said, "Have you not been to the Priory, sir?-have you seen nothing of Mr de Lacey?"

"Yes, my dear, I have; oh, yes! I was some time with Sir Herbert, and after that walked down to the vicarage with our young friend, who wished to call there before he again left us. But talking of the WishingGate-Medora, who was it adorned it with that nosegay of wild flowers? Was it you, or was it your little protegée, Mary, who has more native rustic taste than is to be found in many of the pastoral poems that attempt to describe it? Your little jewel of a sketch gives not the adornment, so how came it to be there ?" "Oh, you are quite right in thinking it was Mary's taste--it is just like her; and though she did not tell me, I feel sure no other little lass in the village, or miles round, would have thought of such a thing. This is a treasure of a child, so very affectionate, and really so good. I wish, my dear father, you could have seen her young raptures when I gave her three chickens! I must, some day, take her with us to Rydal. I am quite sure our friend would make a volume of poetry out of her; for she has none of that shyness that would make her silent and dull among strangers. She is at that happy age, that with such an ardent mind as hers thinks not of restraining her delighted feelings, or curbing her restless curiosity. Don't you think he would like her?"

Assuredly he would, my dear; the very sight of the child would calĺ forth a sonnet at least,-for no sunbeam on the lake ever looked more the picture of bright happiness than does little Mary Glenthorn, as she passes over on the hill side, with her looks of love, and her laughing gladsomeness. I often think, when looking at her, that instead of saying to her, Who made you?' as the catechists do, one should speak poetry, and say, "Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?" You shall take her, my dearest, and that before many days are gone by; but where is the volume in which you wrote out The WishingGate? I was looking for it this morning, and could not find it on the Wordsworth shelf."

"I'm sorry to say, my dear father," said Medora, blushing deeply," that I was careless enough to leave it

somewhere in my walk; but it cannot be lost."

Why, I don't know, my love. I think it's a chance if you find it, and I own I should be grieved to lose the copy Wordsworth himself gave you. I never knew you so careless before; cannot you remember at all where you last had it? Do think!"

There was a strange look-a sly or saucy curl at the corner of his lip, as with an affected seriousness her father said this, which puzzled, whilst it pleased Medora. "I certainly do remember where I last had it, or knew that I had it," said she; "but there is my writing in it-my own name too. Oh, I am sure, no one who found it would keep it,-they would see whose it was, and bring it."

"I don't know that," said her father, with the same expression;—" your writing in it may be the very reason for their choosing to keep it. But I would advise you to go this very evening to the spot where you remember holding it, and perhaps the Kelpie of the Lake may tell you if she has taken it, and placed it in her library of liquid poetry; or, perhaps, she may tell you, if you dropped it on the land, whether it was caught up by an adoring swain who chanced to be passing at the time."

Medora was quite at a loss to understand her father, and yet she felt a consciousness that made her cheeks tingle, and she knew she must be looking very confused.

"I will go at once, my dear father, and retrace my steps of the morning, and I doubt not, in a short time, I shall return with the volume untouched and uninjured; and it will be all the dearer to us from our having feared losing it; and besides, perhaps it will have gained a few more pages of poetry from having passed this lovely day among the mountain daisies, or near the grateful broad leaves of the water-lily, that teaches us all, as Coleridge tells us, how to delight and rejoice in Heaven's gifts the more and the more, as the more abundantly they are showered upon us."

"Yes, that is a pretty idea, though you have mored it, my dear. You speak not with your usual correctness and elegance-But you are vexed about the volume, so go, and

endeavour to recover it; but stop, Medora-In case our poor young friend should call in the evening, do not be absent,-return soon, that we may both bid him adieu ere he leaves us. Deny him not the consolation of seeing that he parts with friends much attached to him, and deeply interest ed in his future life-So now, my love, hasten away."

And here he left her, perplexed and saddened, she knew not what to think. What could her father have heard to please him? What meant his strange manner? She was all in doubt, and a mystery seemed to cling to her; but his last words-they could have but one meaning. In sadness, then,-yea, in deep, deep sadness and melancholy, did she pass along. It was a lovely evening, just such an eve as does end, as should end, so brilliantly beautiful a day-a still-a calm-a pensive eveningsuch as can be felt, but never described, an evening when all that is dearest in our existence is thought of, and mingles with the delicious repose of the scene; but 'tis folly to attempt to paint it,-for those who have never experienced the enchantment of such hours, would not understand the separate existence they seem to give one; and those who have, can imagine what this especial evening was. It was late, later than Medora had thought when she left home; the shades of evening, that seem peopled with tranquillizing and heavenly spirits, were fast approaching, and the moon was gently rising; she gained the very spot where she had been in the morning, and sat her down on the rough ground I mentioned, near the rushes. Her heart, if not in unison with the scene that lay before her, was so filled as to find an exquisite relief and soothing in contemplating it. Her eyes were on those peaceful waters, and it was just that light, or twilight, when she was wont to delight in seeking in their depths that undefined mysterious scenery, which gives such a charm to evening communings with the riches of the deep, and which, I sup pose, must be a species of that disease of the heart called, I think, the Calenture. But now, though her eyes were there, their expression was not derived from aught without her. Imagination was then at rest. No, they

were filled with tears the purest fountain within her heart of hearts was disturbed and overflowing, and in those waters of life and of happiness she feared she saw the sunset of her hopes, and of all her bliss, on earth. So much was she lost in these saddening reflections, that she heard her own name pronounced by the voice that was dearest to her, ere she was aware that any human being was near. It was Frederic de Lacey, who gently seated himself by her side, and with one gaze of kindness, and that one word spoken, took her hand within his. A few minutes passed ere either spoke, and then Medora said, "What can there be here on earth more like unto heaven than this scene!" The words were scarcely uttered, but yet the effort was made, and she gained composure to say, "I believe I came here to look for a book which I dropt in the morning, and which my father is desirous I should find." She seemed much distressed, and withdrew her hand, intending to rise.

Stay! stay! I have the book; go not away I entreat you; I have to question you, to petition you, dear Medora; there is a sweet little drawing between the leaves of the book, some lines at the back of it, which, though they belie what you spoke in the morning, yet are so full of beauty, and so touching, that if, as an old friend, I might keep the drawing, I can only say, there is nothing I at present possess which I should prize so dearly."

"What is it? oh! what can I have so carelessly left about?" She appeared almost alarmed, till he shewed her the sketch.

Oh, it is this! I'm sure if you think it pretty, or at all like it, I can have no reluctance to giving it, save its being so very unworthy your acceptance, and my regret that it is not much, much better."

He looked his thanks so meaningly, that Medora talked on as though timidly dreading their expression in words. "You see that it is the tomb of Mr Cleveland, mentioned in a way to make all hearts love him, in Bishop Heber's Journal; and I have placed in its neighbourhood one of the Sagoe Palms, which the Bishop tells us grow in this beautiful form, and must therefore appear as temples in the

wilderness; and who shall say that in those far-away countries, where the blessings of Religion are so little known, the exquisite formation of this tree, with all its rich gothic arches, may not arouse some of our own people to remembrance of those places of worship that adorn their own land, and lead them, by a train of newly-awakened holy feeling, to pour forth those praises and prayers which have too long been unbreathed?" This was said hurriedly, as a thought long since born, and as in explanation of the picture; the devoted look of deep delight of him who listened, again met her, and she went on to say, "I could not have put the tomb in better scenery, I thought,-it must be a beautiful tree; little, oh how little, did I think or fear when I drew this, that my kind and early friend would perhaps see it growing in its native soil! and now, alas! ere this harvest moon again visit us, you will perhaps have rested under its shade.' She could say no more, she was altogether overpowered by the effort she had made to speak at all; but she had not an instant to feel this, ere he clasped her towards him, and said, "No, no, Medora, not such is my fate! in you alone does it rest; this moon that now is, that is just ready to peep above yon mountain, before she has

gladdened the bosom of the lake by her gentle beams, has, my own, my loved Medora! the power to make me the happiest, the most blessed of beings. Tell me, oh tell me, that I am loved!" As the moon sheds her first spangle on the rippling of the lake, Medora sent, by one look, the deepest, the most lasting ray of happiness into the soul of him who all but adored her.

It scarcely needs to tell, that no evening had been so blissful to the happy party at the Cottage in the Lane as this. The Vicar had given up the living to the patron Sir Herbert, who, in answer to his nephew's proposal of going to India, offered it to him. It was of course accepted, and the first reflection of those moonbeams on the calm bosom of the lake, shone upon two of the happiest hearts, and shewed them to each other in all their fulness of affection and fervent love.

The father, too-to him it was the opening of a new life-a life of hope and holiness-and thus were the loved votaries of THE GATE listened to in their tenderest wishes, thus were they all rewarded, for not following too much the devices and desires of their own hearts, when their duty and devotion to the Maker and Giver of those hearts bade their wishes tend Heavenwards.

THIS is a subject which has been a good deal written upon lately, both directly, and in connexion with various points of internal policy, from the consideration of which a matter so important and so pressing could not be excluded. But though we cannot claim the merit of originality in our subject-matter, we can at all events plead its overwhelming importance, at the present time, in excuse for entering upon its considerationif, indeed, any apology be necessary for dwelling upon a division of our general subject which is of by far the deepest and most extensive interest

of all those which enter into its composition.

We entertain a very special contempt for those, who, in a country like this, pretend to be of no party, and yet meddle in politics; but there are some questions of import so absorbing and universal, that, in the contemplation of them, a thing so comparatively trifling as the triumph of party is forgotten. If our object were to create excitement, or produce effect for a party purpose, we should seek a subject original either in itself, or in the relations in which we should place it; but having in

view nothing but the serious and sober purpose of drawing the public attention to an evil which is spread over the whole country, and like a rising flood threatens general ruin, unless it can be suppressed, we take up a subject on which a good deal has been said already, but which cannot be mentioned too often or too loudly, until something is devised respecting it fitting the magnitude of the occasion.

He must be either a very superficial, or a very inattentive observer of the present condition of affairs, who supposes that there is nothing more in it than has often occurred before-nothing but the ordinary occurrences of a stagnation in trade, and a harvest of less than average abundance. Our condition is the result of a new form which the industry of the country has assumed, greatly aggravated, as we must continue to maintain, by a monstrously erroneous policy with regard to trade and currency. This new form of industry, which made such rapid progress during the war, was, in consequence of the peculiar circumstances attendant on the war, not felt by the common people, except in the alteration of their employments; but since the peace, while its progress has been even more rapid than before, it has indeed been felt by them in the dreadful and appalling certainty, that as the world goes, it has no longer any need of them. The most important of the old relations of society have been changed, and that by a process, which although rapid, has been sufficiently gradual to bring the event upon us without our having taken such notice of it as would have led to our making due provision for the change. When society grew into its present form, of the few possessing much, and the many possessing nothing, the multitude dwelt safely, in the security, that those who had possessions could not turn them to account without their aid that wealth was nothing except in so far as it gave the power of accomplishing work-and that work could not be done without their assistance. Natural rights, or to speak more strictly, their exercise, were readily abandoned under such an appearance of things; and for the purposes of the general well-being of society, it seemed of little moment

that a few were the store-keepers of the kingdom's wealth, while such a guarantee existed for its distribution amongst all the members of the community who would work. It was true that labour was the portion of one part, while idleness, or at all events, exemption from bodily exertion, was that of the other; but it was ever a matter of debate whether labour was, upon the whole, a more painful condition than that of idleness, and it was cheerfully submitted to, because it was the sure and always current value for subsistence. It is no longer thus; and it might melt the sternest heart to contemplate the hopeless wretchedness of thousands, almost millions, of their fellow-creatures, willing, eager, to give their labour for bread, and well able, too, until " sharp misery had worn them to the bone," who yet cannot touch a particle of the abundance which teems around them. In vain

"They beg their brothers of the earth To give them leave to toil."

There is a cheaper mode of getting the work done than by employing them; and there is a certain delirium reigns at the present time, about this thing," cheapness," which having been taken up as a public principle, is, without hesitation, used as an excuse for individual selfishness. In vain the manufacturing towns throw off the surplus of their multitudes to the country-the poor have no land of their own-the rich, who have land, think it is very well as it is; and though they know, or at all events ought to know, that by a different system of management, a much more perfect system of cultivation might be carried on, and a much greater number of people be supported thereby, in happy, though laborious, comfort, they are either too forgetful, or too indifferent about the matter to bestir themselves, and again the labourer is rejected.

In vain the rural districts and the provincial towns send the more adventurous of their unemployed numbers to the metropolis, in search of the casual employment which such a huge mass of the wealthy might reasonably be expected to afford. London itself, with all its gorgeous show-with all its prodigious reality

of wealth with all that is magnificent in costliness, and all that is exquisite in art, yet teems with the direst miseries of actual want. Not merely that kind of want which must necessarily be found to some extent in all great cities, where disease and crime get huddled together in dark corners, and even common charity is scared away from those foul recesses in which all that is loathsome in degraded humanity rots and dies, in obscure despair. Not such want as this we speak of; but the decay of laborious decency, the misery of semi-starvation from want of employment of those hands which have never been employed in any thing but honest industry, is even in the metropolis deplorably prevalent. It is so even in the parish of Saint Martin's, in so much that the parish officers, "albeit unused to the melting mood," are thawed into emotion by the dismal sights which their distressing, but necessary duties, bring before them, and it is fearful to think what it must be in less opulent districts, such as Saint Giles's and Clerkenwell, where the poor so much more abound.

Now, apart from all considerations of humanity merely, and those feelings which ought to actuate us as Christian men, it is, as a political question, one of the most interesting that can be made the subject of enquiry--Why such distress should exist, and be in a progressive state of aggravation, notwithstanding the immense accession which has confessedly been made to our means of producing all those things of which "distress," as we have used the word, signifies the ABSENCE? Why is it that want, and new and extraordinary means of producing abundance, proceed pari passu, and that those improvements which wear the appearance of a general blessing, are fraught with curses to the poor? It is because the process through which the advantages of industry were formerly obtained have undergone a change, and that change has taken away the necessity which did exist that the labouring classes should have their share from the capitalists, of all these advantages. The only security which the labourer had at any time for his support was, as has been mentioned, the necessity for his assistance in order to make an advantage of the possessions held by

his more fortunate brethren. If these possessions could be turned to profitable account without him, he would have been left to starve; and now that by our "improvements" they can be turned to account without him, or with a great deal less of his assistance than formerly, he is accordingly left to starve. But had these means which are now "improvements," existed from the beginning, society would not have taken the form which it now has; laws would not have been suffered to accumulate one upon another, securing the property to a few, and leaving to the mass nothing but what their power of labouring gave them the command of, if, as now, that power was little or no security for support. If, then, we become satisfied that the great machine of society went on well and smoothly hitherto, only in consequence of a connexion of its parts, formed by necessities and powers which adapted themselves to one another, it is not to be wondered at, that one side of the connexion, namely, the necessitous, being in a great measure worn away, the machine should go out of order, and one part of it work exceedingly to the disadvantage of the other. If the people are to live, if this kingdom is not to become merely the habitation of masters and machinery, with the few necessary to manufacture and attend upon these laborious and long-lived pieces of mechanism, some change must take place in the forms in which property and society are disposed.

If the people are to live, and machines make their labour of so little value to others that they cannot get the means of living in exchange for it, they must be provided with something upon which they can labour for themselves. If the world were all as one family, wherein each individual benefited according to the addition which could, by any means, be made to the common stock, then should we join with the political economists, and rejoice in the freedom of trade, and in every new device by which human labour could be dispensed with in the production of desirable commodities; but as that state of society has not yet come, we must, during the advent of such a happy consummation, resort to means adapted to the selfishness of mankind, and the new powers conferred on that