celebrated gunsmiths has been investigating the subject, and is about to introduce solid blocks of compressed powder to fit the bore of the rifle, and be dropped down in the same way as the ball. No time should be lost in verifying, if need be, these results, when, if they are such as both experiment and theory indicate, the cake form of powder, will, we doubt not, be generally introduced into the service.

From The London Review. DISCOVERY OF A NEW COD DEPOT.

THOSE unacquainted with the natural history of fish have been greatly astonished by an account given in the daily newspapers of the discovery of what may be called a new cod depôt. The story of the finding out of this new fishing bank is very simple. In the course of last June, the captain of a London cod smack had in vain tried to obtain a cargo of fish at the once plentiful fishing stations of the Faroe Islands. After persevering for six weeks, he was compelled to leave the place clean, and instead of proceeding to try

his fortune at Iceland with the rest of the cod fleet, he made for the Orkney Islands, in company with a Gravesend smack, in order to prepare for a campaign at a place called Rockall, situated about three hundred and sixty miles west by south of the Orkneys. The captain's reason for going there

arose from a conversation he had some fif

Dawson, in writing an account of the dis-
covery, to the newspapers, says, that each of
the smack took a hundred pounds' worth of
fish in five days' fishing. "Captain Rhodes
informs me," says the doctor,
"that they
caught the fish as fast as they could bait and
haul, and when any of the cod escaped from
the hook, great monstrous sharks, as blue as
if painted with a brush, darted round the
ship's side, and swallowed them in an in-
stant. The very sea-birds were tame, evi-
dently never having been disturbed there by
man, some of them flying on board and eat-
ing the offal."

Further information, received after a sec

ond expedition to this fisherman's el dorado,
confirms the first account. One or two ad-
ditional vessels had been equally successful
with those originally sent out, and their cap-
tains and crews give a glowing account of
the fish-wealth which may be gathered at
this lonely spot-and it is lonely enough,
lone St. Kilda.
being one hundred and thirty miles from

fish they saw, and the wealth to be gathered
"The statements they give of the great
there, seems [says Dr. Dawson] more like
the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor than
proved facts by successful fishermen. They
tell of encounters with great sharks thirty
feet long, with mouths that could swallow
calves, and bodies as large and round as
tuns; of their fears and surprises from the
numberless large whales sporting and rising
on every side of them, one having actually
grazed the bottom of the Victoria with its
huge sides. They also saw numbers of
strange fish which they had never seen be-
fore, and some black fish larger than por-
poises, with flat round heads, and which

seemed

very numerous."

teen years ago with the mate of an Irish ship. They had been messmates together on board of a man-of-war, and upon the captain informing his old friend that he was in charge of a cod smack, and went every summer to the North Sea to capture cod,"The North Sea be blowed," said the We are very glad to chronicle the discovfriendly mate of the Irishman. "You don't ery of this new fishing bank-1st, because know where to catch cod, you don't; go to the present banks are being rapidly exRockall, where there is a bank eighty miles hausted; and 2nd, because the discovery in length, swarming with fish! I have been goes a long way to settle the fact of the sea two or three times becalmed there, and being colonized by fish much in the same caught cod as big as donkeys and as plenty way that the earth is inhabited by man. as blackberries!" This was great news, if The reason, it will be seen, why Rockall it were but true; and that the news was as was tried at all was the failure of the fishing nearly true as could reasonably be expected at the Faroe Isles, hitherto one of the great there is now the best authority for believing. strongholds of this particular fishery; and On the 2nd of last July, the two vessels every person at all conversant with the hissailed from North Isles, and on the 13th of tory of our fisheries knows that the vast the same month they were both enabled to fishing-banks on the coast of Newfoundland return, filled with many tons of fish. Dr. are not nearly so productive as they used to

be. Nearer home we have seen one fish-colonies. Thus we have the term "a school ing-ground after another exhausted, till it of whales; " we have also the young salbecame a kind of standing wonder that we mon in shoals, each year's growth in sepaobtained any thing like a supply of fish at rate companies, and every fish as local in its all. The great Dogger Bank is nearly used dwelling-place as men are; we know, too, up. Of the supplies of fish derived from that the herrings live also in nations which first to last from this gigantic depôt, some arrive at maturity in vast groups at differidea may be formed from the following state- ent periods of the season. The same laws ment which was published a few years ago govern the crustaceæ. Persons who deal in in the Quarterly Review:shell-fish can easily tell the different localities from whence they derive their supplies. A Scotch lobster can be readily distinguished from a Norway one; and a "native" oyster differs considerably from a "scuttle-mouth." These are all points which ought, long ago, to have led to a better understanding of the natural and economic history of fish. This ignorance has wellnigh ruined our most valuable fisheries. We have been trading for

sup

"It is almost time that some new ground were formed in place of the famous Doggerbank, which has now been preyed upon by so many nations for centuries, and has plied so many generations of Catholics and Protestants with fast and feast food. No better proof that its stores are failing could be given than the fact that, although the ground, counting the long bank and the north-west flat in its vicinity, covers eleven thousand eight hundred square miles, and years in the belief that the supply was inexthat in fine weather it is fished by the Lon-haustible, and are but beginning to find out don companies with from fifteen to twenty that it is even possible to exhaust the sea. dozen of long lines, extending to ten or The German Ocean has been so long the twelve miles, and containing from nine thou-fishing-pond of Europe, that we can scarcely sand to twelve thousand hooks, it is yet not at all common to secure even as many as four-score fish of a night."

The fact that fish herd together in great flocks or nations seems now to be well established. All the inhabitants of the great deeps, from the mighty whale down to the tiny minnow, live in what may be termed

wonder, considering the wealth that has been drawn from its depths, that its supplies are beginning to fail us. There can be no doubt, however, that other sources of supply will be discovered; if so, we can only hope that some method will be observed in harrying the nest, in order that the supply may be made to go as far as possible.

LUCIFER MATCHES. - Mr. Gore, a recent writer on this subject, gives some astonishing statistics respecting this branch of manufacture. The firm of Messrs. Dixon employ four hundred workmen, and generally have on hand £8,000 or £10,000 worth of timber. Each week they consume one ton of sulphur and make 43,C00,000 matches, or 2,160,000,000 in the year. Reckoning the length of a match at two and one-fourth inches, the total length of these would far exceed the circumference of the earth. Another calculation has been made, that the whole length of waxed cotton wicks consumed every year by one London manufacturer in the production of "vestas," would be sufficient to reach from England to America and back again. The magnitude of the figures relating to the English manufacture of matches is, however, insignificant when we turn to the Austrian production. Two makers alone, M. Pollak, at Vienna, and M. Fürth, in Bohemia, produce the amazing number of 44,800,000,000 matches yearly, consuming twenty tons of phosphorus and giving employment to six hundred persons. The low price at which these necessaries of life

are produced is equally astonishing. M. Fürth sells his cheapest boxes at one penny per dozen, each containing eighty matches. Another maker sells the plain boxes at twopence per hundred, and 1,400 matches for one farthing; whilst a third maker sells a case of fifty boxes, each containing one hundred lucifers, for fourpence. The imports of matches into the United Kingdom are of the value of £60,000 yearly, representing the enormous number of 200,000,000 daily. The daily consumption is 50,000,000 more than the above number, or upwards of eight matches each day for every individual in the kingdom.-London Review.

EPITAPH.-The following is the epitaph on a man who was too poor to be buried with his relations in the church of Kingsbridge :

"Here lie I, at the chancel door;
Here I lie, because I'm poor;
The further in the more to pay;
Here I lie as warm as they."

"Your fair young friend has left you?"tended for the absentee had been given to observed the artist. him; and that he had obeyed the summons, supposing some business matter to be the cause of it.

"What young friend ? " inquired the lord of the manor.

"The young lady who dined here last night," replied Mr. H.

"I cannot imagine to whom you refer," replied the gentleman, very greatly surprised.

"Did not a young lady dine and spend the evening here yesterday?" persisted Mr. H., who in his turn was beginning to wonder.

"No," replied his host; "most certainly not. There was no one at table but your

self, my lady, and I.”

The subject was never reverted to after this occasion, yet our artist could not bring himself to believe that he was laboring under a delusion. If the whole were a dream, it was a dream in two parts. As surely as I the young lady had been his companion in the railway carriage, so surely she had sat

beside him at the dinner table. Yet she

did not come again; and everybody in the house, except himself, appeared to be ignorant of her existence.

He finished the portrait on which he was engaged, and returned to London.

The first coldness and surprise dispelled, the two gentlemen entered into a more friendly conversation; for Mr. H. had mentioned his name, and it was not a strange one to his visitor. When they had conversed a little while, Mr. Wylde asked Mr. H. whether he had ever painted, or could undertake to paint, a portrait from mere description? Mr. H. replied, never.

"I ask you this strange question," said Mr. Wylde," because, about two years ago, I lost a dear daughter. She was my only child, and I loved her very deeply. Her loss was a heavy affliction to me, and my regrets are the deeper that I have no likeness of her. You are a man of unusual genius. If you could paint me a portrait of my child, should be very grateful."

Mr. Wylde then described the features color of her eyes and hair, and tried to give and appearance of his daughter, and the an idea of the expression of her face. Mr. H. listened attentively, and, feeling great sympathy with his grief, made a sketch. He had no thought of its being like, but hoped the bereaved father might possibly think it so. But the father shook his head on seeing the sketch, and said, "No, it was not at all For two whole years he followed up his like." Again the artist tried, and again he profession: growing in reputation, and work- failed. The features were pretty well, but ing hard. Yet he never all the while forgot the expression was not hers; and the father a single lineament in the fair young face of turned away from it, thanking Mr. H. for his fellow-traveller. He had no clue by his kind endeavors, but quite hopeless of which to discover where she had come from, any successful result. Suddenly a thought or who she was. He often thought of her, struck the painter; he took another sheet of but spoke to no one about her. There was paper, made a rapid and vigorous sketch, a mystery about the matter which imposed a bright look of recognition and pleasure and handed it to his companion. Instantly, silence on him. It was wild, strange, utter-lighted up the father's face, and he exclaimly unaccountable.

Mr. H. was called by business to Canterbury. An old friend of his-whom I will call Mr. Wylde-resided there. Mr. H., being anxious to see him, and having only a few hours at his disposal, wrote as soon as he reached the hotel, begging Mr. Wylde to call upon him there. At the time appointed the door of his room opened, and Mr. Wylde was announced. He was a complete stranger to the artist; and the meeting between the two was a little awkward. It appeared, on explanation, that Mr. H.'s friend had left Canterbury some time; that the gentleman now face to face with the artist was another Mr. Wylde; that the note in

ed, "That is she! Surely, you must have seen my child, or you never could have made so perfect a likeness?"

"When did your daughter die?" inquired the painter, with agitation.

"About two years ago; on the 13th of September. She died in the afternoon, after a few days' illness."

Mr. H. pondered, but said nothing. The image of that fair young face was engraven on his memory as with a diamond's point, and her strangely prophetic words were now

fulfilled.

beautiful full-length portrait of the young A few weeks after, having completed a lady, he sent it to her father, and the likeness was declared, by all who had ever seen her, to be perfect.

From The Saturday Review.
SCIENCE AND PASSION.

melancholy moral that passion is vanity. Valvedre is written to show how hollow and If any one wishes to estimate the differ- foolish all ill-managed love-making is, what ence which separates the current literature poor, silly creatures the women are who long of the Continent from that of England, the to be idolized at any expense, and what a most instructive writer he can turn to is un- great gain it is for a man to leave such things questionably George Sand. There are plenty behind him forever. The hero of Valvedre is of writers who outrage more completely the reclaimed in a manner that would be thought feelings which in England are most highly highly proper on this side the Channel. He is honored, and who reveal, with a more brutal made to work very hard and very sedulously frankness, all the extremities of Parisian at a factory for seven years, and is then sudrecklessness. But George Sand has this denly married to the daughter of a Swiss great and distinguishing merit—that she pastor. But this is only half the moral of alone gives us the good side of what we set the book. The writer wishes to show, not ourselves to condemn-that she can feel, if only that passion fails, but that something not expound, a philosophy of life that may else succeeds. This something is science. be a deplorable mistake, but cannot be called The last discovery of the authoress of Lelia ignoble or tame-and that she really raises is that wisdom and happiness lie, not in the problems as to the constitution and the daring discussion of religious difficulties or usages of modern society which are worth in the fierce triumphs of a defiant love, thinking over seriously. She has lately writ- but in botany and mineralogy, in watching ten a novel called Valvedre, which is, in its the path of glaciers, in contemplating the way, a remarkable work. It must be con-order and harmony of nature, and in colfessed that she has not got more lively as lecting and arranging the contents of a mushe has gone on writing; and in spite of the seum. finish of its style, Valvedre would be a very heavy dose for any one who read it merely as a tale. But it is not without considerable interest to those who are acquainted with the general scope of her writings. It marks a great revolution in her opinions and her philosophy; and though many people, as they grow old, are apt to go through some change of the sort, yet the particular shape which this change assumes in a Frenchwoman of genius has its own special interest. In her early days, she devoted herself to paint the phases, the excuses, and the course of passion. She claimed that, in defiance of the judgment of a conventional world, passion should, if sincere, be considered its own justification. We will not stop now to estimate what fragment of truth there may have been in the vast mass of error which she poured forth with such amazing rapidity. But this was her creed, and she shrank from none of its consequences, and adorned it with the ardent eloquence and the touches of poetical sweetness which never failed her. With passion she allied art; and music, painting, and the artistic representation of scenery were freely used both to express and to complete the fervor and romance of her lovers. She has now apparently outlived all this. She has at least attained to the

No one who reads the book can refuse to acknowledge that she is perfectly serious in this-that she is heartily tired of her old frame of mind, and that she sincerely believes she has found a new life full of beauties that cannot decay. The names of other continental writers also instantly occur who have gone through something of the same history. The author of the Sorrows of Werter spent the evening of his life in examining the growth of plants and the laws of color; and the most fanciful of French historians has taken to describing birds, and the loves of whales. But in George Sand we get the philosophy of this transformation stated as a philosophy. Valvedre lays down as a thesis which the author is prepared to maintain against all disputants, that science is the true antidote to passion and the true source of human happiness, whereas sensuous excitement is the true source of human misery. Most English readers would say that this was a very poor kind of repentance, and that the sinner ought to turn saintly and not scientific. Substantially this is true; but it ought to be remembered that in rost Catholic countries, and especially in France, turning saintly means turning into that mixture of panic and love of excitement which is known as becoming devote. George Sand