late, and that now they must be recovered by regular course of law. I thought, if you were like me, money would never come wrong to you, although it were a few days too late; so I inclose you 27l. in notes, and half a guinea, which is the amount of what they charge me for the last half year, and four pence halfpenny over. You must send me a receipt when the coach comes back, else they will not believe I have paid you. Direct to the care of Mr. Andrew Wilson, butcher, in Howick.

"I remain, dear Sir, your
very humble servant,

"ADAM BRYDEN.

"P.S. This way of taxing the farmers will never do; you will see the upshot.

"To his Majesty, George Rex,
London."

IN VENTION OF THE STEAM-
ENGINE.

It is generally admitted that the Marquis of Worcester is entitled to the merit of having first invented this stupendous machine. The evidence of this fact is found in the Century of Inventions, which was published in the year 1663. In the sixty-eighth article the noble author thus describes his invention : - " An admirable and most forcible way to drive up water by fire, not by drawing or sucking it upwards, for that must be, as the philosopher calleth it, Infrá sphæram activitatis, which is but at such a distance. But this way hath no bounder if the vessel be strong enough; for I have taken a piece of a whole cannon, whereof the end was burst, and filled three quarters full of water, stopping and screwing up the broken end, and also the touch-hole, and making a constant fire under it; within twenty-four hours it burst, and made a great crack: so that having a way to make my vessels so that they are strengthened by the force within

them, and the one to fill after the other, I have seen the water run like a constant fountain stream forty feet high. One vessel of water rarified by fire driveth up forty of cold water. And a man that tends the work is but to turn two cocks, that, one vessel of water being consumed, another begins to force and refill with cold water, and so successively the fire being tended and kept constant, which the self same person may likewise abundantly perform in the interim, between the necessity of turning the said cocks."

DIVISION OF LABOUR IN THE

EAST.

The sub-division of labour in Ceylon is carried almost to infinity; there is no such thing as a "servant of all work." Your dressing-boy will not light nor extinguish the lamp, nor will your palanquin-bearer hold the reins of your horse-or, if he does, he will be sure to let them go; nor will your cook clean his own utensils, nor will any of those do the work of a cooley or a porter. The poorest female in the Bazaar cannot wash nor mend her own clothes; she must employ the washerman and tailor. No man must shave his own beard, for that would be an infringement of the barber's prerogative; and the man who supplies with milk cannot serve you with butter, for those two distinct offices must on no account be confounded. So again, your butler must have his matey, your housekeeper his grass-cutter, your gardener his water-drawer, your washerman his ironingman; and, if a carpenter or locksmith comes to do a job at your house, each is accompanied by a boo, or cooley, to assist him.

HOPE DEFINED.

Alexander was asked-"What is hope?" he replied, "It is the dream of a man when awake."

Poet's Corner.

TO MARY.

It may be that the spirit's sigh
By some is soon forgot;
And when the lov'd one is not nigh,
Their faith remember not.

But 'tis not so, it is not so,

With one who loves so well;
Whose spirit bears thro' shame and woe,
The faith it may not tell.

I would not tell thee of the pain
I still have borne for thee;

For oh, they say my hope were vain,
If 'twere to sue for thee.

'Twere mean to weep tho' hope depart,
Tho' manhood flies and pride rebel;
They say another shares thy heart,
Then fare-thee-well oh, fare-thee-

well.

DAVIES.

AN INDIAN'S GRATITUDE.
AN OLD LEGEND.

Now had the autumn-day gone by,
And evening's yellow shade,

Had wrapt the mountains and the hills,
And lengthened o'er the glade.
The honey-bee had sought her hive,
The bird her sheltered nest;
And in the hollow valley's gloom,
Both wind and wave had rest.

And to a cotter's hut, that eve,
There came an Indian Chief;
And in his frame was weariness,
And in his face was grief.
The feather o'er his head that danced,
Was weather-soiled and rent,
And broken were his bow and spear,
And all his arrows spent.

And meek and humble was his speech-
He knew the white man's hand
Was turned against those wasted tribes,
Long scourged from the land.
He prayed but for a simple draught
Of water from the well,

And a poor morsel of the food
That from his table fell.

He said that his old frame had toiled
A wide and weary way,
O'er the sunny lakes and savage hills,
And through the lakes that day.
Yet when he saw they scoffed his word,
He turned away in wo,

And cursed them not, but only mourn'd
That they should shame him so.

When many years had flown away,
That herdsman of the hill
Went out into the wilderness,
The wolf and bear to kill-

To scatter the red deer, and slay
The panther in his lair;
And chase the rapid moose, that ranged
The sunless forest there.

And soon his hounds lay dead with toil,
The deer were fierce and fleet;
And the prairie-tigers kept aloof,
Where they heard his hostile feet.
No bread was in that desert place,
Nor chrystal rivulet,
To slake the torment of his thirst,
Or his hot brow to wet.

He feared-he feared to die, yet knew
That nought on earth could save;
For none might catch his parting breath,
And lay him in his grave.
But lo! while life's dim taper still
Burned freely in his breast,
A ministering angel came-
His hated Indian guest!

He shared his wheaten loaf with him,
His cup of water shared;
And bore the sick man unto those
For whom his heart most cared.
"I cursed you not," the Indain said,
"When thou wast stern to me,
"And I have had my vengeance now,
"White man! farewell to thee."

J. M'LELLAN.

UNPUBLISHED LINES ON DOCTOR JOHNSON,

BY THE LATE DR. WALCOT.

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,
That gives an inch the importance of a mile;
Casts of manure a waggon load around
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules for what!
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth to draw
A goose's feather or exalt a straw;

Set wheels on wheels in motion - such a clatter!

To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar,
To heave a cockle shell upon the shore.
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven's awful thunder, or a rumbling cart!
New Monthly Mag.

Published by J. ROBINS, Bride Court, Fleet Street, where all communications (post paid) are requested to be addressed; and sold by J. DUNCOMBE, 19, Little Queen Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields; SHERWOOD AND Co. Paternoster Row; SUTHERLAND, Edinburgh; MAC PHUN, Glasgow; and all Booksellers and Newsmen.

Away, away such dreadful ideas, lest in the frenzied moment I dare to raise my impious arm against my own life!" She pressed her hand against her burning forehead; large drops of agony hung on her brow, her heart beat with sickening violence, and her whole frame shook with her agitation. "This," she cried, "is agony! this is punishment indeed! Oh, may it serve in some measure to expiate my crime !" She opened the door, and the cool breeze of evening allayed the heat of her burning forehead. Not a sound was to be heard, nought to be seen, save the bright-orbed moon, sailing majestically through the sea of bright fleecy clouds, or gilding with its soft and shadowy beams the mountain tops by which the little valley was surrounded. She gazed on the calm beauty of the scene, and inhaled the fragrant scent of the rose, woodbine, and sweet-brier, trained by her hand, when in the days of happy, unsuspecting innocence she blithely carolled with mirthful gaiety her wild and simple ditty. Now, how changed! - the spoiler came, and the mountain rose drooped its lovely head with guilt and shame. Her overcharged heart seemed nigh to bursting, But tears happily came to her relief, and the convulsive sobs which rent her bosom soon subsided in their salutary effects.

A distant step now broke upon the silence, which had before been still as death. Blanche listened attentively; it drew nearer, and she recognised the well-known steps of her father, as he returned from his daily labour. "Father!" said Blanche, in a trembling voice. My child!" kindly answered her father, taking her hand, "my darling Blanche! how hot and feverish thou art! Thou frettest too much after the young stranger whom thy kind heart brought to our cottage, when he was severely suffering from

the effects of the fall he received from one of our neighbouring heights, and tended on him till his health was perfectly restored. Surely you did not dream he was to remain here always! But I believe he has a grateful heart, and will, I am sure, return. Come, come, weep not so sadly. Cheer up, my girl, cheer thee!" He entered the cottage, and seated himself at the table, where, on linen white as snow, was spread his evening repast. "My dear, my unsuspecting father!" murmured she to herself, as, wiping away her tears, she essayed, but in vain, to be cheerful, and slowly followed him into the cottage.

"The lads and lasses of the village," said Rodolph, "complain sadly that you absent yourself from them, my child. Bring us,' they say, 'our Mountain Rose, our fairy queen, and let her smiles reanimate once more our pastimes.'-" I shall never smile again, father," said Blanche, mournfully. "Poh, child! nonsense, my Blanche! you think so now, because you have lost for a little time your lover; but his return will set all to rights again."-"Ah? will he ever return?"" thought Blanche, "My father knows not his rank." "Tears again Blanche?" he continued, "You have no cause to weep. Now were you, indeed, like Diego's daughter, Jeannette, I should not wonder at it."-" What of Jeannette, dear father?" asked Blanche. "Oh, Blanche, Diego is not blessed with a child like thee. True, till now she has been good, been obedient, been as thou art, the pride of her poor old father's heart, my Blanche. But she has yielded to the arts of a villain-a false, a damned villain, and brought shame, disgrace, and misery on her parent's head!" "Oh, God! God!" convulsively sobbed the agitated Blanche. "Ay, my child, you may well be shocked at the depravity of your once-loved companion! Diego has cursed her, and driven her from his door."-" Oh, cruel, cruel father!" almost shrieked Blanche, a cold shudder thrilling through her frame. "Had she been your child, father, could you have done this? could you have banished her without food or shelter? driven her forth on the face of the earth without a home? pursued her with your malediction? Father, could you have cursed your Blanche!" Rodolph was silent. Blanche sunk at his feet, her dark hair in its unconfined luxuriance reached the ground, and her eyes were fixed with painful intensity on his varying countenance. After a short but agonizing pause to Blanche, he said, " I could not curse thee, Blanche, but it would kill me. But I do not fear thee, my child, for thou art purity itself. Go, dear Blanche, go into the open air; it will revive thee; this unfortunate tale has overcome thee. Since the absence of Antonio, methinks thou has grown strangely nervous, my love. Go, Blanche, and the cool breeze will recover thee."

Blanche needed not another bidding; she flew, she knew not whither, as if to lose a sense of her misery by the fleetness of her motion; till, exhausted, she sunk on the earth, her senses steeped in temporary oblivion. But not long was the suspension of her sorrows, and, faint and trembling, she sought repose for her harassed spirits in her own apartment. Day after day elapsed, yet brought no Antonio. For her father's sake, Blanche struggled against her black despair. "It would kill him to hear of my dishonour!" she would exclaim. "God of heaven, spare me the crime of murdering my father!"

The time now fast approached which was to make Blanche a parent, and she falteringly entreated permission to visit a friend of her mother's, who resided at some dis

tance. To this the unsuspecting Rodolph consented, hoping change of air and scene would prove advantageous to the health of his child, and recal the roses to her pale cheek, To this friend did Blanche confide her tale, received her sympathy, and secretly gave birth to an infant. For some days did Blanche hover between life and death; but her youth prevailed, and she was at length restored to convalescence. But Rodolph became impatient for the return of his child, and Blanche took leave of her babe, and received the reiterated assurance that her secret should be carefully preserved, and that the fondest attention should be extended to her offspring. With joy did Rodolph clasp his treasure to his heart, but marked with pain her fragile form and pallid cheeks, and, for the first time in his life, he almost regretted the benevolence of Blanche. It was late one evening that Rodolph was gazing with the deepest concern on the apparently fast decaying form of his still beautiful daughter; the rain descending in torrents, was fast pattering against the casement, and the wind blew hollowly and shrilly around. The head of Blanche was resting on her thin transparent hand, and the tears were trickling down her cheeks, when the door of the cottage was thrown open, and gave entrance to a female, completely drenched by the storm, and enveloped in a large cloak. She slowly advanced to the table, and, raising her hat, discovered the features of Jeannette. "Jeannette!" cried Blanche, amazedly, and rose to receive her, but her kindness was repulsed. "Daughter of Diego!" exclaimed Rodolph. "Ay, Blanche, it is Jeannette.". "Yes, Rodolph, it is the despised, the guilty Jeannette; I am here to unmask hypocrisy, to expose your vaunted Mountain Rose! For, Rodolph, compared to your daughter, Jeannette is innocent." "Poor