the flocculent web, as on an autumnal day in England. The ship was then sixty miles distant from the land. Vast numbers of a small spider, about one-tenth of an inch in length, and of a dusky red colour, were attached to the webs. Many thousands of them were on the ship. The little aeronaut, as soon as it arrived on board, was very active, running about, sometimes letting itself fall, and then reascending the same thread; sometimes employing itself in making a small and very irregular mesh in the corners between the ropes. It moved with facility on the surface of the water. Its stock of thread appeared to be inexhaustible; and this I have observed to be the case with our own little gossamer, and, like them, when they were suspended by a single thread, the slightest breath of air would bear them out of sight. On other occasions, when they had been placed, or had crawled on some little eminence, they would send forth a thread, and sail away in a lateral course, with a rapidity which was quite unaccountable. Some spiders, however, have the power of darting through the air without the help of any thread. This I have noticed more than once, and it has been observed by others. M. Virey, in his " Bulletin des sciences naturelles," thinks, that by means of a rapid vibration of their feet, they walk the air. In the case of a spider, placed upon a stick, fixed in the centre of a basin-full of water, a thread is thrown out, of sufficient length to be carried by the slightest breath of air to the edge of the basin, to which it seems to adhere in consequence of some glutinous substance at the end of the thread. By means of this thread the spider makes its escape. But to return to the migratory instinct of insects. From what has been said, it is evident that they are impelled by an Almighty Providence to change their quarters, probably when their numbers have increased to too great a degree. This certainly is not the case with all migratory animals. The Swallow, for instance, delights in sunny regions, and quits us when autumnal chills arise, but only for a season. When flowers, and sportive insects, and soft gales assure us that winter is over, we are again gladdened with the sight of this graceful and twittering bird, who is justly called, the herald of the Spring. 277 THE VICARAGE. Where ends the chancel in a vaulted space, Sleep the departed Vicars of the place; Of most, all mention, memory, thought, are past CRABBE. FEW counties in England have produced more celebrated men, or more beautiful women, than that of Devonshire. It is, also, distinguished for the hospitality of its inhabitants, for their kindness of heart and unaffected goodwill to those strangers who come amongst them, as well as for the charms of its rural scenery. Who that has seen the pretty cottages, with their little gardens and orchards, the shady lanes with their steep banks covered with flowers, the meandering rivers and brooks, the rich vallies, and the bold and commanding scenery, will ever forget them. In wandering over the county, scarcely a spot is to be met with which will not make the lover of what is picturesque, beautiful, or grand, to pause, in order to gaze upon it. And then the sleek red cattle, feeding in the luxuriant meadows, the noble trees nourished by the rich soil of the country, and adorned with one-arched bridges, which everywhere abound over the rapid trout-streams, and afford subjects for a painter; all these are characteristic of this charming county. Every hill that is ascended has its own peculiar and extensive view, while the atmosphere of the southern vallies is so mild, that the myrtle flourishes unsheltered, and grapes are gathered from the garden-walls as fine, and almost as early, as those of Italy. It was in one of these vallies that the Vicarage of T might be seen, with its village church hard by. The latter had one of those sturdy old towers, with its supporting buttresses, which give so much character to some of our ancient village churches, and around which jackdaws cawed and starlings chattered as they emerged from the clustering ivy, which had made its way up the southern side of the tower. Here, also, was the old porch, with its rude carving over its entrance, and the studded door, while the inside had its frame of timbers, a venerable screen, and its white-washed walls decorated with instructive texts of Scripture. In the chancel were two or three sepulchral brasses, and a monument some two or three centuries old, exhibiting, in Devonshire marble, the effigies of a worthy couple, with their six sons and four daughters, in a sort of kneeling procession, with the names of David, Jonas, Ruth, &c. inscribed under the feet of each of them. Such is a short description of this village sanctuary, which appeared to stand in the grounds belonging to the vicarage. No fence separated them, but a well-kept and narrow gravelled walk led through a little shrubbery to the porch of the church, close to which an enormous yew-tree flourished with a seat around it, and at the eastern end was a shattered though still magnificent elm. The vicarage stood on rather elevated ground, and was built with the red sand-stone of the country. It had its mullioned windows, its little porch, and old gables, with its walls covered with creepers, vines, and roses. Everything around it was in the neatest order, and gave the idea of peace, happiness, and contentment. That the Vicar appreciated the charms of such a retirement, and such a country, was sufficiently evident. He had found out the secret, that to be happy ourselves we must make others so; and he acted upon it on all occasions. He was beloved by the poor around him, for he was their friend and adviser in all their difficulties and distresses, while in his own family he was regarded with unbounded affection. It is always a delightful sight to see parents and children "knit together in unity" and love. A charming halo, if the expression may be applied, a moral influence, is shed around, not only the house, but the neighbourhood, by the example thus afforded. So it was in the village of T—. There was a T |