productions of China or Hindostan. We could scarcely give a more apt illustration of this truth than by pointing to the seat of honor set apart for Prince Albert in the closing scene of the Great Exhibition. Elevated on the crimson platform, and standing forth as an appropriate emblem of the artistic genius of the mighty collection, was observed the magnificent ivory throne presented to Her Majesty by the Rajah of Travancore ! perfect spherical form, but accurately corresponding in size and weight even to a single grain. The ivory miniature tablets so much in use, and which are so invaluable to the artist from the exquisitely delicate texture of the material, are now produced by means of a very beautiful and highly interesting chemical process. Phosphoric acid of the usual specific gravity renders ivory soft and nearly plastic. The plates are cut From the great value of the material, from the circumference of the tusk, somethe economical cutting of it up is of the what after the manner of paring a cucumlast importance. Nothing is lost. The ber, and then softened by means of the acid. smallest fragments are of some value, have | When washed with water, pressed, and certain uses, and bear a corresponding dried, the ivory regains its former consisprice. Ivory dust, which is produced in tency, and even its microscopic structure large quantities, is a most valuable gelatine, is not affected by the process. Plates and as such extensively employed by straw- thirty inches square have been formed in hat makers. The greatest consumption this way, and a great reduction in price of ivory is undoubtedly in connection with has thus been effected. Painting on ivory, the cutlery trade. For these purposes we may add, was practiced among the alone about two hundred tons are annually ancients. used in Sheffield and Birmingham, and the ivory in nearly every instance is from India. The mode of manufacturing knifehandles is very simple and expeditious :— The teeth are first cut into slabs of the requisite thickness-then to the proper cross dimensions, by means of circular saws of different shapes. They are afterwards drilled with great accuracy by a machine; riveted to the blade; and finally smoothed and polished. We believe that this branch of industry alone gives employment to about five hundred persons in Sheffield. Combs are seldom made of any ivory but Indian. A large amount of ivory is consumed in the backs of hairbrushes; and this branch of the trade has recently undergone considerable improvements. The old method of making a toothbrush, for example, was to face the bristles through the ivory, and then to glue, or otherwise fasten, an outside slab to the brush for the purpose of concealing the holes and wire-thread. This mode of manufacture has been improved on by a method of working the hair into the solid ivory; and brushes of this description are now the best in the market. Their chief excellence consists in their preserving their original white color to the last, which is a great desideratum. Billiard-balls constitute another considerable item of ivory consumption. They cost from 6s. to 12s. each; and the nicety of our ornamental turning produces balls not only of the most Mr. M'Culloch and other statistical writers predict the speedy extinction of the elephant, from the enormous consumption of its teeth; and curious calculations of the number of these animals annually extirpated to supply the English market alone, are now getting somewhat popular. For example: "In 1827 the customs-duty on ivory (20s. per cwt.-since reduced to 1s.) amounted to £3257. The average weight of the elephant's tusk is sixty pounds; and therefore three thousand and forty elephants have been killed to supply this quantity of ivory." But these calculations are in many respects quite fallacious. In the first place, the average weight of our imported tusks is not sixty pounds: we have the authority of one of the first ivory-merchants in London for stating that twenty pounds will be a much closer approximation. This at once involves a threefold ratio of destruction. In place of three thousand and forty, we should have the terrible slaughter of nine thousand one hundred and twenty elephants for one year's consumption of ivory in England! This, however, is not the case. In these calculations the immense masses of fossil ivory are obviously overlooked, and the equally immense quantities of broken teeth which are disinterred from the deserts of Arabia, or the jungles of Central Africa. The truth is, we have good reason to know, that a very large proportion of the commercial supply of Europe is sustained from the almost inexhaustible store of these writings will rise from them with any descriptions of ivory. Nevertheless, it is indisputable that the insatiable demands of modern commerce will inevitably lead to the ultimate extermination of this noble animal. His venerable career is ignominiously brought to an end merely for the sake of the two teeth he carries in his mouth; which are very likely destined to be cut into rings to assist the infant Anglo-Saxons in cutting their teeth, or partly made into jelly to satisfy the tastes and appetites of a London alderman. We cannot reasonably hope for a new suspension of the traffic: indeed, we can only look for its extension. The luxurious tastes of man are inimical to the existence of the elephant. From time immemorial, the war of extermination has existed. His rightful domain-in the plain or the wilderness, or amid the wild herbage of his native savannas-is at all points ruthlessly invaded. But the result is inevitable-it will come to an end; and some future generation of naturalists-those of them at least who are curious in Paleontology -will regard the remains of our cotemporary races of elephants with the same kind of astonishment with which we investigate the pre-historic evidences of the gigantic tapir or the mammoth. feelings but of pleasure and admiration. Richter was born at Wiensiedel in 1763. His father, a poor clergyman, died early, and his mother strained every energy to place her son in the Leipzig University. Having finished his studies, he returned home, and there, in a single room, while his mother sat at her spinning-wheel, or busied herself with her household duties, the future author of "Titan" sat at his desk, studied the works of antiquity, and collected, with indefatigable ardor, that comprehensive knowledge which he displays in his writings. To assist his mother in providing for their domestic wants, he gave lessons to several neighbors' children in his tender and paternal manner. This task, although severe, brought in but a small remuneration. Money was scarce in their household; and if by accident he was able to put aside some small amount to buy an Easter present for his mother, it was a time of unusual happiness to him. As a relief from his scholastic duties and his unwearied labor, Jean Paul was accustomed to take long walks into the country, accompanied only by his dog. He observed and studied everything around him. Nature was a book which he was never wearied of perusing; she inspired him with a profound veneration. "Do you," he asks of himself, in one of his works, enter this vast temple with a pure mind? Do you bring with you any evil passions into this garden, where the flowers blossom and the birds sing-any 66 possess the calmness of the brook, where the works of the Creator are reflected as in a mirror? Ah! that my heart were as pure, as peaceful, as nature when just created by the hand of God!" JEAN PAUL RICHTER. THAT age which THAT gave to Germany Lessing, Wieland, Goethe, Schiller, and Herder, also produced a man who, although not destined to share the pop-hatred into this glorious nature? Do you ularity of these great writers, will yet occupy an eminent place as a profound thinker. This man is Richter. In him we find represented, so to speak, the German character, full of mysterious fancies and profound conceptions, and striking contrasts of light and shade. To read and understand his works is no easy matter, and requires no small amount of attention and serious study. His writings overflow with the spirit of German life, of the boundless forests and solitary mountains, of sunny meadows and dark, silent streams. His writings are full of a spirit peculiar to himself a strong and powerful nature, which throws aside the common artificial ornaments and the embellishments of conventionality. Jean Paul has a deep feeling for capricious fancies and daring touches, and few who have studied his During the summer, Jean Paul often carried his books and his writings to a neighboring hill, and labored, surrounded by that nature whose images reflected themselves so vividly upon his mindwhose harmonies are so clearly echoed by his words. He contemplated nature as a poet, and described it as a philosopher. A blade of grass or the wing of a butterfly sufficed to awaken in him a spirit of scientific analysis, but at the same time a vein of gentle reveries. In studying nature with deep attention, he also studied the most hidden recesses of his own heart. He kept an exact journal of his feelings, of the faults he discovered in himself, and wished to correct, and of the virtues he desired to acquire. In this journal we find the following:-"This morning I took out with me a writing-case, and wrote as I walked. I am delighted at having conquered two of my failings-my disposition to lose my temper in conversation, and to lose my cheerfulness when I have been plagued by dust or gnats. Nothing makes me more indifferent to the small annoyances of life than the consciousness of a moral amelioration." Another time he says: "I picked up a withered rose-leaf, which the children were treading underfoot, on the floor of the church, and on this soiled and dusty leaf my imagination built up a world rejoicing in all the charms of summer. I thought of the day when some child held this flower in its hand, and watched the blue sky and the rolling clouds through the windows of the church, where the cold dome of the temple was inundated with light-where the shadows, here and there obscuring the arches, rivaled those which the fleeting clouds cast upon the meadows in their course. Father of kindness! thou hast everywhere scattered the germs of happiness—all things are endowed by thee with a glorious perfume!" Although his existence was passed in almost entire solitude, it was not from sombre misanthropy. On the contrary, his heart was filled with charity and universal benevolence. He has been known to shed tears at the sight of a cripple, or a child in distress. Even the care of animals occupied part of his spare time. He usually had several favorite animals in his room; he kept canaries, which were accustomed to descend by a ladder, and hop among his papers. In 1798 he married a young lady in Berlin, Camille Meyer. This marriage was full of happiness to him, and he mentions it several times with exquisite taste. He had two daughters and a son. At this time he had become generally known by several works, among which are "Levana, or Lessons on Education," and the "Campaner Thal." By his writings, as well as by his marriage, his worldly affairs were much benefited; but he was still the same simple and unassuming being, devoted to study and enjoying every innocent pleasure and recreation of life. Once only did he visit Berlin and Weimar, to see those men whose writings had so often roused his enthusiasm ; but soon returned home, more full than ever of his poetic dreams. We are indebted to his daughter for many pleasant details of his calm and peaceful domestic life. "In the morning he always came to our mother's room to wish us good morning. His dog gamboled around him, and his children clung to him, and when he retired tried to put their little feet into his slippers to retain him, or hanging to the skirts of his coat till he reached the door of his study, where only his dog had the privilege of following him. Occasionally we invaded the upper story, where he worked; we crept along the passage on our hands and feet, and knocked at his door till he let us in. Then he would take an old trumpet and fife from a box, on which we made a horrible noise while he continued his writing. "In the evening he told us stories, or spoke to us of God, of other worlds, of our grandfather, and of many other subjects. When he commenced his stories we all endeavored to sit close to him. As his table, covered with papers, prevented our approaching him in front, we clambered over a large box to the back of his couch, where he lay full length, with his dog beside him, and when all were seated he began his stories. "At meals he sat down to table merrily and listened attentively to all we had to tell him; sometimes he would arrange one of our stories in such a manner that the little narrator would be quite surprised at the effect. He never gave us direct lessons, but, notwithstanding, he was constantly instructing us." Toward the end of his life, Jean Paul was afflicted with a sad infirmity; he became blind, but supported this misfortune with a pious resignation—his gayety even did not appear to be affected. The beauties of nature were treasured in his mind, and he regarded them through the eyes of memory. He still studied by having his favorite authors read aloud, and thought with greater calmness than ever. On the 14th of November, 1820, he was confined to his bed. His wife brought him a garland of flowers, which had been sent to him. He passed his fingers over these flowers, and they seemed to revive his faculties. “Ah! my beautiful flowers," he said, "my dear flowers!" Then he fell into a tranquil sleep. His wife and friends regarded him silently. His countenance had a calm expression, his brow seemed unclouded, but his wife's tears fell on his face without arousing him. Gradually his respiration became less regular; a slight spasm passed over his features, and the physician said, "He is dead." Thus passed from this world a man who was able to accord his actions to his thoughts; his life and the works he has left behind are abundant proof. A 86 runts for one. We often wondered how our particular friend could so far trespass on the simplicity of chuckie. But she did it, reason or none. We have once and again seen a family of thirty or forty disporting in the sunbeams, while the careful producer of them all was eating "that she might lay," and "laying that we might eat." At this present writing, we have just risen from discussing our share of a pair of as plump howtowdies as ever savored the surface of mahogany. How they were made to thrive, fatten, and arrive at gastronomic perfection, we reserve for a future crack with our fair, chicken-loving readers; meanwhile they may give full credit to all that we have told them, and must survive the flavor for a season. One member of our friend's gallican family fell ill, when about three months old. The poor cheeper had caught a cold -or rather a cold had caught it-which paralyzed its lower extremities, and produced that common, fashionable, and deadly, if real-but only to be laughed at, if fancied-disease, bronchitis. It lay for three weeks in a state of pure "coma ;" and its existence was kept up solely by the cramming of delicate nutriment down its throat, seasoned, occasionally, with cayenne pepper, and sometimes with a pinch of snuff, as our box beareth witness. The most revivifying application of all was ginger-wine diluted with water. DOMESTIC TRAINING. Cheerily chirp, my pretty chicken." PARTICULARLY intimate friend of ours, who has tenderly reared sons and daughters through infanthood and childhood to men's and women's estate, during hours of leisure from more important avocations, takes much pleasure, and finds re- | laxation, in watching the weeks and months of chickenhood and howtowdihood; and we think that the circumstances which we are about to notice may be found of interest to lady hen-wives in general. Our particular friend aforesaid is an admirable manager of young chickens and young ducks. During last season she reared chickens and ducklings, the very sight of which, smoking on a festive board, would make an alderman's mouth water; and, out of upward of fourscore, only five have perished by the way from the egg-shell to the spit. The plan pursued by our friend was this: In spring, she set a clucking hen upon duck-eggs. A month's incubation brought the brood to light. As duckling after duck- | ling made its advent, they were transferred from the hatching seat to a cosie, welllined-with-flannel basket. By the way, this raises up the old query among naturalists, Is the bird that lays the egg, or the bird that hatches it, the mother of the offspring? When all the duck-eggs had yielded their increase, they were replaced by those of the hen; and when these had run their incubation period, the chicks, like their predecessors the ducklings, were transferred to a comfortable boarding bas-through persevering attention and care, ket, while the fecundite clucker was turned out of doors, to feed, and lay more eggs as the nucleus of a future generation. We have known our friend to supplement a seat of duck-eggs, thus keeping the zealous hatcher in a sedentary attitude for eleven weeks, at least one gestative period spun out into three; or, to be plain, three sede The whole of this large family arrived at a surprising degree of tameness. Often have we seen them all jostling one another to secure the snuggest nestling-place in our friend's lap; while the ducklings, who seemed to covet competition for the favored spot, but were winglessly conscious of their inability to gain it, clung like so many leeches round her feet. The poor thing which forms the first subject of this notice, and which was named "Jabez-a," the chicken of sorrow, although we have given her now the more "joyful" title of "Naomi," completely recovered her health; and has become so much attached to her gentle physician, that neither temptation nor force can get her to go out of doors. She is a regular, self-installed, parlor-boarder; and cleanliness, by dint of attention, having become a fixed habit, the most fastidious need feel no apprehension of a breach of good manners, although she should, as is her custom, perch upon their shoulder. A very good, and, all the better for being an old-fashioned, custom, confers upon us the right and privilege of sharing the dormitory of our particular friend; and, in virtue of this, we can speak to the fact that Jabez-a will, in the morning, perch on the foot-board of our four-poster, and often at daybreak serves us with notice of its being time to get up, by sundry peckings at our hair, or a rather ticklish survey of our proboscis. Our friend, from extreme delicacy of health, is unable to rise before breakfast. When the breakfast-tray is placed upon her bed, Jabez-a invariably comes to take her share of the repast. With lynx-eye, she watches the cutting the top off the egg, pounces upon it like a cat, hops with it out of reach, and comfortably discusses it. Upon other occasions, she will spring upon our friend's lap, and intercept the spoonful of pudding on its passage from the plate to the mouth. She appears to have lost all the sympathies of consanguinity, and utters a halfterrified sort of cry at the sight of her kindred hopping about the doors. We have a very small, high-bred spaniel of King Charles's breed, and it is amusing to see Fanny (so she is named) and Jabez-a chasing one another about the room, and gamboling like a pair of kittens; while Jabez-a's favorite resting-place during the day is in Fanny's bosom, who fondles and protects her incongruous playmate as if it were her own whelp. We might enumerate many curious and striking "traits of character," exhibited by this "pretty chicken," but, as “too much of one thing is good for nothing," our readers must conceive of her that she does everything but speak; and in doing so, they will come but little short of the truth. It has often struck us forcibly, that many of the lower class of animals possess more than mere instinct; and that, refer it to whatever order in the scale of reason one may, they are endowed with a reasoning power sui generis, and with a marvelous faculty of calculation. To illustrate this, we need not go to the menagerie or the dog-kennel, where evidence of it is to be found in abundance, but will return again to the hen-house, and narrate a very singular occurrence. We are possessed of a very diminutive white bantam hen, which, last season, hatched a small brood of chickVOL. I, No. 2.—M ens, from large fowl's eggs. Only one of the brood survived, and it, although only a child, was fully bigger than its parent. At the back of our dwelling-house, there is a court-yard, from which there is an outlet to the garden by a paved alley. About the center of this alley is the gutter-conduit to the main drain. One very rainy day, during the month of last July, the conduit got choked up with the refuse washed from the court-yard, and the alley was flooded to the depth of about three inches in the center, where the pavement had sunk a little, but was dry at each extremity. Happening to go into the garden, we detected bantie and her child scraping away among our seed-beds, and forthwith showed them out. On opening the door leading into the court-yard, the little ladymother ran to the margin of the water above-described, and appeared to take a cool survey of it; although we imagine that, to little estimating great, it must have borne, in her eyes, the appearance of an ocean. Two or three seconds, however, sufficed for calculation. She uttered a cluck, different in its tone from any we remember to have heard, upon hearing which, her chicken, as big as herself, at least, leapt upon the mother's back, who, as if consciously proud of her valuable cargo, and with a vast deal of deliberation, cautiously entered the water, and with feeling steps waded through it. Having reached the opposite shore in safety, another cluck, as significant no doubt as the former, although equally novel to us, was taken as the signal for the chicken's springing off bantie's back in perfect security. Before closing this very domestic sort of notice, and from our having introduced the little spaniel Fanny, as the playmate of Naomi, quondam Jabez-a, we must tell an anecdote or two about dogs, which came under our own observation, and which, we think, demonstrates that these friends and companions of man exhibit, like the little tit of a bantam, as much of reason and calculation as of instinct. The mother of little Fanny, who is still alive, although arrived at the patriarchal dog age of twelve years, was a valued and favorite attendant upon a dear daughter of ours, whom it pleased God to take from us by death. During her illness, which was a fatally short one, poor old Fanny never quitted the sick chamber; at one moment gazing, with almost speaking intelligence, on the |