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2, 1863.] After a short time the antherozoids will be seen to fasten themselves to the spores, communicating to them a rapid rotary motion. The field of the microscope becomes covered with these large brown spheres, bristling with antherozoids, and rolling quickly about among the crowd of spores which are still unattached. The motion continues for about half an hour, after which the spores will be seen to have become coated with a thin transparent membrane. The spore is now fertilised, and if allowed to remain in the water soon begins to grow, and finally becomes a plant in every respect similar to that from which it was produced.

Formerly the brown seaweeds were largely employed in the manufacture of soda, being first burned in pits dug in the sand, until they were reduced to hard cakes, in which state the product was termed kelp. A curious instance of popular prejudice is mentioned by Dr. Greville in connection with this manufacture. When the preparation of kelp was first introduced into the Orkneys, the islanders resisted its introduction by all means in their power, and it was gravely pleaded that “the suffocating smoke of the kelp would sicken or kill every species of fish on the coast, blast the corn and grass, introduce diseases of various kinds, and smite with barrenness their sheep, horses, and cattle.” Seaweeds are now little used in the manufacture of soda, but still form a valuable source of Iodine. Doubtless, however, the chief purpose which they serve is that of removing from the sea the excess of soluble salts washed into it by the rivers, and if we call to mind that an increase in the saltness of the sea would, by diminishing the amount of evaporation from its surface, cause a corresponding diminution in the total amount of rain which falls upon the surface of the earth, we shall see that it is scarcely possible to overrate the importance of the work performed by these apparently insignificant plants. C. C.

, was it a dream? am I all alone In the dreary night and the drizzling rain? Hist!—ah, it was only the river’s moan; They have left me behind, with the mangled slain.

Yes, now I remember it all too well! We met, from the battling ranks apart; Together our weapons flashed and fell, And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart.

In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done, It was all too dark to see his face; But I heard his death-groans, one by one, And he holds me still in a cold embrace.

He spoke but once, and I could not hear The words he said for the cannons’ roar; But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear— God! I had heard that voice before!

Had heard it before, at our mother’s knee, When we lisped the words of our evening prayer! My brother! would I had died for thee— This burden is more than my soul can bear!

I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek, And begged him to show me, by word or sign, That he knew and forgave me: he could not speak, But he nestled his poor cold face to mine.

The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, And then for a while I forgot my pain, And over the lakelet we seemed to glide In our little boat, two boys again.

And then, in my dream, we stood alone On a forest path where the shadows fell; And I heard again the tremulous tone, And the tender words of his last farewell.

But that parting was years, long years ago, He wandered away to a foreign land; And our dear old mother will never know That he died to-night by his brother’s hand.

The soldiers who buried the dead away, Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, But laid them to sleep till the Judgment-day, Heart folded to heart, and face to face.

Indianapolis, Indiana, March, 1863.

more persons than we imagine have at some period of their lives been most thoroughly frightened. I do not mean frightened in the common sense of the word, but so completely paralysed with terror as to be utterly unable to think or act aright, or indeed do anything for a time. One does not often hear of such cases, for the confession of fear is very humiliating to men, and we lock the secret up close in our breasts.

It does not at all follow that we are, generally speaking, cowards. May-be our liver has been deranged, or our nerves from some cause or other unstrung, and so fear has dashed in upon us with, the irresistible impetuosity and icy coldness of a swollen river, which has burst its banks in winter. May-be something has taken place which is in reality most trivial, and yet from its unusually sudden appearance, and from its most unexpected occurrence, it has sent such a shock through us, as seriously to damage, if not indeed render entirely useless for the time being, our physical and moral courage. A man can with ease step down one or two feet at a time, or jump down eight or ten feet; but let the same man unexpectedly step down six or eight inches, and he will receive such a shock, as to be for a few moments almost incapacitated from moving. Many a person with iron nerves will most fearlessly face the greatest conceivable danger if it comes in human form, but let there be a dash of what he thinks supernatural about it—that is, supernatural, because he can by no means account for it—and forthwith his iron nerves are turned to something about as strong as the threads of a spider’s cobweb.

The following tale is published by request. The somewhat extraordinary title is attached to it by request. The names of the persons concerned have been very slightly changed, because it is not wished that they should be made public, but every