is an interesting illustration of one of nature's important workings. He says: 'Wherever an extensive surface of shallow water, whether fresh or salt, is exposed to the air, confervæ and allied algae multiply quickly. Every pool, every stagnant ditch, is soon filled with their green silken threads. These threads cannot grow without emitting oxygen. If you examine such a pool on a sunny day, you may trace the beads of oxygen on the submerged threads, or see the gas collect in bubbles where the threads present a dense mass. It is continually passing off into the air while the confervæ vegetate, and this vegetation usually continues vigorous-one species succeeding another as it dies out, as long as the pool remains. And when, on the drying up of the land, the confervæ die, their bodies, which are scarcely more than membraneous skins filled with fluid, shrivel up, and are either carried away by the wind, or form a papery film over the exposed surface of the ground. In neither case do they breed noxious airs by their decomposition. All their life-long, they have conferred a positive benefit on the atmosphere; and at their death they at least do no injury. The amount of benefit derived from each individual is indeed minute, but the aggregate is vast when we take into account the many extensive surfaces of water dispersed over the world, which are thus kept pure, and made subservient to a healthy state of the atmosphere. It is not only vast, but it is worthy of Him who has appointed to even the meanest of His creatures something to do for the good of His creation.' ?

In the temperate zones, there is a difference in the colour of algæ in summer and winter, which does not take place where a steady climate prevails. Naturalists have classed them as Chlorosperms, Melanosperms, and Rhodosperms-green, olive, and red. As a rule, the grass-green are found in the shallowest water; but the Caulerpa, and others of the Siphonea which grow at great depths, are not less bright than those near the surface. The olivecoloured are mostly met with on shores, where they are exposed to the sun and air in the intervals of ebb and flow of the tide. They generally form dense forest-like belts at the low-water line, and some few straggle beyond that line; but the red are most abundant in the deeper parts of the sea, being most intense in the deepest water, and becoming pale, from carmine to strawcolour, if exposed to full light in shallow pools. Some are dark purple and they not only lose their colour, but lose the power of secreting the dark substance with which they are dyed when brought to the light. Most of the algæ reflect the prismatic colours, and it is to their presence in the water that the metallic lustre of the waves is often due. The dark-purple leaves of the Chondrus crispus are tipped with other colours, and may be seen far down in the depths glittering like sapphires or emeralds. The forms of the fronds, too, are not less beautiful than their colours; the diversity is astonishing. Some which grow in the Gulf of Mexico and on the coast of Australia, resemble lace of

exquisite pattern and texture, the effect being produced by myriads of minute leaflets growing one into the other.

In the polar regions, algae are minute and microscopic; but as soon as the margin of the ice is passed, the fucus begins to appear wherever there are rocks which favour its growth. It does not grow on sand, and, in consequence, the sea furnishes a parallel to the land, for beneath its waters there are vast deserts as bare and lifeless as the dreary solitudes of Sahara. Their extent makes them an effectual barrier to distribution, and species are found on one side of these sandy wastes which never appear on the other.

The Laminariacea are the largest of the algae; some have stems as large as those of trees, which on the shores of the Falkland Islands are often mistaken for driftwood. This species belongs properly to the circumpolar latitudes, but the cold Pacific current carries many specimens to the shores of Chili and Peru, where they grow not far from the equator. It includes the tangle, sea-colander, oar-weed, and devil's apron. Mr Harvey states, that on the north-west of America the Nereocystis grows with a 'stem measuring 300 feet in length, which bears at its summit a huge air-vessel, 6 or 7 feet long, shaped like a great cask, and ending in a tuft of upwards of fifty forked leaves, each of which is from 30 to 40 feet in length.' The use of this terminal appendage is to buoy up the gigantic frond, so that it may be well surrounded with water, and receive a due provision of air. In the masses of this plant, the sea-otter finds a favourite and profitable lurkingplace. The stems, singularly enough, are not larger than whipcord, yet of such strength that the natives of the coast use them for fishing-lines. The Macrocystis, another variety, grows to a length of 700 feet-some accounts say 1500-which we may certainly regard as the tallest of the vegetable kingdom; another resembles the palm in the form and appearance of its fronds; and the large trumpet-weed of the Cape of Good Hope has a stem 20 feet long, the upper part of which is hollow, and is frequently used as a syphon, and by the herdsmen of the coast as a trumpet for the recall of their cattle.

The algae have many uses important in commerce and medicine, and, although no longer used for the manufacture of soda, it is from them our supplies of iodine must be derived, as chemists have not yet succeeded in extracting this constituent from sea-water. Some years ago, when the kelp manufacture was in its prime, certain Scottish proprietors made L.10,000 a year by the sea-weed thrown up on their shores. In the north of Scotland, and in Norway and Sweden, algae are still chopped up and mixed with the winter food of cattle. In the former country, and in Ireland, the central rib of Alaria esculenta is eaten by the inhabitants of the coasts, and Rhodymenia palmata, the well-known dulse or dillisk, is largely consumed as an article of diet. At one time it was the sole relish which the poor Irish could get with their potatoes. The stem of Laminaria digitata has been used to make

knife-handles: when dry and shrunken, it somewhat resembles buck's-horn. The Chondrus crispus, or Carrigeen, grows on all the shores of Europe and North America. The Swan River colonists find an abundant supply of jelly in their prolific Gigartina speciosa. The Chinese use a species of Gracilaria as a glue and varnish: 30,000 pounds of this one plant are imported yearly into Canton. The Gracilaria helminthocorton, or Corsican moss, is employed in medicine as a remedy against worms. the Rhodosperms boil down to a jelly. In short, the uses of marine plants are manifold. Many are known, and more will be discovered.

All

The ocean is a vast subject! We have but glanced at some of its greatest phenomena. Whole volumes might be written before the theme would be exhausted, if such a result were possible. From the small globule existing as a medusa, or primary cell of the algae, to the limpet and sea-anemone, and on to the huge whale and gigantic walrus-how wide and interesting the field of inquiry! The theory of waves, the phenomena of winds, storms, and hurricanes, would come in as part of the subject, as also those multitudinous fisheries which excite man's enterprise and industry, and supply him bounteously with food. Our too brief narrative shews, that although we know much concerning the ocean, there is more of which we are altogether ignorant. In the removal of this ignorance, the human mind will find a worthy task for ages yet to come; it is among those of greatest promise and highest interest.

OREAS, that fearful north-west wind, which in the spring and autumn stirs up the lowest depths of the wild Adriatic, and is then so dangerous to vessels, was howling through the woods, and tossing the branches of the old knotty oaks in the Carpathian Mountains, when a party of five riders, who surrounded a litter drawn by a pair of mules, turned into a forest-path, which offered some protection from the April weather, and allowed the travellers in some degree to recover their breath. It was already evening, and bitterly cold; the snow fell every now and then in large flakes. A tall

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old gentleman, of aristocratic appearance, rode at the head of the troop. This was the Knight of Fahnenberg, in Austria. He had inherited from a childless brother a considerable property, situated in the Carpathian Mountains; and he had set out to take possession of it, accompanied by his daughter Franziska, and a niece about twenty years of age, who had been brought up with her. Next to the knight rode a fine young man of some twenty and odd years-the Baron Franz von Kronstein; he wore, like the former, the broad-brimmed hat with hanging feathers, the leather collar, the wide riding-boots-in short, the travelling-dress which was in fashion at the commencement of the seventeenth century. The features of the young man had much about them that was open and friendly, as well as some mind; but the expression was more that of dreamy and sensitive softness than of youthful daring, although no one could deny that he possessed much of youthful beauty. As the cavalcade turned into the oak wood, the young man rode up to the litter, and chatted with the ladies who were seated therein. One of these -and to her his conversation was principally addressed-was of dazzling beauty. Her hair flowed in natural curls round the fine oval of her face, out of which beamed a pair of star-like eyes, full of genius, lively fancy, and a certain degree of archness. Franziska von Fahnenberg seemed to attend but carelessly to the speeches of her admirer, who made many kind inquiries as to how she felt herself during the journey, which had been attended with many difficulties she always answered him very shortly, almost contemptuously; and at length remarked, that if it had not been for her father's objections, she would long ago have requested the baron to take her place in their horrid cage of a litter, for, to judge by his remarks, he seemed incommoded by the weather; and she would so much rather be mounted on the spirited horse, and face wind and storm, than be mewed up there, dragged up the hills by those long-eared animals, and mope herself to death with ennui. The young lady's words, and, still more, the half-contemptuous tone in which they were uttered, appeared to make the most painful impression on the young man: he made her no reply at the moment, but the absent air with which he attended to the kindly-intended remarks of the other young lady, shewed how much he was disconcerted.

'It appears, dear Franziska,' said he at length in a kindly tone, 'that the hardships of the road have affected you more than you will acknowledge. Generally so kind to others, you have been very often out of humour during the journey, and particularly with regard to your humble servant and cousin, who would gladly bear a double or treble share of the discomforts, if he could thereby save you from the smallest of them.'

Franziska shewed by her look that she was about to reply with some bitter jibe, when the voice of the knight was heard calling for his nephew, who galloped off at the sound.