"What's the good o' all this? Have n't you told me so, Mister, agin and agin?"

The ordinary groaned almost in despair, yet still renewed his task. "The heavens, I tell you, are opening for you; repent, my child; repent, poor boy, and you will be an immortal spirit, welcomed by millions of angels.'

St. Giles looked with bitter incredulity at his spiritual teacher. “Well, if all that's true," he said, “it isn't so hard to be hanged, arter all. But I don't think the nobs like me so well, as to send me to sich a place as that.'

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Nay, my poor boy," said the ordinary, "you will not, cannot understand me, until you pray. Now, kneel-my dear child, kneel and let us pray together." Saying this, the ordinary fell upon his knees; but St. Giles, folding his arms, so planted himself as to take firmer root of the ground; and so he stood with moody, determined looks, whilst the clergyman-touched more than was his wont-poured forth a passionate prayer that the heart of the young sinner might be softened; that it might be turned from stone into flesh, and become a grateful sacrifice to the throne of God. And whilst this prayer, in deep and solemn tones, rose from the prison-cell, he for whom the prayer was formed, seemed to grow harder, more obdurate, with every syllable. Still, he refused to bend his knee at the supplication of the clergyman, but stood eyeing him with a mingled look of incredulity, defiance, and contempt. "God help you-poor lost lamb!" cried

the ordinary, as he rose.

"Now, I hope we shall have no more o' that," was the only answer of St. Giles.

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The ordinary was about to quit the cell, when the door was opened, and the governor of the jail, attended by the head turnkey, entered. My dear sir, I am glad to find you here". said the governor to the ordinary. "I have a pleasing duty to perform a duty that I know it will delight you to witness." The ordinary glanced at a paper held by the governor ; his eyes brightened; and clasping his hands, he fervently uttered"Thank God! "

The governor then turned to St. Giles, who suddenly looked anxious and restless. "Prisoner," he said, "it is my happiness to inform you, that his gracious Majesty has been mercifully pleased to spare your life. You will not suffer with the unfortunate men to-morrow. You understand me, boy"—for St. Giles looked

suddenly stupefied-"you understand me, that the good King, whom you should ever pray for, has, in the hope that you will turn from the wickedness of your ways, determined to spare your life? You will be sent out of the country; and time given you that, if you properly use, will make you a good and honest man." St. Giles made no answer, but trembled violently from head to foot. Then his face flushed red as flame, and covering it with his hands, he fell upon his knees; and the tears ran streaming through his fingers. Pray with me; pray for me!" he cried, in broken voice, to the ordinary.

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And the ordinary knelt, and rendered up thanks" for the mercy of the King!

"humble and hearty

We will not linger in the prison-St. Giles was destined for Botany Bay. Mr. Capstick was delighted, in his own way, that the ends of justice would be satisfied; and whilst he rejoiced with the triumph of justice, he did not forget the evil-door; for St. Giles received a packet from the muffin-maker, containing sundry little comforts for his voyage.

" said Mrs. Aniseed, as

"We shall never see him again, Jem,' she left Newgate weeping; having taken her farewell of the young transport. "He's gone for ever from us.

"Not he," said Bright Jem; "we shall see him again another feller quite a true man, yet; I'm sure of it."

Whether Bright Jem was a true prophet will in due season be discovered by the patient reader of the next chapters.

HOW WILL IT LOOK?

THIS certainly appears a sufficiently harmless question; and therefore, when we say that the bare thought of it throws us into a fury, and well nigh deprives us of that philosophy which we need to employ in its treatment, the reader may reasonably be surprised -whence our indignation?

The same question may proceed from different motives, and express different feelings. According to the varieties of tone and emphasis with which it may be asked, are its diversities of meaning.

N. or M., as the case may be, goes to purchase, as may also be the case, a hat or a bonnet. There are two hats or bonnets for choice. In price and quality they are similar; in cut and colour they differ. And with reference to each, comparatively, N. or M. inquires, "How will it look ?"

That is, "which will look the best? because I may as well choose the better-looking. We swear not by George Fox: we regard not taste as sin and folly; and to the question, "How will it look?" thus interpreted, we have no manner of objection: but on the contrary, approve of it. We would put it to our tailor, our haberdasher, our bootmaker, ourselves.

But O. and P. are choosing the hat or bonnet. The hats or bonnets are equally durable; but one is a little better-looking, and much dearer, than the other. The difference of price is more than O. or P. can afford. Why not, then, put up with the second-best hat or bonnet?" Oh!" murmurs O. or P., moodily, discontentedly, complaining, "but how will it look?"

Which is as much as to say, “Had I not better exceed my means, than curb my vanity?"

This aspect of the question, "How will it look?" it is that excites our bile. Nobody, to be sure, but a clown would disregard, none but a conceited cynic would wilfully neglect, appearances; but to immolate to these even the shadow of a principle, to us seems inexpressibly vile. To outrun the constable, to plunge into debt, that is, to live on other people's money, just in order that the world at large may admire our insignificant exterior, how sordidly, pitifully dishonest! Much less shame than for such conduct should we take to ourselves, if, being hungry, we were to stretch forth our hand and steal. We consider a man a fool, to say no worse, who puts himself out of the way, who mulcts himself, or his own, of any considerable comfort or enjoyment for show. But, for a thing so small, to infringe at once convenience and conscience, is too much for our patience to think upon. We feel tempted, not to remonstrance, but to rail; not to argue, but call names. could wish that our ink were very gall; that so, in suitable characters, we might write down Ŏ. and P., and all their tribe, asses, oafs, dolts, loggerheads, numbskulls, ninnies, to the end of the chapter.

We

It is enough to put anybody, a Socrates, a Plato, an Isaac Newton, into a rage, to contemplate a world of simpletons possessed of the means of enjoying to the full all manner of really

solid and substantial comforts, conveniences, recreations, oblectations, and luxuries, who nevertheless render themselves miserable, by thus constantly harping and brooding on, boggling and stumbling at, the difficulty, "How will it look ?"

This consideration, indeed, paradoxical as the assertion may seem, must irritate a philosopher more than anybody else. For that species of human being especially well knows, or ought to know, among other things, what is good for himself; and by a law of nature must seek it. We never knew one, or the likeness of one, who did not prefer a good to a bad dinner; albeit he could tolerate the latter on necessity. To desire all attainable good, is as wise as it is to put up with all inevitable evil. Diogenes in his tub was but a brute; physically a badger, morally an ass. A philosopher differs from a blockhead not in having no desires,— not in not seeking gratification, but in desiring and pursuing real advantages, to the exclusion of those which are imaginary. By real advantages, we mean those whose value our reason cannot disprove. A haunch of venison is a good thing, especially with currant jelly. So are the products of the vintage, ay, and of stout John Barleycorn; in moderation, of course. No argument will refute their appeals to the senses to the gustatory nerve, the palate, and digestive organs. No metaphysics will close the ear and the soul against sweet song, or dim the eye and deaden the mind to the glories of art and nature. We look upon the handiwork of the sculptor, the artist, and feel that it is great; we behold the lilies of the valley, and see that they are beautiful. An actual, bona fide, pleasurable sensation, an honest affection of a natural faculty, is, so far, a blessing. Imaginary advantages are such as are sought through misconception, such as, on reflection, we discover to be null. There are some objects which naturally please when gained; others that only gratify a mind ignorant or perverted. Enlighten darkness, dispel prejudice, and the latter lose their charms. The feelings which thus originate are those that may be confuted. Reason, in fact, cannot destroy true, but it can destroy false sensations-you cannot convince my lord that his riband is not blue, that his star does not glitter. You cannot contradict his eye-sight; but you may convince him that true honour pertains to intrinsic worth, and that his badge of dignity is a trumpery bauble. Philosophy as much esteems solid pudding as it despises empty praise.

A stupid old saw says that wealth does not confer happiness

by happiness being meant, not perfect abstract beatitude, which of course is unattainable in this world by any means; but that comparative state of tranquillity and well-being which we commonly understand by the word. Now there is scarcely any happiness beyond that of a good conscience to be had without some money, more or less :-home and its comforts, science, literature, art, travel, all cost something; and a good deal, each of them. That wealth does not necessitate happiness, is true enough. It would, though, with a little knowledge and common sense and here is the philosopher's grievance :-enhanced, we may whisper, by the circumstance, that whilst he possesses these, he is generally deficient in the other thing, vulgarly but expressively termed The Needful. He hates to see money, that might be wisely spent, foolishly thrown away.

Often have we repaired on a leisure afternoon, during the London season, to Rotten-Row, to look at the superior classes, with Achates; and, when we have beheld the rich and noble pranked out in the flower-hues of their finery, and, butterfly-like, sunning themselves in their grand equipages, have we exclaimed, with many a tailor's journeyman (doubtless), clerk, medical student, or mechanic-" What happy mortals must those gentlefolks be! There they go, not only certain of their three meals, or more if they want it, a day, but able to gratify, to the full, every instinct of a rational nature. Take, for instance, the affections the poor man's heart is chained up; he does not follow its impulses, or requite those of another. Head over ears in love, perhaps, with his Mary Anne, he has not the wherewithal to buy a ring. But there are they, rolling in wealth as in a phaëtonvery porpoises in the sea of affluence. What is there to baulk their inclinations; what to forbid their banns? Their life might be one scene of domestic bliss, varied with amusement. Or, take the head instead of the heart: what would many a sculptor, poet, painter give, for their leisure and their means of working on to immortality? We will say nothing of the poor epicure, or shot,

or brother of the angle.'

And then has Achates answered, "You little think of their cares and heartburnings in seeking to outshine and outvie one another. You little think of the embarrassment, even, in which they are consequently entangled. Why, probably, nine-tenths of them are up to their chins in debt."

And thus it is: so many horses must be kept, so many ser