fill the boat which I had abandoned—and I saw it instantly sink, with its living burthen, beneath the still waters. I heard at times, from the burning vessel, the wild cry and terror of despair, mingle with the crackling of the flames; and I waited in silence for the explosion, which would leave me solitary, with night and the ocean round me. At last it came; the burst of light, the deep heavy boom, that went like a swell along the water and the air; the large masses of light, mingled with darker bodies, flinging themselves up into the heavens, and then falling into the sea with a hissing noise, and disappearing, until every spark was extinguisheduntil all was hushed beneath the great waters—and pitchy darkness, and the silence of the grave, sat upon the bosom of the hungry deep.

Here memory fails me my desolate state was for a while forgotten in sleep. I recollect only that the high land, near to which the ship had anchored, and which, by the imperfect starlight of the southern hemisphere, I could just discern, gradually disappeared. I had no instrument wherewith to assist my course, and lying down in the bottom of the little boat, I commended myself to Him who had rescued me from an awful death, and who could yet preserve me ;-and sleep came upon me.

I was awakened by a sudden concussion—it was broad day: I raised myself up and looked around; I was near the mouth of a river, and at but a short distance from shore. The rivers of Africa carry down much alluvial soil, forming sand banks on each side, and it was upon one of these that my little vessel had drifted by the tide. I thanked God for my deliverance; and with little difficulty gained the shore. It was a sandy shelving coast, and the tide had nearly retired. I sat down at a little distance from the margin, upon a dry sandy hillock, and gazed around me. Before me was the swelling ocean, of the greenish hue, which it usually wears in those seasons, and glittering like a mirror; and below the shelving bank, the little impotent waves were running races on the almost level sand; but from these my eye was easily attracted by the beautiful and varied hues which sparkled upon the sand bank, beneath the almost perpendicular rays of a tropical sun. This appearance proceeded from innumerable marine productions, upon which the yet recent wave had left a polish; and which, both in beauty and variety, exceeded all conceptions I had before formed of the wonders which are hidden in the ocean. From this instant the bent of my future life was determined— this instant coloured the fortunes of my future years. I had seen, when in Vienna, a collection of shells, and other marine productions, which was highly valued; but here the labour of one year would eclipse it. Here Providence had cast my lot; and here a new and seemingly untrodden field lay before me.* It is impossible that any state can be imagined

*It is probable that the Sieur Godolph was the first who became acquainted with the riches of the coast of Mozambique in the department of conchology. Since his days, however, it has been often explored by the conchologist, as well as by those who undertake to be his purveyors for the sake of gain.

more utterly desolate than mine at this moment was; but in what I saw around me, I fancied I discovered the sources of future wealth,—and like the flowers that spring up in the regions of eternal snow, Hope, even in this moment, found entrance into my soul.

I write this account of my life for the information of my children and my grand children, that they may not be entirely unacquainted with him to whom they owe their fortunes; and for their use, that they may learn, how far trust in Providence and perseverance in labour accomplish their reward. In what I have already written, I have recorded the most eventful epochs of my life,-in the years which follow, fortune was less capricious.

It would be little interesting, to detail the monotonous lapse of the years which I spent upon the shore. I could speak indeed of the native villages which lie along the coast, and of the simple inhabitants, who supplied me with the necessaries of life. I could tell of that new world, which nature unfolds in this tropical region; or retrace the changes that time, as it wore away, wrought upon my feelings: but I refrain from all this.

There is no pursuit that will not, under certain circumstances, become a passion. To some it may seem unaccountable that days, months, nay years, should be spent in wandering,-a solitary along the sea coast, seeking for the productions which the waves had cast upon it; but I say of a truth, that without any hope of reward beyond the indulgence of my passion, I could have spent my days contentedly, even happily, thus employed. I longed for day, that light might enable me to renew my pursuit; I prolonged it, until the objects of my search were undistinguishable,-time, far from diminishing, served but to increase my ardour. I often would survey my accumulated treasures with delight, not less than that with which I now gaze upon the gold which they have purchased ; and, even after my labours had earned me independence, did I not, like another Sinbad, leave my domestic home, and become a wanderer again by the ocean tide, among the remotest islands that stud the deep? But years have at last stolen upon me; and domestic quiet, though it cannot wean me from my longings, reconciles me to that repose, which enfeebled nature demands. But even now, could vigour again reanimate for a season those limbs which have so often obeyed the impulses of my mind, I should again be Godolph, the Shell Gatherer. Often in my sleep does imagination recall former scenes, or create new images out of the past. Often do I sit upon the shelving rock, and watch the distant ocean swell approaching, or the little wave fretting beneath me; often am I hurrying, at break of day, over the dry sand hillocks, to the sea beach-or spreading in some sea worn cavity, the fruit of my day's labour, as the unclouded sun dips into the distant waters. I have been a man of many climes : my race is nearly run. GODOLPH.

(Signed)

THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW.

THIS beautiful Poem was printed about six years agone in a small work called "Le Fils de l'Homme, ou Souvenirs de Vienne." It is highly romantic in its conception, and there is a terseness in the language and a facility in the versification very creditable to the author. We have read it over several times, and always with pleasure. We feel confident that our readers will be delighted with this morceau in the original : place in juxta position a literal translation.

we

Beneath the casque their blanched skulls

Smile grim, and proud their air:

As in their bony hands

Their long sharp swords they bear.

In an agricultural point of view it is highly important to determine what is the food of plants, as such knowledge may be applied to courses of cropping and composts of manure. To the botanist this question is also most interesting, whether he investigates the phenomena of the vegetable kingdom merely as an amateur, or pursues his delightful science as a professional study. Guernsey and Jersey are justly celebrated for their fruits and flowers, and in addressing this article more particularly to our horticultural and floricultural readers, we hope to do something towards explaining the rationale of gardening, as well as of farming.

Philosophers have widely differed on the subject of this inquiry. We incline to adopt the sentiments of Dr. Hunter, as expressed in the notes

he has appended to "Evelyn's Sylva, or Treatise on Forest Trees," and to which we beg to refer those who require more ample information than is condensed into these pages.

From a number of experiments accurately conducted, Dr. Hunter was led to believe that all vegetables, from the hyssop on the wall to the cedar of Lebanon, receive their principal nourishment from oily particles incorporated with water, by means of an alkaline salt or absorbent earth. Till oil is made miscible, it is unable to enter the radical vessels of vegetables; and, on that account, Providence has bountifully supplied all natural soils with chalky or other absorbent particles. We say natural soils, for those which have been assisted by art are full of materials for that purpose; such as lime, marl, soap ashes, and the volatile alkaline salt of putrid dunghills. It may be asked, whence do natural soils receive their oily particles ? We answer, from the air. During the summer months, the atmosphere is full of putrid exhalations arising from the steam of dunghills, the perspiration of animals, and smoke. Every shower brings down

these oleaginous particles for the nourishment of plants.

The ingenious Mr. Tull, and others, have contended for earth's being the food of plants. If so, all soils equally tilled would be equally prolific. The increased fertility of a well pulverised soil induced him to imagine that the plough could so minutely divide the particles of earth, as to fit them for entering into the roots of plants. An open soil, if not too light in its own nature, will always produce plentiful crops. It readily receives the air, rains and dews, into its bosom, and at the same time gives the roots of plants a free passage in quest of food. This is the true reason why land well tilled is so remarkably fruitful. Water is thought, by some, to be the food of vegetables, when in reality it is only the vehicle of nourishment. Water is an heterogeneous fluid, and is no where to be found pure. It always contains a solution of animal or vegetable substances. These constitute the nourishment of plants, and the element in which they are minutely suspended acts only as a vehicle, in guiding them through the fine vessels of the vegetable body. The hyacinth and other bulbous roots, are known to perfect their flowers in pure water. Hence superficial observers have drawn an argument in favour of water being the food of vegetables. But the truth is, the roots, stem, and flowers of such plants are nourished by the mucilaginous juices of the bulb, diluted by the surrounding water. This mucilage is just sufficient to perfect the flower, and no more. Such a bulb neither forms seeds nor sends forth offsets. At the end of the season it appears weak, shrivelled, and exhausted, and is rendered unfit to produce flowers the succeeding year. A root of the same kind, that has been fed by the oily and mucilaginous juices of the earth, essentially differs in every particular. It has a plump appearance, is full of mucilage, with offsets upon its sides. All rich soils, in a state of nature, contain oil; and in those lands which have