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poor Ward," and my frightened corroboration of his suspicions, and Litchfield's vow that he would serve him so likewise if he ever peached" upon us. This evidence the magistrates considered conclusive, and I was committed to trial with Smith. On our journey to gaol I managed to arouse poor Bobby's fears to such a height, and cast him into such a state of despondency and gloom, that on our arrival at York Castle, when the gaoler's back was turned, Smith hung himself in his braces! I was brought to trial; Smith's evidence was quashed, and the judge summed up in my favour (I believe he had once presided at a trial where a prisoner was hung for murder, and the supposed murdered man returned from America afterwards), and with ten minutes' consultation the jury returned a verdict of "Not Guilty."

* *

I remember nothing further to jot down save a gnawing and restless desire to appease my frantic mind. I deserted my wife and children, and came to Manchester. To-night I join a meeting of the strike delegates, to raise on high our banners, and cry "Death or victory! Blood or bread!"

THE RICH AND THE POO R.

BY E. P. ROWSELL, ESQ.

We believe that in the old feudal times, when there were a few high lords and the mass of men were lowly vassals (we have myriads of—virtually-lowly vassals amongst us now for the matter of that, but let it pass), there was much more of friendship subsisting between the rich and the poor than will be found in the present day. Between the man of noble descent and ample fortune, of varied attainments and of courtly manners, and the poor humble labourer, who does truly toil for his daily bread (and then only obtains it in scant measure), there is greater chance of the existence of kindly feeling than in any case where the contrast is by no means so marked. It is in fact in the intensity of the contrast there lies the probable absence of dislike and the presence of well-wishing. Between the great noble and the poor peasant there is such a vast gap that no place can be found for any feeling of jealousy or envy; there is no possibility of any emotion of rivalry, that fruitful cause of enmity and origin of hatred.

If we for a moment imagine ourselves one of our agricultural labourers, earning twelve shillings a week, having a wife and five children-our attainments being limited to the reading at the rate of a word a minute, and the making a cross as a substitute for a signature-if we suppose ourselves one of these enviable individuals (and let it not be imagined we are trying to be sillily jocose at their expense-Heaven knows we write with a sigh we write grieving at the lowly condition we describe), we can understand something of the emotion with which we should contemplate the great duke living in yonder majestic castle. This great duke's

father employed our father-his grandfather our grandfather; his nobility in our eyes is something of transcendent brightness: his wealth we regard as of almost infinite extent, his knowledge as surpassing; his presence to us is positively awful, and his power, from all these circumstances combined, seems to us absolutely overwhelming. Shall we have any feeling of hostility towards this exalted man? will our mind be filled with bitterness that he is so high and we are so low-that he has been born to such fortune and we to such insignificance? No; in the ordinary course, unless we be the victim of persecution and injustice, the very distance between us will occasion in our heart an emotion of respect and esteem mingled with something like awe for such a prince; we shall have no wish to injure him, no desire for a single instant to be in his place; we shall regard his being a noble and ourselves a peasant as an ordainment to be met with utter, absolute submission-as something against which we must not only not murmur, but be thankful for as a wise and benevolent arrangement.

And now if we turn to the noble and regard his feeling towards the peasant, we shall find (unless, indeed, we have an unhappy instance of a tyrant and oppressor) a feeling of unmitigated kindness and good-will. The sense of almost arbitrary power commonly inclines the heart to tenderness and compassion. The great lord may emphatically be said to look down upon the poor man, who in every respect is, we were about to say, so frightfully his inferior. He feels that this poor man (nominally his servant, virtually his slave-his slave through his obligations, his slave through little work and plenty of workmen, his slave through his ties and engagements, his wife and children who must be fed, and clothed, and taught, not much, perhaps, but something) lies so beneath his sway, crawls before him so worm-like, so weak and defenceless in his poverty and his ignorance, is so utterly incapable of assuming anything like a hostile position, that his must be a very wretched, black, mean heart, indeed, if it feel not the entrance regarding this poor creature of a generous emotion, a desire to raise, to protect, to improve.

And this being the feeling between the two men, their manner towards each other will exhibit it. The great lord will be condescending and affable, the lowly labourer will be respectful and obedient. One will have pleasure in manifesting kindness, the other will receive the kindness with grateful heart and look. There may, indeed, be, to a thoughtful observer, something rather painful in the sight of the two coming together. The gratification experienced on both sides is brought about by a state of things which somewhat jars against the feelings, although we know that such state of things is unavoidable, and will last so long as this world endureth. Still, we think the consideration of a mighty gap between two creatures, the same before Heaven but so different on earth, endowed alike with minds and bodies, and yet as far apart as regards those things which men hold dear as-if the comparison be allowable-almost angels from men, cannot be otherwise than painful. The contemplation of great power, as contrasted with utter humility, is never pleasant to us; we may not, indeed, feel angrily towards the strong man, but the weak one elicits our sympathy, and unconsciously we mourn, "Oh that this should be!" Now the very explanation which we have given of the kindly emotion which will generally be found existing between the lord and the labourer

will, we think, go to the explaining why the sentiment ordinarily is so very different where the distance is materially diminished. We have explained that the friendship on which we have been dwelling has its foundation in the simple fact of the disparity being so extreme as entirely to preclude all jealousy or desire of rivalry. Let us now regard a case in which the disparity is very much lightened, and see how far the friendly feeling heretofore dwelt on exists in this altered case.

Now imagine that I, being an agricultural labourer as before, one of my comrades, by hard striving, combined, perhaps, with a little more cleverness, a little more address than I can lay claim to, has by degrees worked himself into a position above me. I may not be a bad-hearted man, yet almost certainly it will be with by no means a pleasant eye that I shall regard this fortunate individual. There is just sufficient difference between us to make me envious of my comrade's better success. I can fully appreciate the advantages of such success. I can perfectly understand this former comrade is now undoubtedly better off than myself. Why? Yes, why? Did he deserve to be better off? I may or may not admit that he did. If I do not, then the individual will be still more obnoxious in my eyes. The case may really have been one of pure, what the vulgar term, "luck." The man may not have a solitary good quality, he may have succeeded just as though his deficiencies and short-comings had been merits calling for reward. In these very strong, or, indeed, in any other, weaker circumstances, the great chance is that I shall dislike this man. I cannot reconcile myself to his having obtained what he did not deserve one whit more-perhaps I may think by no means so much— as myself. My successful comrade can never be agreeable to my eyes.

The case will not be much altered if we consider the state of feeling likely to subsist between myself and all who (from any cause whatsoever, not confining ourselves to a single case) occupy a position just so far above me, that, while all its superior advantages are fully known to and appreciated by me, I see no way of achieving it myself, no source of hope that it will be at any time occupied by me. In an ordinary way we feel the reverse of friendship for those who possess what we should like but have not been able to obtain. We do not mean to say that there is a broad and habitual disregard of the commandment "Thou shalt not covet ;" we do not mean to assert that every man hates the man who is immediately above him, and if he dared would take from his advantages by force. Our assertion is simply that there is great difficulty in the way of friendly feeling where there is room for rivalry or jealousy. Such is our nature; we may curb, we may check it; but uncurbed and unchecked, so it tendeth, and after this manner does it work.

And it is an unfortunate thing that, too commonly, the difficulty here spoken of is vastly aggravated by the demeanour towards one another of the two parties whose cases we are considering. Somehow or other I get a notion that the man above me is more or less a tyrant, that he dislikes and despises me, and would injure, perhaps crush me, if he could. I am perpetually thinking his desire is to hurt my pride, wound my feelings, humble and degrade me. Being lower than he is already, I torture myself with the fancy that he wishes and is trying to drive me lower still. And though policy or necessity may push me hard, and I may pay respect to this man, and seek to hide my real feelings, yet they

will more or less be apparent (as we believe all feelings are to a great extent; the emotions within a man are generally much more visible than they are supposed to be), they will creep out and exhibit themselves in an evidence of distrust and dislike, a suspicion of injury ready to be inflicted.

Now look to the other side, and what do we see. The man in the superior station too frequently is fond of displaying his advantage. As the people just above him require him to crouch down, so he expects to crouch down those who are beneath him. He knows this must be disagreeable to them, and that they are more or less his enemies in consequence. Be it so; then he is their foe, and is ready to meet them. His manner shows this-he is never friendly-he never seems to forget the distance between them; it is too little to allow him to do so. If it were ten times as much, there would be no jealousy, no rivalry, no dwelling on the fact of the one being high or the other low; there would be no barrier to kindness or good-will, but being so trifling, there is jealousy, there is rivalry, there is a constant irritating contemplation of unequal advantages, and consequently there is a serious obstacle to amity and brotherly disposition.

We have been keeping in view more particularly the poorer class, the myriads who are as nearly as possible on a par. Education and improvement are busy amongst these myriads. They are not now what they were, they will soon be very different to what they now are. Their movement has been, and is, emphatically onward. We are educating the artisan and the labourer. The poor man's brain is being roused; his slumbering intellect is awaking; he is beginning to know things heretofore altogether beyond his ken, to perceive and grapple with subjects before which but lately he would have fallen utterly prostrate. Is there no warning in the fact? is there no lesson taught us by the advancing tide of intelligence? Are we blind to the power that approacheth from the north and from the south, from the east and from the west? Our masses are acquiring a strength which may not be lightly regarded, a strength which is growing daily, a strength which will become irresistible. A mighty revolution is working. Education has laid the train. There is no brawling agitator among our poor to inflame their passions, but knowledge is amongst them to open their minds. Welcome, welcome the revolution wrought by such an agent. No need to fear the riotous, ruffianly mob; there may be a triumph, but it will not consist in blazing houses or battered property. us not press hardly upon those who are beneath us, let us not be jealous of them, let us not treat them as though we desired that they should never ascend, but let us lend a helping hand to all our inferiors, and draw them upwards. In one point of view, our conduct in this regard will, indeed, make but little difference. Onward will come the masses, quietly but steadily, peaceably but surely. It rests with ourselves whether, as they advance, they shall only become more firmly and closely cemented with the middle and higher classes, or whether their march shall be the signal for our retreat, the commencement of our danger, the sign and seal of our approaching destruction.

Let

LOOSE PAGES FROM A POET'S PORTFOLIO.

By G. W. THORNBURY.

THE BIRTH OF SONG.

SONG rises in the poet's heart

As the bubbles do in wine;
Born of the sweetness and the strength
That prove the draught divine.
As sudden as the meadow-flower
Leaps forth in early May;
As swift as lark in morn of June
Springs up to greet the day;
As sudden as 'mid summer shower
The rainbow has its birth;
As rapid as the crystal spring
Upstarteth from the earth;-

The flower may die, the rainbow fade,
The echo pass away,

But still a thought of beauty past
Within some mind will stay.

THE TRAMPER'S SONG.

THE tramper's life is wild and free,
From man he keeps aloof,

And when he can sleep beneath a tree,

Doth shun the prisoning roof.

And many a noon in warm sweet June

He lies on a bed of flowers,

And lulled to sleep by the blackbird's tune
He dreams away the hours.

And where the nodding hazel-trees
Are linked by a flowery chain,
And the honeysuckle lures the bees
To hide from the passing rain,—
Couched on the aromatic thyme,
With its blossom's purple flush,
There many an hour in the April-tide
He lies to hear the thrush.

Or where on the heath the living gold
Blooms on the prickly furze,

And where the purple thistles bold

Shed oft their downy burs,

And the well-cropped grass is velvet soft,

And the broom grows tall and fair,

He lies on his back and gazes up

Into the wandering air.

And the bramble yields him coal-black fruit,

And the thorn its scarlet hip,

And the brook that washes the oak's snake root

Brings nectar to his lip.

And in the chilly autumn time,

When the leaves drop thick and fast,

He lights his fire in some warm deep nook,

And laughs at the threats of the blast.

And he counteth forth his stolen scraps

From out his clouted bag,

That like his coat is a patchwork rare
Of many a coloured rag.