some regret. It is now nineteen months
since he escaped.

The man is a well-looking fellow (barring
the marks upon his face), and it is, perhaps,
worthy of remark, that he has a peculiarly
soft voice; which, I cannot help thinking,
must have been formed or improved by his
long residence amongst a people whose
language is without harsh sounds or gutturals.

RECEIPT OF FERN-SEED.

SHOPS destined for the sale of vegetable
curiosities, sometimes display a little ugly
dried-up flower, labelled the "Rose of
Jericho," which, it is boasted, revives when
dipped in water, although its dried-up condition
may have lasted for any length of time.
The experiment is attended with success,
though not with what may be called brilliant
success. The dingy flower does indeed open
its leaves; but it would be ridiculous to apply
any synonyme of the verb "to bloom" to the
phenomenon that presents itself. It is a dingy
affair altogether.

We, of this great incredulous metropolis,
when we grudgingly expend our sixpence on
the floral wonder, which the East is kind
enough to send us, pour a little water into a
wine-glass, insert the stalk therein, contemplate
the dull miracle, and then throw the
rose away, grudging the sixpence more than
ever. But when, turning away from great
disbelieving London, we look for instruction to
that German BÅ“otia, called Suabia (our
classical friends need not be reminded that
ancient BÅ“otia, notwithstanding the slights
of Attican neighbours, was no such very
stupid place after all), we discern the value
of the treasure we have slighted. We have
not tested half its marvels. The good people
in the vicinity of Rotenburg, near Tübingen,
tell us, that a rose of Jericho, however driedup,
will bloom every year, of its own accord,
on the nineteenth of March (that day being
the festival of St. Joseph), and that if it be
kept in a box, it will burst it open with the
force of its expansion. It seems to us, that
our Suabian friends must have roses of greater
vigour than those which we so unwillingly
purchase. Flimsy, indeed, would be the box
which our poor little roses of Jericho could
burst open.

Let us not, however, be too hasty in despising
the gift, which is wafted to us from the
borders of the Red Sea. Our Rotenburg
advisers tell us, that Christmas Day and New
Year's Day are the only two occasions on
which their flower will blossom, besides the
said nineteenth of March, and then they
generally use holy water to elicit its mystic
properties. Our shabby plant, on the
contrary, will thrive in its own unsatisfactory
way, even though it be inserted in the
unsanctified water of our own dirty Thames, and
one day is just as good and just as bad as
another for its purpose. Or is there something
superior in the Suabian method of
blooming? This may be the case, after all;
for when the rose of Jericho blooms at Rotenburg
the admiring bystanders are enabled
to prognosticate from the shape it assumes
how fruit, corn, and chestnut will thrive
in the ensuing year. If the Suabian could
discern the particular form assumed by our
rose of Jericho, Suabia must indeed be the
land of sharp discernment.

And this latter may be the right hypothesis,
as far as the vegetable world is concerned; for
the deeper we plunge into Suabian tradition,
the more we become convinced of the great
acuteness of the Suabian people in botanical
matters. It was a day-labourer in the same
Rotenburg, who once obtained a supply of
fern-seed, and this, we are enabled to state, is
no such easy affair.

He who would obtain fern-seed (we learn)
must not utter a single prayer during the
four weeks before Christmas; but must
occupy himself as much as possible with
diabolical thoughts—the worse the better.
On Christmas night, he must go to that
old place of horrors—a cross-way; but every
cross-way will not do. Corpses must have
been carried along each of the crossing roads
to render the point of junction fitting for the
operation. The experimentalist will not want
company. His deceased friends and relations
will all appear to him, and ask him what he
is about; a question which he may feel not
at all inclined to answer. Living friends
will come also, and try to make him speak;
and little ugly imps will jump about, and
endeavour to make him laugh. One word, or
one guffaw, even so much as an incipient smile,
will be fatal, for the unlucky experimentalist
will be immediately torn to pieces by fiends.
If, however, he remain firm, and neither
speak to his friends, nor laugh at his
entertainers, they will all retire at last, and
a man will present himself in the guise
of a hunter. Who he is, we need not say;
but we need say, that he presents the grave
inquirer with a neat little cunet—such as
grocers make—filled with the desired fern-seed.

The connection between wickedness and
abstinence from laughter, here set forth,
is worth a moment's consideration. Popular
tradition is generally in favour of good fellowship,
and want of mirth is esteemed a sign of
something not altogether agreeable. Thus, in
the puppet-play of Faust, on which Göthe
founded his immortal work, Faustus himself
is represented as a gloomy individual, and
thus his ultimate lot is prepared. Casperle,
on the other hand, the comic character or
clown of the piece, though he is, like the
learned doctor, exposed to fiendish machinations,
wears his mirth about him as a shield,
and lives on in the humble though comfortable
capacity of a town-watchman, after
Faustus has descended to regions invisible.
"Hence, loathed melancholy," is the maxim
of the unsophisticated; and, although we find