type or general plan is the same; but each individual possesses its own personal existence, and some peculiarity that distinguishes it from its neighbour and brother atom.

There seems nothing now going on strictly analogous to the formation of beds of flint alternating with the fine chalky mud on the Atlantic ocean floor. In this analogy fails, and we are forced to assume that the flint, in a pasty state, or having the consistence of a jelly (as is the case in certain combinations with potash), was only an occasional deposit, no example of it being at present known to us.

Very rarely indeed rolled pebbles of granite, and other distant rock, have been found buried with the chalk and forming part of it. Out of the line of drifted icebergs there would be but few stones and pebbles conveyed now into the Atlantic a few hundreds of miles from the land, so that we need not be astonished that such an event was equally rare in former times. What goes on now is, indeed, only a repetition, with small variations, of previous events; and in geology, according to the best experience of scientific observers, we arrive at the conclusion so often quoted, that "there is nothing new under the sun."

The chalk must be regarded as one deposit of a great multitude-a mere unit in a host. But it abounds with interest and instruction; it illustrates a recent deposit of the most curious kind; it is itself very peculiar, and unlike most others; and it well deserves careful attention. Moreover, it is essentially an English rock, and produces a very distinct scenery in those parts of the country where it prevails. Being strongly marked and easily recognised, and also pretty widely spread, it forms an admirable starting-point for the young geologist; while its position in the great series of rocks adapts it still further for this educational use.

Aged Forty.

No Times! no book!—and I must wait
A full half-hour 'ere Doldrum comes !
Brown would find pictures in the grate,
Jones watch the twirling of his thumbs:
Both noble aims; but, after all,
E'en such delights are apt to pall:-
Confound the stupid place!

What shall I do the time to pass?
I'll give five minutes to the glass,
And contemplate my face.

My face! Is this long strip of skin,
Which bears of worry many a trace,
Of sallow hue, of features thin,
This mass of seams and lines, my face?
The aspect's bad, the glass is wrong,
Some cheating ray must fall along
The surface of the plate!

I've known myself now forty year,
Yet never saw myself appear
In such a sorry state.

I'll speak to Doldrum-wait awhile!
Let's think a bit before deciding.
Of late I've noticed Nelly's smile
Has been less kind and more deriding.
Can I be growing old? Can youth
Have said farewell? The simple truth
I'll have, no doubt concealing;
Straightway I'll put my heart to school,
And though I find I've played the fool,
I'll speak out every feeling..

When introduced to Minnie Blair
Last night, on waltzing purpose bent,
I saw that rosebud smile and stare,
Half pity, half astonishment.

"Engaged," she murmured as I bowed;
But 'ere I mingled with the crowd,

I caught her muttered word

VOL. II.

"I waltz with him! How can Grace bring
Me such a pompous stout old thing?
She's really too absurd!"

A "stout old thing!" Oh, Lucy, love,
Ten long years resting in the grave,
Whose simply-sculptured tomb above
The feathery-tufted grasses wave,-
Couldst thou hear such a term applied
To him who won thee for his bride,

Whose heart for thee nigh broke?

Round whose slim neck thine arm would twine
As round the elm the eglantine,

Or ivy round the oak.

'Twas but last week, in Truefitt's shop,

A man, with aspect grave and calm,

Said I was "thinning at the top,"
And recommended some one's Balm !

What "balm in Gilead" could recall
The mother's touch that used to fall

Upon my childish brow?

That soft sweet hand that used to toy
With thick curl-clusters of her boy-
Where is that mother now?

Gone is my hack, my gallant roan,
Too hot for use. I've in his place
A cob "well up to fourteen stone,"
Of ambling gait and easy pace.

The arm that stopped the Slasher's blow,
Or clave Rhine's flood, hangs listless now,
No grist to any "mill."

The legs so stalwart and so strong,
Which, all unfaltering, climbed Mont Blanc,
Scarce crawl up Primrose Hill.

My heart!-my what ?-ten years have passed,
Ten dreary years of London life

And worldly selfishness, since last

My heart was quickened in Love's strife:

A look would make my pulses dance;

How swift would dim my bright eye's glance

When Grief turned on her main !

I I

Naught makes my eye now brightly glow
Save Mümm's Moselle, or Clos Vougeot,
Or Veuve Clicquot's champagne.

Yet I have known-ay, I have known,
If e'er 'twere given to mortal here,
The pleasure of the lowered tone,
The whisper in the trellised ear;
The furtive touch of tiny feet,
The heart's wild effervescing beat,
The maddened pulses' play:

Those hearts are now all still and cold,
Those feet are 'neath the churchyard mould,
And I have had my day!

What! quiv'ring lips and eyelids wet

At recollection of the dead!

No well-bred man should show regret

Though Youth, though Love, though Hope be fled!
Ha! Doldrum, man, come back! What news?
So Frank's gazetted to the Blues !

And Jack's got his divorce.
I'll toddle down towards the Club;
A cutlet-then our usual “rub”—
You'll join us there, of course!

EDMUND YATES.

Holy Mr. Herbert.

To those worthy people who have followed me throughout my gossips about Robert Herrick, the Cupid-worshiping divine, and Richard Corbet, the jovial bishop of Oxford and Norwich, I make no apology for passing on the present occasion into a sanctuary more pure and holy than Herrick's Devonshire vicarage, and more melancholy than Corbet's fat bishopric. I have now to deal reverently with the memory of a man who in life was admired by the rich and beloved by the poor, while virtually belonging to both—a complete parson, a practical Christian, an apt scholar, and a deep-thinking poet.

"Christes love and his Apostles twelve

He taught, but first he followed it himselve."

Nor shall I be rendered gloomy in thought and constrained in style by the fact that the lay figure on which I purpose working is a model of noble piety and stainless ethics. That lay figure, most sympathetic reader, possesses, apart from the dark religious atmosphere enveloping it, many odd angles of individuality. With a comfortable relish of close human relationship with my heroes, the living and the dead, I have ascertained that "holy Mr. Herbert" had his little foibles. He was not quite perfect, thank goodness; albeit he stood as near the hierarchies as any man or woman I ever saw, heard of, or read about. He entered the vestibule of life with an iron will; and before he reached the inner altar, faith transmuted that invincible will into the solid gold of godliness. The Bible, his philosopher's stone and his elixir vitæ, a purer elixir than that of alchemists like Friar Bacon, and quacks like Paracelsus, was ever in his strong hand, serving as a charm nobler than those of Circe, more potent than that which renewed old son; and, armed with it, he changed the hard couch of the recluse into the poet's bed of roses. One feels very small indeed on reading the stainless chronicle of his blameless days. For my own part, I confess with shame that I have never attained, and cannot hope to attain, to his high standard of morality; for I have my bad prejudices and my passions, I sometimes remember injuries, and in some of my dark moods I now and then lose heart. The dear old pastor was so gentle, so humorous (I use that adjective in its ancient and proper sense), so charitable, so Christian. Never tired of vexing his own brave flesh, he gazed with tender and compassionate eyes on the contaminated flesh of sinners. He delighted to probe men's wounds, and to apply his grand salve to them afterwards. He was open-hearted, open-tongued, and open-handed. Do you remember how he met a miserable old woman at Bemerton, when he first went to the living? How he first frightened her by his severe aspect and grave words; how he bade her open up her heart to him, and how she was voluble accordingly;