of brilliants, in which the upper pyramid is a real diamond, and the lower a piece of some inferior stone, cemented to it; the whole being set so as to hide the junction. When this deception is suspected, the stone should be taken out of its setting for examination.

A very remarkable discovery has lately been made, that the chemical element boron, the base of the common substance borax, may, by a peculiar process, be obtained in transparent crystals which possess the high refractive power of the diamond, and a hardness as great, if not greater. At present, the crystals produced have been too small to be of commercial value; but it is quite possible that, hereafter, the discovery may prove to be of great importance.

It only remains to mention a few particular stones celebrated for their size, and which have had, on account of their great value, a history of their own.

The largest stone professing to be a diamond is the "Braganza" found in Brazil in 1741, and preserved, in its rough state, in the Royal Treasury at Lisbon. It is as large as a hen's egg, and weighs 1680 carats; but doubts are entertained whether it may not be in reality only a white topaz and no diamond at all; a supposition which, as the Portuguese Government decline to allow it to be cut or sufficiently examined, would appear quite possible.

The largest authenticated diamond known is that of the Rajah of Mattan in Borneo. It is of the purest water, of a pear shape, and weighs 367 carats. It was found a century ago at Landack, and has been the object of many wars for its possession.

The celebrated "Pitt" or "Regent" diamond was found in 1702, in the mines of Parteal, twenty miles from Masulipatam, by a slave, who having concealed its discovery from his employers, offered it to a sailor on condition that he would give him his freedom. The sailor lured him on board his ship, threw him overboard, and sold the stone to the then Governor of Fort St. George, whose name was Pitt, for 10007.; he quickly ran through the money and

then hanged himself for remorse. The diamond was purchased from Pitt by the Regent of France, for 135,000l. It weighed 410 carats in its rough state, but was cut into a fine brilliant of 137 carats, thus losing two-thirds of its weight in the operation. It is said to be the finest diamond (though not the largest) in the world, in beauty of form, and purity of water. During the reign of terror, when the Tuileries were plundered, the diamond disappeared, along with all the other crown jewels; but it turned up again, and was pledged by the Republic to a merchant in Berlin. Redeemed at a later period, it embellished the sword of Napoleon I., and was taken by the Prussians after the battle of Waterloo. It is now in the French crown, and was exhibited in the French Exhibition of 1855.

The "Star of the South," another large brilliant, was also exhibited there : it was found lately in the Brazilian mines, and weighs 125 carats; it is of an oval shape; 35 millimetres long, 29 wide, and 19 thick. It is very pure, but its colour is slightly inclining to pink. It is in private hands, and for sale.

A

The "Sancy" diamond, of 53 carats, has a singular history. It came originally from India, and, about the fifteenth century, was in the possession of the luxurious Duke of Burgundy, Charles the Bold, who wore it, probably as a talisman, in the unfortunate battle of Nancy, in Switzerland, where he was killed. common Swiss soldier, who discovered the body in a ditch, found the jewel in the clothes, and, not knowing its value, sold it for a florin to a Swiss priest, who transferred it to the hands of the Confederacy. It subsequently came into the possession of the King of Portugal, who, in 1489, being in want of money, parted with it to a French trader. In the sixteenth century it found its way into the hands of a Huguenot nobleman, the Baron of Sancy, who happened to be in Soleure when King Henry III. was trying to negotiate a loan. Sancy offered him, as a true subject, the diamond, and his offer was

accepted; but the messenger who was entrusted to convey it to the king (some accounts say Sancy himself) was waylaid and murdered, but had time before his death to swallow the stone, which subsequently was found in the stomach of the corpse. The stone was next traced into the possession of James II. of England, who took it with him when he fled to France in 1688, and afterwards, when he was in distress for money, parted with it to Louis XIV. for 25,000l. and Louis XV. is said to have worn it in the clasp of his hat at his coronation. It vanished in 1792, but reappeared in the Napoleon era, and was sold for 500,000 silver rubles to the Emperor of Russia, in whose possession it still remains.

The "Nassack" diamond was captured during the Mahratta war in India, in the Peishwa's baggage, by the combined armies under the Marquis of Hastings; and, after changing hands several times, was purchased, about twenty years ago, by the Marquis of Westminster. It was afterwards partly re-cut by Hunt and Roskell, and is now a beautiful colourless stone, weighing 78 carats. It is of a triangular or pear shape.

Many other large diamonds might be mentioned, each of which has a history, but perhaps the most interesting

of all, is our own great diamond, the celebrated Koh-i-noor; the story of which would make a very fair true romance of three goodly volumes.

Its origin is older than any historical records reveal, but it can be traced as far back as the beginning of the fourteenth century, when it came into the treasury of Delhi; and from this time it became intimately associated with the entire history of the Indian wars and dynasties, until, on the late annexation of the Punjab, it was taken possession of by our government, brought to England in 1850, and presented to the Queen. It was shown at the international exhibition of 1851, in the state it was received, weighing 186 carats; but it was so badly cut that its brilliancy scarcely exceeded that of a piece of crystal, and it had several flaws and defects in its structure. The Queen, after taking advice from competent judges, decided to have it recut; which was done in London (by workmen expressly brought over from Amsterdam for the purpose) in 1852. It has now the form of a regular brilliant; and, though its weight has been reduced to 101 carats, it has become, what it never was before, a most splendid jewel, worthy of its royal mistress, whose unsullied diadem may it long adorn!

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making a jest about funerals, just as if there were no such thing as dying. is good to laugh, it is good to be merry; no human being is the better for always contemplating "the miseries of human life," and talking of "graves and worms and epitaphs." Yet since sorrow, in its infinitely varied forms and solemn inward unity, is common to all, should we not sometimes pause to look at it, seriously, calmly, nor be afraid to speak of it, as a great fact-the only fact of life, except death, that we are quite sure

of? And since we are so sure of it, will a few words more or less, suggesting how to deal with it in others, and how to bear it for ourselves, do us any harm? I trow not.

For, laugh as we may, there is such a thing as sorrow; most people at some portion of their lives have experienced it-no imaginary misery-no carefully petted-up wrong; no accidental anxiety, or state of nervous irritable discontent, but a deep, abiding, inevitable sorrow. It may have come slowly or suddenly; may weigh heavier or lighter at different times, or according to our differing moods and temperaments; but it is there---a settled reality not to be escaped from. At bed and board, in work or play, alone and in company, it keeps to us, as close as our shadow, and as certainly following. And so we know it will remain with us; for months, for years-perhaps even to the other world.

Therefore what can we preach to ourselves, or to our fellows, concerning it? Perhaps the wisest lesson of all is that of the ancient Hebrew, who laid his hand upon his mouth, "because THOU didst it." For sorrow is a holy thing. The meanest mortal who can say truly,

"Here I and sorrow sit,"

feels also somewhat of the silent consecration of that awful companionship, which may well—

"Bid kings come bow to it," yet elevates the sufferer himself to a higher condition of humanity, and brings him nearer to the presence of the King of kings.

Grief is a softening thing, from its very universality. Ex uno disce omnes. Your child, my neighbour, may be dying, or giving you anguish sharp as death; my own familiar friend may have lifted up his heel against me, causing me now, and perhaps for ever, to doubt if there be such a thing as fidelity, or honour, or honesty in the world; a third, whom we all know and meet daily, may have received yesterday, or last week, or last month, some small accidental stab, altogether inward,

and bleeding inwardly, yet which may prove a death wound; a fourth has sustained some heavy visible blow or loss, which we all talk of, compassionate, would fain comfort if we could, but we cannot. These various shapes which sorrow takes compose a common unity; and every heart which has once known its own bitterness, learns from thence to understand, in a measure, the bitterness of every other human heart. The words, "He bore our griefs and carried our sorrows," "in all our afflictions he was afflicted," have a secondary and earthly as well as a Divine significance; and to be "acquainted with grief," gives to any man a power of consolation, which seems to come direct through him from the great Comforter of all. The "Christus Consolator which Scheffer painted,-the Man Divine, surrounded by, and relieving every form of human anguish, is a noble type of this power, to attain which all must feel that their own anguish has been cheaply purchased, if by means of it they may have learned to minister unto all these.

This ministry of consolation is not necessarily external, or intentional. We must all have sometimes felt, that the people who do us most good are those who are absolutely unaware of doing it. Even as "baby-fingers, waxen touches," will melt into flesh and blood again a heart that has seemed slowly turning into stone, so the chance influence of something or somebody, intrinsically and unconsciously good, will often soothe us like a waft of sweet scent borne across a dull high-road from over a garden wall. It may be the sight of peaceful, lovely, beloved old age, which says silently and smilingly, smilingly, "And yet I have suffered too;" or the brightness in some young face, honest and brave, which reminds a man of the days of his own youth, and shames him out of irresolution or cynical unbelief, daring him, as it were, to be such a coward as to let his after life give the lie to the aspirations of his prime. Or the influence, more fugitive still, comes from a word or two in a book, or a look in a stranger's face,

which, however inexplicably, makes us feel at once that this book or this stranger understands us, refreshes and helps us is to us like a flower in a sick room, or a cup of water in a riverless land.

It would be curious to trace, if any but immortal eyes ever could trace, how strongly many lives have been influenced by these instinctive sympathies; and what a heap of unknown love and benediction may follow until death many a man or woman-who walks humbly and unconsciously, on, perhaps, a very obscure and difficult way, fulfilling this silent ministry of consolation.

We are speaking of consolation first, and not without purpose; let us now say a little word about sorrow.

It may seem an anomaly, and yet is most true, that the grief which is at once the heaviest and the easiest to bear is a grief of which nobody knows; something, no matter what, which, for whatever reason, must be kept for the depth of the heart, neither asking nor desiring sympathy, counsel, or alleviation. Such things are-oftener perhaps than we know of; and, if the suf ferer can bear it at all, it is the best and easiest way of bearing grief, even as the grief itself becomes the highest, we had almost said the divinest form of sorrow upon earth. For it harms no one, it wounds and wrongs no one; it is that solitary agony unto which the angels come and minister-making the night glorious with the shining of their wings.

Likewise, in any blow utterly irremediable, which strikes at the very core of life, we little heed what irks and ir ritates us much in lesser pain-namely, to see the round of daily existence moving on untroubled. We feel it not; we are rather glad of its monotonous motion. And to be saved from all external demonstrations is a priceless relief; neither to be watched, nor soothed, nor reasoned with, nor pitied: to wrap safely round us the convenances of society, or of mechanical household association; and only at times to drop them off and stand, naked and helpless as a

new-born child, crying aloud unto Him who alone can understand our total

agony of desolation. But this great solitude of suffering is impossible to many; and indeed can only be sustained without injury by those strongly religious natures unto whom the sense of the Divine presence is not merely a tacit belief, or a poetical imagination, but a proved fact-as real as any of the facts of daily life are to other people. With whom it is impossible to argue. Let him that readeth understand, if he can ; or if it be given him to understand, these great mysteries.

But one truth concerning sorrow is simple and clear enough for a child's comprehension; and it were well if from childhood we were all taught it; namely, that that grief is the most nobly borne which is allowed to weigh the least heavily on any one else. Not all people, however, are unselfish enough to perceive this. Many feel a certain pride in putting on and long retaining their "sackcloth and ashes," nay, they conceive that when they have sustained a heavy affliction, there is a sort of disgrace in appearing too easily to "get over it." But here they make the frequent error of shallow surface-judging minds. They cannot see that any real wound in a deep, true, and loving heart is never "got over." We may bury our dead out of our sight, or out of our neighbour's sight, which is of more importance; we may cease to miss them from the routine of our daily existence, and learn to name people, things, places and times, as calmly as if no pulse had ever throbbed horribly at the merest allusion to them-but they are not forgotten. They have merely passed from the outer to the inner fold of our double life. Which fold lies nearest to us, we know; and which are usually the most precious, the things we have and hold, or the things we have lost-we also know.

It may seem a cruel word to say--but a long-indulged and openly displayed sorrow, of any sort, is often an ignoble, and invariably a selfish feeling; being a sacrifice of the many to the few. If we look round on the circle of our ac

quaintance, with its percentage, large or small, of those whom we heartily respect, we shall always find that it is the highest and most affectionate natures which conquer sorrow soonest and best; those unselfish ones who can view a misfortune in its result on others as well as on their own precious individuality ; and those in which great capacity of loving acts at once as bane and antidote, giving them, with a keen susceptibility to pain, a power of enduring it which to the unloving is not only impossible but incredible. It is the weak, the self-engrossed, and self-important, who chiefly make to themselves public altars of perpetual woe, at which they worship, not the Dii manes of departed joys, but the apotheoses of living ill-humours.

An incurable regret is an unwholesome, unnatural thing to the indulger of it; an injury to others, an accusation against Divinity itself. The pastor's reproof to the weeping mother-"What, have you not yet forgiven God Almighty?" contains a truth which it were good all mourners laid to heart. How hard it is to any of us to "forgive God Almighty;" not only for the heavy afflictions which he has sent to us, but for the infinitude of small annoyances, which (common sense would tell us, if we used it) we mostly bring upon ourselves! Yet even when calamity comes undoubted, inevitable calamity -surely, putting religion altogether aside, the wisest thing you can do with a wound is to heal it, or rather to let it heal; which it will do slowly and naturally, if you do not voluntarily keep it open into a running sore. Some people, with the very best intentions, seem to act upon us like a poultice over gaping flesh; and others again officiate as surgical instruments, laying bare every quivering nerve, and pressing upon every festering spot till we cry out in our agony that we had rather be left to die in peace, unhealed. Very few have the blessed art of letting nature alone to do her benign work, and only aiding her by those simple means which suggest themselves to the instinct of affection,-that is, of affec

tion and wisdom combined; which nothing, but tender instinct united to a certain degree of personal suitability, will ever supply. For, like a poet, a nurse, either of body or mind, nascitur non fit. We all must know many excellent and well-meaning people, whom in sickness or misfortune we would as soon admit into our chamber of sorrow as we would a live hippopotamus or a herd of wild buffaloes.

Perhaps (another anomaly) the sharpest affliction that any human being can endure is one which is not a personal grief at all, but the sorrow of somebody else. To see any one dearly beloved writhing under a heavy stroke, or consumed by a daily misery which we are powerless to remove or even to soften, is a trial heavy indeed-heavier in one sense than any affliction of one's own, because of that we know the height and depth, the aggravations and alleviations. But we can never fathom another's sorrow, not one, even the keenest-eyed and tenderest-hearted among us, can ever be so familiar with the ins and outs of it as to be sure always to minister to its piteous needs at the right time and in the right way. Watch as we may, we are continually more or less in the dark, often irritating where we would soothe, and wounding where we would give our lives to heal.

Also, resignation to what may be termed a vicarious sorrow is cruelly hard to learn. We sometimes are goaded into a state of half-maddened protestation against Providence, feeling as if we kept bound hand and foot on the shore-were set to watch a fellowcreature drowning. To be able to believe that Infinite Wisdom really knows what is best for that beloved fellowcreature far more than we do, is the highest state to which faith can attain ; and the most religious can only catch it in brief glimpses through a darkness of angry doubt that almost rises at times into blasphemous despair. From such agonies no human strength can save ; and while they last every human consolation fails. We can only lie humble at the feet of Eternal Wisdom, yielding