mend him to have nothing to do with it. If a small piece of it gets under the nail, and there ignites, it produces a very great, and not unfrequently a dangerous wound. The great violence of its burning, and the low temperature at which it inflames, renders it very dangerous with regard to houses and other goods. At a temperature of about 100°, phosphorus takes fire, and burns with intense brilliancy. It oxydizes slowly when exposed to the action of the atmosphere, and appears in the dark to be burning in a sort of slow and imperfect combustion, which does not give out heat or flamè perceptible to the sight in daylight. A very common experiment with phosphorus, is to write certain letters on the wall: these shine in the dark, and have rather a curious appearance; but it is very dangerous, as the phosphorus not unfrequently inflames with friction. Phosphorus and oxygen form several compounds. First, oxide of phosphorus. This is that white crust which is seen on the surface of phosphorus which is kept under water. It is this which gives the white appearance to the common phosphorus, as in its simple state it very much resembles a light flesh colour. This oxide of phosphorus is very inflammable but less fusible than phosphorus itself. It is employed in making phosphorus fire-boxes. Phosphorus and oxygen unite so as to form three acids. The hydrophosphorus, the phosphorus, and the phosphoric acids. The two former are not very important either in themselves or their salts. Phosphoric acid is chiefly used in its concrete state for the production of phosphorus. The method of doing this has been given above. Phosphoric acid may be prepared in the following manner, though, as it is rather a difficult process, we would not advise very young chemists to attempt it. "On twenty pounds of calcined bone, finely powdered, pour twenty quarts of water and eight pounds of sulphuric acid, diluted with an equal weight of water. Let these materials be stirred together, and simmered for about six hours. Let the whole be 45 ATHENEUM VOL. 1. 2d series. then put into a conical bag of linen to separate the clear liquor, and wash the residue till the water ceases to taste acid. Evaporate the strained liquor, and when reduced to about half its bulk, let it cool. A white sediment will formn, which must be allowed to subside, and the clear solution must be decanted, and boiled to dryness in a glass vessel. A white mass will re main, which may be infused in a platinum crucible, and poured out into a clean copper dish: phosphoric acid, with a little phosphate and sulphate of lime, is the result." The rationale of this method consists in this: bones when burned are almost entirely phosphate of lime. This, when mixed with sulphuric acid and heated, is decomposed. The water only assists the action of the acid. Sulphate of lime is formed, which is thrown away; while phosphoric acid and phosphate of lime remain. Should any operator try to form this acid, he must take great care not to inhale any of the vapours which arise from the mixtures thus made. Phosphoric acid and ammonia unite and form a salt, (phosphate of ammonia,) very common in the animal world. If phosphorus be exposed to the action of chlorine, it takes fire, and burns with a yellow flame, forming a compound which was long supposed to be phosphoric acid, but which is now shown to be a perchloride of phosphorus. Phosphorus and iodine can be made to combine; the compound is of a reddish colour,and decomposes water. Phosphorus unites also with hydrogen, a body in the second class. It is a gass which is commonly called phosphuretted hydrogen. This gas has a very disagreeable odour, and inflames as soon as it comes in contact with the atmosphere. The operator may procure a small piece of phosphuret of lime, and throw it into water, a pail for instance; bubbles of air will rise, which inflame as soon as they reach the surface: this is phosphuretted hydrogen. We would recommend the young chemist to try the last experiment in the open air, as otherwise the smell would be very disagreeable. This gas may be proved in the following manner. Put about a quarter of an ounce of phosphorus into a small glass retort of the capacity of four ounces, then fill the retort with a strong solution of caustic potash, and apply the heat of a lamp, & collect as before described over water. Phosphuretted hydrogen loses its power of inflaming, on its union with the atmosphere, and when it has been kept long over water. If the bubbles be suffered to rise into a jar of oxygen, the combustion is very vivid, producing a brilliant white flame; if transmitted into chlorine, it produces a beautiful blue flame. Before we quit the subject of phosphorus, let me again caution the inexperienced chemist from experimentalizing upon it. The burns which it produces, and the destruction of houses which has often ensued, should make the pupil contented to read of the experiments which may be performed with this substance, if he has not the opportunity of seeing them exhibited by more expert hands. A DREAM. WELL may sleep present us fictions, Than was left by Phantasy In a bark, methought, lone steering, Sad regrets from past existence Now seeming more, now less remote, But my soul revived at seeing Heaven-like-yet he look'd as human And as some sweet clarion's breath (New Mon.) BY T. CAMPBELL. "Types not this," I said, "fair Spirit! That my death-hour is not come ? Tell my soul their sum." "No," he said, "yon phantom's aspect, Thine unspoken thoughts as clear ""Tis to live again, remeasuring Could experience, ten times thine, Could thy flight heaven's lightning shun? 'Scape the myriad shafts of chance. "Would'st thou bear again Love's trouble Friendship's death-dissever'd ties; Toil to grasp or miss the bubble Of Ambition's prize? Say thy life's new-guided action Worth itself is but a charter To be mankind's distinguish'd martyr.” Envying, fearing, hating none, Guardian Spirit, steer me on!" (Blackwood's Edin. Mag.) ON CHURCHYARDS. NO. II. IN parts of Warwickshire, and some ly observable in the little hamlets I have described. In one or two instances, indeed, I perceived that attempts had been made to exclude the view of the church and churchyard from the rectory windows, by planting a few clumps of evergreens, that looked as unmeaningly stuck there, as heart could wish. Miserable taste that! "but let it pass," as the Courier said lately of one of your finest poetical articles, Mr. North. I never saw a more perfect picture of beautiful repose, than presented itself to me in one of my evening walks last summer. One of the few evening walks it was possible to enjoy during the nominal reign of that freezing, dripping summer. I came abruptly (in my evening walk, you know) upon a small church, and burial ground, and rectory, all combined and embowered within a space that the eye could take in at one glance, and a pleasant glance it was! The east window of the church was lighted up with red and glowing refulgence-not with the gorgeous hues of artificial colouring, but with the bright banners of the setting sun; and strongly defined shadows, and mouldings of golden light, marked out the rude tracery of the low ivied tower and the heavy stone-work of the deep narrow windows, and the projections of the low massy buttresses, irregularly applied in defiance of all architectural proportion, as they had become necessary to the support of the ancient edifice. And here and there on the broken slanting of the buttresses, and on their projecting ledges, might be seen patches of green and yellow moss, so exquisitely bright, that methought the jewellery with which Aladdin enchased the windows of his enchanted palace, was dull and colourless, compared with the vegetable emeralds and topazes, wherewith "Nature's own sweet and cunning hand" had blazoned that old church. And the low head-stones also some half sunk into the churchyard mould-many carved out into cherubims, with their trumpeters' cheeks and expanded wings, or with the awful emblems of death's-heads, cross-bones, and hour-glasses! The low head-stones, with their rustic scrolls, "that teach us to live and die," those also were edged and tinted with the golden gleam, and it stretched in long floods of amber light athwart the soft green turf, kissing the nameless hillocks; and, on one little grave in particular, (it must have been that of an infant,) methought the departing glory lingered with peculiar brightness. Oh! it was a beautiful churchyard. A stream of running water intersected it almost close to the church wall. It was clear as crystal, running over grey pebbles, with a sound that chimed harmoniously in with the general character of the scene, low, soothing, monotonous, dying away into a liquid whisper, as the rivulet shrank into a shallow and still shallower channel, matted with moss and water plants, and closely overhung by the low underwood of an adjoining coppice, within whose leafy labyrinth it stole at last silently away. It was an unusual and a lovely thing to see the grave-stones, and the green hillocks, with the very wild flowers (daisies and buttercups) growing on them, reflected in the little rill as it wound among them-the reversed objects, and glancing colours, shifting, blending, and trembling in the broken ripple. That and the voice of the water! It was "Life in Death." One felt that the sleepers below were but gathered for a while into their quiet chambers. Nay, their very sleep was not voiceless. On the edges of the graves on the moist margin of the stream, grew many tufts of the beautiful "Forget me not." Never, sure, was such appropriate station for that meek eloquent flower! Such was the churchyard, from which, at about ten yards distance from the church, a slight low railing, with a latch wicket, divided off a patch of the loveliest green sward, (yet but a continuation of the churchyard turf.) backed with tall elm, and luxuriant evergreens, amongst which peeped modestly out the little neat Lectory. It was constructed of the same rough grey stone with the church. Long, low, with far projecting eaves, and casement windows facing that large east window of the church, still flaming with the reflecting splendour of the setting sun. His orb was sinking to rest behind the grove, half embowering the small dwelling, which, therefore, stood in the perfect quietness of its own shadow, the dark green masses of the jasmine clustering round its porch and windows, scarcely revealing (but by their exquisite odour) the pure white blossoms that starred "its lovely gloom." But their fragrance floated on the gentle breath of evening, mingled with the perfume of mignionette, and the long fingered marvels of Peru, (the pale daughters of twilight,) and innumerable sweet flowers blooming in their beds of rich black mould, close under the lattice windows. These were all flung wide, (for the evening was still and sultry,) and one opening down to the ground, showed the interior of a very small parlour, plainly and modestly furnished, but panelled all round with well-filled book-cases. A lady's harp stood in one corner, and in another two fine globes and an orrery.— Some small flower-baskets, filled with roses, were dispersed about the room; and at a table near the window sat a gentleman writing, (or rather leaning over a writing desk, with a pen in his hand,) for his eyes were directed towards the gravel walk before the window, where a lady, (an elegant looking woman, whose plain white robe and dark uncovered hair well became the sweet matronly expression of her face and figure,) was anxiously stretching out her encouraging arms to her little daughter, who came laughing and tottering towards her on the soft green turf, her tiny feet, as they essayed their first independent steps, in the eventful walk of life, twisting and turning with graceful awkwardness, and unsteady pressure, under the disproportionate weight of her fair fat person. It was a sweet, heart-thrilling sound, the joyous, crowing laugh of that little creature, when with one last, bold, mighty ef fort, she reached the maternal arms, and was caught up to the maternal bo som, and half devoured with kisses, in an ecstacy of unspeakable love. As if provoked to emulous loudness, by that mirthful outcry, and impatient to mingle its clear notes with that young innocent voice, a blackbird, embowered in a tall neighbouring bay-tree, poured out forthwith such a flood of full, rich melody, as stilled the baby's laugh, and for a moment arrested its observant ear. But for a moment.-The kindred natures burst out into full chorus; -the baby clapped her hands, and laughed aloud, and, after her fashion, mocked the unseen songstress. The bird redoubled her tuneful efforts-and still the baby laughed, and still the bird rejoined and both together raised such a melodious din, that the echoes of the old church rang again; and never since the contest of the nightingale with her human rival, was beard such an emulous conflict of musical skill. I could have laughed, for company, from my unseen lurking-place, within the dark shadow of the churchbuttresses. It was altogether such a scene as I shall never forget-one from which I could hardly tear myself away. Nay I did not. I stood motionless as a statue, in my dark, grey niche, till the objects before me became indistinct in twilight-till the last slanting sun-beams had withdrawn from the highest panes of the church-window-till the blackbird's song was hushed, and the baby's voice was still -and the mother and her nursling had retreated into their quiet dwelling-and the evening taper gleamed through the fallen white curtain, and still open window. But yet before that curtain fell, another act of the beautiful pantomine had passed in review before me. The mother, with her infant in her arms, had seated herself in a low chair within the little parlour. She untied the frock-strings-drew, off that, and the second upper garments-dexterously, and at intervals, as the restless frolics of the still unwearied babe afforded opportunity; and then it was in its little coat and stay, the fat white shoulders shrugged up in antic merriment, far above the slackened shoulder-straps. Thus the mother's hand slipped off one soft red shoe, and having done so, her lips were pressed almost, as it seemed, involuntarily, to the little naked foot she still held. The other, as if in proud love of liberty, had spurned off to a distance the fellow shoe, and now the darling, disarrayed for its innocent slumbers, was hushed and quieted, but not yet to rest; the night dress was still to be put on-and the little crib was not there-not yet to restbut to the mighty duty already required of young christians. And in a moment it was hushed-and in a moment the small hands were pressed together between the mother's hands, and the sweet serious eyes were raised and fixed upon the mother's eyes, (there beamed, as yet, the infant's heaven,) and one saw that it was lisping out its unconscious prayer-unconscious, not surely unaccepted. A kiss from the maternal lips was the token of God's approval; and then she rose, and gathering up the scattered garments in the same clasp with the half-naked babe, she held it smiling to its father, and one saw in the expression of his face, as he upraised it after having imprinted a kiss on that of his child-one saw in it all the holy fervour of a father's blessing. Then the mother withdrew with her little one-and then the curtain fell, and, still I lingered-for after the interval of a few minutes, sweet sounds arrested my departing footsteps-a few notes of the harp, a low prelude stole sweetly out-a voice still sweeter, mingling its tones with a simple quiet accompaniment, swelled out gradually into a strain of sacred harmony, and the words of the evening hymn came wafted towards the house of prayer. Then all was still in the cottage, and the deepening shadows brought to my mind more forcibly the lateness of the hour, and warned me to turn my face homewards. So I moved a few steps, and yet again I lingered, lingered still; for the moon was rising, and the stars were shining out in the clear cloudless heaven, and the bright reflection of one, danced and glittered like a liquid fire-fly, on the ripple of the stream, just when it glided into a darker deeper pool, beneath a little rustic foot-bridge, which led from the church |