female character. Moreover, there is not a line of coarseness, nor a tinge of vulgarity in these volumes; although the scenes and incidents neither lack vigour nor startling interest. We shall not be expected to trace the plot, and have, indeed, only space to glance at the characters. Caroline is an exquisitely feminine impersonation of womanly virtues, and not a mere heroine on paper: we find her an orphan, left to the guardianship of a worldly-minded aunt, who tolerated the charge, hoping to make her large fortune available to the necessities of an only son, whose patrimony she had, in a great measure, dissipated. Her guardian spirit, however, is Lord Stavondale, a veteran British admiral, who had been her father's friend, and who proposed to make his lovely charge his wife. She rejects him for a man every way his inferiorin rank, in wealth, in character, in appearance, and nearly his equal in age: her conduct appeared to him frivolous and unworthy; and he marked his disapprobation of it by an unbending coldness: she would have told the old sailor the truth; but a strong sense of filial duty for her still tenderly lamented mother, made her hesitate to expose the errors of the guardian she had selected for her, and sealed her lips on the causes that led to this illassorted union; and it was never but with horror that she admitted, even to herself, how basely and treacherously she had been sold; so, not choosing to divulge the truth, she avoided all explanation, and allowed him to suppose her the capricious being she appeared. The noble admiral soon dies; but, his spirit is the good genius of the story, or rather of the heroine. Her wretch of a husband, Sullivan, is a reckless gamester, and leaves his wife to the world, whilst she receives a good share of its homage. The following reflections are touchingly beautiful :

"It is not to be supposed-young, handsome, and utterly neglected by her husband,-that Caroline did not become a marked object for the idle and the vicious to flutter round. She had been treacherously sacrificed, (though she dreamt not now, nor for years to come, how treacherously,) by one who affected to be her friend at the period of her marriage; but her heart was still too pure, her mind was yet too fresh, to believe that because one had proved deceitful, all were to be mistrusted. Alas, how hard a lesson for youth to learn is mistrust! Cold and languid indeed must be the pulsations

of that heart, which in early life does not fearlessly welcome the sweet voice of affection, and believe its honeyed words. In youth, we feel in ourselves such a mine of tenderness, the treasury of our affections is so full, there is such an overflow

truth! In the very happiest life, how soon does some vain and worldly idea force itself on the once candid mind, and teach it to suspect that all may not really be as it seems; the till then pure and trusting heart is startled at the thought, and begins to reflect on words, to examine purposes, to probe feelings, that were before believed in as truths, relied on as certainties, adopted and trusted for what they seemed; and, from such examination, what result can be obtained when interest and falsehood are found to fill the place that had appeared sacred to honour and truth? If the bright and golden dream of youth would remain unshaken, (and how sweet and beautiful a dream it is!) the world must remain a closed book. It is not in an atmosphere where infection reigns that the mind can remain healthy, or the principles escape contagion. Happy for those who pass through it so little seared and injured as to be able to look on its vices and crimes with the steady eye of faith fixed on a hope beyond."

of Knaresborough: it is easy to perceive the passion of Early in the story, we are introduced to the noble family the young lord for Caroline, and in this lies the antagonism of the story-the high honour of the nobleman, and the fidelity of the wife, pass through a severe ordeal. The character of Lady Knaresborough, the mother, is well drawn, and the friendship of her daughter with Caroline affectingly portrayed: the former droops beneath consumption:

touching to behold from its silence. She had seen her child "Her poor mother's grief was severe indeed, and the more hoped and fancied she was prepared to part from her. But so long a prey to disease-so gradually passing away, that she who was ever prepared for such bereavements? In the death of a child, there is something so appalling to a parent's heart, that no other loss can be compared to it. Nature seems to have reversed her course, in order to overwhelm us; for it is indeed a fearful mystery, that the beings to whom we have given birth, should leave us behind them."

Sullivan, from heavy losses at play, is compelled to break up his establishment, and with his wife, retires to Paris; where, however, his reckless passion finds better opportu nities for indulgence. The gambling facilities of the French capital are drawn to the life: Sullivan is addicted to false play, is pursued by the police, and here is a glance at his miseries:

"Their pursuit was, however, fruitless; and after suffering from hunger, cold, fatigue, and more than all, from fear of detection, the wretched fugitive entered Munich on a cold and dreary evening. Only twice, during his journey, had he broken his fast; and then a bit of dry bread was all that he dared crave at a door. Money he had none, save a few sous. In his waistcoat pocket was one of his wife's diamond earrings, which had by mistake remained there; but he dared not offer it for sale-it might lead to discovery, and certainly would excite suspicion. Before entering Munich, he had taken off his upper waistcoat (a velvet one): but it was too late to make that available for a night's lodging; and again he wandered about all night, avoiding those parts of the town where his appearance might be remarked."

Caroline's trials in Paris, among her husband's gambling associates, are truly painful; but her wrongs gain her friends, and among them a French admiral, (a friend of Lord Stavondale's,) whose son warns Caroline of her husband's villany: by this means they narrowly escape the police, and fly to Strasburgh, near which place Sullivan is supposed to be killed in crossing a torrent, in a boat with

rarity in these times, when almost every phase of society has its recording romancist-from the coroneted brain that delights to spin the tricasserie of rank and fashion, down to the illiterate pretender, who revels in "conglomerating crimes," and immortalising felons for a year or so, in the pages of his trash and trumpery, that is too foul even for the trunk-maker to employ, without danger to the curious community. Hereafter, many a prying housemaid may waste her master's candle, and peril her own virtue, by tracing the gaieties of Jack Sheppard, or Poll Maggott upon her box-lid; and sigh for their tinsel ere she lay her wearied limbs upon her lone truckle-bed.

"The Tempter and the Tempted" belongs to the first class of works above indicated. It is so full of truthful nature, that although a fiction, it is as rational as fact. The construction of the story, and the general style, are original; though, possibly, they may occasionally remind us of the powerful fictions of Bulwer, the master-mind of his school. Yet, the work before us differs widely from either of his novels, in its excellent tone of feeling, and its extreme delicacy, such as none but a woman could have displayed. There are, besides, keenness and playful satire of worldly weaknesses; and many temperate and charitable rebukes of social infirmities-especially of those which beset the female character. Moreover, there is not a line of coarseness, nor a tinge of vulgarity in these volumes; although the scenes and incidents neither lack vigour nor startling interest. We shall not be expected to trace the plot, and have, indeed, only space to glance at the characters. Caroline is an exquisitely feminine impersonation of womanly virtues, and not a mere heroine on paper: we find her an orphan, left to the guardianship of a worldly-minded aunt, who tolerated the charge, hoping to make her large fortune available to the necessities of an only son, whose patrimony she had, in a great measure, dissipated. Her guardian spirit, however, is Lord Stavondale, a veteran British admiral, who had been her father's friend, and who proposed to make his lovely charge his wife. She rejects him for a man every way his inferiorin rank, in wealth, in character, in appearance, and nearly his equal in age: her conduct appeared to him frivolous and unworthy; and he marked his disapprobation of it by an unbending coldness: she would have told the old sailor the truth; but a strong sense of filial duty for her still tenderly lamented mother, made her hesitate to expose the errors of the guardian she had selected for her, and sealed her lips on the causes that led to this illassorted union; and it was never but with horror that she admitted, even to herself, how basely and treacherously she had been sold; so, not choosing to divulge the truth, she avoided all explanation, and allowed him to suppose her the capricious being she appeared. The noble admiral soon dies; but, his spirit is the good genius of the story, or rather of the heroine. Her wretch of a husband, Sullivan, is a reckless gamester, and leaves his wife to the world, whilst she receives a good share of its homage. The following reflections are touchingly beautiful:

"It is not to be supposed-young, handsome, and utterly neglected by her husband, -that Caroline did not become a marked object for the idle and the vicious to flutter round. She had been treacherously sacrificed, (though she dreamt not now, nor for years to come, how treacherously,) by one who affected to be her friend at the period of her marriage; but her heart was still too pure, her mind was yet too fresh, to believe that because one had proved deceitful, all were to be mistrusted. Alas, how hard a lesson for youth to learn is mistrust! Cold and languid indeed must be the pulsations of that heart, which in early life does not fearlessly welcome the sweet voice of affection, and believe its honeyed words.

ing source of love existing in our own souls, that we cannot believe that words of kindness are but lip-deep, that professions are but vain and idle mockeries, and that what the world calls friendship is at best but a name.' And yet, who would thus seek to enlighten youth? Who would withdraw the veil with which nature herself has invested it? truth! In the very happiest life, how soon does some vain Quickly, alas, too quickly, will its eyes be opened to the cruel and worldly idea force itself on the once candid mind, and teach it to suspect that all may not really be as it seems; the till then pure and trusting heart is startled at the thought, and begins to reflect on words, to examine purposes, to probe feelings, that were before believed in as truths, relied on as certainties, adopted and trusted for what they seemed; and, from such examination, what result can be obtained when interest and falsehood are found to fill the place that had appeared sacred to honour and truth? If the bright and golden dream of youth would remain unshaken, (and how sweet and beautiful a dream it is!) the world must remain a closed book. It is not in an atmosphere where infection reigns that the mind can remain healthy, or the principles escape contagion. Happy for those who pass through it so little seared and injured as to be able to look on its vices and crimes with the steady eye of faith fixed on a hope beyond.”

of Knaresborough: it is easy to perceive the passion of Early in the story, we are introduced to the noble family the young lord for Caroline, and in this lies the antago nism of the story-the high honour of the nobleman, and the fidelity of the wife, pass through a severe ordeal. The character of Lady Knaresborough, the mother, is well drawn, and the friendship of her daughter with Caroline affectingly portrayed: the former droops beneath consumption:

touching to behold from its silence. She had seen her child "Her poor mother's grief was severe indeed, and the more so long a prey to disease-so gradually passing away, that she hoped and fancied she was prepared to part from her. But who was ever prepared for such bereavements? In the death of a child, there is something so appalling to a parent's heart, that no other loss can be compared to it. Nature seems to have reversed her course, in order to overwhelm us; for it is indeed a fearful mystery, that the beings to whom we have given birth, should leave us behind them."

Sullivan, from heavy losses at play, is compelled to break up his establishment, and with his wife, retires to Paris; where, however, his reckless passion finds better opportunities for indulgence. The gambling facilities of the French capital are drawn to the life: Sullivan is addicted at his miseries: to false play, is pursued by the police, and here is a glance

from hunger, cold, fatigue, and more than all, from fear of "Their pursuit was, however, fruitless; and after suffering detection, the wretched fugitive entered Munich on a cold and dreary evening. Only twice, during his journey, had he broken his fast; and then a bit of dry bread was all that he dared crave at a door. Money he had none, save a few sous. In his waistcoat pocket was one of his wife's diamond ear rings, which had by mistake remained there; but he dared not offer it for sale-it might lead to discovery, and certainly would excite suspicion. Before entering Munich, he had taken off his upper waistcoat (a velvet one): but it was too late to make that available for a night's lodging; and again he wandered about all night, avoiding those parts of the town where his appearance might be remarked."