the old coach proprietors, that "the coach arrives in London about four o'clock in the afternoon, by which means the danger of travelling in the night near the metropolis is avoided." Think of a highwayman nowa-days summoning a railway train to " 'stand and deliver!"

The reader of old English books will not fail to call to mind the numerous incidents so useful for the purposes of the novelist, arising out of this barbarous state of our roads in the last century; the rambles of a Jones, the slow but eventful progress of a Roderick Random in the stage-waggon, the tedious and perilous mishaps of Humphrey Clinker, and the fortunes of the day that exposed an Andrews to the tender mercies of a couple of footpads. Alas! the "good old times" of the highwaymen have passed away, and railways have demolished their calling for ever. A journey of a hundred miles is no longer an | era in a man's life; he has not now to make his will before he sets out; nor are his family kept in a state of anxious torture until his return. Travelling has ceased to be an adventure of peril and great enterprise. Mrs. Marsh well observes, in her clever nove! of "Angela," that "a journey in a coach to London, in a vehicle such as the sometimes regretted stage-coaches then were, closely packed up in a little, inconvenient, straight-backed carriage, where the cramped limbs could not be in the least extended, or the wearied frame indulge in any change of posture, was to some people a terrible thing. What has been endured by those suffering from illness, or even by the delicate and weakly, whose means could afford them no better conveyance, ought to be known, and when known, recollected, by those who still love to abuse railways. The praise of railways comes with much grace from him whose business it is to write stories; for, certainly, no one has less reason to rejoice in them than he. Certainly, nothing that man, among his innumerable inventions, ever invented, has done more to ruin all incidents founded upon the adventures or disasters of travel than this."

Railways have now completely broken down the barriers which separated town from town, and district from district. Travelling is no longer the luxury of the rich, but the common enjoyment of all. Railways have brought men closer to each other, and enabled them to know each other better. They have thrown open the beautiful country to the dwellers in towns and cities, and brought within the reach of the rural population the advantages of town and city life. They have made of England and Scotland, as it were, one large city, with green fields, hills and dales, rivers and lakes, stretched out in their midst. They have made travelling easy, rapid, and cheap. They have given a new power to the press and the post, serving to unite mind and matter, and to draw the ends of the earth together.

will afford the working classes the means of transporting their labour to the best market. At present, in consequence of the facilities of transport, the prices of all descriptions of commodities are remarkably uniform in the different parts of our island, with the exception of labour, the most important commodity of all, the price of which greatly varies in different parts of the kingdom. The labourer in Dorset, Devon, and Wilts is paid only 7s. a week, whereas the labourer in Kent, Lincolnshire, and Yorkshire, is paid from 10s. to 13s. a week. Here is a difference in wages of from 30 to 40 per cent. To transport himself, however, to the best field for his labour, the working man requires money, and this, unfortunately, he has not got in any abundance. To meet the means of this class, fares should be low; and in course of time, we doubt not, the experience of railway companies will sufficiently teach them that they must, if they would the most effectually develope the railway system, bring the use of the iron roads within the means, limited though they be, of the large mass of the people. Another important use of railways is, in their affording to the people a means of wholesome exercise and enjoyment, away from the haunts of vicious excitement; in bringing the crowded population of our towns in contact with the healthful face of nature, where they may breathe the breath of a new moral life, and give a free play to the higher feelings of their inner being. From the metropolis, and, indeed, from every large town in England, the finest scenery of our land is now accessible; the old forests of Nottinghamshire and Hampshire, the sea-beat cliffs of Kent, Devon, and Yorkshire, the purple heaths, the gorse commons, the forest patches of the midland counties, the mountains, the rivers, and the bays of England-the enjoyment and appreciation of the beauty of which Nature has made common to every man :

What tho' like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hall?

Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

Regarding the numerous beautiful influences which act upon the nature of man, when brought into a frequent communication with nature, in her fairest moods-influences which enter into the heart, purify the feelings, and elevate the character, we rejoice to see the increased facilities which railways are every day affording for the ministration of this high moral culture, by the cheap fares and the excursion trains which are now becoming so general. It cannot but be productive of great good thus to open up to large masses of toiling men the great pleasure-grounds of England-where the pent population of cities may take a copious draught of health, in the form of the unsullied sunshine and the untainted breeze, which lies on the open hills, and in the free glades, and green valleys; and, above all, along that dream-land to many, the beautiful sea-shore; from whence they may return to their homes with fresh life in their veins, new ideas

We look forward with confidence to the time when railways will be the chief means of circulating and equalizing labour throughout the community. They

cherished in their hearts. And not only is the railway now opening up to thousands the beauties of their own land, but it is daily knitting the populations of France and England more closely together. We have "return visits"-friendly invasions, and counter-invasions—not as warriors, but as troops of friends, bearing-not muskets, but guide-books and carpet-bags! Excursions such as these are indicative of something nobler than mere railway progress; but all honour, at the same time, to the railway which is so eminently promotive of them. The whole railway system is yet, however, merely in its infancy; and immense future good in this and all other respects is to be anticipated from it. Crowded towns and cities, which are now so prolific in squalor and disease, are the result mainly of slow and expensive transit ; men formerly crowding together to save time and

pathetically descanting on the wickedness of the present age, and bid her use it as a comment on modern degeneracy.

Every medal, in short, that we can take up in our whole collection, however fair the type and impress it bears on one side, presents some disagreeable contrast, some antithetical and accompanying evil, on the other. Yet wisdom, like the prudent Janus, will look steadfastly on both, that it may, as far as human prudence can do, erase that which is bad, while it improves that which is good. It is folly only that looks without farther examination on merely the fairest side of things, and then exclaims that nothing can be better, or that nothing has been worse, than it now is. With regard, too, to the characters of men, adulation dwells only on the fair side, detraction on the reverse; but discrimination and impartiality will examine both, and be deceived by neither.

THE GLASS OF GIN.

BY SILVERPEN.

(Continued from page 93).

PART THE SECOND.

Afraid of adding to the yet unpaid doctor's bill, Alice had not, hitherto, received advice respecting the ophthalmy which affected her. But now, as the sternest necessity was before her, as to work was to exist, as to be ill was to starve, she at once resolved to consult Mr. A, the eminent oculist, of whom she had heard noble things. She waited upon him with less hesitation than she otherwise would have done, owing to her ability to proffer him his fee; the kind friends at Hastings having sent her two sovereigns a few days previously, through their banker's hands. But had she been a duchess, or a well known millionaire, Mr. A could not have behaved more nobly than he did; he entered with singular interest into her case, gave a note to his own druggist for the necessary medicines, said she must take very great care of herself, and bidding her attend regularly thrice a week, pressed back the fee into her hand with a gentle "you must not offend me."

On her third visit, whilst waiting Mr. A- -'s leisure, there was ushered into the room a boy about seven years old, who, accompanied by an elderly nurse, had just alighted from a splendid carriage at the door. At the first glance, it struck Alice that she had seen this woman before. To this undefined sense of knowledge, was soon added an indescribable interest in the child. Though one eye was bound over with a little handkerchief, his fine and singularly massive features glowed with health, and a profusion of flaxen hair fell over his velvet tunic and sable collar. After looking with much nonchalance at the people waiting in the room, he left his nurse, and drawing a chair to the table beside Alice, took a piece of wood and a knife from his pocket, and commenced shaping a little boat. The moment, however, the old nurse saw the fragments littered on the rich table-cover, she came hurrying up to prevent him. But the child spread his hands over the little boat, and looked up into the face of Alice, as if to refer to her.

"I think, nurse," spoke Alice, thus indirectly appealed to, in a manner which at once revealed to the experienced servant that the lady had been accustomed to children, "the little gentleman might cut his boat over this newspaper. The fragments could then be easily thrown into the fire when Mr. A is at leisure to receive you."

"I'm sure you're very kind, ma'am," replied the nurse, with deference. So saying, she withdrew to her seat.

"Thank you," spoke the child, looking inquisitively into Alice's face when she had smoothed the paper before him. "I shall do the little boat now. It must be done; Tom wants it."

It was marvellous with what facility the child used the

little knife, shaping the hull of a tiny vessel out of the inch of wood.

"You are quite a shipwright," Alice said, at last, admiring the child's dexterity.

"Yes; grandpapa first showed me how to cut boats, Since then, I've made a little and he's been a sailor. fleet for Tom, which, when he's well enough, we slide across the coverlet, and call it sailing." "Is he ill, then?"

"Very often. But he always lies upon a couch night and day. He has done so for a long time."

"That is very sad," replied Alice, gently, "it is like pinioning a little bird's wings, or fastening it in a cage. It's very sad."

She said this with so much truth, as to make the child look with intense eagerness into her face, get off and push his chair nearer to hers, and at last slide his hand bashfully into her own. From this moment they were the most unreserved friends. He told her all the history of his little fleet at home, described to her the difference between a schooner, a frigate, and a man-of-war; and when she took out a pencil and drew a boat from his description on a slip of paper, he was in ecstacy, and begged it for Tom. At length, when called away, he put his arms round her neck with all the frankness of a genuine nature, and kissing her, said—

"I shall tell grandpapa, and uncle, and Tom, all about you, that I shall." The old nurse bent reverently, for, by this time, she had recognized the sweet face she had seen on the morning she herself had made inquiry about the satin coverlet in the old curiosity shop.

From this time the child and Alice were uncommon friends. On the mornings they met, they always sat side by side, and Alice drew for him, and talked to him, and bringing slips of calico and twisted silk, shaped them into sails, and made cordage for the little men-ofwar and tiny frigates.

But it was soon needful for poor Alice to abridge the number of these visits, for her finances were running low, in spite of the most rigid economy, and her only resource lay in the completion of the difficult translation of Sismondi. As soon, therefore, as she could leave off the green shade, and the debility which accompanies this disease was in some degree lessened, she resumed her task, and confined her visits to Mr. A——— to one in ten days, or a fortnight. She had lost sight of the child about two months (for his eye, which had been only slightly injured in play, had soon got well) when paying the oculist a visit after a fortnight's absence, she observed a haughty, richly-dressed lady, who swept into the room for a few moments, regarding her attentively. As her dress was shabby, Alice shrunk beneath the hard, stern, penetrating gaze fixed upon her, and felt glad when the repulsive stranger was gone.

For some weeks after this, Alice kept carnestly at work, hour by hour sitting by her poor fire, as intent as if the salvation of the world depended on her exertions; and as silent and alone, except for poor old snoring Pinch upon the hearth rug, as if she were no part of nature, and had never sympathized with suffering or pleasure. Scarcely more than forty pages of the translation remained to be finished, when a rival one was announced. This immediately brought a letter from the publisher, who employed her, to say, that for the present, his own must be delayed, and thus after weeks of expectancy, this resource was more distant than ever. This disappointment operated almost like a death blow. At length, after various efforts to obtain employment, she went one morning to the offices of the solicitor, who had heretofore employed her. After sending in her card and waiting some minutes, she was ushered into his private room. He was a tall middle aged man, and as she entered, standing with his back to the fire, he nodded familiarly, and bid her come round to the hearthrug, on which he stood with frank innocence she obeyed.

"Work," he laughed, when she had gravely stated her business. "I scarcely thought you wanted such a thing. Miss Clive." Startled by his words, and more by the tone of voice, Alice looked at him, and was confounded as she looked. But, scarcely a moment was left for doubt; with familiar licence, he put out his arm and drew the young girl towards him, with the whisper, "we'll make the matter easy, pretty one." Far quicker than he had spoken, Alice moved away, and now confronted him with a face which had but two expressions—indignation and surprise.

"Come," he continued, with the same familiarity, "don't affect coldness; it's not natural to lady gin drinkers." These two last words revealed the truth to Alice, and despair gave place to breathless indignation. Nothing yet had appalled her like the import of these few last words, implying a whole catalogue of sin and degradation. She stood so rigid, and with a face so blanched, as even to startle the man who gazed upon her. At last she said, in a voice scarcely audible for emotion

warm and loving in its inner depths, as to be like some rare instrument of music, only needing the touching hand to fill a thousand other hearts with its own immeasurable love and goodness. Nothing was left to her but dear old Pinch, and he had licked her small cold hands in vain.

A knock, long repeated, at length aroused her. Struggling to collect her scattered thoughts, she at last comprehended what it was, and with difficulty reaching the door, unlocked it, and took in a letter some nand held there.

Almost too apathetic to care whether she opened it or not, she at last got a light and read it. It was brief, and from Mr. A-, desiring to see her on the following morning as early as possible. In some degree aroused by this, she was wondering what it could be about, and considering her inability to go so far, when her landlady stepped gently in with some hot tea and cake, a thing sne had never done before; and this without comment of any sort, other than what expressed her sorrow that Alice was so ill. She then made her take the tca, fetched wood and coal, and lighted a fire, got Alice to bed again, and bringing some breakfast in the morning, found her better. Though very weak and ill, Alice, thus roused, dressed herself, and, cheered on by the brightness of the morning, was persuaded by her landlady, who delicately proffered money to pay for the hire, to take a cab and go.

It was not, however, till like one stunned by some great blow, she had passed from the bustle of the streets, and gained the stillness of her lonely chamber, that all the miscry, ruin, and degradation of her present position came clear before her view. The world, in its hardness and its cruelty, had already tampered with her good name; the world, with vicious recklessness of words, had associated her pure young lips with the flowing ruin of the ginpalace! And now, indeed, she did despair; for where was hope to spring from?-none was left, neither distant nor near; not a drop for her in that immeasurable fountain which rarely fails the needing heart of even misery and sin! No! no hope was left. She had now reached that startling point where apathy subdues both fear and pain. And now she was indifferent to fate; all that was left to her to calmly do, was-to suffer and to die.

As the days passed by, this feeling of indifference grew stronger; it strengthened with the growth of bodily debility. At last she took her bed, feeling like one overpowered by a narcotic, which, deadening all the senses, left but one desire, intense in proportion to its singleness, and that was, to be alone till death came mercifully to her. She had never revealed her poverty or her sufferings to the people of the house; and though they might guess them, they were far from knowing the truth. But, in fact, a London lodging-house is the last place in the world to expect sympathy in; so that the rent be paid, so that the wheel goes round, it matters not, it is not known; it is a circumstance of indifference whether you live or die, or suffer, or rejoice.

Thus five days had passed in this manner, and she had not seen a human face above twice in that time. The last school-book was sold (and Alice had always been lavish in her expenditure about her pupils), the last penny was gone, the last spoonful of tea, the last piece of coal, and nothing but a fragment of bread lay mouldy in the closet. On this day she had not risen at all; and now, as the cold spring evening waned into night, and the little light through the shutters fell athwart the dreary room, a gazer might have thought that death had already come to the little human creature, so desolate, so forgotten, so sunk in misery; and yet, with a heart so

Thus by ten o'clock Alice was safe in Mr. A's study. As he rose to welcome her with his usual urbanity, he started back, as if appalled. Her deadly wasted features struck him dumb, and the immediate

lips; but, his looks were sufficient to break down the last barrier of pride and silence, and bursting into a passionate flood of tears, as she sunk down on to the chair already placed for her, all the hoarded secret of ruin, shame, poverty, and hopelessness, was faltered forth by her lips, in half incoherent words, just as a long pent-up spring flows down a rugged mountain side. But, for thus speaking, she must have died where she sat; though, as the irresistible words poured forth (tempered though they were with immeasurable mercy and goodness) a touch of remorse softened the vehemence of anguish. She was half sinful herself; and yet, great God, she must speak. But wisely did she to one of the most honourable of gentlemen, for he had half suspected some large sorrow, and now it pleased him to know it, in order that he might lessen it, if possible.

"Come," he said, at length, with the natural gentleness of a great soul, "this is fearful, and an awful calamity, most certain; but for yourself, not irremediable. Truth bears up all sorrow to the surface; and your own share in such a one as this, will necessarily pass from beyond its shadows. It does so already. Yesterday, when at Hastings, I saw Mrs. Maitland, who entrusted to my keeping this letter, and what it encloses, as she was not certain of your address. But this is not my chief object in sending for you; it is one promising large benefits. You recollect, I suppose, a child who was my patient some time ago?"

Alice, in spite of her grief and tears, looked up with curiosity.

"Well; he is the grandson of Admiral Murray; and as great interest, through his account, concerning you, has been raised, you were to go and have a little talk with the Admiral to-day. But as you are by far too ill, I will write, and postpone the interview till this day week, when I hope to see you here, at the same hour as this morning." Saying this, he wrote her out a prescription, promised a medical friend should call and see her in the interval, rung for his own carriage to convey her home, and conducted her to it, with all the pity and respect of his noble character.

Fainting, when she got home, and with difficulty recovered from the swoon, it was not till evening that she was able to open the letter the oculist had given to her,