“Nearly. I only want to tell uncle, that the burning of a candle is almost exactly like our breathing. Breathing is consuming oxygen, only not so fast as burning. In breathing we throw out water in vapour and carbonic acid from our lungs, and take oxygen in. Oxygen is as necessary to support the life of the body, as it is to keep up the flame of a candle.” “So,” said Mr. Bagges, “man is a candle, eh? and Shakespeare knew that, I suppose, (as he did most things,) when he wrote— ‘Out, out, brief candle!’ “Well, well; we old ones are moulds, and you young squires are dips and rushlights, eh? Any more to tell us about the candle?” “I could tell you a great deal more about oxygen, and hydrogen, and carbon, and water, and breathing, that Professor Faraday said, if I had time; but you should go and hear him yourself, uncle.” “Eh? well! I think I will. Some of us seniors may learn something from a juvenile lecture, at any rate, if given by a Faraday. And now, my boy, I will tell you what,” added Mr. Bagges, “I am very glad to find you so fond of study and science; and you deserve to be encouraged; and so I’ll give you a what-d’ ye-call-it?—a Galvanic Battery on your next birth-day; and so much for your teaching your old uncle the chemistry of a candle.” AN OLD HAUNT. The rippling water, with its drowsy tone,— The tall elms, tow’ring in their stately pride,— And—sorrow’s type—the willow sad and lone, Kissing in graceful woe the murmuring tide;— The grey church-tower,—and dimly seen beyond, The faint hills gilded by the parting sun,— All were the same, and seem’d with greeting fond To welcome me as they of old had done. And for a while I stood as in a trance, On that loved spot, forgetting toil and pain;— Buoyant my limbs, and keen and bright my glance, For that brief space I was a boy again! Again with giddy mates I careless play’d, Or plied the quiv’ring oar, on conquest bent;— Again, beneath the tall elms’ silent shade, I woo’d the fair, and won the sweet consent. But brief, alas! the spell,—for suddenly Peal’d from the tower the old familiar chimes, And with their clear, heart-thrilling melody, Awaked the spectral forms of darker times. And I remember’d all that years had wrought— How bow’d my care-worn frame, how dimm’d my eye, How poor the gauds by Youth so keenly sought, How quench’d and dull Youth’s aspirations high! And in half mournful, half upbraiding host, Duties neglected—high resolves unkept— And many a heart by death or falsehood lost, In lightning current o’er my bosom swept.