But besides the Japanese silkworm of the oak,
there is another oak silkworm obtained from the
north of China. The introduction of this valuable
species, which had been vainly attempted
for the last ten years, is now in the way of being
accomplished. Larvæ, hatched on the 19th of
May last, had already, at the time of writing,
reached their second moult or change of skin
without manifesting the slightest symptom of
disease. Their colour at first was deep black.
They afterwards became bright green, studded
with orange and sky-blue tubercles.

If their introduction succeed, it will supply,
during the cotton dearth, the material
for one more branch of industry. The difference
which exists between the silk of the mulberry
worm and the oak worm will allow the new
manufacture to prosper without causing any
injurious competition with the old. On the other
hand, the introduction of a new tissue, brilliant,
fresh-looking, and light, and probably much
cheaper than mulberry silk, will be a great
benefit to the general consumer, and
consequently to the artisan. It is not so very long
since mulberry silk was a novelty, regarded with
very questionable favour from an utilitarian
point of view. With a little patience and a
little painstaking, it is possible that the public
may obtain equal advantages from the silk of
the ailanthus and the oak.

ON THE BRINK.

ON the brink of the well
To stand and hear
The sweet cool water
Bubbling near:
With parching lip,
And straining eye,
And frame all athirst,
To pant and die,
Gazing down
With hopeless pain,
On the sunken cup
And the broken chain. . . .
Oh! 'tis harder still to stand on the brink
Of Love's own spring, and dare not drink!

When the waves run high,
And the blast is loud,
And the seaman's heart
With fear is bowed,
To see from the bow
A bright still bay,
Where your storm-driven bark
Might safely lay.
And that haven to know
In the foeman's hand,
Where 'tis ruin to anchor
And death to land. . . .

With faltering step,
And heaving breast,
Wayworn, and longing
For peace and rest,
To cross on your path
A shady dell,
In whose deep calm
'Twere joy to dwell,
Yet know that bright refreshing green
Is the deadly Upas' fatal screen. . . .
Oh! 'tis harder still when you dare not rest
Your wearied head on the loved one's breast!

RIDING LONDON.
IN THREE PARTS.
PART I.   OF OMNIBUSES.

WEIGHING thirteen stone, standing six feet
high, possessed of an indomitable laziness, and
having occasion constantly to go from one part
of town to the other, I want to know how I am
to have my requirements attended to with ease
and comfort to myself. If my name were
Schemsiluihar, and I had lived ages ago at
Bagdad, I should have gone quietly into the garden,
and, after rubbing my ring on my lamp, or
burning my incense, I should have prostrated
myself before an enormous genie, who would
have been very much hurt by my humility,
would straightway have proclaimed himself my
slave, and after hearing my wants, would
immediately have provided me with four feet square
of best Turkey carpet, on which I had only to
deposit myself to be wafted through the air to
my destination; or he would have produced a roc
for me to sit astride on, or an enchanted horse
with a series of pegs in his neck, like a fiddle,
the mere manipulation of which increased or
checked his speed. But as I happen to live in
the benighted year of peace '63, as my name is
Nomatter, and as I reside in Little Flotsam-
street, Jetsam-gardens, N.W., the carpet, the
roc, and the peggy steed, are unavailable. I
could walk? Yes, but I won't! I hate walking;
it makes me hot and uncomfortable, and
savage; when walking, I either fall into a train,
of thought, or I get gaping at surrounding objects
and passing people, both of which feats have the
same result—namely, my tumbling up against
other pedestrians, straying into the road under
the hoofs of horses, and getting myself generally
objurgated and hi'd at. I couldn't ride on
horseback, because no man with any sense in,
his head, combined with any weight in his body,
could ride a horse over London's greasy stones.
I could ride in a cab, but it is too expensive;
in a Brougham, but for the same reason, doubly
magnified—with the additional fact that I do
not possess one. Leaving out of the question,
the absurdity of the proceeding, there is no
living man capable of conveying me for several
miles in a wheelbarrow; and when I state that I
have never yet been the subject of a commission
de lunatico, I need offer no further explanation
of my declining to ride in a velocipede, a
humorous conveyance like the under-carriage of a
chariot, the occupant of which apparently rests
himself by using his arms as well as his legs for
his propulsion. When I was a boy at school,
I recollect in the shop-windows prints of an
aërial machine, a delightful conveyance like
an enormous bat, sailing over London (which
was represented in the print by the dome of
St. Paul's and a couple of church spires), and
filled with elegantly dressed company, who were