So

Cauchy, the "pre-eminent mathematician of France, who, declining to swear by Louis Napoleon, was a few months since ejected from his government professorship in Paris. (Why will not some millionnaire invite M. Cauchy to America, providing for him as Mr. Abbott Lawrence did for Professor Agassiz?) Professor Pierce is an excellent refutation of the usual slip-shod idea of a mathematician. He is a most interesting, earnest, and cultivated gentleman, of marked kindliness and geniality, and excellent company for any man of sense. Scarcely could a less genial man so long make part of that most high-toned, refined, and cultivated circle of college society in Cambridge, without at least an external exhibition of the humanities of culture and of life. fully has the professor president mastered the perturbations of the planets, that he may be said to have put these wanderers under centennial bonds to keep the peace. When the world was all agog with Le Verrier's discovery of Neptune, through the perturbations of Uranus, Professor Pierce publicly declared that the planet discovered was not the planet called for by Le Verrier's theory: a bold saying that was, and we then thought a rash one, but he was quite right, as the daily confirmation of the lamented Walker's Ephemeris fully proves. Once, too, he was wrong; but when he found his error, he was prompt to confess and disclaim it as publicly as possible: a nobler thing than convicting Le Verrier of oversight. Professor Pierce has long been a sort of backbone to the physical astronomy of the country, as has of late been shown in his services to the new Nautical Almanac ; and we hope he may long survive to fill this post of labor and of honor.

At the fourth meeting, the only salaried office of the association, that of permanent secretary, was created, and a salary of $300 per annum established, the term of office being three years. Professor Spencer F. Baird, of Dickinson college, Pennsylvania, now the Natural History Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, was chosen to this new post. His duty includes arranging for reports of proceedings, the issuing of circulars to members, nearly all the current correspondence, and the charge of publishing and distributing the volumes of proceedings. The smooth working of the business matters of the association depends very much on the skill and fidelity with which the duties of this office are discharged; and it is fortunate that one so competent in every respect was chosen to it. Professor Baird was a favorite pupil and intimate friend of Audubon, and has made special attain

ments and copious collections in Ornithology and Ichthyology, besides a general study of Natural History. With a physical and mental vigor developed in collecting specimens, and still unscathed by time, he unites excellent business qualities, and thorough acquaintance with publishing. He is the American editor and chief translator of the Iconographic Encyclopedia, which, with his duties in publishing and distributing the Smithsonian contributions, has peculiarly qualified him for the labor of editing and publishing the association proceedings. Nor is there any one whose intimacy with the scientific men in this country is more general and desirable. His youth and mental vitality give assurance of many years of effective service still in those labors where he is already so much at home.

The general secretary of the association is Prof. J. D. Dana, of Yale College, if one so cosmopolitan in knowledge and journeyings can properly be assigned to a locality. (Professor St. John, of Cleveland, acted in this capacity at the last meeting, as Professor Dana was unable to attend.) He is one of the solid human columns on which our national scientific reputation may safely repose. Beneath

a kindly and modest exterior, he has managed to amass treasures of accurate knowledge, sufficient to stock many ordinary heads to repletion. He is indeed a man of wonderful scientific learning for one still in his fresh manhood; and this learning is made prolific by a philosophic and reasoning mind. Among American mineralogists he is facile princeps, as evinced by his treatise on mineralogy; and we much doubt if in this branch the world can show his equal. The Natural History of the Wilkes Exploring Expedition, which he accompanied, owes him a burden of obligation which will long be recognized by naturalists. Nor is it probable that a higher authority can be cited in respect to volcanic phenomena. These pipes of the Titans he has sniffed and scrutinized "the world around," having indeed carried on quite a flirtation with Pelée in the Sandwich Islands. His researches among the coral formations, and his writings thereon, take the very highest rank, and his monographs on Crustacea, Zoophytes, and Medusæ would alone entitle him to the highest standing in Natural History. As one of the chief editors of the American Journal of Science, he is abundant in good deeds and good works. Professor Dana is not perhaps a man of the highest genius, but he will leave the world decidedly the wiser for his labors and researches, even though he do no more in the future.

But we trust he will through many years be spared to apply his well-trained powers to the boundless researches ever inviting them.

Dr. A. L. Elwyn, of Philadelphia, is now, and has been nearly from the first, treasurer of the association. His distinction lies not in any particular department of science, but he is much interested in promoting it, and ever ready to aid its advance. He has paid much attention to agriculture, and has a model farm, on which he is laboring to give a scientific direction to the too empirical processes of the routine farmer.

And so ends our talk of the retired presidents, and actual officers, of this scientific body. We might dwell on the functions of the standing committee, which is its governing council of elders, but this would possess very little general interest. It is on nomination by the standing committee, that new members are elected, and such nominations may be procured through any actual member, by any person really engaged in prosecuting positive science.

The subject of scientific advancement in the United States, is one of peculiar interest and importance. The work which science has to do, in cultivating the vast field of descriptive knowledge presented by our still new continent, in ministering to all the common arts of life, in evolving the grand principles and mysteries of nature, and in nurturing a higher and more beneficent spiritual faith; this is a work of such transcendent moment, that our loftiest conceptions are but feeble images of the unseen reality. The whole surface and substance of modern life is undergoing a ceaseless transformation, through the manifold ministries which science is daily embodying in the forms and operations of manufacture and of art. Though no prophecy reveals what the future may have in store, it is still the

confident anticipation of reason, that new wonder-workings will not soon cease to flow from the cornucopia of speculative and experimental science. When we reflect how few are cultivating philosophical researches in our midst, and compare this petty band with the mighty results to be achieved through their labors, and the limitless harvest waiting for reapers, our spontaneous aspiration is, without stint, and by all legitimate means, to increase the numbers and strengthen the arms of this too feeble fraternity.

America has not yet attained that scientific maturity which must, we hope, ere long entitle her to claim a foremost rank in the world-federation of philosophy. Pre-eminent in all the mechanical and practical functions of living and of labor, we lack that deeper element of digested learning and reflective culture, which will give continuous vigor, and systematic power, to our scientific progression. Our low tone of mathematical culture precludes us from all access to some of the richest placers of physics, and throws many of our ablest minds on a subtle and tricksy sleight of mind, in researches where the well furnished investigator would cleave a sure, straight road to the end. With leisure and wealth will come an accession of solid strength and deliberate direction to our too spasmodic vaultings into the realms of discovery. When the man of science is relieved from the excessive labor, and stupefying routine of the professorial function, when research becomes a self sustaining vocation, and when approved genius is permitted to address all its fire and energy to elaborating and verifying its originations; then American science, erect and self-reliant, will tower upward into a column of true national majesty, more honoring to us, and more diffusive of blessing to man, than even our glorious constitutional fabric. Speed that day, whoever can!

BY ONE BORN WITHIN

I awoke this morning in London-in a

dense November fog-darkness that might be felt. It was useless to draw near the window, which looked at a little distance as if pasted over with thick brown paper, or as if, like the windows of our Saxon

SOUND OF BOW BELLS.

ancestors, its panes were made of horn. Occasionally the gloom without was deepened by a passing shadow; and afar, in one of our public buildings, gleamed one candle, star-like; but the street was very silent, the thickness of the atmosphere

had even deadened sound. I dressed drearily, fumbling with hooks and buttons in the darkness, and went down to breakfast with my landlady. I have made that arrangement, being alone. The landlady is a pious English matron, and has prayers daily in her family. As, reading by the scant gleaming of one mutton dip, she thanks Divine Providence, according to the formula, for "granting us the light of another day," I came very near laughing. The family being well used to such obscurities of the atmosphere, the absurdity of the words does not appear to strike any more reverent member of the little congregation. By degrees, during breakfast, the extreme darkness of our street appears to lighten. I look out and behold the morning sun,-round, rayless, like a bloodred moon, peering at us through the darkness. One can look him full in the face, without the eye of an eagle. My trunks have not yet come up from the customhouse. I cannot venture forth for want of my best bonnet. I will stand here at the window, and recalling London customs with all the pleasure that we feel in renewing long-forgotten, once-familiar associations, watch the proceedings of the neighborhood.

I hear a sound. Rat-tat, and a ring. At every house along the street it seems to be repeated. I recognize at once the professional knock of the general postman. Here he comes, dressed in a scarlet coat, hurrying along. Stopping one moment to see what letter comes next, then darting up some door-step,-crossing the street-and looking up at windows whence beam eager faces full of expectation. He is rarely kept waiting. I alone, seem to expect nothing out of his leathern bag. No one of the epistolary disposed multitude will think at present of addressing me a letter. I console myself with thinking of the poor friendless young lad, who after thanking the Boston sailor's missionary for giving him permission to write to him from Rio, pathetically adds, "It made me quite happy to think that I too, like others, could say in a foreign port, I will send a letter home."

I have noticed an elderly woman opposite, for half an hour past, standing at her window. I observe she is flustered as the post draws near. The India mail is in. She is expecting a letter from her youngest daughter, lately married, and gone to Calcutta with her husband. The instant that the postman knocks, the door is opened; some one has been waiting behind it. The money is ready to put into his hand. I watch the mother's face as she reads of her absent Maria. I watch the old father, who cannot read crossed

writing, listening eagerly as it is read aloud, and the face of the sister who ran down for the letter, following every word as it is read by the mother. Maria has led them into a new world; they are smiling over her descriptions of palanquins and porpoises, the voyage and arrival.

At the next house, in an upper window, another scene is going on. Shortly after breakfast, I saw a young girl with a large bundle pinned up in brown paper, ring the front door bell. She had brought home the young lady's dress for her first ball. I see her at an upper window trying it on. It evidently delights her. She prinks before her mirror. The dressmaker has smoothed out every plait, and now, with her bare neck and white arms glancing through her gauzes, she rushes down to the drawing-room, to claim her dear mother's sympathy and applause. Alas! the postman's knock has brought no pleasure to that dwelling. Her father and mother stand together by the window. They are holding between them a letter. She holds out, to show it off, her glistening skirt, and dances towards them. They turn as she comes in. Never will she forget those faces full of woe. "Oh mother! what is it?" she cries, and flings herself into her arms, and for a moment thinking only of herself, weeps frantically upon her mother's shoulder. The only son,-the only brother, has been taken ill in Wales, is dying and alone. This letter summons the family. I see the young girl with her gay robe laid aside. Her dress will soon be sable. I see her trying to gather strength for the occasion-strength to console and help her mother. I see her praying for strength beside her little bed. -I see her the next moment (for there is no time to be lost), helping the maid to bring down from the attic a portmanteau. I see her on her knees before it, packing. Her tears are dropping fast upon the linen she lays in. I see her fasten her poor mother's cloak. I see her, with a quiver ing lip, trying to say some words of good cheer as the coach comes to the door; and the father and the mother start upon their journey. I see her watch them off, and then in an agony of grief she flies to her own chamber. There is no longer any motive to hide her apprehension. How strange it seems to her that all the world is not darkened by the calamity that has befallen her; that while she is so very wretched, others can laugh, talk, eat and be merry, notwithstanding her great

sorrow.

The general postman has nearly passed out of my sight. Yet no. I see him still. He has forgotten a letter, and comes back along the street. His rat-tat sounds upon

a neighboring knocker. He leans over the area rail, and drops a letter to the maid, who is down on her knees scrubbing. The American mail is in to-day, as well as that from India. How her face reddens as she picks up her own letter. How she rushes to her attic in the house top to get him her last shilling-how she polished up her majesty's face with a last wipe of her apron, not from any sentiment of loyalty perhaps, but with a sort of loving, affectionate, regretful appreciation of the value of a shilling. But the knitting together of the bands of affection will be worth it, half-filled though Jim's illwritten scrawl may be with tender reminiscences of home, instead of news such as that with which we more experienced correspondents would fill a foreign letter. "Sarah, who is that letter for?" says the young lady of the house, roused by the post knock, hanging over the bannister. For me, Miss," replies Sarah, and disappears with her letter.

Is

I hear another rat-tat in the street. that the post? It seems to me the post is never silent. This time it is the twopenny post-man, distinguished from his brother of St. Martins, by his rat-tat without the ring. He is dressed in a swallow-tailed blue coat, with scarlet cuffs and collar; the remainder of his person terminating in corduroy, which is not likewise "the property of her majesty." Poor fellow! His pay is small, and his labor excessive. On his beat there is almost an hourly delivery. By the time he goes to bed at night, he may calculate to have walked upwards of twenty miles. Rat-tat at our door. What has he left for us? My landlady throws it down in great disgust. It is only a printed circular. MacMurdoch, undertaker and upholsterer. Funerals splendidly, or neatly furnished," is "thankful for past favors, and respectfully solicits a continuance of the same!"

What a memento mori! Let us remember how the Turks never destroy a paper, lest upon it should be inscribed the holy name of Allah. This circular of J. MacMurdoch, had she not flung it away so hastily, might have preached a sermon to any landlady. "Have you been to hear a sermon?" said a friend to Archbishop Leighton. "I have met a sermon

-for I met a funeral," was the good old bishop's answer. So do not let us say in our haste, "Send your circular not to us, Mr. MacMurdoch, but to the family over the way." But let us lay to heart the warning; and our souls being prepared for heaven, may it (for the sake of those who love us) be long before MacMurdoch works his will upon our frames.

But MacMurdoch must live, and send his sons to school, and lay by portions for his daughters, and feed his gallant sleek black steeds who wear the nodding plumes, and pay his grooms and mutes, and keep the moths out of his palls and other "mortuary properties." Alas MacMurdoch! thou art not the only man for whose benefit other men must "shuffle off this mortal coil," who if the Angel of Death cut himself down with his own scythe, would lament over the calamity. In the house directly opposite, I have been watching a young woman. She is not handsome, and wears spectacles. Spectacled women, appeal to the respect, though rarely to the affection of the public. They are mostly marked out "old maids" from their birth, and belong either to the ranks of the fussily benevolent, or the literary obscure. My neighbor at No. 6 sits at a high desk, and is evidently literary. Rat-tat. She springs up from her seat; for a week past she has been expecting a communication from her publisher. It has come; the large, sprawled, business-looking handthe "Madam "" at the beginning of the sheet (she has never been addressed as Madam before). Her hand trembles as she takes it from the servant's tray. She glances her eye over it. To be or not to be? Poor child-have you weighed well what it is to have your wish-have you counted the cost of what it will be for you to be an author?-To be! -- Oh! happiness. . . . . . see how the mother and the little sisters who have watched every line of her production almost as it dropped on paper from her pen, come about her and rejoice with her. To be! He has "received from a literary friend an account of her work of fiction, and if she thinks fit to adopt his suggestions as to a few alterations, he shall have great pleasure in producing the work. She is eager to have the suggestions of that awful literary reader. She is eager to be advised by one who knows the nature of those lions lying dreadful on her path-the awful Vehmgericht of criticism. How glad that night will be her dreams! By her, more than by most of us, will it be verified, that

"Folded eyes see brighter visions than the waking ever do."

Already the money she will make is appropriated in fancy. For her dear mother she will buy a watch, and something for each sister. She will give herself the books she has long wanted, and make an anonymous donation, such as she has often longed to make, to her favorite charity. "Half the profits," says the publisher, "should any arise." Oh! but

some will arise! The public cannot judge the work more severely than he. If he can risk it, she is safe. What will she make by it? Fifty pounds? Can it be fifty pounds? She drops asleep at length, dimly remembering that she has somewhere heard that Mrs. Gore has £500 for a novel, and Bulwer £800.

Dream happily, poor girl! A few weeks hence the prophetic spirit is upon me and I know what I should see a few weeks hence, standing in the twilight at this window. It will be upon a Saturday, A boy will ring at your front door and shout out "Paper!" Amongst those weekly newspapers he brings, there will be one on whose wise pages you have pinned your literary faith since you were ten years old. You will open the front door yourself, to the news-boy's great surprise, and take that paper. You will glance at its table of contents. It will be there. The criticism you have so long anticipated, prefigured, dreamed of, will be there. You will rush with it away to some quiet spot, where you may read it all alone, and resolve, if it should tell you of your faults, to bear it bravely. You will shut yourself in yonder upper chamber, and fall breathless on the couch. Your hands will tremble so as you unfold the sheet, that you will lay it on your knee till you grow caliner. Read it, read it at once,-read it, poor child. There it stands in rigid lines of type, so pitilessly just, so coldly, calmly, terribly severe. After a time, your family will grow anxious to know what keeps you so long silent. They will already be aware you have received the paper. They will whisper together, "Will it do to disturb her?" and your youngest, your pet sister, stealing from the rest, will find her way up to your chamber. She will open the door softly, and come in, and take out of your stiff hand the criticism that has so moved you. Her tears will stream fast down her face, but yours be dry, until you throw your arms about her neck, and exclaim, "Say me some poetry, something to change the current of my thoughts, to rouse me from this state;" and she will begin to repeat to you the Genevieve of Coleridge. As she goes on, you will begin to weep. Yet with you the clouds of grief will not melt away in tears. You will not, like the children, be able to "cry and have it over." I pity you with all my heart, poor girl! And for the future- -nay; the spirit has deserted me. I cannot look into the future. I cannot tell whether you will have sufficient determination, or sufficient force of character, or sufficient literary power in reserve, to gird up the loins of

your mind, and to retrieve your failure; or whether you will turn to other pursuits, less exciting and more womanly. Perhaps, but I think not, your spectacles almost preclude the hope,-perhaps you may marry; and, as matron cares increase, and as little rosy children cluster round your knees, you will wonder at the dream you once indulged of literary effort; be thankful for that stern review, standing like God's flaming Angel, with a drawn sword before Balaam, scaring you back thus early from that path; and, clasping your baby to your breast, or looking up fondly (without spectacles) into the eyes of your husband, you will say, "These children of my heart are worth to me ten thousandfold any children of my brain," and you will wish your husband to forget you ever were an author.

Dear me my interests in the post have led me off so far, that hundreds of knockings, aye, and of ringings too, have taken place along the street while I have been indulging an excited fancy.

Ringing at two area bells (such people never pull the bells of the front doors), I see an Irish orange woman and butcher boy. The former belongs to that costermongering race, whose history is written in the book of Mayhew. She is a worthy soul, trying hard "to keep the life in her." Withal, a little given to strong drink, but honest, and even affectionate to an habitual customer. She carries her heavy basket on her head, crushing flat her straw bonnet with her load. I wonder how it looks when offthat bonnet. In the summer season she will bring from Covent Garden any flowers you may want, or fruits in bottles. She is an old acquaintance of mine-is Mrs. Doolan. I think that I must speak to her.

"Ah! long life and indeed to your ladyship. And shure ye've been and come back from over the seas. And its meself that has a brother in the Canadas; and shure ye've seen him where ye've been, miss?"

She has a long story to tell, poor creature, of the child she has buried, and the husband in the hospital. "And shure it's the bonnet she wears that I giv her." Mercy upon us! Is that thing the fancy straw bonnet that I brought from Paris, which was considered so extremely pretty half a dozen years ago? Surely Teufelsdroëck omitted an important chapter in his Sartor a chapter on the ultimate destinies and liabilities of clothes. I buy some of her oranges, two for a penny, twenty for a shilling; for cheap fruit is more plenty and more cheap in London