fall concerning the Mexican, gave me to understand that the licentiate's resentment had not yet subsided. We had reached the open country, where the heat was stifling, and the appearance of the route barren and melancholy, when one of our attendant's riding up, called Don Tadeo's attention to a number of vultures hovering over a group of hills on our left, at the same time whispering a few words in his ear. The Don drew up, and looked at the hills for a few minutes with a singular expression of countenance, then making a sign to proceed, we rode on at a rapid pace, and shortly reached our destination.

The house given up to me by Peralta was a small desolate-looking building at the extremity of a village. It had evidently been for some time unoccupied, and needed repair, but its value was about equal to the amount of the debt. Don Tadeo had already taken possession, as a matter of form, and now I had to go through the same formality on my own account. After looking all over the place, we assembled in the garden, in presence of all the ragamuffins of the village, who had come forward as witnesses. Our attendant made a speech to them, pointed me out as the new proprietor, and ended by crying, Dios

Libertad. Then, at the licentiate's request, I pulled up a handful of grass and threw it over my shoulder, flung a stone over the wall of the garden, and thereby took possession, according to the terms of the Mexican law. A general hurra testified to the satisfaction of the witnesses; no one henceforth would dispute my ownership; and there only remained to scatter a handful of coins, which were speedily picked up, and as speedily carried to the village tavern, where my health was doubtless drunk with due ceremony.

We rode back to Mexico without our attendants, who evidently intended to finish the day at the tavern. It was still hotter than in the morning, and we travelled but slowly. As we came in sight of the hills, we saw that the number of vultures hovering about their summits was increased, and a foetid odour was distinctly perceptible in the breeze that blew from that direction. Don Tadeo reined up suddenly: "If," he said, you were curious to read the last page of the romance of which I have related to you the beginning, I would propose a trot to those hills yonder; but your nerves are, I fancy, rather susceptible."

"And what is there to be seen at those hills ?"

"A corpse ;-you see that the vultures are making a quarry of it at this moment. One of the knaves whom I set to hunt up your debtor has fallen by the dagger of Peralta. Heaven is just: it is the assassin of the Paseo de Bucareli."

The Mexican had met his fate at last, and vengeance was satisfied. Having soon after left Mexico for a few years of travel, I inquired on my return for Don Tadeo, and heard that he had gone back to Spain. Since then all my efforts to hear something more of him have been unsuccessful; but I can never forget the extraordinary circumstances under which he recovered for me a debt in Mexico.

WORDS OF KINDNESS.

OH speak unto the erring in words of kindness only,
And calmly weigh the thought of blame before that
thought is spoken,

Not adding desolation to the heart already lonely,
But relieving it of sorrow by some sympathetic token.

We know not how the heart with its own agony is groaning,

Though the eye may give no sign, and the face no shade is bearing,

There may be bitter suffering of an inward deep atoning, For some are by that lightning stricken which leaves no outward scarring.

We know not, and we cannot know, how deadly was the striving,

Ere the evil spirit won, in its ceaseless plied assailing; We know but in our blindness of the one proclaimed upgiving,

Not the ninety-nine resisted, ere the hundredth came prevailing.

Oh let us to the erring speak in words of kindness only, For we know not our own weakness when sin is hard besetting,

And often desolation add to the heart already lonely, Because we are so falsely proud, so prone to love's forgetting.

JOHN ALFRED LANGFORD.

WHAT reason did not dictate, reason can never explain.

MEN often talk of their principles merely to talk of themselves.

THOSE that boast most fail most; deeds are silent. THOSE we truly love, we love to have beloved. Ir is not every one who has a head that thinks. He who knows the value of his object despises the pains it cost him.

WHAT is called selfishness frequently consists in not doing what the selfishness of another person wishes you to do.

A CRACKED credit is seldom much the better for soldering.

JEALOUSY keeps pace with pride, unless we are too proud to be jealous.

THOSE who cry loudest for sacrifice are generally

the last at the altar.

THERE is less danger in love than there is in being out of it.

AFFECTED delicacy is the sure concomitant of accidental prosperity.

MANY disagreeable things may be swallowed before we choke.

HE who has done all he could has discharged his conscience.

WISDOM Comes after thought; wit before it. TRUTH is a gem that will only reflect the rays that come direct from heaven.

ERROR must die; if it does not perish in the crucible of the philosopher, it will crumble in the hands of Time.

WE always hate those whom we have injured.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES Cook, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

TRUST THEM!

Nor very long ago, the mass of the English people were regarded by the more select classes of society as a kind of Thugs. All public places were closed against them. The cathedrals were locked up on week days, and many of them are so still, except to those who can obtain "orders," or are willing to pay an admission fee to the beadles and showmen of the curiosities. The British Museum was closed-the National Gallery was closedSt. Paul's and Westminster Abbey were closed-Windsor Castle, the Tower, the Houses of Parliament, and all other public buildings and collections of curiosities and works of art, were closed, except to the Few.

It was believed-firmly believed-that if the people at large were admitted to those places, they would forthwith begin to chip, whittle, smash, and destroy, the valuable treasures of art which they contained. Full of this faith, placards were posted against the walls, threatening prosecution and the terrors of the law against the iconoclasts and destructives; and in country places, lords and gentry, and even the fry of smaller genteel, were wont to stick up alarming notices, to the effect, that " Man-traps and spring-guns" were set within their premises, whereby to warn off all savage trespassers within the tabooed boundaries. In remote parts, some of such notifications, well battered by the winds and worn by the rains, may still be seen standing; but they are allowed to go quietly to decay;-very rarely indeed do we see them fresh-painted, or new placards of a similar kind erected.

Mr. Hume was the first public man, we believe, who set himself to improve this lamentable state of things; and the first of our public collections which he succeeded in getting thrown open to the public was the British Museum. It was not without great opposition that he succeeded thus far. There was the old cry, that the collection would be irretrievably injured, damaged, chipped, spoiled, and what not; besides, it was such an innovation! Nevertheless, the British Museum-thanks to Mr. Hume's dogged pertinacity-was thrown open to the public on certain days; and, as a matter of course, "the deluge was thereupon predicted. Previously to the throwing open of the Museum, parties of only five and six at a time were admitted, and they were shown round by one of the officials-a kind of policeman in plain clothes, who was expected to be fully on his guard against the iconoclasts, and ready to pounce upon any Goth, who, as a matter of

[PRICE 1d.

course, was only waiting his opportunity to destroy the valuables placed within his reach. Well-the fiat of Parliament went forth that the British Museum should be opened to butchers, bakers, brewers, common soldiers, sempstresses, milliners, and the commonest of common servants. And what said my Lord Stanley immediately after this irruption of the barbarian Goths had taken place? He came down to the House of Commons (of which he was then a member, and at the same time a commissioner of the British Museum)-he came down on the very day following the awful irruption, rose up in his place, and in an emphatic voice declared-" I was alarmed and afraid, but I can now state [and the reader may fancy the load taken off the imaginations of many members of the "Honourable House"] that 31,500 persons passed through the British Museum yesterday [May-day], and there was not the value of sixpence injured!" So, "the deluge" did not happen; and it was found that the people at large might be admitted freely to inspect their own national collection of antiquities and works of art, without causing the general overturn of society, or even of a sixpenny stucco vase! And two millions of the same kind of people passed through the Museum in 1851, and even a still greater number in 1852, without any of the destructive consequences happening that had been so confidently predicted. How was it that the people thus disappointed the predictions of their superiors (we will not say their enemies, for it would not be true to say so)? Simply, because of this,-that the people had been trusted!

Mr. Hume persevered in his good work. He dinned it into the ears of public men, that they should trust the people more-that they should not keep shut up from them the public places, bought with their own money as most of them were, in which they could obtain amusement, refinement, and education; and by dint of constant iteration from year to year, he has succeeded in getting thrown open to the public, Hampton Court, the Tower, Westminster Abbey, and even the before hermeticallysealed Saint Paul's! Still "the deluge" has not come! The people go in, enjoy the sights, walk about like good Christian people, and go away again without chiselling, chipping, or smashing anything. They are neither Thugs nor Goths, then, after all! And the upper classes begin to perceive that "the lower orders" are very much the same sort of beings that they are themselves,-endowed with the same faculties, feelings, emotions, and tastes ;-that they can admire beautiful works of art without desiring

to "chisel" them; and that they only need to be trusted, to prove that they are neither Yahoos, Vandals, nor anything but sober, quiet, sensible, and well-meaning English men and women.

The deeply-grounded fear of the people, which we have above referred to, has not yet entirely disappeared. Indeed, it was a subject for grave discussion in Parliament last year, just before the Great Exhibition, whether London should not be surrounded with troops in order to keep the people quiet. But the advice was overruled, and the troops were not concentrated round the Crystal Palace. What was the result? Hardly a pennyworth belonging to the collection was stolen,-not an article was wantonly injured, not a single "rumpus" interrupted the harmony of the Great Exhibition. Why was this? Col. Rowan, one of the heads of the metropolitan police force, was asked this question before a committee of the House of Commons, and he answered, that it was attributable to "the good conduct of the people," and we believe he added, that much of the recent improvement in that respect had originated in the facility which had of late years been afforded in admitting the people to public places: in short, by trusting them.

And, after all, is not this the true way of staving off "the deluge?" Admit the people freely to inspect works of fine-art,-which are eminently illustrative of God's gifts to the intellectual nature of man: let them be allowed to contemplate forms of beauty,-full of grace, devotion, and virtue,-commemorative of some genuine feeling, some sublime thought, or some noble deed in history, and the gazer is unconsciously elevated, humanized, refined, and civilized. Our picture-galleries might thus be made mainly instrumental in promoting national education of the best kind, by elevating and purifying the taste, at the same time that they instructed the mind. The mere fact of trusting the people, and allowing them free access to such places, is an education of the moral character. Trust a man,-show that you are ready to place confidence in him as a man,-exhibit by your conduct towards him that you believe, so to speak, in his honour, and you will do far more to win the heart of that man, and to draw forth the better feelings of his nature, than by all your exhibitions of law and authority. You disarm a man's evil nature when you prove by your acts and demeanour that you have confidence in his better nature. Thus it is that evil can be overcome with good.

But there are always alarmists to be found, ready to predict "the deluge on the proposal being made to enlarge in any way the privileges of their fellow men. When it was proposed to knock the fetters off the limbs of the thousands of poor African slaves in the British colonies, it was predicted that no white man's life would be safe in all the West Indies. When it was proposed to give a vote for a member of parliament to the men in this country who live in £10 houses, there was the same prediction of revolution and destruction.

And now,

when it is suggested that more of the men of this country should be trusted,-that more of them should have a voice in public affairs,-that the men who pay taxes should have some slight control over their expenditure,what is the prediction? "The deluge!" So say the abettors of slavery in the States: they utter the same cry as did the slave owners in our West India Islands twenty years ago; and which we have now seen to be so groundless.

Indeed, we need but to trust men more to bring out the good that is in them. Trust them to inspect picturegalleries, and they will grow accustomed to value and respect as sacred all beautiful things in art. Trust them with privileges, and, by practice, they will learn the right use of them in time. For, as Macaulay has finely observed, the only cure for the evils of newly-acquired

men,

freedom, is freedom. Accustom the prisoner who has come out of his cell to the light, and he will soon be able to bear the brightest rays of the sun. To humanize they must be familiarized with humanizing influences. To make men good citizens, they must be allowed to exercise the rights and functions of citizens. Before a man can swim, he must first have gone into the water; and before he can be an intelligent citizen, he must have been admitted to practise the duties of citizenship.

TRUST THE PEOPLE! These are golden words, and will never betray the man or the party that freely acts in their spirit.

FAITHFUL FOR EVER.

Ir is a dear delight for the soul to have trust in the faith of another. It makes a pillow of softness for the cheek which is burning with tears and the touch of pain. It pours a balm into the very source of sorrow. It is a hope undeferred, a flowery scclusion into which the mind, when weary of sadness, may retreat for a caress of constant love; a warmth in the clasp of friendship for ever lingering on the hand; a consoling voice that dwells as with an eternal echo on the ear; a dew of mercy falling on the bruised and troubled hearts of this world. Bereavements and wishes long withheld descend sometimes as chastening griefs upon our nature; but there is no solace to the bitterness of broken faith.

Jennie was the morning star of my life. Long before I trod the many wide deserts of the world, I pledged my hope to her. She was so young that my affection came fresh as dew upon her heart. She was gentle to me, and tender, and fond, and sometimes I thought that she loved me less for my own sake than for the sake of love. So I watched the opening bloom of her mind. I wondered what springs of truth were bursting there to make her a joy and a blessing on the earth. I knew that every pulse was warm with a sacred love; but it was not then that I learned all the deep and abounding faith that had its home in the heart of my Jennie.

Jennie was slim and graceful, with a light step and a gentle dignity of demeanour, which, with her joyful ways, was like the freshness of shade near a sunuy place. Her face was fair, with sometimes a pensive expression; it was a good, loving face, with soft, blue, floating eyes, full of beauty and tender thought. A smile always played on the lips, not for ever of gladness, but of charity, and content, and trust in the future to which her hope was turned. And often a song poured through those lips, as though some happy bird were nestled in her bosom, and sang with her breath its hymns of delight in the joys of life.

All this did Jennie seem to me, and more than this she was; and she loved me, and I was confident in her affection. For I was then young, and my heart was warm and my hope was strong. I was buoyant as the breeze, and my life was for years a perpetual summer's day. It was the time when the pure springs of nature had not been wasted among the fickle and the cold; it was the golden season when trust is the companion of truth; it was the first harvest which garners into the bosom those thoughts and emotions amid which, as on a bed of flowers, "hope clings, feeding like a bee." The heart of Jennie was as deeply stirred, but her soul was more serene, than mine.

There was a fearful storm in Europe. I heard of grim tyrants sitting on thrones, whence they gave their commands to armies which marched to the east and to the west, and tore up the vineyards, and trod down the gardens, and blotted out the peace of the world. Anon, there came rumours of a mighty host that had melted

away in the north, and glutted with its blood the Russian

snows.

Then there came a strange ambition into my mind. My blood became hot. A calamitous frenzy filled my brain. The name of Glory consecrated all these murders to my imagination. I would carry a flag in one of those armies. I would mix in the crimson throng. I would myself bear a sword amid those forests of flashing steel. And I told this to my Jennie. I thought she would certainly bless me as a hero. I thought she would bind a scarf about my waist, and bid me ". go where glory waits thee," if I still remembered her. But, when I said I should leave her for awhile and come back with honour, and pride, and the memory of brave acts, and the conscious gratulations of a breast that never knew fear, she became pale, and looked at me sorrowfully, and fell upon my neck, weeping most bitter tears. I asked her why she could grieve, and said the danger was one chance among innumerable probabilities of success. But she only sobbed and trembled, and pressed me to her bosom, and prayed me not to go.

I reasoned with Jennie. I tried to persuade her of the glory of the war. I told her how much more worthy of love she would think me when I came back adorned with laurels. (O how green are the leaves that bloom from slaughter!) I said her image would be my companion; her voice would be my vesper-bell, her smile my star of the morning; her face would be the visitant of my dreams; her love the mercy that would shield me from every danger. She listened with suspended sobs and trembled, and all the while her eyes were appealing to my own, and penetrating to my heart to invoke its faith, that I might not tempt misfortune to blight the early bridal of our hearts.

When I had done, her answer was as if I had not spoken, for still she only said that I must not go. She gave no more reasons now. And I did I deserve her love, when I thought that explaining and persuading were answers to the pleading tears, and swelling bosom, and quivering frame, and speaking eyes of that maiden Niobe shaken by her mournful fears?

"You will be changed when you return," she said.

I change! I knew I could not change! Why should Jennie doubt my truth? I would prove it. My mind was fixed. My fancy was flushed by ambitious anticipations. I was resolved to leave. Jennie, at length, when her entreaties failed, reproached me, but so gently, that her very upbraiding sounded like a benediction. And so it was. It was not even the selfishness of affection. It was a pure, tender, carnest solicitude. She told me I was breaking faith with her in thus going away to engage in war. Was it for this that she had become the aflianced of my heart? Was it for this that she had pledged her love, with every sacred vow, to answer mine? Was it for all this that I should take my hand from the pleasant cares of peace to corrupt it in the villanies of war; that I should mix with the worst of my kind; that I should ride over the harvests of the poor, and carouse in the glare of their burning homes, and see sweet babes made fatherless, and wives bereaved, and brides left desolate in the world? Oh, no. It was I that broke my pledge. I was not true to my early vow. was not all for her. I had made a new idol for my heart. I had declared I would never cause any sorrow to her, by denying to her love one of its earnest wishes. And now I was doing this. I was making her grieve; I was risking the leaving her desolate to the end of her days. For the sake of what? For the sake of a soldier's ambition. Ambition! As though to wear the grey hairs of a good old man were not a nobler hope than to die in a trench, or live, shuddering with the memory of carnage, and fire, and blood, and all the nameless horrors of a war!

I

I cannot tell all the sorrows of that parting. An infatuation burned in my head, and blinded me. At length I went. Jennie's last blessing upbraided me more deeply than her first reproach. When she knew that I should go, she said not one more desponding word; and then did I feel how gentle she was in sorrow, as she was serene in her days of joy. But I comforted myself. I decided that Jennie, good as she was-dear, loving, noble-could not comprehend the idea of patriotism. And, once, a thought of falsehood crossed my mind. I reflected that I had never tried her she might not be true to the absent: it would be good to test her faith.

And so I went. Let me forget the horrors and the crimes of that long adventure. Instead of two years I was away seven; and from the first I was sad, sick, remorseful. Nothing but memory recalled to me the thought of love. And then did Jennie's reproaches rise up in judgment against me. I was long lost from her during the confusion of that terrible campaign. A solid continent now lay between us, and now an ocean. I heard not of her during four years. Ah! she has forgotten, said I, the fiery, wilful one to whom she gave her early love.

At length I returned; but I was not he to whom she had said that sweet and dear farewell. I was maimed, mutilated, disfigured-a cripple, an object. I came home with a fleet, filled half with trophies, half with the limbless, sightless, remnants of a glorious war. But then it was a glorious war. Yes; in twenty years the earth had been dyed with the blood of six millions of men. What a miserable thing-the relic of a man-I looked, when in the sunny summer we bore down the Channel. I thought of Jennie, as the parting cup went round. I already looked upon her as lost: I had not falsified my pledge, yet had I not broken my own faith in doubting hers? I repented all I had done. Could I bind her to her own? Could I ask her to take, instead of the manly figure she had last seen, a wretched creature such as then I was?

As

I had feelings of honour-naval honour-honour that blooms on the drum-head-honour that struts in a red sash, and feathered hat. I would release her! though love were an attorney's bond. As though a penful of ink could blot out the eternal record of a heart's first faithful affection. I wrote to her. I said I heard she was unmarried still. I had come home. I was also unmarried; but I was maimed, distorted, disfigured,—an object to look at. I had no right to insist on our contract. I would not force myself upon her. I would spare her feelings. I would not extort a final ratification of her promise. I loved her still, and should always with tenderness remember her; but I was bound to release her. She was free!

Free! Free, by virtue of a written lease. Free, by one line, when the interwoven memories of a life's long faith were bound about her heart; when every root of affection that had struck into her bosom had sprung up with new blossoms of hope to adorn the visionary future. Free, by my honourable conduct,-when she cherished as on an altar the flame of her vestal love, made fragrant by purity and trust. Her letter was not like mine. It was quick, passionate, burning with affection. It began with a reproach, and the reproach was blotted by a tear, it ended with a blessing, and a tear had made that blessing sacred too. Let me come to her. Let her see my face. Let her embrace me. Let me never leave her and she would soothe me for all the pains I had endured. Not a word of her own sorrows!

more;

Scarcely could that happiness be real. And had my long absence; had my miserable disasters, made no change? Was I still for Jennie, the beloved of other days? "What did you tell her?" said I to my confidential comrade, the one-eyed commodore, a bluff old

hero, with a heart as warm as ever beat under gold buttons. He had taken my letter, and brought back Jennie's

answer.

"I said you were battered about the hull, till you were a wreck,"

"And what did she say? Did she shudder, as with aversion ?"

"No; she sobbed, and cried, and asked me if you were injured much, and said you must have suffered bitterly; but she said, too, that you must come to her. Miss,' I said, he is so knocked about that you won't know him. He'll frighten you. He's a ruin. He has hardly any body left.' And then she flushed to the brow; Give him that,' she cried, and tell him to come. If he has enough body left to hold his soul, I'll cling to him!'"

And where in tale or song, in history or fable, is an answer recorded of more heroic beauty? What had I to teach her of honour. Hers was the honour of the heart; the truth of the soul; the fidelity and love of a woman born to bless this world. Mine was an honour worn like a feather in a cocked hat, like an epaulette, like a spur. It was regulation honour-honour by the rules of "the service." Jennie's was better than mine.

THE SOUL IN NATURE.

THERE are certain philosophers who maintain that all existence is essentially material; while there are others who hold with equal stubbornness, that there are no entities but those of a spiritual kind. Not to day only, but from the birthday of the world, have these two opposite doctrines been repeatedly brought into collision; and the question, as far as philosophers are concerned, is as much unsolved as ever. But it is not always the philosopher who deals most acutely with philosophy; and it sometimes happens that the idea of a poet, or the tradition of an uncultivated antiquity, throws more light on a topic under dispute than the most elaborate reasonings of men schooled in disputation. So is it in regard to this question of matter and spirit. The ancient poets, in their strange fables, asserted the prevalence of soul in nature, and continually carried back the mind from material to spiritual things. The ancient creeds of the world embodied the same thought; and whether we refer to the Indian, Egyptian, or Grecian mythologies, we find that a spiritual existence is everywhere granted, and that body and soul in man, body and soul in nature, are unities universally adopted as respectively essential to each other. The Hindoos say when Brahme sleeps, all existence passes away; but when Brahme wakes, his thoughts take shape under the agency of Brahma, and creation follows. What is Brahme but Deity, whose will controls Brahma or Nature, and through thought gives impulse to a perennial birth of beauty, each separate birth being the expression of that thought or will which called it into action! The Greeks had Proteus, who took many shapes, yet never lost his identity; and Proteus was an impersonation of the creative power working underneath and continually revealing itself, never in two forms alike, yet ever the same in purport and essence. Proteus is Brahma at three removes, degraded somewhat by his passage through the Egyptian mythology, into which he passes with

other gods from India, and so into the fanciful, but scarcely sublime category of Hellenic deities.

Literatures, mythologies, traditions, all attest the union of matter and spirit; and instinct, turning a deaf ear to the propoundings of the spiritualist and the dogmas of the materialist, declares for the two elements and holds them essential to each other. Science completes this work, and marries the two worlds together by the wedding-ring of universal law, which it is the task of science to comprehend and apply in accordance with the strictest generalities. Let it not be thought, however, that this work is yet complete, for in the infancy of science we can only expect approximations; and such of these as physics are capable of affording, the labour of Oersted has thrown together in one of the most enchanting volumes ever published, which has attained a cosmopolitan celebrity, under the title of the Soul in Nature.*

In this work the great Danish philosopher employs the reasoning which scientific facts supply in the defence of that part of the popular faith which asserts the universal existence of spirit, or rather the universal prevalence of thought in nature. As far as it is possible to reduce his views to the narrow compass of an article, we will endeavour to do so, and with a hope that such a reduction of ample particulars into brief generalities will not in any way mar the profound reasonings of so genuine a philosopher.

First, then, how do we gain a knowledge of the outer world? Not surely by the senses only; for in our quick views of things we apprehend their meaning readily by merely viewing portions of them, inferring the remainder of the conditions which are requisite to a complete appreciation of the object. We have a perfect idea of a tree, with branches, leaves, bark, buds, and fruit, from a mere glimpse of a portion of the trunk through a window or a crevice; and we recognise a book as a book by merely laying our hands on a portion of it in the dark. What then? why-inasmuch as we do not grasp the things themselves, but infer their existence by mere glimpses of them, so we are indebted for our knowledge of the world to the impressions which things are capable of producing upon us, such impressions being converted into thoughts by union with the collective experience with which former impressions have furnished us. Now to make an impression on a being capable of thought, requires in the object an active existence; but a stone, lying still by the roadside appears the dendest thing, the most immobile and passive existence it is possible to conceive; and to assign it an active existence seems absurd. Yet that stone is dragged downwards by the force of gravitation; it presses towards the centre of the earth and meets with the resistance offered it by the stone on which it rests. That second stone is pressed upon by the first, and is also impelled downward by the force of gravitation, but is prevented from descending by other stones on which it is superimposed; while all of these again are in the same condition-driven downwards by gravi tation, yet prevented from descending further by the objects which support them. Again, the second stone which bears the weight of the first, and the third stone bearing the weight of the second, are each subjected to the pressure of the body above them, and that pressure-comparatively immeasurable though it is-tends to compress the particles of the body pressed upon; while the elasticity inherent in the particles of the body pressed upon causes them to rebound, and so prevents them being crushed or altered permanently in shape. It is just such an assemblage of forces-pressure in one direction, resistance in another,

The Soul in Nature. By Hans Christian Oersted. Edited by Leonora and Joanna Horner. London: H. G. Bohn.