Ir is wrong to laugh in church. It is wrong to laugh at church, to church, from church, or round about church. It is culpable to laugh at anybody who goes in, or at anybody who goes out. Luther did so in his day, to be sure, and Luther was a true man, a great intellect, and a good Christian. But, after all, it must be confessed there was something about him, je ne sais quoi-something which in our time would not be called respectable. A man may be this or that, but if his mind be not well regulated, you understand- Compare Luther, for instance, with those other great ecclesiastics the Bishop of Oxford and Lord Shaftesbury, and the difference is seen at once. For my own part, I am so sensible of it so apprehensive of offending that great institution Exeter Hall, that I would not willingly make a word of objection even against the Protestant flea which skips on the church hassock. How, then, am I to deal with the sketch before me? Of course, if the fair artist (is there any creature more audacious than a woman?) had depicted a "Roman" interior, my work would be easy enough. Confound the fleas, they should have no mercy then! But here is a modern mode of Protestant worship satirised, and to have any part in that is repugnant to a well-regulated mind. Besides, it is not safe. Quixotism should be left to single

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young men already provided for: nobody who has his bread to lose will do wisely in offending Exeter Hall.

And yet it cannot be doubted that the picture here entitled PIETY is tolerably accurate. We have seen all this, every one of us, a hundred times; though I am afraid the artist has missed the fine warm religious air which, somehow, still rests upon and refines the polite paganism of modern congregations. In fact—there's no use in denying it amongst ourselves (we are a snug little family party of fifty thousand, and I'll speak low)—true piety does exist, no doubt, and women have the greater and the better share of it, thank God, for that is how our homes are kept sweet; but, as a rule, piety is nothing but going to church, and going to church has become nothing but one of the social proprieties. It is a duty which Higg, Mrs. Higg, the Misses Higg, and young Higg owe to society-hot, tiresome, dull, but ameliorated by a sensation of placid virtue (for the time), and a consciousness of holding up the proper example to sinners who really do need to be saved. Is nobody listening? Then will I confess that in this sense I hate "going to church." I even detest Higg, Mrs. Higg, the Misses Higg, and young Higg, when I see the shining train defile before my window-spotless, ample, unruffled, and, oh! so very serene! I daresay it is wicked of me. I even confess that many a time have I been wicked enough to prefer the outside of the church to the inside, having found by experience that without I grow more contrite, and within more critical. And yet it is far more comfortable inside. A favourite author of mine once asked himself why he preferred rather to steal round to the most secluded corner outside the church and wait for the children to begin to sing, for the parson to begin to pray, for the rustling of women's silks, when they fall upon their knees?

"Why" (says my author to himself) "do you make yourself miserable under the windows, when you could be so much more comfortable within? Is it the voice of a meek apostle which disturbs your heart, making it feel so vague and hungry, as those soft, undistinguishable, sonorous tones vibrate down the aisles, and the people say' Amen?' Step inside. Here it is the voice of Honeyman, B.A., bleating lavender words with an Oxford accent. How much easier, how much nicer, with your ears to sit under that mild, mellifluous one, than with your heart to go interpreting him into an indistinct Apostle Paul outside! And does the rustling of the women's garments-audible through the walls, there is so much of it-affect you thus? Well, there is something in that-Youth, Beauty, Virtue, all perfumed and in rich attire, going humbly on their knees. But what if you discovered that Youth, Beauty, Virtue, only shook their garments to make the noise of going down on their knees-a great noise, that Heaven as well as their neighbours might be sure to hear it? Why, then there would be no occasion to torture yourself with any comparisons on that subject to your own disadvantage. As for the honest old psalm the children sing-as for the music of the organ, swelling over the graves, stretching up to heaven-if they trouble your soul, go inside. You will not fail to detect the switch with which Mrs. Briggs awes the charity-school children into reverence and observance of the laws of harmony, nor the meaning in her eye when a nutshell falls. Nor will you fail to espy the sweet singer who diverts himself with cracking little crabs' legs while the lesson is read or the sermon is going on; nor the boy with the warm and furtive apple; nor the Sunday shoulder-of-mutton which floats ever between the vision of the hot, hungry

little choristers and the tables of the Ten Commandments. This will calm all your agitation, and leave you a wiser and a worse man."

A little cynical, perhaps, but not untrue. Here is the boy with the furtive apple again, in the picture, and much beside that for the Sex's sake we must all be sorry to see. That the gentleman should go to sleep is natural enough, perhaps ; at any rate it would be unjust to blame him while we are in ignorance of the sort of sermon he is listening to—that is to say, which he is not listening to. But the ladies! What can exceed the piety of the old lady who looks over her bookunless it be the piety of the young lady who looks under her hand? Both are full of devotion. The daughter gazes worshipfully at her Idol (I wonder whether he is dark or fair?) The mother is probably of the rival sect, which, abhorring love, loves money; and hence, if the Young Man is poor, we may explain the ferocious virtue with which the old lady rebukes her daughter's coquetry. And yet, you know, she was young and pretty once, and perhaps made love in church too. It seems to be a favourite place for the purpose. It is a place you can make eyes in; and some eyes-not overpowering at a ball-are well adapted for the expression of meekness, patience, cookery, and other domestic qualifications. Where do we see most downright love-making? Going home from church. For one man who has been brought down at a ball by love's light artillery, or the artillery of love's light, shooting from the eyes, three have been bagged coming out of church. It is wrong, no doubt. You agree with me, mademoiselle, I am sure; but there are some girls- However, it is of no use sermonising, and so we will say nothing more about it.

THE traveller in an American forest sees with wonder and delight, not only the gigantic and picturesque nature of the vegetation by which he is surrounded, but the beauty and variety of colour which meet his eye at every turn. It is in these forests that the birds, insects, and flowers assume a gorgeousness of hue which is unknown in a northern latitude, and which contrasts finely with the dark but brilliant greens of the apparently everlasting foliage. It is in these forests that the parrots and macaws, and their allies, the parrakeets, live their joyous life undisturbed by man.

Common and well known as these birds are in a state of captivity, their peculiar habits and economy in a state of nature are but little and imperfectly understood.

Parrots and macaws, and the numerous tribes which are allied to them, such as the toucans, the trogons, and the parrakeets, are, as most persons know, natives of tropical regions; and though, in most cases, they are somewhat deficient in elegance of shape, are possessed of varied and brilliant plumage. As a rule, those which are imported into this country are by no means fair specimens of that gorgeousness of feathering of which we speak; those sorts being chiefly preferred which are famous for their powers of imitation.

The general form of the parrot is short, strong, and compact, but wanting, as we have before said, in elegance-the great bulk of the head and bill being dispro-.

portionate to the body. In the long-tailed species, such as the macaws and parrakeets, this disproportion is counteracted by the elongation of the tail; and many of them exhibit a gracefulness of carriage surpassed by few other birds. As is the case with all natural productions, these birds possess faculties peculiarly adapted to the life they lead. Their feet, which have the toes placed two forwards and two backwards, and their hooked and powerful bill, are expressly formed for climbing, and evidently point to the woods and forests as their natural habitation; and accordingly, in those regions where the trees are covered with a never-failing succession of fruit and flowers, and their food can, therefore, be procured in the greatest abundance, there the parrots are to be found in the largest number. In a state of nature they are much more active and graceful than, as we see them, in a state of confinement-their flight being rapid, elegant, and vigorous, and capable of being long sustained. Many of them are in the habit of describing circles, and performing other graceful aerial evolutions, previous to their alighting upon the trees which contain their food.

Parrots are especially gregarious; you never see such a thing, in a wild state, as a single parrot. They generally go in large flocks, but never less than a pair. They are remarkably fond of bathing, and have been observed to travel some distance in search of a suitable place, as none but the purest and coolest water will suit these fastidious creatures.

The life of a parrot in its native wilds is marked by extreme regularity. As soon as the day dawns, the whole of the parrot inhabitants of the district assemble with much noise, and, after wheeling in the air for a few minutes, alight on the tops of neighbouring trees. They then commence to arrange their feathers, and as soon as the sun rises they open their wings and display them to the warmth of his rays. No sooner, therefore, does the sun make his appearance than he is greeted with noisy acclamations, as though they were thanking him for drying their plumage, and warming them after being chilled by the cold and damp which is an inseparable companion of night in a tropical forest. This process of drying and warming themselves is accompanied, as is every operation in parrot life, with the most hilarious, but, at the same time, discordant, screaming. Being now warm and dry, they form smaller flocks, and fly off in quest of their favourite food, a kind of cherry, which they eat, cracking the stone in order to obtain the kernel. Having zatisfied their hunger, about ten or eleven o'clock they proceed to their bathingplace. The animation and roguish fun exhibited, especially by the younger ones, while playfully rolling about in the water, is truly ludicrous. They assemble at the margin of a clear pool, and, walking into the water, dip their head and wings into it in such a manner as to scatter it in all directions. Then two or three will seize a fourth, and playfully roll him over in the clear liquid; but should be, by superior agility or cunning, escape, his skill is rewarded by a most rapturous scream from the whole flock.

Having disported themselves for some time in the water, they now retire into the thickest and most shady part of the forest, where there is generally a cool and refreshing breeze wafted up from the deep recesses of the woods; and, while the heat of the day lasts, they sit on the branches in the most perfect silence. Between four and five o'clock they again become active, and disperse in quest of food; after which they all re-assemble, with great noise, and betake themselves again to the bathing-place, where they go through the same amusing evolutions as in the

morning. Having finished their bath, they revisit the same trees on which they assembled at sunrise, where they re-adjust their plumage for the night. The confusion of noises during this operation is something beyond description.

Shortly before sundown they fly off, in pairs, to their roosting-places, which are usually in the hollows of decayed trees, or any place where there is a hole or shelter from the damps and dews of night. At dusk a flock of parrots may be seen alighting, one by one, against the side of a tree, and crawling into a hole in its trunk, where they pass the night. It has been stated, we know not with how much truth, that when the hole is not large enough to hold the whole flock, the remainder cluster round the entrance, and hook themselves on to the trunk by

their claws and the upper part of the bill. Audubon, the American naturalist, tells us that he has frequently seen them hanging in such positions, and that he satisfied himself that the bill was the only support in such cases.

Parrots lay from two to five or six eggs, according to their species. They do not trouble themselves to make a nest, but deposit their eggs in the hollows of trees; the only thing that guides them in their selection being the rotten, and consequently soft, nature of the wood.

The natural notes of the whole tribe are hoarse and discordant, with little or no variations, except when they are alarmed, when their screams are shrill and piercing.

So many wonderful stories have been related of these birds, both in their natural state and in captivity, that it would occupy more space than we can give