were removed in the year eighteen hundred
to the garden of the Museum of French
monuments in Paris. Hence, in eighteen
hundred and seventeen, they were finally removed
to the cemetery of Père la Chaise, where they
were placed beneath a monument formed from
the ruins of the Paraclete. Their names are
alternately engraved on the plinth, together with
these Greek words: ??? ??????????????,
or Always United.

THE NORTHERN WIZARD.

MY Wizard presides over by far the greater
portion of our manufactures. He is the
prime minister of your wealthy sugar-
refiners; he is the right hand of your opulent
brewers; the confidential adviser of all
sensible farmers; the factotum of the iron
manufacturers; the enamellers and papier-mâché
makers cannot possibly do without him; he
is always in demand amongst calico-printers;
and dyers, bleachers, and calenders can no
more do without him than they could
dispense with the air they breathe. They
would not offend him for half their wealth.
My Wizard is a worker in huge caverns of
smoke, in gulfs of fire and in oceans of
insidious gases—a philosopher, who if he does
not by a touch of his wand convert stones
into pure gold; yet he transmutes the ugliest,
most unseemly blocks of useless rock and
mineral into potent agents of good, into
wonder-working subtle fluids, or deadly gases,
or brightly shining crystals.

My Wizard is employed in the vicinity of
such cities as Manchester and Glasgow, in
the productions of dyes and dye-tests, of salts,
acids, and bleaching substances necessary in
the different stages of the manufacture of
cotton yarn or cotton goods. The vast extent
of his works, the enormous quantities of
chemicals he produces, and the astonishing
results of his labours, are well worthy a few
moments' consideration, as affording perhaps
the best guide to the magnitude of those
other branches of industry of which these
are but the incidental offshoots.

A wizard of whose operations I am now
writing is to be found busily employed in
the wonder-workings of his craft within the
city of Glasgow. Amidst the busy life, the
ceaseless din, the undying smoke of that large
town, his temple rears its lofty head high
above the roofs of other tenements. Far out
at sea, for many a league by land, the traveller
sees what seems at first a giant finger
pointing to the clouds. Looking at this
nearer one might imagine it to be the Old
Monument gone down from Fish Street Hill
for change of air, and taken to smoking. I
have no sort of hesitation in affirming that
there is not such another chimney as that in
the wide world, and I don't care where you
look for it. If ever Cheops had wanted to
give a little ventilation to the dwellers in the
Gizeh Pyramids; if ever any Ninevite Soyer
had commenced making soup for the million,
in the great halls of Koyunjik, most assuredly
they would have erected some such monster
shaft as that which overtops the Old Cathedral
church of the good city of Glasgow.
Those of my readers who may not have seen
this Titan piece of brickwork may perhaps
form some conception of its dimensions, when
I mention that it measures one hundred and
twenty feet in circumference at its base, and
cost the enormous sum of fifteen thousand
pounds in its erection. So gigantic is it and
its subsidiary feeding-flues, that a coach and
four might easily be driven along the main
tunnel which connects this structure with
the many fiery furnaces in my Wizard's
establishment—ay, and with plenty of
luggage on the roof too.

The traveller who takes his leisure along
the busy wharves on the banks of the Clyde
may see among the many ships discharging
their cargoes there, one or two from which
strange looking lumps of a dirty rough stone-
like substance are being removed. Waggons
are being loaded with it in rapid succession,
as though it had been some product of great
value. It is too earthy to be a building
material, it can't be anything to eat, and
the spectator feels certain that it is not
guano. If we follow these heavily loaded
waggons, we shall find that they are driven
towards the King of the Chimneys
—right into my Wizard's great iron-bound gates.

Within, amidst the Babel sounds and sights
that meet our senses, let us endeavour to
understand what all this busy world is doing.
The first place is the laboratory or test room
—the very inner sanctuary of this wizardom
—full of curious little earthen pots, porcelain
pans, glass cups and metallic dishes.
There is a mysterious sort of Flemish stove
in this terrible cook-shop, at which fifty kinds
of supernatural stews are being concocted by
the aid of as many different charcoal and gas
furnaces. A quiet gentleman—my Wizard's
right hand man—is stirring these pans with
a glass rod as indifferently as if they
contained gruel or barley broth, instead of doses
that would ruin the constitutions of all the
giants and ogres that ever lived in childhood's
memory.

Our quiet friend hands over the charcoal
fires, and the bubbling hissing pans, and the
glass rod to some incipient Wizard, and
leads the way to the great workshops of this
strange poison factory. The laboratory is
the place in which all their productions are
put to the proof before being sent away, or
where the earths and salts they employ are
tested before use—a very necessary and delicate
operation, requiring the utmost care and
skill.

Covering ten acres of ground, these works
present as busy a spectacle as could be met
with anywhere. The number of persons
employed about them is perhaps not so large