to have the summer of Avignon,
Constantinople, Baltimore, or Philadelphia,
in the United States, and a winter very
nearly similar to that of Cairo in Egypt. Its
fluctuations correspond with those of Paris,
and its annual mean temperature with Messina
and the Cape of Good Hope.

Port Philip, the bay into which the river
port of Melbourne flows, resembles, in its
summer season, Baden, Marseilles, and
Bourdeaux; in its winter, Palermo or Buenos
Ayres; the fluctuations of its temperature
are those of Montpellier, and its annual mean
is that of Naples.

Launceston, in Van Dieman's Land, resembles
Mannheim, La Rochelle and Toulouse,
and, in its winter and its annual mean, Lisbon
and Perpignan.

Lastly, Port Arthur, the extreme southern
station of Van Dieman's Land, possesses the
summer of Tilsit, Dantzic, Augsburg, and
Jena, and a winter like that of Smyrna.

According, then, to these statements, the
thermometrical fluctuations assimilate New
South Wales and Van Dieman's Land to a
tropical region. The summer season of the two
colonies resembles the summer of that part of
Western Europe which lies between the latitudes
of forty-one degrees, fifty-three minutes,
and fifty-five degrees, fifty-seven minutes; and
the winter that part of the Mediterranean
which—enclosed between the coasts of Spain,
Italy, France, and Algiers—extends to Tunis
and Cairo. Thus are concentrated within
the space of eleven degrees of latitude the
elements of seasons most requisite and essential
for exalting all the energies of animal and
vegetable life.

The climatic condition of New South Wales
and of all Australia is represented in the most
favourable light by its rich flora, and the
healthy condition of its aborigines and
indigenous animals. At Tahlee, near Port
Stephens, the plantain grows in company
with the vine, the peach, the apple, the
English oak, and in close vicinity to the
eucalyptoe and mimosa. Kangaroo, sheep,
emeu, and horned cattle, roam together in the
same forests, seeking sustenance from the same
herbage.

But what mainly illustrates the fertility and
salubrity of these countries is the healthiness
of the English settlers who have taken root in
the soil. No endemic, and seldom any epidemic
diseases of grave character, prevail; and
if even partial deterioration of the progeny
is sometimes seen, it is to be traced to the
pertinacity with which the English race cling
to their original modes of living—to the
abuse of strong wines, malt liquors, and
particularly to the excessive consumption of
animal food of the richest description.
Even to the mode of clothing and housing
may be traced individual diseases, such
as dyspepsia, premature decay of teeth,
and affection of the brain. Much useful
information, of the character here produced,
may be gleaned from "New South Wales
and Van Dieman's Land," by Count P. E.
de Strzelecki.

THE FIRST-BORN.

THE First-born is a Fairy child,
     A wondrous emanation!
A tameless creature, fond and wild—
     A moving exultation!
Beside the hearth, upon the stair,
     Its footstep laughs with lightness:
And cradled, all its features fair
     Are touched with mystic brightness.

First pledge of their betrothed love—
     O, happy they that claim it!
First gift direct from Heav'n above—
     O, happy they that name it!
It tunes the household with its voice,
     And, with quick laughter ringing,
Makes the inanimate rooms rejoice,
     A hidden rapture bringing.

Its beauty all the beauteous things
     By kindred light resembles;
But, evermore with fluttering wings,
     On fairy confines trembles.
So much of those that gave it birth,
     Of Father and of Mother:
So much of this world built on earth,
     And so much of another!

SHADOWS.

THE SHADOW OF FANNY BURNEY AT COURT.

It is 1779. There is an amusing scene in Mr.
Thrale's villa at Streatham. The house, as
usual, is full of company. Mr. Boswell, who
has recently arrived in London, comes for a
morning visit; and what was then called a
"collation" is ordered. The sprightly hostess
takes her seat, with Dr. Johnson on her right.
Next him is a vacant chair, which Boswell is
about to occupy, according to his wont as the
umbra of his illustrious friend. Mr. Seward
interferes with—"Mr. Boswell, that seat is
Miss Burney's." Into the chair slides "the
little Burney;" and the good Doctor rolls
about, and glares upon Fanny with his large
one eye, and caresses her as he would a petted
child. Boswell is mad with jealousy. He
will not eat; he takes no place at the table;
but seizes a chair, and plants himself behind
the sage and his protégée. There is a laugh
and a whisper about "Bozzy," when another
wig is thrust between the Doctor's wig and
the lady's powdered toupée. Terrible is the
reproof: "What do you do here, sir? Go to
the table, sir. One would take you for a
Brangton."—"A Brangton, sir? What is a
Brangton, sir?"—"What company have you
kept not to know that, sir?" Poor Boswell
is soon informed. Brangton is the name of
a vulgar family in "Evelina;" and the little
lady who has dispossessed him of the place of
honour is the authoress of that novel.

Four years pass on, and Boswell knows his
cue better. He calls at Johnson's house, and