If it should happen that the cloudiness of the weather altogether prevents any observation of the appearance of the new moon, then the Ramazan is commenced at the nearest period which can be substituted for the true time, that is to say, on the thirtieth day of the preceding month, Shaban, as it is called. A rectification is effected as soon as possible, and the Mussulman then finds out how many days of fasting he is in debt, and has still to perform at a future period; or how many he has already spent in exercises of supererogation. If, while the weather is cloudy, some individual should happen to perceive the new moon, but his testimony to that effect should be rejected by the magistrate, still he himself is bound, from the period of his observation, to begin his own fast; and in case of his failure so to do, he is obliged to perform a fast of satisfaction afterwards.

We are assured that there is no fast in the religion of any people more rigorous in its ordinances than the Turkish Ramazan. To the temper of the stanch Mohammedan, it is depicted as trying in the extreme. During the whole month for which it lasts, so long as the sun lingers above the horizon, he is not permitted to refresh himself with the least morsel of food, the least drop of liquor,-or, what is the most grievous privation of all,—the least whiff of tobacco; and the very strict devotee will not even indulge in the simple pleasure which may be derived from the smelling of sweet-scented flowers. The exceptions to the rigour of this rule are carefully limited; to none is a dispensation allowed, except to children, nurses, invalids, the aged, and those who may be travelling. Of course, the case of necessity is provided for; and the man who is near dying from hunger, is not expected to sacrifice his life to his fast. All, however, save the children, who enjoy this exemption, are still bound to some act in the way of a substitute: from the aged an almsgiving is required, and from the rest a future "fast of satisfaction," which, if the Moslem neglects it till the day of his death, he must then supply by a liberal donation. The traveller must never avail himself of his exemption on the first day of his journey, nor unless he is pressed so to do, on any other; and the invalid (except in some specified cases) must have had three fits of fever upon him, or be pronounced by a Mohammedan physician to be in such a condition that his malady will be aggravated, or his recovery retarded, by the observance of the fast.

period which is assigned for this penance must gradually pass through all the seasons of our solar year. It might appear sufficiently disagreeable when it falls in the Winter; but "its unwelcome intrusion seems absolutely invented for the destruction of the Moslemin species," when the procession of the lunar months brings it round to the longest of the hot days of Summer. "It is then," to quote a modern writer, "that the Christian, rising after a plenteous meal, if he has common prudence, avoids all intercourse whatever with the fasting Turk, whose stomach, void of everything but sourness and bile, grumbles over each chance-medley of the sort as over malice prepense, rises in anger at the supposed insult, and vents its acrimony in bitter invectives." All travellers agree in representing the condition of the true Mohammedan, during this period of privation, as one wretched in the extreme; not a smile enlivens his countenance, not a pleasant look escapes him. "He is dead to all the world," as an American traveller remarks, "except his own appetites, and to the lively dancing, eating, drinking, ranting, roaring Greeks, whom he would most willingly see impaled alive, as a punishment for their presumption in being happv in his presence while he is miserable."

It is said that the rich and the great contrive to soften the rigours of this fast by spending the night in pleasure, and sleeping or sitting in listless idleness during the greater part of the day; yet even these look very wretched, fixed on their divans or at their doors, without their favourite pipe in their mouths, and with no occupation but the listless fingering of the beads. It is on the class of artisans and workmen, those living by the labour of their hands, that it bears with its full weight, especially when it happens to fall in Summer; then these poor men must continue the whole day at work, perhaps exposed to the heat of the sun in their burning climate, without permitting themselves even a glass of water.

"I have seen the boatmen of Constantinople," says Mr. Turner, "lay on their oars almost fainting under the suffering; but I never saw, never met with any one who affirmed to have seen, an instance in which they yielded to the temptation of violating the fast." Mr. Carne, who happened to arrive in Constantinople during the Ramazan, gives us an illustration of the same point, from his personal experience. "After casting anchor at Buyukdere," he says, "the captain procured a boat to carry us back to Constantinople. One Turkish rower only had to pull against a strong wind for some miles; it was most laborious work for him, though well paid: it was the fast of the Ramazan; and the poor fellow pointed to his stomach very expressively, to signify that he had eaten nothing all the day."

Yet, rigorous as may be the penance of this fast, we are told that it is supported with the joy "which religious zeal and enthusiasm ordinarily inspire;" business is followed with the same activity as in the rest of the year (which, in truth, is not very great), and none but the weak or effeminate exhibit any symptoms either real or affected (for here, too, a little affectation is sometimes fashionable), of bodily or mental languor.

There are times when the observation of this fast is a much more severe infliction than at others; for as the years of the Mohammedans are lunar, the

the strict observance of the Ramazan than on any other point of his religious practice; and well may he be so; for a voluntary transgression stamps the guilty author as an infidel, an apostate, worthy of the last punishment. The testimony of two competent witnesses is sufficient for his condemnation, without hope of pardon; and with this fate in prospect before their eyes, few or none dare openly revile or disregard this fundamental article of their religion.

Yet the busy tongue of scandal (or perhaps of | truth) tells us, that there are Turks who prefer feasting to fasting within the forbidden hours, and who scruple not in the secresy of solitude, to gratify their stomachs at the expense of their consciences. Such men are to be found in the upper ranks only; for it is among the lower orders of the people, both in Turkey and Persia, that we are to look for the chief support of the Mohammedan religion, and for the really zealous observance of its rites and ordinances, at the present day. The following extract from the pen of a late writer, as well acquainted with the habits of the East as any traveller of his age, will serve as an amusing illustration of this alleged hypocrisy and backsliding:

Sometimes a demure Moslemin may be seen looking anxiously round on all sides to ascertain that he is not watched. The moment he thinks himself unobserved, he turns the corner of some of the Christian streets and ascends the infidel hill*. Led on as it were by mere listlessness from one turn to another, he still advances, till chance brings him just opposite a confectioner's or a pastry-cook's shop. From sheer absence of mind he indeed steps in, but he buys nothing. He only from pure curiosity examines the various eatables laid out on the counter. He handles, he weighs them, he asks their names, their price, and their ingredients. What is this? What do you call that? Where does that other come from? What huge raisins these are!' Thus discoursing to while away time, he, by little and little, reaches the inner extremity of the shop; and finding himself at the entrance of the recess in which, by mere accident, happens to have been set out-as if in readiness for some expected visiter-a choice collection of all that can recruit an exhausted stomach, he enters it from mere thoughtlessness, and without the least intention. Without the least intention also, the pastry-cook, the moment he sees his customer slink into the dainty closet, turns upon him the key of the door, and slips it into his pocket. Perhaps he even goes out on a message, and half an hour or so elapses ere he remembers his unaccountable act of forgetfulness. He however at last recollects his prisoner, who all the while would have made a furious outcry, but has abstained, lest he should be unjustly suspected of having gone in for the purpose of tasting the forbidden fruits. The Greek unlocks the door with every expression of apology and regret; the Turk walks out in high dudgeon, severely rebukes the vender of cakes, and returns home weaker with inanition than ever. But when the pastry-cook looks into his recess, to put things in order, he finds, by a wonderful piece of magic, the pies condensed into piastres, and the sugarplums into sequins."

But whatever may be the strictness or the sincerity with which this fast is kept during the appointed term of the day, there is no question as to the anxiety which all entertain to reach the end of it, and to hear the welcome announcement of the sun's departure.

There are some who pass the greater part of the nights of the Ramazan in prayer; and it is for these that the mosques are left open and splendidly illuminated both within and without. But the mass of the

people spend the time in feasting and recreation. On their account the coffee-houses and cook-shops are allowed to remain open all night. In private houses, an entertainment, called Iftar, follows close upon the proclamation of sunset; and another repast takes place the next morning, about half an hour before sunrise, which is named Imsak, because it forms a preparation for the renewal of the fast. The nights of the RamaOn which stands Pera, the quarter of the Franks, or Europeans.

zan are also the season in which the grand vizier is accustomed to entertain the different officers of the state,-to give his "ministerial dinners," as we should say; these are regulated with the nicest attention to etiquette, beginning, on the third night of the month, with the ministers and great officers of the Porte, and continuing till the twenty-fifth in the order determined by ancient usage, according to the rank of the parties invited. There is no feasting on the first night of the month, because as the civil day of the Mohammedans begins with the setting of the sun, that night is not preceded by any period of fasting, neither is there any on the second.

The contrast between the days and nights of the Turkish Ramazan cannot fail to be highly amusing to the stranger. Mr. M'Farlane has depicted it vividly in his description of the scene which the town of Bergamo (the ancient Pergamos) in Asia Minor, presented at that season, in the year 1828. "The Turkish quarter of the town," he says, was very dull in the day-time; half the shops were shut up,-few but the poorer Turks were abroad, or if you met an effeudi, he seemed gloomy and unsociable. No sooner, however, had the evening-gun fired, than the scene became gay and animated. The bazaars were lighted up, the cook-shops thrown open, the coffeehouses crowded, pipes lit, and something like goodhumour revived. Strapping fellows were seen stalking from the kibabjis with their smoking dinner; from better houses issued savoury odours of roasting and frying; everywhere you saw signs that the Moslemins were indemnifying themselves for the fast of the day with the feast of the night. At a later hour after the repast, the coffee-houses and the bazaars were well filled: some groups gathered round an itinerant tale-teller, on benches in the open air, all smoking their chibouks, or indulging in the rarer delight of a Narghile" (water-pipe).

It is during the nights of the Ramazan, that these Meddahs, or story-tellers, meet with the greatest encouragement; the grave Turks then condescend to relax from their dignity, and indulge in hearty bursts of laughter and applause.

66

Our engraving is a scene from the first of the grand vizier's ministerial dinners," or that which he gives on the third night of the Ramazan to the chief ministers and officers of the Porte, namely, the Kehaya Bey, the Reis Effendi, and the TschavouschBaschy, the three secretaries of state, and the two Tezkeredjys, or masters of requests. The repast takes place in a very famous apartment called the Arz-odassy, or Hall of Audience, where the guests are scated round a circular table placed at one angle of the sofa. There is a second table in the other angle, at which are seated three ministers of inferior rank, a sort of under-secretaries. To all these guests, according to their rank, presents of watches, gold boxes, furs, and even jewels, are made by the officers of the vizier in the name of their master.

IT is interesting to notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves, springing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disappoint. ing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear dulness to maturity; and to glory in the vigour and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some may be choked by the thorns then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle and brambles of early adversity, yet others will now and bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birth-place all the beautics of vegetation.-WASHINGTON

IRVING.

238-2

THE TONGUE OF THE CHAMELEON. IN Vol. III., p. 72, we gave a short description of the Chamæleon; we now present a detailed account of the structure of the Tongue of this singular reptile, for the substance of which we are indebted to a paper in the Transactions of the Irish Society, by John Houlston, Esq. Our engravings represent the tongue in a state of rest, and when engaged in securing a fly. The manner in which the taking its prey is effected is thus described.

"When a fly so maimed as not to be able to but still sufficiently vigorous to move escape, its legs and wings, was so placed that its fluttering might attract the Chamæleon's attention, the animal advanced slowly until within tongue's reach of it, then steadying itself like a pointer, sometimes stretching out its tail, sometimes fixing it against an adjacent body, and directing both eyes steadfastly on the prey, it slowly opened its mouth, and suddenly darted forth its tongue, which, advancing in a straight line, seldom failed of striking with its glutinous cupped extremity the object aimed at*. But even when the point happened to err, the prey did not always escape, sometimes adhering to the sides of the tongue. The tongue thus laden then retired into the mouth, but somewhat more tardily than in its advance. When projected, the tongue acquired a thickness equal to the largest swan-quill, and a length not less sometimes than six or seven inches. Its consistence I attempted on one occasion to ascertain, by catching it between my fingers, when it imparted the feel of an elastic body, yielding slightly when pressed on, and springing back instantly to its former state as soon as the pressure was removed. The experiment only caused a short delay in its progress, but neither altered its form or course, nor unfastened the prey from its extremity.

"The tongue is probably the sole agent of the Chamæleon in obtaining its food. Flies have often rested on its body, and though it has looked wistfully at them, it had no means of taking them. I have frequently observed them on its very lips, without any attempt being made to seize them. Even when placed before it, if not sufficiently distant to afford room for the necessary evolution of the tongue, the Chamæleon was under the necessity of retiring for the purpose." If the fly happened to be on a flat surface, so placed as to oblige the creature to direct its tongue perpendicularly against the surface, the cupped extremity would adhere for a short time, in the same manner child's leather sucker does to a

as a

stone. But the animal seemed most annoyed when seizing a fly on the sides of its cage, which was made of paper, the down of the paper sticking to the mucus on the tongue. On one occasion, when two Chamæleons attempted, at the same moment, to catch a fly placed between them, their tongues struck against each other, and remained connected for a short time.

As it is natural to expect, in animals natives of warm climates, the presence of heat and sunshine

The tongue of the Chamæleon is covered with a glutinous liquid, secreted by a gland which is placed near its extremity.

seemed necessary to render them sufficiently active to secure their prey; when cold or sickly they seemed unequal to the effort. When irritated, and the reptile was very subject to anger, its tongue, as well as its skin, gave evidence of the same excitement, and it swelled out prodigiously in the throat.

It was formerly supposed that the Chamæleon's tongue was directed to its prey by the action of a series of muscles; but the dissections of Mr. Houlston show that the cause of its extension is the injection of a quantity of blood into the organ, and not, as in the case of the tongue of a woodpecker, by the direct aid of muscular cords.

The examination of the structure of this creature's tongue is sufficient, at the first glance, to disprove the common error, as to the abstinence of the Chamæleon. This error was not simply confined to uneducated persons, but was believed by philosophers and naturalists. A writer in the Memoirs of the Royal Academy of Sciences at Paris, and one who examined many Chamæleons for the purpose of clearing up this point, positively denies that their tongue had any projectile power at all; and he gravely says, that nothing he had observed of the animal "that air could induce him to change his opinion, and the sun's rays are its only nutriment."

THE RESULTS OF TRAVELLING, IF life be short, not so to many of us are its days When the blood slumbers in the and its hours. veins, how often do we wish that the earth would turn faster on its axis, that the sun would rise and set before it does; and to escape from the night of time, how many follies, how many crimes are committed!

Now in travelling we multiply events, and inno cently. We set out, as it were, on our adventures. and many are those that occur to us, morning, noon, and night. The day we come to a place which we have long heard and read of,-and in Italy we do so continually, it is an era in our lives; and from that moment the very name calls up a picture. How delightfully too does the knowledge Would he who sat flow in upon us, and how fast? in a corner of his library, poring over books and maps, learn more, or so much, in the time, as he who, with his eyes and his heart open, is receiving impressions all day long from the things themselves? How accurately do they arrange themselves in our memory ;-towns, rivers, mountains! and in what living colours do we recall the dresses, manners, and customs of the people? Our sight-one of the noblest of our senses-" fills the mind with most ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues longest in action without being tired." Our sight is on the alert when we travel, and its exercise is then so delightful, that we forget the profit in the pleasure. Like a river that gathers, that refines as it runs, like a spring that takes its course through some rich vein of mineral, we improve, and imperceptibly,-not in the head only, but also in the heart. Our prejudices leave us, one by one. and mountains are no longer our boundaries. We learn to love, and esteem, and admire beyond them.

Seas

Our benevolence extends itself with our

knowledge. And must we not return better citizen than we went? For the more we become acquainted with the institutions of other countries, the more -ROGERS. highly must we value our own.

A WISE man knows his own ignorance, a fool thinks he knows everything

THE LATE DR. BURTON.

THE growing anxiety with which everything connected with Religion and the Church is regarded at the present moment, and the value which is properly attached to the exertions of those who are labouring to promote her real interests, cannot fail to have directed the attention of her true friends to the loss which has taken place in the early and unexpected death of Dr. Burton.

He was born in that rank of life which of all others is best calculated to produce men, the blessing of their generation and the glory of their country. His father was the younger brother of a gentleman of considerable property in Shropshire, and was himself engaged in business in Shrewsbury.

He was sent to Westminster about 1806, and placed by Dr. Carey (the present bishop of St. Asaph,) rather high in the school. He never passed through the college, and was removed to Christ Church as a commoner in 1812.

At school, the character which he maintained through life was fully developed. There was much of practical sound sense, much of agreeable liveliness, and those invaluable qualities which make the boy at once the favourite and the guide of his contemporaries, which obtain the approbation and confidence of those in authority, and connect by kindly feelings the master with his scholars. In case of any misunder- | standing, Edward Burton would have been the boy through whom his schoolfellows would have communicated with the master, and the master would have rejoiced that such an individual had been selected. His school-life was marked by great and successful application; he worked hard and engaged in every plan which was calculated to combine superior objects of pursuit, with the prescribed studies of the place.

His undergraduate life was very similar to that which he had passed at school; he was always much distinguished at his college-examinations, and when he took his degree, in 1815, he obtained a place in both the first Classes. His manner of life was quiet and respectable; the friend of some few studious persons of his own habits, but known to many, and respected by all. He had entered as a commoner, but at the Christmas of 1813, a studentship was accidentally placed at the disposal of the Dean and Censors by the kindness of one of the canons, and Mr. Burton was selected as the man who would do credit to the appointment; and most nobly did he fulfil the expectations of those who nominated him.

After taking his degree he resided for some years in Christ Church, and engaged in the private tuition of a small number of pupils, while he carried on his preparation for orders, but he always guarded against that which must be veiwed as the bane of our English Universities, that the Bachelors of Arts and young Masters are employed in teaching those who are a little younger than themselves, the details of what is necessary for a degree, instead of carrying on such a system of self-improvement as will fit them for a larger field of literary attainments. From this danger Mr. Burton was enabled to keep himself free, from the easy circumstances of his father, and the conviction that in so doing he was paving the way to greater means of usefulness in his future life.

Before he settled down into the character which he peculiarly honoured, and in which he delighted, that of a parochial clergyman, he took advantage of the state of the Continent, and improved himself by visiting many parts of Europe. His first trip in 1816 extended not beyond a short excursion in Holland and a journey to Paris, but the zeal and

activity, the gaiety and good humour which marked all his undertakings, shone forth particularly in those hours of relaxation when he was engaged in the acquisition of knowledge, and the sight of new objects. Two years after, in 1818, he undertook a much more extensive tour, including Rome, Sicily, and some portions of Germany. A part of this journey was made with a pupil, a brother of Sir R. Peel, but the larger portion with friends whom he joined; and the gratification afforded by his society, is a topic on which all who ever travelled with him delight to dwell. The examination of all that is worth seeing at Rome very fully engaged his attention, and, after his return, he published a Description of the Antiquities and other Curiosities of Rome, a work which has been subsequently reprinted.

On his re-establishment in England after his tour, he entered with zeal and activity on the labours of his profession, and became the curate of Tettenhall, in Staffordshire, serving, during a part of the year, a living in Wiltshire, which belonged to the same incumbent, and of which he took the duty in turn with his rector. It was during this period that he laid the solid foundation for that ecclesiastical erudition by which he was subsequently distinguished, and read over all the early Fathers more than once. This gave him a very decided advantage during the remainder of his most valuable life. He could speak with more knowledge and familiarity on these topics than was possessed by those with whom he communicated, and was enabled to enrich all his publications with information and learning, drawn from the original sources.

In 1825 he married Ellen, the daughter of Archdeacon Corbett, and soon after came to reside in Oxford, for the purpose of carrying on his studies and publishing his works. The return of one so loved and respected was hailed by all who had known his worth, and by none more than by his predecessor in the Divinity Chair, Dr. C. Lloyd, afterwards Bishop of Oxford, who named him as his chaplain, when he attained that dignity.

Between these two persons a very close and beneficial intimacy had always existed, and that love which was borne by all who had been under the tuition of Bishop Lloyd, while resident as Tutor of Christ Church, was ripened into a friendship which ceased not till the death of that great promoter of the study of Theology in Oxford. Dr. Lloyd was the first Professor of Divinity in that University who had attempted to teach divinity on that plan, which is the only one by which anything can really be taught. He had carried on the Public Divinity Lectures, at which all candidates for orders are obliged to attend, by means of written compositions read in the hearing of the students, in the same manner as his predecessors, but to this he had added two or three courses of private lectures, in which those who attended were expected to prepare themselves to answer questions taken from some book which they were reading, and on which they were examined by the Professor, and instructed by his observations. This produced a sort of new era in the study of Theology in Oxford, and has created an activity in this department, on which all friends of the Church may beg the blessing of God.

During the period of which we are speaking, Mr. Burton was prevailed on to undertake the office of a public examiner, which he fulfilled with the highest approbation, and by his example and influence assisted in enlarging the method of examination, which must always be in danger of becoming technical and contracted, while it is confined to those whose whole