M. Toussenel, for reasons which he ably states, classifies birds according to the form of the foot. Every bird, from the penguin of the Antarctic Pole, to the gerfalcon of the North Cape, has the foot either flat or curved. The whole kingdom of birds is thus divisible into flat-foots and curve-foots. The first three orders of the former class are, the oar-foots, the stilters, and the velocipedes, or runners. Further general details are now impossible; we can only give a sample of the runners. us take, in one word, the very reverse of all these It is a bony plate in the form of a shield, which acts as a prow instead of a keel. The thighs and legs assume the bulky dimensions of the same parts in herbivorous quadrupeds. All of which means, that Nature, who, in the swift sailers, has favored the development of uneatable parts at the expense of those which are articles of food, has completely changed her style of architecture in the velocipedes: neglecting the parts which are never eaten, in order to develop, in luxurious fashion, those parts which supply us with dainty dishes. The velocipedes come immediately after the stilters in the order of creation. They were the first inhabitants of the earliest emerging conti-ing, is flattened down to ridiculous dimensions. nents; for they are herbivorous and gramnivorous creatures, and grass is the initial manifestation of the vital forces of the earth. Their character of primogeniture is, moreover, indelibly stamped upon all their features, in their rudimental struct ure, and their small number of toes. The order opens with the ostrich-the ostrich is a bird quadruped, as the penguin is a bird-fish—it can not fly for want of wings, and has only two toes on each foot. If the monodactyl, or one-toed bird, existed, it would certainly belong to this order. All the runners of Europe have wings and can fly. The most unfinished series we possess is that of the winged tridactyls. The bustard is the one which comes nearest to the ostrich. Nevertheless, as every individual in the order has its frame modeled, more or less, after that of the ostrich, it is important to refer to this original or primitive pattern, and to compare its organization with that of the humming-birds, insinuate that the providential destiny of the runner order clearly to comprehend the character and the providential destiny of the creatures we are considering. The humming-bird, and all the swift sailers, have the thoracic cavity, or chest, outrageously developed, with the ridge of the breast-bone projecting like the keel of a cutter. But, in virtue of the natural law of equilibrium, this excessive development can only take place at the expense of some other part of the body. In the humming-bird the atrophied and deficient portion is the region of the insertion of the lower members. All is sacrificed to lightness and utility. The chest is fashioned like the blade of a knife. In short, the swift sailer, when its feathers are plucked, has a great resemblance to its own skeleton: an idea, which invincibly repulses all thoughts of savory roast-meat. But let us demolish, piece by piece, the frame of the bird of prey, or the humming-bird. Let us put the complete in the place of the incomplete, and substitute the empty for the full. Let Now, wherefore this contrast of comparative anatomy? Wherefore has Nature, who does nothing without a motive, so liberally garnished the velocipede with meat? Why has she endowed that tender viand with so remarkable an easiness of digestion, and so exquisite and inviting a flavor? Does Nature, by these signs, intend to in is to be snared or shot, and then roasted and eaten? The fact, alas! is only too probable, the language too clear, the oracle too certain. Yes! every thing leads to the belief that Nature has destined the order of velocipedes to serve as food for flesh-eating creatures, in every kingdom of the animated world. Yes! these unhappy races merit, in the same degree as the ruminants, the appellation of the victim order. [Victim, from the Latin victus, conquered, from which the word victuals is also derived, in consequence of the ancient practice of conquerors making a meal off their conqueree's sirloin.] The velocipedes are all true ruminants, living, like them, on grass and grain. They have several stomachs, with a preparatory crop, fulfilling exactly the same office as the paunch of the quadruped. Now, all meats produced from grass are of delicate taste and easy digestion. Analogically and algebraically speaking, the hen is to the cow as the partridge is to the roe. The hen gives us her eggs and her chickens, just as the cow does her milk and her calf. We ought, besides, to remark that, in either order, the flesh of the female is superior to that of the male. The fact, moreover, is universal, that nature has endowed the female world with more delicate aromas than the male; with more fleshy tissues and shorter muscles. alights to render him assistance. Sportsmen have more than once exterminated whole flocks of dotterels without stirring a step. The poor creatures cruelly expiate their fault of having too round a head. They have the extreme and idiotic simplicity to believe in the harmlessness of tipsy people; and allow themselves to be easily approached by whomsoever may pretend to be unable to walk straight. Religious observers of the Mussulman law, they repair to the water-side at stated hours, two or three times every day, to make their ablutions and wash their feet. The dotterel, of all the plovers, has the biggest and the roundest head, which might, perhaps, be supposed to indicate that it contains the greatest quantity of brain. The fact is exactly the reverse. He has the greatest faith in drunken men, and manifests the most obstinate propensity to throw himself in the sportsman's way. This same dotterel, formerly very common in La Beauce, was the primitive element of the famous glory. The pate's success led to the pate's consumption, and the pate's consumption led naturally to the destruction of the species. The Chartres pastry-cooks are at last obliged to replace the absent dotterel by partridge, quail, and lark flesh. The great bustard is the swiftest of our runners. Per contra, flight is severe exercise, and is only undertaken, with visible repugnance, when danger is knocking loud at the door. The slightest damage to its wings exposes it to serious disasters. One morning before daybreak, when some Champagne peasants were proceeding from Suippe to Chalons-sur-Marne, they perceived a herd of creatures at a certain distance from the road making unavailing efforts to rise from the ground. On approaching to inspect the phemomenon more closely, they ascertained that the crippled birds were great bustards, whose wings were so completely locked up by the hoar-frost as to be use-pate de Chartres. It has fallen a victim to its own less, either for flight or running. The barbarous travelers, as we should have done in their place, naturally took advantage of the circumstance. They knocked the unhappy fowls on the head; and the market of Chalons, the capital of Bustardland, was abundantly supplied on that occasion. A gunshot which tells upon a bustard, at the lowest figure, is always worth twenty francs on the spot. Champagne, which, in the time of Belon, was so rich in bustards and so poor in veg-ism, and our arrival at a superior sphere. The etables, is still the only province of France where these birds feel comfortable, and consent to breed. But two facts are sufficient to give you an idea of the present variety of the species. Many sportsmen, M. Toussenel included, have shot for years in the Champenoise desert, without burning powder over a single bustard. And for many seasons past, Chevet, the illustrious game-dealer of the Palais Royal, has not received more than half-a-dozen specimens. The great bustard has passed into the state of a myth in Artois, Vendee, Brenne, and even in the stony plains of the south, where it formerly took up its winter quarters. Its apparition in those credulous districts is now considered as the forerunner of extraordinary political events-although it seldom does really more than announce the approach of frosty weather. Threetoeism's last expression appears in the form of the golden plover. Henceforth this character of primitiveness completely disappears; its disappearance announces the end of flatfoot bird by which the transition is made is the lapwing, rejoicing in a small hind-toe. The apteryx is an instance what a superior passional title is conferred upon a quasi-tridactyl by the simple addition of a spur, however high on the leg it may sprout. The influence of a fourth toe is not less manifest here. The Swiss lapwing contracts matrimony. He is willing to remain the golden plover's messmate and friend in the daily relations of winter life; but he refuses to enter into any community of political and vernal doctrines with him. The moral superiority of the four-toed bird is further displayed in the crested lapwing. Why this crest on the English peewit? Why do we find an attribute of royalty adorning one head and not another? The crest, it appears, is an honorary reward beThe physiognomy of the plovers is not happy. stowed upon the peewit, both for his exemplary Their head is much too voluminous, their eye too domestic conduct, and for the numerous services large, their bill too short, inserted too low, and of a composite kind which he renders to his lord too much at a right angle with the cranium, and master, man. The peewit is not content The sentiment of fraternity is highly developed with supplying us, in October, with savory meat; in most species of the Ploverida. When a in spring he presents us with exquisitely delicate plover is brought to the ground, the whole band eggs, at least as good as those of the domestic hen. He does not restrict his benefits to the pleasures of the table; he affords us sport on the grandest scale. At large, he protects the dikes of Holland from the ravages of worms, which would otherwise undermine them. For that reason, he prefers the Polders to any other residence-plains which lie beneath the level of the sea, and have been rescued from the waves by the industry of man. In captivity he ornaments our gardens by the finished graces of his elegant person. He wages a relentless war against earthworms, grubs, slugs, and snails. Boldly setting his face against the loose and shameful morals of his neighbors, he alone dares to display the noble standard of conjugal fidelity. Henceforth the crest of the peewit will puzzle nobody. The answer to the enigma is openly published. The flight of this bird in a state of excitement is not less rich in somersaults and pirouettes than that of the snipe when deeply in love. And if the lapwing can not, like him, bleat like a goat, to declare his passion, he makes up for it by mewing like a cat. than probable the bird would have been called the glouglou, seeing that such is the name he gives himself. But the course of things, in natural history, never runs on so smoothly as that. The creature's earliest French godfathers, with their heads full of certain features of the cock, gave him the name of coq d'Inde―to distinguish him, observe, from the one who really came from India, whereas the new arrival was a native of America. But as, in those days, America passed for the continuation of Asiatic India, the unfortunate choice of coq d'Inde ought not to be imputed to individual ignorance. Afterward coq was suppressed; and, little by little, the bird was called first the dindon, then the dinde. Fourier-who knew so many things without having learned them, and who divined the history of a species from one single character-makes the turkey the emblem of the bashful lover. The turkey brutally tramples upon the passion which exhausts and is killing him. But this weakness of temperament is only one of his least defects. Buffon, who wants to make him out a brave fellow, Nature has so regularly constituted the series quotes in support of his opinion the singular of dusters, and has so artistically limited the proof of courage that a flock of turkeys have boundaries of the genera, that she has really made been seen to surround a hare on her form, and each physical character of the bird an element of bravely unite to peck her to death. A number classification. Contrary to the opinion of learned of political heroes are capable of this act of heromen, you may take this family by the feet, by theism, and sometimes perform it; but without being head, by the neck, by the tail, by the color, by awarded the laurel for the act. the origin, by the country, by the locality, without incurring the least risk of error. For headdress, there is the aigrette of the pea-fowl, the tuft of the pheasant, the longitudinal comb of the cock, the helmet of the guinea-fowl, and the bald and carbuncled pate of the turkey. There are rudimental tails, short tails, middle-sized tails, outrageous tails. There are tails square, tails round, tails lyre-shaped, tails wheel-and-fanwise. But the series has something better than that to serve it as a separative type. It is a mark of such superior importance, that merely to indicate it renders all mention of the others unnecessary. The spur is the feature now referred to. The spur is no mere accident in the way in which a creature is shod. Instead of softening a distinction, it makes a real revolution. It effects a thorough transformation of costume and manners, and sums up in itself the whole family history. In the single word spur are comprised the ideas of pacha, harem, despotism, jealousy, dazzling dresses among the males, gentleness and timidity among the females. If the task of christening the turkey had been left to the first child that came to hand, it is more The turkey is bald, like most fast livers. His face and forehead are disfigured by bunches of warts and chaplets of excrescences, swollen and red from the excesses of the table. These characteristics recall the physiognomy of the vulture, whom the turkey resembles in stature, color, cowardice, and greed. When a man is both stupid and mischievous, we proverbially say he is like a turkey. But the portrait is too flattering; the turkey is worse than mischievous and stupid. He wears at the bottom of his neck a tuft of black hairs, to testify his fraternity with the hegoat. This model of gluttons, drunkards, and sluggards, is irascible in temper, like all people who quickly get fat and rich. You hear him storm and cry glouglou-you see him red and blue with anger. The turkey-hen, however, is well-behaved, and is the most devoted mother in the world. When the writing of this article had been concluded, we received a communication which corroborates M. Toussenel's estimate of the passional sensitiveness, the vigor, and the visual perfectitude of at least one family of the beings gifted with wings and toes: "On Friday last, the fourth of August," our A BEAUTIFUL INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF BISHOP HEDDING. correspondent writes, dating from Glamorganshire, “one of my cats, an adept at bird-catching, was clever enough to capture a martin. He was immediately assailed by two birds of the same species, who each made a stoop at him, striking and then wheeling off; but he bore off his prey. Nothing further occurred till Sunday-probably 31 acquainted with them, would be able to distinguish one from the other. This little bird, however, had been so nicely observant, as to know at once, without hesitation, who was the offender." BISHOP HEDDING. BY REV. Z. PADDOCK, D. d. VERY thing relating to that great and good EVERY man, the late Bishop Hedding, must have a permanent interest to all who knew him, and especially to the members of the communion to which he was so bright an ornament. In my own bosom scarcely any other human name awakens from want of opportunity-but on that day, being A BEAUTIFUL INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF in front of the house, and the coast clear, the cat was vigorously attacked by three martins. Rising to a considerable hight in the air, they darted down on his head with great force, and in such quick succession that they quite confused him. At first Mr. Tom's efforts were confined to attempts to get hold of his assailants; but they wheeled off, after delivering each a blow with their pointed beaks, too swiftly to be caught. "This warfare had lasted a considerable time-emotions at once so deep and so tender. The for the whole affair occupied fully three-quarters of an hour-when the three birds flew off, each in a different direction, as if to procure recruits; and in a very short time reappeared with six or seven other martins, who all joined in the same plan of attack. Tom, who may be supposed to scorn the idea of flying from small birds, was soon roused to anger, in place of desire for prey, by the incessant stabs at the back of his headthe birds hitting it every time with unerring precision, after adroitly skimming off for another descent and another aim, move how he would; and he at length grew quite angry. He growled, and erected his bristles and tail for a regular fight. Finally, unable either to seize his tormentors or to endure the fierceness of the attack any longer, he ingloriously retreated under a warehouse door, which afforded him shelter, the birds striking at his tail, the last part of him in sight." Then comes a postscript: "On concluding my letter, I walked out, and stood for some time in the front of the house near the spot where the combat took place on Sunday. A martin, which had a nest under the eaves of the warehouse, was sailing about in the air, and Tom's sister was pattering along on the ground, neither animal, to all appearance, regarding the other. In a few minutes the tom-cat came out, and in an instant the bird, screaming loudly, flew at him with the utmost fury, making several desperate darts, but seemed fearful of approaching quite near enough to strike, there being no other bird in sight to second him, or to distract the attention of its adversary; but it was quite clear that there was no mistake in recognizing its enemy, although the two cats are so very nearly alike in size, color, and general appearance, that no person, unless very intimately remembrance of him is always grateful to my heart. I became acquainted with him at an early period in my public life-soon after he was ordained bishop-and, for many years, performed for him, when he visited the conference of which I was a member, the office of private secretary. Of course, I was much in his company; and especially as he presided over that body about as frequently, perhaps, as all the other bishops taken together. And the more I was with him, the more I loved and venerated him. Such dignity and such simplicity, such lofty intelligence and such purity of aim, are seldom found in the same person. Eulogy, however, is far from being the object of the present brief communication. The perusal of your late article, Mr. Editor, on "The Last Hours of Bishop Hedding," brought so vividly to my recollection a passage in his history, that I can hardly suppress my inclination to give your readers the substance of it. At the session of the Oneida conference, in-I think—1840, held at Norwich, Chenango county, N. Y., I was quartered at the same house with the venerable Bishop. As I was going out to public worship, on Sunday evening, he said to me, "Brother, I wish you would excuse me from accompanying you, I am so much fatigued; and then you know the exhausting labors of the closing part of the conference are still before me; and I must recruit, and prepare for them." In truth, I had no thought of his accompanying me; for I knew he had not only preached a long and fatiguing sermon that day, but had ordained both the elders and the deacons. The circumstance, however, shows-what was always an amiable trait in his general character-his tender regard for the feelings of others. He was studi ously careful never to say a word or perform an action which would be likely to give pain to any human being, save only when it was clearly apparent that the interests of religion demanded that sort of discipline, and then the infliction was ever accompanied with so much tenderness that even the subject of it was obliged the more to respect him. The public service of the evening performed, I returned to our mutual lodgings. Finding the chamber of the good Bishop unilluminated, and presuming he had retired to rest, I determined to pass through his room-which I was obliged to do in order to reach my own dormitory—as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb him. As soon as I opened the door, however, I heard his tender voice in the opposite end of the room, saying, "Brother, please be seated while I light a lamp. You will find a chair to the left of the door." The venerable old gentleman experienced some little difficulty in igniting his match, but finally succeeded in lighting the lamp, when he said, "I have been sitting here by this open window, enjoying the cool air, [the evening was excessively warm,] and examining this poor heart of mine, to see whether it loves the blessed Jesus as much as it used to." After a moment's pause, he added, his voice tremulous with deep emotion, "And I think it does, full as much—yes, a little more than it ever did before." These were his precise words-words which I can no more forget than I can forget that I ever saw the man. Seating himself, he continued to speak of his own past experience with a freedom and a pathos which were at once most delightful and most edifying. Among other things, he said, “I do not know whether it is so with others, but I often find great spiritual comfort in reading our hymns. They contain a depth, a concentration of meaning, which comes home to the soul with a kind of divine power. Though I can not substitute them for the inspired word, I frequently read them with a view to religious edification, as well as from a regard to their unsurpassed poetical beauty." The afternoon sermon, that day, had turned chiefly on the resurrection of Christ, and the exercises were closed with that incomparable hymn, commencing, "He dies, the Friend of sinners dies." To that hymn the Bishop particularly referred, and spoke of it as one of the finest in the English language, and as often having been a blessing to his own soul. He repeated the whole of it with the greatest force and propriety, and pointed out its principal beauties with the nicest discrim ination. He regarded it then, as he did upon his dying bed, as being "all glory." Indeed, all of his exercises on that happy morning to which you refer the morning he was visited by the Rev. brother Ferris-seem to have been strikingly of a piece with those of the memorable evening at Norwich. "THY WORD IS TRUTH," ST. JOHN XVII, 17. BY MRS. A. L. RUTER DUFOUR. "Thy word is truth." Of dust thou art, frail mortal; And stem of Jesse, shall a Savior spring; [Isa. xi, 1. [xxxv, 2. Thy word is truth." Behold the promised Savior, Low in the manger, where the ox is fed; [Luke ii, 7. The morning stars for joy have sung together, [Job xxxviii, 7. |