be assigned to water. Magnetism, central
heat—if there be such a power the earthquake,
and the volcano, play their parts; but one
far inferior to that effected by this mighty fluid,
without the aid of which the earth would be no
better fitted for the home of animated beings than
in the days when, a boundless waste of rocks
glowing like a furnace, it swept through the cold
and silent fields of ether.

For, after all, the six or seven thousand earthquakes
catalogued by Mr. Mallett and Professor
Perry, of Dijon, have not produced any particular
effects except in the immediate neighbourhood of
the Andes, the Mediterranean, and Iceland; their
action all over Europe has been productive of less
results than that of the sea on the coast of England
alone. Like the volcano and the hurricane,
they rivet the attention; but the first Napoleon
caused more deaths than all the earthquakes
since the days of Noah; the cupidity of shipowners
and the supineness of sailors have lost
more ships and lives than all the storms that ever
blew; the filthy state of our towns sends more
souls to Hades than all put together. Plague,
pestilence, war, and famine, yield to dirt.

For the information and comfort of those
who feel interested in earthquakes, it may
be useful to remark that they can have an
earthquake at any speed they like, from six
or seven miles per minute at California, to
thirty-four miles at Lisbon; and as there is an
earthquake every nine days on an average, with
a preponderance in cold weather and at the new
and full moon, they may, according to the new
tables, almost rely upon having one sooner or
later; indeed, by waiting long enough, they may
enjoy the excitement of one at home, as there
have been a hundred and eleven in the first half
of this century in the British Isles. They are,
however, very poor affairs, and ought not to be
compared with the fearful shattering throes on
the coasts of the Mediterranean and the shores
of Iceland. Mr. David Milne, indeed, wants us to
believe that there is a central point of disturbance,
a sort of hotbed of mischief, just below our island,
capable of breaking the backbone of the country;
but it is difficult to believe in earthquakes here.
They have gone out of date with the great wealden
lizard and the mammoths.

The water-changes which take place in our
globe, are not effected by the great rivers
and lakes, though they do their part, but by the
tiny stream and humble water-shed. Men are
struck by the picture of the Ganges, rushing in
the flood season at the rate of nine miles an hour,
and bearing every year seven thousand million
tons of mud to the Bay of Bengal; of the Mississippi,
rending away whole islands; of the cataracts
of Niagara,and the unparalleled majesty of
the Amazons; of the tidal wave of the Atlantic,
seven thousand miles long and two thousand
wide; and the mighty Gulf stream, cleaving with
its indigo-blue waves the green waters of the
Atlantic: its vast current, twenty-five hundred
feet  deep, forcing its way through the ocean at
the rate of five knots an hour; but these mighty
forces are feeble in comparison with those of the
unseen waters. The principal rivers do not carry
off more than one-sixth of the whole rainfall,
even in tropical climates.

Water penetrates into everything save metals,
and even into some of these, especially iron
and lead. Nearly all the earths, flint, lime,
and clay, are pervaded by its influence. All soils,
even the hardest, contain water in abundance: few
having less than one-eleventh, some being nearly
half water. It penetrates every rock, till sandstone
becomes so full of it that one or two millions
of gallons of water can be pumped daily from a
single well: while chalk is still fuller of water.
The microscope has shown that water is even contained
in some of the primary rocks, quartz often
holding it in such quantities that the cavities
are large enough to be seen by the naked eye;
and it is probable that mica, felspar, and quartz,
though first evolved by heat, have been dissolved
by water and laid down in beds.

Of the human frame, water forms so large a component
part, that the most thoroughly smoke-
dried old crone that ever ran the risk of being
burned for a witch, would shrink very materially
if the water were abstracted from her withered
frame. A gentleman of comfortable dimensions, if
subjected to dry distillation, would be transformed
into a respectably-dressed mummy; the famous
Daniel Lambert, under this process, would have
dwindled to the weight of a small young gentleman
in Knickerbockers. A ton of grass represents
two hundred-weight of hay, and this, when deprived
of the remaining radical moisture, sinks to
a still smaller figure; while some plants and
fruits, such as the water-melon, are almost entirely
composed of water.

And whether it is launched in the soft
mud of the volcano, spreading destruction over
the labours of man, or is boiled in the geyser;
whether it thunders down the cataract, or stagnates
in the torpid jungle; it is the same invaluable
mysterious agent, wearing down the old world,
and building up the new: refreshing the worn-
out soil with vitalising matter, and changing the
sandy waste or barren heath into a land smiling
with plenty. The great mammoth cave of Kentucky,
and the vast caverns of the Adelsberg;
the labyrinth of Crete, and the wonders of the
Peak, are alike due to the action of water upon
limestone. The vast beds of egg-stones (oolite)
were formed by some nameless shallow quiet
sea rolling a regular coating of lime round
myriads of small nuclei, some tiny shell or skeleton;
the beautiful deposits in the hot springs
of Iceland are owing to the silica in the water.
Nature has always plenty of the material on
hand: the sea contains in solution—besides as
much Epsom salts as would physic all the inhabitants
of earth—five hundred millions of tons
of flint.

So thoroughly does water enter into all the
doings of this sublunary sphere, that we find
it alike in the icy winds that sweep over the