experiments of Dr. Priestley, we may infer that some chemical change takes place in a portion of the water frozen, by which an elastic gas is produced, namely, nitrogen, for he froze the same water successively nine times, (not in contact with air,) and on melting it obtained each time nearly the same proportion of the gas. If we therefore suppose this gas to be produced from the water by the frost, and contained in the ice so long as by the fixity of its particles, it cannot escape, which however it does as soon as the ice is melted, I think it will account for the phenomenon in question; it is however singular that this gas has not been obtained from water by any other means.

INSTITUTIONS.

NEMO.

JUNIOR LITERARY & PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY. I cannot allow your leading article of Nov. 13th, to pass without making a few remarks on the tried utility of the advice there given, in order that your numerous readers may have an opportunity of showing by practice, their agreement with your precepts, and if it is not occupying too much space in valuable Journal, you your would oblige me by inserting this sketch of a Society which is based on a foundation precisely similar to that proposed in your paper, and I feel confident that among your numerous readers there are many to whom such a Society would be of the highest importance.

We meet every Tuesday when a paper is read by one of the members, on some Literary or Philosophical subject, after which its merits are discussed by the class. Out of five nights two are devoted to discussions on fixed subjects, and sometimes recitations in prose or poetry are delivered by various of the members. Literary and Philosophical intelligence is also received at times from corresponding members.

A LIBRARY for the use of the members is also affixed to the Society, and a selection of PHILOSOPHICAL APPARATUS, &c. are in active preparation, the use of which will be granted to the members at their own residence, thus obviating the inconvenience and expense, so generally attending the study of practical sciences. Public lectures are also delivered occasionally to which the members are free.

A class is in the act of formation and will commence as soon as a sufficient number of pupils have entered for the study of PRACTICAL CHEMISTRY, its object being not merely to describe that valuable science, but by the pupils having the power of manipulating themselves, a vast field of useful practical information may be inculcated.

A class for the study of ELOCUTION is also under considera

MECHANIC'S, MOUNT STREET.

On Wednesday, November 17th, John Murray, F.S.A., &c. commenced a course of Lectures on Magnetism and Electricity, at this institution. In the first, he commenced by detailing the early history of magnetism-the loadstone-the mariner's compass, &c., in a plain and systematic order, and concluded by a few general remarks connected with this subject. In his second, which was on Saturday, November the 20th, he commenced by a few preliminary remarks on Electricity, and proceeded to an historical sketch of

that science the effects of the ball and point were also illustrated with many other instructive and interesting experiments. On Wednesday, November 24th, he proceeded to the third Lecture on the Division of Terrestrial Matter into Electrics and Non-Electrics; the lectures were illustrated by very extensive apparatus, and seemed to give general satisfaction.

This day, Saturday, November 27th, Mr. J. Murray delivers his last Lecture, and from the syllabus we may expect a very interesting lecture, and one deserving of particular attention, "The Storm Personal Security-Lightning Rods, &c." form a part.

On Saturday, November 27th, J. Murray, Esq. delivered the fourth and last of his course of Lectures on Magnetism and Electricity at this institution.

After dwelling for some time on Atmospheric Electricity under its various forms, namely Shooting Stars, Aurora Borealis, &c. the lecturer proceeded to make a few remarks on the supposed origin of the colour of Electricity, when exhibited in the spark, which seems to be owing to the presence of ponderable matter, for we find when a spark is taken on a piece of silver, it appears of a green colour, no doubt, owing to its having disolved a small portion of the silver. Mr. Murray, next directed the attention of his audience to the construction of Lightning conductors, observing that of all the metals, iron was the worst conductor, and that the oxide which is collected on its surface was no conductor at all;— this will account in some measure for the number of churches, &c. which have been struck, although they had lightning conductors. Within the last twenty years, upwards of sixty eminences have been struck, and severely injured, all of which had at least, one, and some as many as three iron conductors. Copper next to silver is the best conducting surface, and therefore I have adapted the use of it in all my lightning conductors, which have stood the test of ten years service, without an instance having failed to preserve the house to which they were affixed from danger. Its construction is simple, I take a quantity of copper gas pipeing, which being hollow has two conducting surfaces, one end I place in the ground, or in a trough of water, to the other end which must be at least two feet above the highest part of the house, I affix a hollow cone of copper pierced with several holes, thus a communication is formed with the inside of the tube. To preserve it from rust, I place round its stem a few strips of zinc, which acts on the same principal as that affixed to the copper sheathing of ships, recommended by Davy.

LECTURES FOR THE WEEK.

MECHANICS', MOUNT STREET.

F. W.

Cefu is informed, that all poetry which is neither acknowledged nor inserted, is most certainly rejected-we do not remember our opinion of his verses when we read them-they might have possessed the merit he claims for them -bnt even the subject of them is forgotten.

Bertram Otho in our next.

R. will find the reason of his communication not being accepted, stated on his letter, which has been left at the shop of Mr. Davies.

Letter III on Hours of Business is unavoidably postponed until next week.

Liverpool:-Printed at HUGH GAWTHROP'S General Printing Office, Clarence Buildings, 34, North John-street. Published by CHARLES DAVIES, 32, North John Street.

No. 11.

1841.

ADVENTURES OF HENRY GREENWOOD.

CHAPTER VI.

Reports are usually exaggerated-Emily had not been married, but she was a flirt and indiscreet in her conduct.

Henry's astonishment and chagrin at his newlyacquired information were such as cannot well be described. His attachment to Emily was too deeply rooted to be suddenly shaken off. When he next met her, he explained all that had happened. She expressed much surprise, and denied the charges with indignation. She begged of him, with tears in her eyes, not to break her heart by giving credit to such slanderous reports. He was young and inexperienced. She moved his compassion, and his heart too willingly advocated her cause. After this period they grew more familiar than ever; they exchanged portraits, and as she wore no ring on her finger, he gave her one, which she promised always to wear for his sake. Such strong hold had she of his affections, that, on one occasion, she made him swear that he would never marry any but her. But her real looseness of character became now more apparent every day. She gave Henry every encouragement to test the strength of her virtue, and he found that it was not unassailable. No attachment can long subsist if not sealed by the hand of virtue. By degrees their meetings became less frequent-she had accidently been introduced to another young man, who was as unwary as Greenwood, but, who possessed considerable property. One day Henry met her walking arm in arm with his new rival-he was stupified with astonishment--he rivetted his eyes upon her, and assumed a stern aspect; she tripped past him with a laughing countenance, without bestowing upon him the slightest token of recognition. His first impulse was to turn back and confront her face to face, to charge her with perfidity, and to demand satisfaction from his rival, But he checked himself and with agitated feelings continued the journey he was pursuing. He stalked along "in joyless revery -mingled feelings of love, hate and jealousy raged in his breast; when he arrived at his lodgings he sat down, laid his arms and head upon the table and wept like a child. When he recovered himself, he seized her portrait and looking at it earnestly for a

moment, he exclaimed, "The face is fair but the heart is foul," he then destroyed it, and sitting down again at the table, he wrote the following verses on the subject of his unfortunate attachment.

Of late I dreamed a glorious dream,

The same day after day;

My life passed like a gentle stream,
It softly stole away.

I basked in beauty's radiant eyes,
To me they were as suns;
With thee, oh Love, how fleet time flies,
How smooth the hour glass runs.
Bright days and months rolled on and on-
Love bound me like a spell:

I ne'er enquired if what had gone
Were spent, or ill or well.

My life was one continued calm
Distrust was lulled to sleep:
My heart beat ever true and warm;
I knew not how to weep.

'Twixt Hope and Love I strayed along,

With smiles they cheered the way;
Birds warbled Love in every song,
And all the world seemed gay.

A change, a cruel change o'ercame.
The spirit of my dream,

For Love hath played a treacherous game:
Hope's face hath lost her gleam.

I wiled away my hours with one
Whose every look spoke love;
We wandered oft at eve alone;

She swore she'd faithful prove.

Whene'er I spoke she sweetly smiledApproved of all I said;

From all I loved I felt exiled,

When absent from my maid.

In sport I sometimes used to chide-
To call her a coquet;

She feigned to feel a wounded pride,
Awhile she seemed to fret.

I told her that I sometimes feared
One day she'd prove untrue;
How solemnly she then averred-
Never, while I would woo.

She said, for me her heart would beat,
Until her days were o'er-
Till Memory should quit her seat,
And she could love no more.

After this event, Henry tried to drown all recollection of her by dissipation. He mingled in the crowds of infatuated men who haunt the hells of London. He now had nightly presented before his eyes the darkest view of the character of man. He saw men after they had drunk to intoxication, led off by swindling vagabonds to the gaming table, and speedily stript of all the money in their possession. He frequently heard these poor deluded beings cursing themselves, and in the bitterness of soul, wishing they were dead or that they had never been born. Though the witnessing of such scenes could not do otherwise than loosen his morals, yet, from them he often derived useful and important lessons, and in his more serious moments they often caused him to reflect on the evils of intemperance. He was one night wandering along the streets of London, when a young female attracted his attention. She was wandering about apparently without purpose, she occasionally glanced timidly round, and when by chance her eyes met the bold gaze of the impudent and the curious, she confusedly cast them upon the ground. Partly induced by curiosity and partly by levity, for he had been making rather free with Baccheus' blessings, Henry walked by her side and entered into conversation with her. His hilarity was checked by her melancholy, and every baser feeling was soon overpowered by generous and noble thoughts. He was particularly struck with the beauty of her features, superior manners, and more than all, by her polished conversation. He determined, if possible, to learn her history. He spoke to her in a kind manner, and by degrees learned from her the following account of herself.

presence-I was in love. All this was not unobserved by him, and he took base advantage of the power he possessed over me. When I began to reflect on my situation, I determined, without hesitation, to entreat him to secure me from shame by making me his wife. To this he consented, on condition I would quit my home secretly and go with him to London. I had always been accustomed to place such confidence in him, that I never doubted the sincerity of his word. I accordingly left my home. When we arrived here, he brought me to this house and remained with me a few days. I reminded him of his promise of marriage and entreated him not to delay, After putting a purse into my hand he hurried out of the house, with the intention, he said, of making proper arrangements for the wedding. I waited with anxiety for his return-hour after hour passed tediously over, but he did not again make his appearance. Vague suspicions flitted across my mind -they crowded faster and faster-I began to apprehend the truth and contemplated, with speakless agony the horrors of my situation. "Is it possible," thought I, "that he whom I have so fondly loved, so blindly adored-he for whose sake I have forsaken the kindest of fathers, the sweetest of homes-under whose protection I so confidently placed myselfwhose honor I ever thought above the slightest suspicion-is it possible that he can have the heart to forsake me that his conscience is so seared that he can perpetrate the crime of effecting the ruin of one whose greatest fault was her idolatrous attachment to him? Is it possible, after all, that I am the victim of an unprincipled, unfeeling villain?" When I reflected that I was now alone in the world, without a friend to whom I could apply for relief that I was a voluntary exile from the refuge where I might naturally seek shelter, I threw myself on the ground in a passion of grief and burst into a flood of tears. I had not remained so long ere the mistress of the house entered my room. She affected surprise and sorrow on seeing me in so melancholy an attitude; she spoke to me in a mild, soothing tone of voice, and assured me I should receive every attention. Her promises she faithfully kept until my little stock of money was exhausted, but to day she told me that if I did not replenish my purse I should no longer reside in her house. In the course of her conversation she revealed to me her real character, of which, previously, I had been in ignorance. I fear I have no chance of escape from the net in which I am entangled, though heaven knows how my heart sickens at the thought of the kind of life I'm now doomed to lead."

Henry was much affected with this narrative, and he entertained the laudable desire of doing this unfortunate female a valuable service. He begged her to give him her father's address, and with some reluctance she acceded to his request. He than gave her sufficient money to supply herself with the necessaries of life-told her it was his intention to write to her father, and endeavour to persuade him to pardon her imprudence, and once more allow her to take up her abode under his roof, he then left her, promising to call again in a few days.

CHAPTER VII.

Yet

Henry pondered some time on the fate of the young creature he had just seen; doubts occasionally flashed across his mind concerning the truth of her story, perhaps, said he to himself, she is an accomplished deceiver, and will try to make me a dupe of hers, by some vile stratagem, but that she shall not do. such can not be the case, how simple was the talehow unaffected her manner-however I will write to whom she says is her father, and if the account of herself be really true, and he be possessed of the common feelings of a parent, I doubt not she will yet be saved from the degradation she apparently so much dreads. He accordingly sat down and wrote as follows,

Reverend Sir,

You will pardon the liberty I take of addressing one to whom I am a stranger, when I relate to you the reason of my penning this letter. Accidental circumstances have made me acquainted with a singularly interesting and unfortunate young lady, who, after being urged, gave me an affecting narrative of the cruel deceptions which have reduced her to her present deplorable situation. I have learned that she is your daughter, and that she was prevailed upon to leave her home by the fallacious representations of one who professed to be her lover. He brought her to London and has since left her to her fate. She is now destitute of friends and mo

ney, and fears her only resource is to follow the example of those, who, like her, have been led by the hand of villany astray from the path of virtue. If, sir, this young lady be indeed your daughter, I beg of you in the name of Christianity, as well as that of humanity, again receive her into your house. You know how frail is human nature-reflect, I pray you, on the temptations by which she was beset-a youth well tutored in the ways of the world-fascinating in his manners and continually making to her false promises-she simple and unsuspecting, believing every word he uttered, and daily becoming less and less upon her guard. Think, also, of the miseries she must endure-the deep abyss of vice into which she will be plunged, and the awful end to which she will most probably be hurried, if she be not instantly removed from the scene of iniquity which will be daily before her eyes. Remove her ere it be too late-at present she is comparatively innocent. I am, &c.

HENRY GREENWOOD.

The day after writing the above letter, Henry again went to see the female concerning whose fate he felt so much interested, he told her of his having written to her father, and again presented her with as much money as he could conveniently spare. For his great kindness she thanked him a thousand times and promised, in whatever circumstances it should fall to her lot to be placed, never to cease feeling the warmest gratitude. They conversed a considerable time and Greenwood frequently could not help admiring the extent of knowledge she possessed, and the unaffectedness of her manners. In the course of her conversation, she shewed evidently that she had received an excellent education. She seemed afraid of having an interview with her parent, naturally judging that her misconduct must have roused his anger, and he would heap upon her head the bitterest reproaches. She was reconciled to the trial, however, when she had represented to her the horrible evils to which she would be exposed, if thrust unprotected on the world. Henry then left her. As he walked along he thought what a heartless, abandoned wretch that man must have been who could take advantage of the affection and simple credulity of an innocent and lovely maiden-who could basely and cruelly seduce her from her home and friends, and afterwards leave her to the mercy of the rude multitude.

CHAPTER VIII.

On the third day after, Henry wrote the letter which appears in the preceding chapter, he was called upon by a rather elderly looking gentleman, who was dressed in black, his countenance bespoke a benevolent mind, but on it deep thought, and grief seemed to have taken their seat. The following conversation passed between him and Henry-" May I beg to know if you are the young gentleman who a few days ago, directed a letter toI am, sir," answered Henry, and I suppose by your question that you are the parent of the young lady on whose behalf I took the liberty of writing that letter." "You are not mistaken, and for the disinterested kindness you have displayed in this affair, you shall ever hold a high place in my esteem, and be welcome to any service it may be in my power to render you-" I need no reward" interrupted Henry for having done that which my conscience tells me was only my duty. The pleasure I shall ever feel on the reflection of having sucessfully mediated between a father and his erring daughter-the consciousness of having saved a lovely woman when upon the point of falling into a most fearful precipice, will far more than repay me for the little trouble I have taken.

If

you will accompany me I will conduct you to the house where she for the present resides." Tears trickled down the old man's cheeks as he rose to accompany Henry, his swelling heart would only permit him to sob out, "I owe you many, many thanks young man, excuse this present weakness—you know not a parent's feelings."

They walked side by side a considerable distance without either of them breaking silence, the old man's heart was too full to utter a syllable, and Henry had too much good sense to make inquires, or offer any unsolicited remarks to one whose mind was in such a distressed state, as was his companion's. At length the old man partially recovered his spirits, and turning round to Greenwood, asked him if his daughter was aware of his having received intelligence of herGreenwood answered in the affirmative-" did she inform you what her own wishes were? continued the old man. "She did," answered Greenwood, "she told me that nothing could give her so much pleasure, as again to be in your favor-that while she was innocent she was happy in your presence, that now she was parted from home, she felt for the first time how dearly she loved it-that she saw and repented her guilty conduct in allowing herself to be seduced from home by the accomplished knave; but, continued she, I fear it will be impossible for my father ever again to be reconciled to me, after I have used him so cruelly and even though that were accomplished, yet I could never live as happy as I formerly was-my guilt would ever be present to my recollection, the neighbours would turn their backs upon me, and whisper when they saw me, and I should be shunned and despised by the good, on account of the crime I have committed." They had now arrived at the door of the house in which she was living, the conversation was consequently stayed, and having knocked, and gained admittance, they proceeded to the apartment in which the repentant daughter of the benevolent clergyman was sitting.

arms.

When the door of the apartment was opened, and the young lady beheld the face of her father, her feelings overpowered her, she grew pale as death, and in another instant would have fallen upon the floor, had not Henry rushed forward and caught her in his She was soon restored from her fainting fit, but showed signs of being exceedingly agitated which her father perceving, he endeavoured to console her by the kindest looks, and the most soothing words. He justly judged that under the present afflicted state in which his daughter was, it was his wisest plan to comfort her as much as possible. As soon as

tator.

she had a little recovered from her confusion, and her surprise at her father's kind manner, her gratitude was so great that she threw herself at his feet, declared she was the most guilty, and wretched being on earth, for having behaved so undutifully to him who had ever shown himself her kindest friend, and affectionate parent; with tears streaming in her eyes she implored his forgiveness, and promised that if he again took her home, she would ever be bound to him by the deepest gratitude for having saved from ruin, and death, her whom he had so much just cause to cast from his protection. Her father raised her from the ground, kissed her in the most affectionate manner, promised his forgiveness, and thanked heaven for having restored to him his lost and dearly beloved child. Henry was silent, but not an unmoved specWhile witnessing this scene he had several times to wipe away a trickling tear, and the thought of having been instrumental in this reconciliation, gave him that pure unspeakable joy which only virtue can give. They both then shook Henry by the hand and expressed their feelings rather by looks than words-each said they should ever remember him as their greatest benefactor, and concluded by hoping they should at some future time again have the pleasure of seeing him. They all departed from the house-the father and daughter to the coachoffice, that they might return home by the first conveyance, and Henry to his lodgings, where he sat down, silently congratulating himself on the success of his virtuous undertaking, and inwardly admiring the humane conduct of the sensible and affectionate old man who, instead of leaving his daughter to the mercy of the rude storm,' and forbidding her the choice of repentance and return to virtue, (as, alas! too many parents do in such cases,) took her under his shelter and saved her from becoming a loathsome sink of sin.—To be continued.

BURNS.

What a noble mind Burns had-what fire-what enthusiasm —what imagination-he was, indeed, both a poet and a man. We respect his name, for his integrity of character-for his manliness and independence-for his delicate sense of feeling for others and for his splendid poetry. Of such a man we can easily credit Sir Walter Scott, who says that not one among all the great men he had seen, had eyes equal to his for expression, when he spoke with energy they literally glowed. No wonder that such a man should feel so indignant when he saw the power possessed by, and the difference paid to, any silly, selfish, proud coxcomb, who happened to possess wealth, while he who possessed the only true nobility-the nobility of character and soul-must he content to be ground to the earth by the tyrant, Poverty. When will men learn to reward intellect?