stakes and chains secure from surprise on the part of the lake.  The small canton of Geneva, though in the vicinity of the Great Alpine chain and the mountains of the Jura, includes no mountains.  The name of the city and canton has been traced by the etymologists to a Celtic origin; Gen, a sally-port or exit, and av, a river, probably because the Rhone here leaves the Leman lake.  The eagle on the escutcheon of the city arms indicates its having been an imperial city; and it is believed the key was an adjunct of Pope Martin V., in the year 1418.  The motto on the scroll, “Ex tenebris lux,” appears to have existed anterior to the light of the Reformation.  The number of inhabitants may now be estimated at about 22,000; but it appears, by a census in 1789, to have been 26,148.  In this moral city, it is computed that every twelfth birth is illegitimate.  The number of people engaged in clock and watch-making and jewellery, may be safely rated at 3,000.  In years favourable to these staple manufactures 75,000 ounces of gold are employed, which is almost equally divided between watches and jewellery.  The daily supply of silver is about 134 ounces.  Pearls form an article of considerable value in the jewellery, and have been rated at no less a sum that 1,200 francs daily. 70,000 watches are annually made, only one-twelfth of which are in silver.  More than fifty distinct branches are comprised in the various departments, and each workman, on the average, earns about three shillings a-day.—­Mr. John Murray’s Tour.

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HANDEL.

Some folks eat two or three times as much as others—­for instance, our incomparable and inspired composer, Handel, required uncommonly large and frequent supplies of food.  Among other stories told of this great musician, it is said that whenever he dined alone at a tavern, he always ordered “dinner for three;” and on receiving an answer to his question—­“Is de tinner retty?”—­“As soon as the company come.”—­He said, con strepito, “Den pring up te Tinner prestissimo, I am de gombany.”

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BAD WRITING.

From one of Dr. Parr’s Letters.

His letters put me in mind of tumult and anarchy; there is sedition in every sentence; syllable has no longer any confidence in syllable, but dissolves its connexion as preferring an alliance with the succeeding word.  A page of his epistle looks like the floor of a garden-house, covered with old, crooked nails, which have just been released from a century’s durance in a brick wall.  I cannot cast my eyes on his character without being religious.  This is the only good effect I have derived from his writings; he brings into my mind the resurrection, and paints the tumultuous resuscitation of awakened men with a pencil of masterly confusion.  I am fully convinced of one thing, either that he or his pen is intoxicated when he writes to me, for his letters seem to have borrowed the reel of wine, and stagger from one corner of the sheet to the other.  They remind me of Lord Chatham’s administration, lying together heads and points in one truckle-bed.