has the descriptive name of native devil; where the pig-footed bandicoot wears his apron-pocket as well as the best of them; and Norfolk Island contributes a flying squirrel, like any other flying squirrel. And then I turned to the marmosets, which have always been great favourites of mine. And then to the marmoset monkeys, with the midas rosalia, or silky tamarind, the prettiest little beast alive. The lion monkey, the smallest monkey of all, is also a very lovely thing, with its shaggy brow, as shaggy and intelligent as a Maltese lion-dog's or Skye terrier's, and with none of the disagreeable characteristics of its tribe.
And now I went along the monkey cases; and there I saw the kahau, or long-nosed monkey—so like a friend of mine,—the nest-building ape, the long-armed gibbons, the chimpanzee, the orang-outan, and the terrible gorilla, which caricature humanity so closely, and make one shudder at the theory of "links." And yet, what if, in very truth, the grandfather of all life should be a polype, and an ape the parent of humanity? Long-tailed monkeys and tailless apes, preacher monkeys, green monkeys, blue-nosed baboons, Diana monkeys, widow monkeys, howling monkeys, spider monkeys and sapajous, funny little monkeys all mirth and mischief, and fierce old sinner monkeys with bad consciences and worse instincts—all were there, not one wanting. And with each his natural conditions of favourite haunt and favourite food; and representations on paper of what could not be preserved in substance.
In another room were the bones of every beast and bird and fish known to man; and all collected together so that the student of comparative anatomy might have at least the framework to begin on. And up-stairs were insects, birds, and plants; but I had not time to look at them all in one day; so I left them for the present, until I should go again to Bloomsbury, and walk again through the galleries of the noblest museum in all the world.
Alas! In the world of the future though; not in the world of the present. Many of the creatures that I have named, hundreds that I have not spoken of, are mouldering in the vaults under the British Museum, or are deep in the sea, or are tight in the rock, or are away in the desert and the jungle; but all are accessible, if we will follow the advice of our greatest living naturalist, and spend so many thousand pounds in making our museum of natural history what it ought to be the best, the completest, the largest, the most capacious in the world; with every specimen fairly displayed, and all accessories of habitation, locality, and habits, shown and explained as well.
This magnificent Museum exists at present only in the charming anticipation of it sketched by Professor Owen, with his own ardent love of Nature, his own profound knowledge of her, and with the modesty and gentleness that his great learning has confirmed in his nature. Such a museum will exist, in England, one day; and when that day comes to pass, I hope the English people will remember who designed it, and will call it by the name of their famous country-man.
AN INTERESTING YOUNG PERSON.
John never deceived me but once. It was when we were staying in town. We had been dining out, and, on returning home at night, John suddenly stopped the brougham at (of all places in the world) the top of Saint Martin's-lane, saying he would walk the remainder of the way, and smoke his cigar. I remember he had on a peculiarly rough old coat, my aversion, over his dinner-dress, and also that he wore his worst hat.
He did not come home till half-past one!
I was up before him in the morning, and seeing this coat in the ante-room, which was already redolent of tobacco, took it up to put it in the hall, when out fell a little printed bill. There was a woodcut at the top, representing two horrid men, very scantily attired, squaring at each other with hands nearly as big as their heads; and the bill announced that Bigge Brooser, the celebrated champion of the catch-weights, and Jack Whopley, of Preston, had kindly consented to "set-to" on the occasion of Mike Maggles's benefit, when a delightful treat might be confidently expected.
This is the reason that John's cigar took two hours and a half to smoke!
We left London. Once more in our sweet quiet village, and much occupied with my darling Tiddlepops, from whom I had been separated nearly three weeks, I had almost forgotten the circumstance above mentioned, when I happened to go into the library to see what new books John had ordered. I declare I think he pricks off the first half-dozen on the list of new publications, and takes his chance. Two works on India; one on the Arctic regions; The Booby Brothers, by Lady Selina Phiskin; Over Yonder, by the Honourable Rufus Wiggles, of Alabama, with portrait of the author in full English costume. Then some pamphlets, then a newspaper, John's favourite, with no fewer than eight columns of what the dreadful editor calls "fistic matter," besides all sorts of extraordinary Answers to Correspondents; such as, "Nosey; Yes." "B.; We should say a milksop." "Phil Bounce; We think you'd better." Advertisements, too: "Alf Bramble invites his friends and admirers to a select harmonic meeting." Young Phizgig's benefit, complete ovation. "Dozey Buggs indignantly denies, ever refused, fight Porkey Steggars,' &c. &c. &c.
I threw the paper aside, and sat down in John's chair to reflect a little. I had something on my mind. Tor some time past, there had been a singular change in my husband's demeanour. He was not ill, for I had observed that his appetite, though capricious, had by no means failed him; and he took his usual out-door exercise without much apparent fatigue; but he seemed anxious, irritable, indifferent to the things in which he hitherto had taken the greatest
