put in thorough repair, and a wooden hoop substituted for the tin one, to which Cocking owed his death. Mr. Green, however, seems to have acted with extraordinary apathy in the whole affair, and such conduct does more injury to the cause of aërostation, than all the snarling attacks of the anti-ballooners.

It becomes now our pleasing duty to record three parachute descents made successively by Mr. Hampton without injury. Undeterred by the awful fate of his predecessor, this gentleman determined on making a parachute descent which should prove the correctness of the theory, and the Montpellier Gardens at Cheltenham were selected as the scene of the exploit. Owing to the censure which was bestowed on Messrs. Gye and Hughes for permitting Mr. Cocking's ascent, the proprietor of the gardens at Cheltenham would not allow the experiment to be made, and Mr. Hampton was obliged to have recourse to stratagem. As he was permitted to display his parachute in the way he intended to use it, the idea flashed across his mind that he could carry out his long-nursed wishes. He suddenly cut the rope which kept him down, and went off to the astonishment of the spectators; the last cheering sound that reached him being, "He will be killed to a dead certainty." After attaining an altitude of nearly two miles, he determined to cut the rope that held him. He paused for a second or two, as he remembered it would soon be life or death with him, but at length drew his knife across the rope. The first feelings he experienced were both unpleasant and alarming; his eyes and the top of his head seemed to be forced upwards; but this passed off in a few seconds, and his feelings subsequently were pleasant rather than disagreeable. So steady and slow was the descent that the parachute appeared to be stationary; Mr. Hampton remembered that a bag of ballast was fastened beneath the car, he stooped over and upset the sand; he also noted the time he was descending by his watch. The earth appeared coming up to him rapidly; the parachute indicated his approach by a slight oscillation, and he presently struck the ground in the centre of a field, and was first welcomed by a sheep which stared at him with astonishment.

Mr. Hampton repeated the experiment twice again in London, though on both occasions with considerable danger to himself, the first time falling on a tree in Kensington Gardens, the second on a house, which threw him out of the basket. This is an additional proof of the danger of these descents in the vicinity of a town; and though Madame Poitevin has hitherto escaped with the fright, she should not forget that the pitcher goes once too often to the well.

Monsieur Poitevin's plan of expanding the parachute by suddenly discharging the gas, is certainly ingenious, and he appears to be a skilful aëronaut; but the very fact of his exposing his wife to imminent peril should prevent Englishmen from countenancing such an exhibition.

We have now completed our task; we have traced the history of aërostation from the earliest times to the present day, and the only result to be arrived at is, one of unfeigned regret at the low position the science of aërostation now assumes. Let us hope we may yet see the day when it will be applied to purely scientific and experimental purposes. Professional aëronauts may fancy our remarks are harsh and uncalled-for; let them believe that we are actuated by a sincere love of the science, and let them remember, that through their own conduct they have brought ballooning to what it is-leaving entirely out of sight what it should be.

THE EVE OF ALL-SOULS.

BY MRS. ACTON TINDAL.

III.

THE DEATH IN CHILDBIRTH—IN MEMORY OF MRS. PUREY CUST.

Wo! when the mother's eyelids close,

As wake the babe's on earth;

Ah! piteous is the death of those
Who die in giving birth.

Wo! when love perishes in bloom,
When the dear joy possess'd,
And cherished hope, in one dark tomb
Low in cold earth are press'd.

Amid the spirit hosts that night,
With languid grace She went,
And fondly o'er her burden light,
The gentle mother bent.
She never saw the little face

For long months loved unseen,
Though one grave in the burial-place
Swells o'er them fresh and green;
She never knew the little child

Who haunted all her sleep,
Whose tender image rose and smiled
O'er ponderings fond and deep.
But now she bore it in her shroud-
God gave the babe in death,
The youngest spirit of that crowd,
Breather of one brief breath!

Solemn and still before my sight

Oft comes that darkened room,

Fantastic gleams of red fire light
Shot flickering through its gloom.
The muffled steps, the smothered sighs,
The sad signs quickly sent,

The hopeless gaze of streaming eyes
On her in silence bent.

The unmoved cradle, empty chair,
The little robes outspread,

A hundred proofs of loving care
Lay round that dying bed.

They dare not hope, who saw the hue

That o'er her young face rose,
The waxen whiteness, chilly blue,

The awe of that repose,

The darkness of those drooping eyes,

Whence the still teardrops stole—
Last tribute to life's miseries,
Paid by the parting soul!

Bright o'er the ruffled pillows strayed
Those waves of golden brown—
All loosened now from band and braid
Their silken length fell down.
Then softly words of conquering grace
Rose o'er Life's shadowy bound,
They bent low o'er her quiet Face
To catch the murmur'd sound.
On Thee! Thine agony and cross!
On Thee! O Christ, she leant;
Hers was the gain, and ours the loss—
Thro' the dark waves she went;
And, ah! the little new-born soul,
That fluttered on before,
Called to her, o'er the water's roll,
Watched for her on the shore.

My cousin! round thy darken'd bed
They wept, but ceased to pray;
Beneath the infant's downy head

The mother's cold breast lay.

They smoothed the still folds of thy shroud,
The long last look they gave,
That wild spring-day of gleam and cloud,
They laid thee in thy grave.

But thou hast left in all the hearts

That knew and loved thee well
A tender grief that ne'er departs,
A low life-lasting knell.

And oft recurring sounds and things
Recal thy mournful tale ;

Thee to my thrilling memory brings
The south wind's dying wail,
The vision of white drooping flowers,
Intensely pale and sweet,

The gentle sound in garden bowers
Of children's parting feet,
The whisp'ring of the ivy leaves
Against the crumbling wall-
Sweet syllables in twilight eves,
That passing souls let fall.

THE UNKNOWN PICTURE.

And the sun is bright, and the valleys are green,
And the clouds look fair in the sky,
Because I see wherever I go

The Light of a Saviour's eye!

CHAUNCEY HARE TOWNSHEND.

Genius of the master painter,

It is thine to seize and trace
Thought and passion's true reflection,
Flashing, glimmering o'er the face.
By the spell that lives within thee,
It is thine to comprehend
Secrets of expression gathered
As the lines and colours blend.

Chronicling the fleet impression,
Taking prisoner glance and smile,
Something of the parted spirit

Thou redeem'st from death awhile,

Peopling with the vanished faces,

And the forms we view no more,
Walls that darken with the twilight,
Where the mid-day glories pour.
Thus I knew a gracious lady,

Pictured in life's calm decline,
She with speaking eyes and trusting
Earnestly looked down in mine.

None could tell her name or fortunes;
All who knew her youth and age
Long had past, and of her story
Death had sealed the final page.
Grey and shining folds around her
Fell, with wondrous skill portrayed,
Until fancy heard the rustling

Of that robe of light and shade.
Coif and scarf the lady carried,
Woven in Malines of yore;
So within a summer garden

Sat she, and I knew no more;

Till that night when, 'mid the spirits,
Lo! I met her face to face,

And she knew, and stayed before me,
Speaking with a reverent grace:
"Calm and still, like summer moonlight.
So my life around me shone;

And my pleasure wore, and sorrow,
Evermore that chastened tone.

"Young was I, and early wedded
Unto one my father chose;
O'er the love I meekly bore him
Ne'er another's image rose.

"Beauteous was my home, and lonely-
Planted in the meadow's green;
Through the gleaming birch and lime trees
Far the grey old hall was seen.

"Lying nigh my latticed window,
With my new-born babe beside,
Oft I've watched the lengthening shadows
Of the summer's eventide.

"Sweetly from the flow'ring bean-fields,
And the apple's blushing bloom,
O'er the lilac's nodding blossom
Stole the south breeze to my room.

"Sweeping through the juicy herbage
With a sharp and measured sound,
Went the scythes the mowers whetted
In the deep-green meadows round.
“There I heard the landrail crying,
Threading through the quaking grass,
And the yellow bees, at sunset,
From the purple clover pass.

"Then I felt my heart beat quicker,
Rising up to God in prayer;
And, like beads, I told my blessings
To the still, soft evening air.

"Yes! with prayer I sought to guard them, As I felt the tear-mist rise,

From a thankful happy spirit,

O'er the windows of mine eyes!

"But no year is always summer,
Sad and dark were days of mine ;
O'er the cold and wintry landscape
Oft I've heard the night-winds pine.

"Chilly mornings greyly rising,
Stealing down the barren hills,
Found me watching, meekly bearing
Doubt and fear and human ills.

"With release from weary weakness,
With relief from wearing pain,

Ever death appeared before me,

When my heart said hope was vain.