the express view of inhabiting shells, to which end his structure was arranged; or—and this I think the more reasonable supposition-that the hermit-crab originally was furnished with shell-plates for the hinder part of his body, but that these have now become rudimentary in consequence of the animal's practice of inhabiting other shells-a practice originally resorted to, perhaps, as a refuge from more powerful enemies, and now become an organised tendency in the species.

Be this as it may, the hermit-crab will not live long out of an appropriated shell; and very ludicrous was the scene I witnessed between two taken from their shells. Selecting them nearly equal in size, I dropped them, "naked as their mother bore them," into a glass vase of sea-water. They did not seem comfortable, and carefully avoided each other. I then placed one of the empty shells (first breaking off its spiral point) between them, and at once the contest commenced. One made direct for the shell, poked into it an inquiring claw, and having satisfied his cautious mind that all was safe, slipped in its tail with ludicrous agility, and, fastening on by his hooks, scuttled away, rejoicing. He was not left long in undisturbed possession. His rival approached with strictly dishonourable intentions; and they both walked round and round the vase, eyeing each other with settled malignity-like Charles Kean and Wigan in the famous duel of the Corsican Brothers. No words of mine can describe our shouts of laughter at this ludicrous combat-one combatant uneasy about his unprotected rear, the other sublimely awkward in his borrowed armour. For the sake of distinctness, I will take a liberty with two actors' names, and continue to designate our two crabs as Charles Kean and Alfred Wigan. C. K., although the blacker, larger, and stronger of the two, was at the disadvantage of being out of his shell, and was

slow in coming to close quarters; at last, after many hesitations, approaches, and retreats, he made a rush behind, seized the shell in his powerful grasp, while with his huge claw he haled Wigan out, flung him discomfited aside, and popped his tail into the shell. Wigan looked piteous for a few moments, but soon, his "soul in arms and eager for the shell," he rushed upon his foe, and then came the tug of crabs! In vain! C. K. had too firm a hold, he could not be dislodged. Here I poked his tender tail, which was exposed by the broken shell, and he vacated, leaving Wigan once more in possession. But not for long. Once more he was clutched, haled out, and flung away. I then placed a smaller shell, but perfect, in the vase. Kean at once quitted his dilapidated roof, and esconced himself in this more modest cottage, leaving Wigan to make himself comfortable in the ruin; which he did.

The fun was not over yet. I placed a third hermitcrab in the vase. He was much smaller than the other two, but his shell was larger than the one in which Kean had settled, as that unscrupulous crab quickly perceived, for he set about bullying the stranger, who, however, had a shell large enough to admit his whole body, and into it he withdrew. It was droll to see Kean clutching the shell, vainly waiting for the stranger to protrude enough of his body to permit of a good grasp and a tug; but the stranger knew better. He must have been worn out at last, however, for although I did not witness the feat, an hour afterwards, when I looked at them, I saw Kean comfortable in the stranger's house. I changed them again; but again the usurpation was successful. On the third day I find recorded in my journal: "The crabs have been fighting, and changing their abodes continually. C. K. is the terror of the other two, and Wigan is so subdued by constant defeats, that he is thrown into a fluster if even an

empty shell is placed near him; and although without a shell himself, which must make him very cold and comfortless in the terminal regions, he is afraid to enter an empty one. The terrors of the last two days have been too much for his nerves: one must almost question his perfect sanity; he is not only out of his shell, but out of his mind. The approach of C. K. throws him into a trepidation, which expresses itself in the most grotesque efforts at escape."

I tried a new experiment. Throwing a good-sized whelk into the vase, I waited to see Kean devour the whelk in order to appropriate his shell; for the house he last stole, though better than the previous houses, by no means suited him. Mr. Bell, in his History of British Crustacea, conjectures that the hermit-crab often eats the mollusc in whose shell he is found-a conjecture adopted by subsequent writers, although Mr. Bell owns that he never witnessed the fact. My experiment flatly contradicted the conjecture. Kean clutched the shell at once, and poked in his interrogatory claw, which, touching the operculum of the whelk, made that animal withdraw, and leave an empty space, into which Kean popped his tail. In a few minutes the whelk, tired of this confinement in his own house, and all alarm being probably over, began to protrude himself, and in doing so gently pushed C. K. before him. In vain did the intruder, feeling himself slipping, cling fiercely to the shell; with slow but irresistible pressure the mollusc ejected him. This was repeated from first to last for several times, till at length the crab gave up in despair, and contented himself with his former shell. Thus, instead of eating the whelk (which, I would remark in passing, the crab never does, even in captivity, where food is scanty), he had not even the means of getting him out of his shell, and the conjecture of our naturalist must be erased from our hand-books. *

* Sea-side Studies, in "Blackwood's Magazine."

A MORE CONVENIENT SEASON.

BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

ALONE he wept. That very night

The ambassador of God with earnest zeal
Of eloquence had warn'd him to repent;
And like the Roman at Drusilla's side,

Hearing the truth, he trembled. Conscience wrought,
Yet sin allured. The struggle shook him sore;
The dim lamp waned; the hour of midnight told;
Prayer sought for entrance, but the heart had closed
Its diamond valve. He threw him on his couch
And bade the Spirit of his God depart.

But there was war within him, and he sigh'd,

66

Depart not utterly, thou blessed!

Return when youth is pass'd, and make my soul for ever thine."

With kindling brow he trod

The haunts of pleasure, while the viol's voice
And beauty's smile his joyous pulses woke.
To love he knelt, and on his brow she hung
Her freshest myrtle wreath. For gold he sought,
And winged wealth indulged him, till the world
Pronounced him happy. Manhood's vigorous prime
Swell'd to its climax, and his busy days

And restless nights swept like a tide away.
Care struck deep root around him, and each shoot,
Still striking earthward like the Indian tree,
Shut out with woven shades the eye of heaven,
When lo! a messenger from the Crucified-
"Look unto me and live." Pausing, he spake
Of weariness and haste, and want of time,
And duty to his children, and besought
A longer space to do the work of heaven.
God spake again when age had shed its snow
On his wan temples, and the palsied hand
Shrank from gold-gathering. But the rigid chain
Of habit bound him, and he still implored
"A more convenient season."

"See my step

Is firm and free; my unquench'd eye delights
To view this pleasant world; and life with me
May last for many years. In the calm hour
Of lingering sickness I can better fit
For vast eternity."

Disease approach'd,

And reason fled. The maniac strove with death,
And grappled like a fiend, with shrieks and cries,
Till darkness smote the eyeballs, and thick ice
Closed in around his heart-strings. The poor clay
Lay vanquish'd and distorted. But the soul--
The soul whose promised season never came
To hearken to his Maker's call-had gone
To weigh his sufferance with his own abuse,
And bide the audit.

THE PERILS AND PENALTIES OF A CONVERT FROM POPERY IN IRELAND.

THERE is a general impression abroad in our Protestant communities, that in these days the "offence of the cross has, to a great extent, ceased. Such is by no means the case. Those who would witness a good confession, have still often, as aforetime, to "endure a great fight of affliction". to become outcasts from their families, and to "take joyfully the spoiling of their goods." This is especially true of the converts from Popery in Ireland, who, we rejoice to know, are multiplying from month to month. As an example of the great work which is going on in that priest-oppressed country, we subjoin a few passages from the autobiography of Patrick O'Brien, a Scripture-reader, lately employed by the Rev. W. W. Champneys among the dense and degraded population of Whitechapel. A perusal of the narrative cannot fail to excite our sympathy and elicit our prayers on behalf of the newly-awakened souls that may be even now passing through the same scathing ordeal of persecution :

"On the first Sunday in the month of January, 1842,” says O'Brien, whose mind had been gradually enlightened to see the unscripturalness of the Papal system, “I called on the Rev. George G——G——, Rector of B——, with whom I was acquainted. He was one of my father's customers. I told him that I wished to become a member of the Church of England. He demanded my reasons for leaving the Church of Rome, and examined me minutely on the leading errors of the Papal Church; and, finding my answers satisfactory, he said, 'You can come to my