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stretch of ocean to Australia. In 1858, a bottle travelled from Manilla to the Moluccas, about 1,000 miles, in six months, showing that there are pretty active influences at work in those seas, even without allowing for any unknown sojourn of the bottle on the shore. This sojourn is indeed sometimes a long one. A bottle from the Thunder, in 1847, was nearly three years before it was picked up; one from the Lark, in 1838, four years; one from the Manning, in 1810, five years; one from the Lady Louisa, in 1830, nine years; one from the Symmetry, in 1825, ten years; one from the Carslialton Park, in 1827, eleven years. The most lengthened delay ever recorded, was that of a bottle from the Blonde, which, thrown into the sea on the 23d of September, 1826, on a voyage from Liverpool to New York, was picked up on the French coast on the 15th of June, 1842— nearly sixteen years afterwards. How long it had remained in that spot no one can tell. It has been contended by some persons, seamen, savans, and others, that the voyages of the bottles are often too capricious to render much scientific service; and they appeal to the bottle-chart for many curious instances of this. Some authorities assert that there is a current to the east from Labrador and Newfoundland towards the British Islands; yet Sir John Boss asserts, that in

1818, he threw into the sea twenty-five copper cylinders, when his arctic ship was about entering Davis' Strait; and not one of these floating cylinders was ever known to come to band—a fact which appeared to him some-" what incompatible with received notions. In

1819, two bottles were thrown out on one day from the Newcastle; one was picked up on the coast of Ireland, and the other at the far-distant Azores.

But it is very fairly contended, on the other hand, that these so-called " capricious" voyages are not capricious at all; but depend on physical causes which, though not well understood at present, may by and by be rendered intelligible by these very voyages themselves. One or more of Boss' cylinders may, for aught we know, be at this moment snugly housed in some creek or cove among the scantily inhabited Hebrides. Of the two bottles, one of which travelled to Ireland, and the other to the Azores, both may have travelled together to the lastnamed place, where one ran ashore, while the other got into another current which swept it round to Ireland; for it is known that some of the bottles take remarkably circuitous routes, according as they are caught in particular currents. Thus, a bottle was thrown into the sea from the Prima Donna ship in 1850, off Cape Coast in Africa; it was picked up on the coast of Cornwall; and

from the course of the various currents, it is believed that this bottle had been first carried south by the Guinea current, then west by the equatorial current, then north-west into the Gulf of Mexico, and then by the Gulf Stream to Cornwall. Many singular examples are on record, tending to show that, on an average, there is an eastward movement of the surface-drift in the northern part of the Atlantic, and a westward in the tropical part. The Corsair threw out two bottles in 1838; one was picked up 160 miles off, the other 250 miles, but both had followed nearly the same general direction. The Blonde, already mentioned, threw out two bottles in 1826, within five days of each other; one was espied fourteen years afterwards, and the other nearly sixteen years, but both nearly on the same part of the French coast. The Alexander threw out two bottles on the same day in 1818; both were found fourteen months afterwards on our western coasts. When Captains Collinson and M'Clure started for Behring's Strait in 1850, in search of Sir John Franklin, they both threw bottles into the sea while sailing down the Atlantic: the bottle from the Investigator (M'Clure) was launched on the 22d of February, about GOO miles north of the equator; that from the Enterprise (Collinson) was launched nearly at the equator, on the 3d of March. After voyages of 186 and 367 days, respectively, these bottles were picked up almost exactly at the same spot on the Honduras coast. The Wellington threw out two bottles in 1836, on two consecutive days: one was found nine months afterwards, the other, not till after four years; but this was due to the fact that the second bottle happened to reach the same coast at a spot very little frequented. The direction of the current, or at least of the surface-drift, was very singularly shown by the voyage of a bottle in 1842. A ship left Thurso with Highland emigrants for Canada; when 1,500 miles out, a bottle was launched; and this bottle found its way to a part of the coast within two miles of the very port whence the ship had sailed five months before.

Few persons now doubt the usefulness of this system. All we have to guard against is, hasty inferences from the details of any particular voyage. Captain Bechcr remarks, in connection with one of his charts: "The uniformity in the direction of the courses between the points of departure and arrival is very remarkable in most parts of the chart. In the equatorial regions, and in the more northern latitudes, when the effects of the Gulf Stream and westerly winds prevail, this uniformity of direction is remarkable; as also the courses of those few which have been thrown over on the eastern limits of that stream. So that in many parts of the ocean before us, a good guess might be made at the direction which a bottle would take when committed to the sea. So far as the surfacedrift is concerned, the experiment has been successful." The admiralty share this opinion; for they have encouraged the officers of the queen's ships to launch a bottle occasionally.

Of the thousands — nay, millions — of beer-bottles, pale-ale bottles, wine bottles, brandy-bottles, pickle-bottles which are taken out annually by ships leaving our shores, any one is suitable for this purpose, if properly secured; but Captain Fishbourne, of the hydrographcr's department, has suggested a better arrangement for those who really wish to regard this matter as one of scientific interest. He suggests that the bottles should be made white by the introduction of oxide of arsenic into the liquid glass of which they are made, in order that they may be more visible while floating. He also advises that, when a bottle is picked up at sea (not on the shore), it should be opened, the paper read, and another paper inserted with it, stating the particulars of the finding; after which the bottle is to be again sealed, and thrown into the sea at once. If this were done three or four times in succession, three or four points in the track of the bottle would be made known, and a rough approximation to its curve of movement might be made. So far as we can detect, by examining the chart and records, this ingenious suggestion has not yet been acted on.

One of the most remarkable examples on record, not of the voyage, but of the finding, of a floating messenger, occupied the attention of newspaper-readers eight or nine years

I ago. It is known that in 1493, Columbus, when near the Azores, encountered a dreadful storm; and it is stated in an old book of

! voyages that, on that occasion, being doubt

'. ful whether he would live to reach Spain again, he wrote a few particulars of his voyage on a piece of parchment, enclosed it in a keg or small wooden cask, and cast- it into the sea — hoping that the document might reach the hands of his joint sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella. On the 27th of August, 1851 (so said the Times, on the authority of an American newspaper), Captain d'Auberville, in the bark Chief tain of Boston, picked up a floating substance on the African coast, opposite Gibraltar. It was so covered with barnacles and sea-shells that its nature could^ not at first be determined; but on closer scrutiny, it proved to be a small cedar kef*. When opened, the keg displayed within it a cocoanut shell, coated with some resinous composition; and within the cocoanut was a piece of parchment covered with very old writing, which none on board could read. A merchant at Gibraltar, however, deciphered it, and found that it purported to be written by Christopher Columbus in 1493; that the ship was in a dreadful storm between Spain and the Azores; and that Columbus had determined to throw these documents, in three kegs, into the sea, in the hope that one of them, at least, might reach the shore. This story is so interesting that one yearns to believe it true. A keg might have remained for more than three centuries and a half unseen on the African coast; but still, we ask, where is the keg, and where is the parchment? There are persons in Europe who would almost give its weight in gold for such a precious testimony of the great

I navigator.

M. Delaunay is engaged in preparing a set of tables of the moon's motions, which are in process of publication by the Academy of Sciences. M. Lo Vcrrier objected to them that they were incorrect,—that his theory of the moon's motion did not concur with the observations. M. Dclaumty replied with much acrimony, and a pretty quarrel ensued, which for several weeks crowded the stances of the Academy. When M. Lo Vcrrier's last reply was finished in llie s&ince of March 12th, the greater portion of the audience left the hall. M. Dumas, the great chemist, is said to have remarked, with

much bitterness: "I did not know that there were so many astronomers in Paris."

Bcrying In Cross-roads.—The practice of burying in cross-roads has in modern times been regarded as a mark of indignity; but such was not its original intention. In ancient limes, "it was usual to erect crosses at the junction of four cross-roads ns a place self-consecrated, according to the piety of the age; and it was not with a notion of indignity, but in a spirit of charity, that those excluded from holy rites were buried at the crossing roads, as places next in sanctity to consecrated ground."—British Magazine.

FART II. CHAPTER VI.

"My pride, that took Fully easily aU'impressions from below, Would not look up, or half despised the height, To which I could not, or I would not climb, I thought I could not breathe in that fino air." —Idyls Of The Kino.

"Can you come and take a turn in the Temple Gardens, Phoebe?" asked Robert, on tie way from church, the day after Owen's visit to Woolstone Lane.

Phoebe rejoiced, for she had scarcely seen him since his return from Castle Blanch, and his state of mind was a mystery to her. It was long, however, before he afforded her any clue. He paced on, grave and abstracted, and they had many times gone up and down the least frequented path, before he abruptly said, "I have asked Mr. Parsons to give me a title for Holy Orders."

"I don't quite know what that means."

"How simple you are, Phoebe," he said, impatiently; "it means that St. Wulstan's should bo my first curacy. May my labors be accepted as an endeavor to atone for some of the evil we cause here."

"Dear Robin! what did Mr. Parsons say? Was he not very glad?"

"No; there lies the doubt."

"Doubt?"

"Yes. He told me that he had engaged as many curates as he has means for. I answered that my stipend need be no consideration, for I only wished to spend on the parish, but he was not satisfied. Many incumbents don't like to have curates of independent means; I believe it has an amateur appearance."

"Mr. Parsons cannot think you would not be devoted."

"I hope to convince him that I may be trusted. It is all that is left me now."

"It will be very cruel to you, and to the poor people, if he will not," said Phoebe, warmly; "what will papa and Mervyn say?"

"I shall not mention it till all is settled; I have my father's consent to my choice of a profession, and I do not think myself bound to let him dictate my course as a minister. I owe a higher duty, and if his business scatters the seeds of vice, surely, 'obedience in the Lord' should not prevent me for trying to counteract them."

It was a case of conscience to be only judged by himself, and where even a sister

like Phoebe could do little but hope for the best, so she expressed a cheerful hope that her father must know that it was right, and that he would care less, now that he was away, and pleased with Augusta's prospects.

"Yes," said Robert, "he already thinks me such a fool, that it may be indifferent to him in what particular manner I act it out."

"And how does it stand with Mr. Parsons?"

"He will give me an answer to-morrow evening, provided I continue in the same mind. There is no chance of my not doing so. My time of suspense is over!" and the words absolutely sounded like relief, though the set, stern face, and the long breaths at each pause told another tale.

"I did not think she would really have gone!" said Phoebe.

"This once, and we will mention her no more. It is not merely this expedition, but all I saw at Wrapworth convinced me that I should risk my faithfulness to my calling by connecting myself with one, who, with all her loveliness and generosity, lives upon excitement. She is the very light of poor Prendergast's eyes, and he cannot endure to say a word in her dispraise; she is constantly doing acts of kindness in his parish, and is much beloved there, yet he could not conceal how much trouble she gives him by her want of judgment and wilfulness; patronizing and forgetting capriciously, and attending to no remonstrance. You saw yourself the treatment of that schoolmistress. I thought the more of this, because Prendergast is so fond of her, and does her full justice. No; her very aspect proves that a parish priest has no business to think of her."

Large tears swelled in Phoebe's eyes. The first vision of her youth was melting away, ! and she detected no relenting in his grave, | resolute voice.

"Shall you tell her?" was all she could say.

"That is the question. At one time she gave me reason to think that she accepted a claim to be considered in my plans, and understood what I never concealed. Latterly she lias appeared to withdraw all encouragement, to reject every advance, and yet— Phoebe, tell me, whether she has given you any reason to suppose that she ever was in earnest with me."

"I know she respects and likes you better than any one, and speaks of you like no one else," said Phoebe; then pausing, and speaking more diffidently, though with e smile, "I think she looks up to you so much, that she is afraid to put herself in your power, for fear she should be made to give up her odd ways in spite of herself, and yet that she has no notion of losing you. l)id you see her face at the station?"

"I would not! I could not meet her eyes! I snatched my hand from the little clinging fingers;" and Robert's voice almost became a gasp. "It was not fit that the spell should be renewed. She would be miserable, I under constant temptation, if I endeavored to make her share my work! Best as it is! She has so cast me off' that my honor is no longer bound to her; but I cannot tell whether it be due to her to let her know how it is with me, or whether it would be mere coxcombry."

"The Sunday that she spent here," said Phoebe, slowly, " she had a talk with me. I wrote it down. Miss Fcnnimore says it is the safest way—"

"Where is it? " cried Robert.

"I kept it in my pocket-book, for fear any one should see it, and it should do harm. Here it is, if it will help you. I am afraid I made things worse, but I did not know what to say."

It was one of the boldest experiments ever made by a sister; for what man could brook the sight of an unvarnished statement of his proxy's pleading, or help imputing the failure to the go-between?

"I would not have had this happen for a thousand pounds!" was his acknowledgment. "Child as you are, Phoebe, had you not sense to know, that no woman could endure to have that said, which should scarcely be implied? I wonder no longer at her studied avoidance."

"If it be all my bad management, cannot it be set right? " humbly and hopefully said Phoebe.

"There is no right!" he said. "There, take it back. It settles the question. The security you childishly showed, was treated as offensive presumption on my part. It would be presuming yet further to make a formal withdrawal of what was never accepted."

"Then is it my doing? Have I made mischief between you, and put you apart?" said poor Phoebe, in great distress. "Can't I make up for it?"

"You? No, you were oniy an over plainspoken child, and brought about the crisis, that must have come somehow. It is not what you have done, or not done; it is what Lucy Sandbrook has said and done, that shows that I must have done with her forever."

"And yet," said Phoebe, taking this as forgiveness, "you see she never believed that you would give her up. If she did, I am sure she would not have gone."

"She thinks her power over me stronger than my principles. She challenges me — desires you to tell me so. We shall see."

He spoke as a man whose steadfastness had been defied, and who was piqued on proving it to the utmost. Such feelings may savor of the wrath of man; they may need the purifying of chastening, and they often impel far beyond the bounds of sober judgment j but no doubt they likewise frequently render that easy which would otherwise have appeared impossible, and which, if done in haste, may be regretted, but not repented, at leisure.

Under some circumstances, the harshness of youth is a healthy symptom, proving force of character and conviction, though that is only when the foremost victim is self. Robert was far from perfect, and it might be doubted whether he were entering the right track in the right way, but at least his heart was found, and there was a fair hope that his failings in working their punishment, might work their cure.

It was a thorough brotherly and Christian spirit that before entering the •house, he compelled himself to say, "Don't vex yourself, Phoebe, I know you did the best you could, as kindly as you could. It made no real difference, and it was best that she should know the truth."

"Thank you, dear Robin," cried Phoebe, grateful for the consolation; "I am glad you do not think I misrepresented."

"You are always accurate," he answered. "If you did any thing undesirable, it was representing at all. But that is nothing to the purpose. It is all over now, and thank you for your constant good-will and patience, my dear. There! now then it is an understood thing that her name is never spoken between us."

Meanwhile, Robert's proposal was under discussion by the elders. Mr. Parsons had no abstract dread of a wealthy curate, but he hesitated to accept gratuitous services, and distrusted plans formed under the impulse of disappointment or of enthusiasm, since, in the event of a change, both parties might bo embarrassed. There was danger, too, of collisions with his family, and Mr. Parsons took counsel with Miss Charlecote, knowing indeed that where her affections were concerned, her opinions must be taken with a qualification, but relying on the good sense formed by rectitude of purpose.

Honor's affection for Robert Fulmort had always been moderated by Owen's antagonism, her moderation in superlatives commanded explicit credence, and Mr. Parsons inferred more, instead of less, than she expressed; better able as he was to estimate that manly character, gaining force with growth, and though slow to discern between good and evil, always firm to the duty when it was once perceived, and thus rising with the elevation of the standard. The undemonstrative temper, and tardiness in adopting extra habits of religious observance and profession, which had disappointed Honor, struck the clergyman as evidences both of sincerity and evenness of development, proving the sterling reality of what had been attained.

"Not taking, but trusty," judged the vicar.

But the lad was an angry lover. How tantalizing to be offered a fourth curate, with a long purse, only to find St. Wulstan's serving as an outlet for a lover's quarrel, and the youth restless and restive ere the end of his diaconate!

"How savage you are," said his wife, "as if the parish would bo hurt by his help or his presence. If he goes—let him go—some other help will come."

"And don't deprive him of the advantage of a good master," said Honor.

"This wretched cure is not worth flattery," he said, smiling.

"Nay," said Mrs. Parsons, "how often have I heard you rejoice that you started here."

"Under Mr. Charlecote, yes."

"You are the depository of his traditions," said Honor, " hand them on to Robert. I wish nothing better for Owen."

•Mr. Parsons wished something better for

THIED SEB1ES. LIVING AGE. 506.

himself, and averted a reply, by speaking of Robert as accepted.

Robert's next request was to be made useful in the parish, while preparing for his ordination in the autumn ember week, and though there were demurs as to unnecessarily anticipating the strain on health and strength, he obtained his wish in mercy to a state only to be alleviated by the realities of labor.

So few difficulties were started by his family, that Honora suspected that Mr. Fulmort, always chiefly occupied by what was immediately before him, hardly realized that by taking an assistant curacy at St. Wulstan's, his son became one of the pastors of Whittington streets, great and little, Richard Courts, Cicely Row, Alice Lane, Cat Alley, and Turnagain Corner. Scarcely, however, was this settled, when a despatch arrived from Dublin, headed, "The Fast Fly Fishers j or, the modern St. Kevin," containing in Ingoldsby legend-like rhymes, the entire narration of the Glendalough predicament of the "Fast and Fair," and concluding with a piece of prose, by the same author, assuring his 6weet Honey, that the poem though strange, was true, that he had just seen the angelic anglers on board the steamer, and it would not bo for lack of good advice on his part, if Lucy did not present herself at Woolstone Lane, to partake of the dish called humble pie, on the derivation whereof antiquaries were divided.

Half amused, half vexed by his levity, and wholly relieved and hopeful, Honora could not help showing Owen's performance to Phoebe for the sake of its cleverness, but she found the child too young and simple to enter into it, for the whole effect was an entreaty that Robert might not see it, only hear the facts.

Rather annoyed by this want of appreciation of Owen's wit, Honora saw, nevertheless, that Phoebe had come to a right conclusion. The breach was not likely to be diminished by finding that the wilful girl had exposed herself to ridicule, and the Fulmort nature had so little sense of the ludicrous, that this good-natured brotherly satire would be taken for mere dension.

So Honor left it to Phoebe to give her own version, only wishing that the catastrophe had come to his knowledge before his ar

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