certain than that if you know nothing at all about a man you know no harm of him. There are many people who will oppose a man seeking for any end just because they know him. They don't care about a total stranger gaining the thing desired; but they cannot bear that any one they know should reach it. They cannot make up their mind to that. You remember a curious fact brought out by Cardinal Wiseman in his Lives of the Last Four Popes. There are certain European kings who have the right to veto a pope. Though the choice of the conclave fall on him, these kings can step in and say, No. They are called to give no reason. They merely say, Whoever is to be pope, it shall not be that man. And the cardinal shows us that as surely as any man seems likely to be elected pope who has ever been Papal ambassador at the court of any of those kings, so surely does the king at whose court he was veto him! In short, the king is a man; and he cannot bear that any one he knows should be raised to the mystical dignity of the Papacy. But the monarch has no objection to the election of a man whom he knows nothing about. And as the more eminent cardinals are sure to have become known, more or less intimately, to all the kings who have the right to veto, the man elected pope is generally a very obscure and insignificant cardinal. Then there is a pleasant feel- | ing of superiority and patronage in advancing a small man, a man smaller than yourself. You may have known men who were a good deal consulted as to the filling up of vacant offices in their own profession who made it their rule strongly to recommend men whose talent was that of decent mediocrity, and never to mention men of really shining ability. And if you suggest to them the names of two or three persons of very high qualifications as suitable to fill the vacant place, you will find the most vigorous methods instantly employed to make sure that, whoever may be successful, it shall not be one of these. "Oh, he would never do!" It is worth remembering, as further proof how little you can count on any means certainly conducing to the end of Getting On, that the most opposite courses of conduct have led men to great success. To be the toady of a great man is a familiar art of self-advancement: there once was a person who by doing extremely dirty work for a notorious peer attained a considerable place in the government of this country. But it is a question of luck after all. Sometimes it has been the making of a man to insult a duke, or to bully a chief justice. It made him a popular favourite; it enlisted general sympathy on his side; it gained him credit for nerve and courage. But public feeling, and the feeling of the dispensers of patronage in all walks of life oscillates so much, that at different times the most contradictory qualities may commend a man for preferment. You may have known a man who was much favoured by those in power though he was an extremely outspoken, injudicious, and almost reckless person. It is only at rare intervals that such a man finds favour: a grave, steady, and reliable man, who will never say or do anything outrageous, is for the most part preferred. And now and then you may find a highly cultivated congregation, wearied by having had for its minister for many years a remarkably correct and judicious though tiresome preacher, making choice for his successor of a brilliant and startling orator, very deficient in taste and sense. A man's luck, in all these cases, will appear, if it bring him into notice just at the time when his special characteristics are held in most estimation. If for some specific purpose you desire to have a horse which has only three legs, it is plain that if two horses present themselves for your choice, one with three legs and the other with four, you will select and prefer the animal with three. It will be the best, so far as concerns you. And its good luck will appear in this, that it has come to your notice just when your liking happened to be a somewhat peculiar one. In like manner you may find people say, In filling up this place at the present time we don't want a clever man, or a well-informed man, or an accomplished and presentable man: we want a meek man, a humble man, a man who will take snubbing freely, a rough man, a man like ourselves. And I have known many cases, in which, of several competitors, one was selected just for the possession of qualities which testified his inferiority to the others. But then, in this case, that which was absolutely the worst was the best for the particular case. The people wanted a horse with three legs: and when such an animal presented itself, they very naturally preferred him to the other horses which had four legs. The horses with four legs naturally complained of the choice, and thought themselves badly used when the screw was taken in preference. They were wrong. There are places for which a rough man is better than a smooth one, a dirty man than a clean one, in the judgment (that is) of the people who have the filling up of the place. I certainly think their judgment is wrong. But it is their judgment, and of course they act upon it. As regards the attainment of very great and unusual wealth by business or the like, it is very plain how much there is of luck. A certain degree of business talent is of course necessary in the man who rises in a few years from nothing to enormous wealth: but it is Providence that says who shall draw the great prize; for other men with just as much ability and industry entirely fail. Talent and industry in business may make sure, unless in very extraordinary circumstances, of decent success: but Providence fixes who shall make four hundred thousand a year. The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor riches to men of understanding-that is, their riches, are not necessarily in proportion to their understanding. Trickery and cheating, not crossed by ill luck, may gain great wealth. I shall not name several instances which will occur to every one. But I suppose, my friend, that you and I would cut off our right hand before we should Get On in worldly wealth by such means as these. You must make up your mind, however, that you will not be envious when you see the fine house, and the horses and carriages of some successful trickster. All this indeed might have been had, but you would not have it at the price. That worldly success is a great deal too dear which is to be gained only by sullying your integrity. And I gladly believe that I know many men whom no material bribe would tempt to what is mean or dishonest. There is something curious in the feeling which many people cherish towards an acquaintance who becomes a successful man. Getting On gives some people mortal offence. To them success is an unpardonable crime. They absolutely hate the man that Gets On. Timon, you remember, lost the affection of those who knew him when he was ruined: but depend upon it, there are those who would have hated Timon much worse had he suddenly met some great piece of good fortune. I have already said that these envious and malicious people can better bear the success of a man whom they do not know. They cannot stand it when an old school-companion shoots ahead. They cannot stand it when a man in their own profession attains to eminence. They diligently thwart such an one's plans, and then chuckle over their failure, saying, with looks of deadly malice, "Ah, this will do him a great deal of good!" But now, my reader, I am about to stop. Let me briefly sum up my philosophy of Getting On. It is this: A wise man in this world will not set his heart on Getting On, and will not push very much to Get On. He will do his best, and humbly take, with thankfulness, what the hand above sends him. It is not worth while to push. The whole machinery that tends to earthly success is so capricious and uncertain in its action, that no man can count upon it, and no wise man will. A chance word, a look, the turning of a straw, may make your success or mar it. A man meets you on the street, and says, Who is the person for such a place, great or small: you suddenly think of somebody, and say, He is your man: and the thing is settled. A hundred poor fellows are disappointed. You did not know about them, or their names did not occur to you. You put your hand into a hat, and drew out a name. You stuck a hook into your memory, and this name came out. And that has made the man's fortune. And the upshot of the whole matter is, that such an infinitude of little fortuitous circumstances may either further or prevent our Getting On: the whole game is so complicated, that the right and happy course is humbly to do your duty and leave the issue with God. Let me say it again: "Seekest thou great things for thyself? Seek them not!" It is not worth while. All your seeking will not make you sure of getting them: the only things you will make sure of will be fever and toil and suspense. We shall not push, or scheme, or dodge for worldly success. We shall succeed exactly as well: and we shall save ourselves much that is wearisome and degrading. Let us trust in God, my friend, and do right, and we shall Get On as much as he thinks good for us. And it is not the greatest thing to Get On-I mean, to Get On in matters that begin and end upon this world. There is a progress in which we are sure of success if we earnestly aim at it, which is the best Getting On of all. Let us "grow in grace." Let us try, by God's aid, to grow better, kinder, humbler, more patient, more earnest to do good to all. If the germ of the better life be implanted in us by the blessed Spirit, and tended by him day by day; if we trust our Saviour and love our God, then our whole existence, here and hereafter, will be a glorious progress from good to better. We shall always be Getting On. FORTUNE. Fortune, men say, doth give too much to many: But yet she never gave enough to any. Son of av'rice, soul of frost, Eye unconscious of a tear, But ye darling sons of heav'n, You, who wipe the tearful eye; Come, ye happy virtuous few, You these mossy banks may press; MRS. HANNAH MORE. THE LIFE OF A NATURALIST.1 The adventures and vicissitudes which have fallen to my lot, instead of tending to diminish the fervid enthusiasm of my nature, have imparted a toughness to my bodily constitution, naturally strong, and to my mind, naturally buoyant, an elasticity such as to assure me that though somewhat old, and considerably denuded, in the frontal region, I could yet perform on foot a journey of any length, were I sure that I should thereby add materially to our knowledge of the ever-interesting creatures which have for so long a time occupied my thoughts by day, and filled my dreams with pleasant images. Nay, had I a new lease of life presented to me, I should choose for it the very occupations in which I have been engaged. And, reader, the life which I have led has been in some respects a singular one. Think of a person, intent on such pursuits as mine have been, aroused at early dawn from his rude couch on the alder-fringed brook of some northern valley, or in the midst of some yet unexplored forest of the West, or perhaps on the soft and warm sands of the Florida shores, and listening to the pleasing melodies of songsters innumerable saluting the magnificent orb, from whose radiant influence the creatures of many worlds receive life and light. Refreshed and reinvigorated by healthful rest, he 1 From Ornithological Biography. starts upon his feet, gathers up his store of curiosities, buckles on his knapsack, shoulders his trusty firelock, says a kind word to his faithful dog, and re-commences his pursuit of zoological knowledge. Now the morning is spent, and a squirrel or a trout afford him a repast. Should the day be warm, he reposes for a time under the shade of some tree. The woodland choristers again burst forth into song, and he starts anew to wander wherever his fancy may direct him, or the objects of his search may lead him in pursuit. When evening approaches, and the birds are seen betaking themselves to the retreats, he looks for some place of safety, erects his shed of green boughs, kindles his fire, prepares his meal, and as the widgeon or blue-winged teal, or perhaps the breast of a turkey or a steak of venison, sends its delicious perfumes abroad, he enters into his parchment-bound journal the remarkable incidents and facts that have occurred in the course of the day. Darkness has now drawn her sable curtain over the scene; his repast is finished, and kneeling on the earth, he raises his soul to Heaven, grateful for the protection that has been granted to him, and the sense of the divine presence in this solitary place. Then wishing a cordial good-night to all the dear friends at home, the American woodsman wraps himself up in his blanket, and closing his eyes soon falls into that comfortable sleep which never fails him on such occasions. JOHN JAMES AUDUBON THE HUMBLE-BEE. Aught unsavoury or unclean Clover catch-fly, adder's-tongue, Wiser far than human seer, Leave the chaff and take the wheat. R. WALDO EMERSON. FAMOUS PRISONERS. CASANOVA. Among the most noteworthy and conspicuous personages of the eighteenth century, a man that might be called a fine bird if fine feathers make one, was the Signor Giovanni Giacomo Casanova di Seingault. Arrayed in the richest garments of the picturesque period and country in which he lived, garments that were never paid for, Casanova went from court to court of Europe, delighting everybody with his airy bravado and his graceful insolence, winning the hearts of the women and borrowing the money of the men, until there remained for him no longer a theatre for the practice of his arts and the display of his attractions. In biographical writings he is mentioned as the Don Juan of his time; but the Don Juan of the dramatic or the lyric stage was a modest and retiring person in comparison with the Venetian adventurer. He went to visit Voltaire at Ferney, and Frederick the Great at Sans Souci; he saw, but does not seem to have fascinated, Catherine II. at St. Petersburg, and gained some favour with Pope Benedict XIV. at Rome; he met George III. and the Chevalier d'Eon in London, and encountered Cagliostro at Aix-Cagliostro, who, alone of all his contemporaries, was altogether as accomplished and magnificent a charlatan and beggar as himself. From his social triumphs in such illustrious company. Casanova came down often to most ignoble straits, and was forced to sorry expedients, for so great a man, to make a living. Perhaps the most respectable position he ever occupied, until the lettered close of his remarkable carcer, was as a member of the orchestra, in 1745, of the theatre of San Samuele in Venice. Here he played for some time, in one of his intervals of impecuniosity, until he could refit his wardrobe and organize his plans for another campaign. Such scamps rarely come to a good end, and yet the last twelve years of Casanova's life were spent in creditable-nay, honourable employment, as the librarian of Count Waldstein of Bohemia, in whose well-stored alcoves he wrote the History of Poland, and prepared a translation of the Iliad. At daybreak on the morning of the 26th July, 1755, when Casanova was living as a man of fashion in Venice, the grand-master, acting under the orders of the much-dreaded council of ten, entered his chamber and bade him instantly rise, dress himself, gather up all his manuscripts, and follow where he, the grand-master, should lead. Upon questioning his authority and receiving for answer that it was on the part of the tribunal—a word which almost turned Casanova into stone-that the arrest was made, our fine gentleman put on a laced shirt, and his best habit, and otherwise obeyed. They got into a gondola and were carried to the house of the grand-master, from which Casanova was presently conveyed along the Grand Canal to the quay of the prisons, where, disembarking with the guard, he was made to enter a building, ascend several flights of stairs, traverse a gallery, and cross the canal, to another building opposite, by a bridge. It was the Bridge of Sighs. On his way Casanova passed through the very hall of the council, and arriving upon the floor above it was confined in a small cell communicating with a great garret, where, with other prisoners, he was allowed at stated times to walk. It was that part of the prison which was known by the descriptive and memorable title of "Under the Leads.' It need hardly be said that with so fertile a mind and irrepressible a spirit as he possessed, Casanova entertained, from the very moment of his incarceration, the idea of escape. Fortune favoured him at the start. In wandering about the old garret he found an iron bolt, of the thickness of an ordinary walking-cane, and twenty inches in length, which he sharpened upon a piece of loose marble from the walls, into a sort of pike. With this he undertook to cut his way through the floor, which was of three thicknesses, into the apartment below. It was a work of great difficulty. Fearing that the hole to be made under his bed would be discovered by the servants when they came to sweep his cell, he feigned a cough, and by a cut upon the finger stained his handkerchief with blood to corroborate his assertion of hemorrhage produced by the dust. In this way he obtained an exemption from the sweeping of the cells, and went to work with a will. It was only at night that he could proceed without fear of disturbance. and to work at night a lamp was indispensable. With a saucepan, the Lucca oil given him for his salad, and cotton wicks from the lining of his doublet, he improvised a lamp. But how to light it? Casanova was affected at times with an eruption upon his arm, and he brought it into immediate requisition for getting from the prison surgeon some flowers of sulphur. Then, under pretext of wishing a pumice-stone for |