they did it for religion's sake! As they fed upon the church, they feed upon the state. The peerage drains upwards of three millions of money in pensions and places. Well may we be a "pensive public."

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For land then, and by land, has the whole fabric of our laws and constitution been built. For land, does the corn law famish its yearly victims; for land, does the game law demoralise districts; for land, does the law of primogeniture set aside the law of nature; for land, does the law of entail defeat the plain rules of justice; for colonial land, are we hampered by numberless paralysing fiscal restrictions; for land, is the absurd distinction drawn between personal and real property-always careful to protect the one at the expense of the other; for the sake of land, the goods of a sub-tenant may be seized for the non-fulfilment of a contract to which he was no party; for the benefit of land, the scraped up pittance devised to widows is pillaged, while the princely estate passes free from sire to son; for land, we live move and have our being; land governs us; land taxes us; Atlaslike the land weighs us down. Judge-made law may be bad, but landlord-made law is worse. Morally, we are still adscripti glebæ

The Law of the Land is the Law for the Land!

A. B. R.

THE ANTI-CORN LAW LEAGUE BAZAAR.

WITHIN the walls of Covent Garden Theatre the drama of fiction has long found a bright abiding place and home. Within these walls for years and years has Genius spoken to the people— solemn in the sombre robe of Tragedy, or sparkling in the gayer vestments of her more mirthful sister, in Art. Within these walls have enthusiastic assemblages, by turns mirthful and tearful, come to cast aside, for the hour the sordid things of life, and revel in bright scenes, and among fair beings, poet-created. Within these walls have the high thoughts and grand imaginings, joyfully conjured up by Genius in its solitude, found a living voice, and pealed into the beating hearts of thousands-rousing them to honest wrath, or, in more gentle mood, murmuring in whispers to be best

answered by tears. Within the walls of Covent Garden Theatre the dramatic glory of our literature has been long enshrined—a mighty temple reared to a mighty power.

For the present these things exist not. The worship has paused, and the worshippers have left the fane. We trust and believe that the power of the one has not ceased-that the others will yet return-that our great national theatre will be again what it was, and what it ought to be.

But the dramatic interregnum is not all barren. The theatre is not left mouldering, and dark, and empty. On the contrary, it has been as instinct with life-as teeming with admiration as in those olden days, when crookbacked Richard dreamed his fearful vision, or Miranda listened to the song of Ariel, and entranced audiences shuddered at the one, or hung upon the melody of the other.

We

And now there have been acted in Covent Garden Theatre-not scenes from the drama of fiction—but great scenes from the still more dread drama of reality. We have seen triumph within its walls-not fictitious stage kings, but true popular leaders. have seen a demonstration of a power which does not fade with the glare of footlights-of a power mighty in its justice—of a power which will create a great, but a bloodless, social revolution—of a power which will restore to labour its just rights without depriving property of its just privileges-of a power which will link men of all climes together in a blessed brotherhood-of a power which will triumph over the earth, and bless all it triumphs over-which will enlighten and improve, and extend human happiness, and promote human comfort, as assuredly as God has decreed that what is good shall prevail, and as assuredly as all which he has decreed shall be accomplished!

The scene which, during the last month, Covent Garden Theatre exhibited, was a great demonstration—a great fact. The sight which it exhibited to the country was one to make it think. Within a spacious area were collected innumerable triumphs of industry and skill-a mute parliament of labour. And these thousand objects imagined by ingenuity-created by toil-pleaded in all the eloquence of silence for the rights of those who fashioned them. The workman was represented by his handicraft; the toiling city was shadowed forth by rich stuffs, or glancing metals; and the fabrics, gorgeous from the loom, or dazzling from the forge, cried aloud, although they spoke not: "Let us accomplish

our mission: let us go forth over the earth, civilising, aiding, comforting man ; and bringing, in return, plenty to the board, and peace to the hearth, of the toil-worn men and women who have fashioned us!"

A "Bazaar"-tis a trite word for a commonplace thing-often an idle mart for children's trumpery-for foolish goods brought forth of laborious idleness. But an idea can ennoble anything. Nobility, in its true sense, is an idea; and how grand is the idea which ennobles our Bazaar-which, even apart from its claims as an industrial exposition, makes it a great and holy thing. "FREE TRADE." These words form a spell by which the world will yet be governed. They are the spirit of a dawning creed-—a creed which already has found altars and temples worthy of its truth.

The Anti-Corn-Law-league Bazaar has raised thoughts in the national mind which will not soon die. As a spectacle, it was magnificent in the extreme; but not more grand materially than it was morally. The crowd who saw it, thought as well as gazed. It was not a mere huge shop for selling wares; but a great school for propagating an idea. And the pupils were not Londoners alone. From every part of the land, monster trains hurried up their visitors. From the tracts where tall chimneys stand like forests from the districts where the plough, not the engine, labours where the farm-steading takes the place of the factory— where the "mill" means not that weaving yarn, but that grinding corn-from town and country-shipping port and inland city— steam has whirled its tens of thousands to one common centreto see a great demonstration-to take a great lesson, and then to narrato and teach what they have beheld and learned to others.

Nevertheless, these pages may fall into the hands of many who have not seen at all, or have heard little of the Anti-Corn-Law Bazaar. For their behoof we shall attempt a sketch in outlineit must be a rude and a hurried one-of the last grand demonstration of the League.

And first-not pausing on the threshold, not dwelling over the treasures piled in lobbies-let us enter the Grand Hall, the inner and principal temple reared to Free Trade.

Let the scene burst at once upon us. Where are we? In a theatre? Where are boxes, and pit, and stage? It seems a sainted cathedral of old, through which the eye glances amid long vistas of pillars and of groined arches; a shadowy dim fane, into which light comes clothed with rich colour through the frosted

windows; over which fretted arches, vaulted and echoing, extend; pillar, and roof, and oriel, rich with chiselling and the pomp of heraldry, and the gorgeous blazoning of old. Yet all this is but painted canvass and cut pasteboard. The art of the scenic decorator has been called into play, and in a few short weeks he has turned the theatre into a Norman Gothic hall. The illusion is as complete as an illusion, which you know to be one, can be. Carved stone and oak are mimicked with rare skill. Mr. Grieve is another geni, who can conjure up a palace in a night.

But then the furniture-the tenants of our Norman Gothic hallwhat do they consist of? Taking up our station at one end, glance through the vista of pillar and arch, and see.

Long rows of tables extend away into the dim distance-two in the centre and one on either side. They are piled with rich merchandise, curiosities, miracles of art, wonders of nature. They comprehend the treasures of the warehouse and the museum. Rich stuffs and drapery arise from the walls, and the eye travels over seemingly never-ending masses of costly articles of every variety; for ornament, for use; for the boudoir, for the wardrobe; toys to please the eye, to minister to the very wantonness of luxury ; things of necessity not so pretty, but much more useful; holiday bravery and every-day apparel; a sort of huge collection, not of one, but of all classes of social objects; of furniture for our homes, garments for ourselves, and ornaments for both; things to make us comfortable and make us gay; a never-ending, still beginning, panorama of the products of the labour of every artisan; the staples of every district; the wares of every factory; the goods of every shop!

Let us, however, be still more particular; and, pushing amid the thronging, chaffering crowd, make our way along the extending lines of tables, divided into stalls, each stall representing a city, or an industrial district, and, courteously informed by the fair and good ladies who preside, each over her peculiar charge of wares, examine more closely this great social museum.

Turning to the right on our entrance, we find ourselves among the productions of the stuff-manufacturing towns of the north. Yorkshire and Lancashire, these two grand hives of industry are of course well represented. Rochdale has its warm flannels, and rich winter clothings. Halifax sends light woollen goods of gay hues and soft fleecy texture; and Bradford is not behind-hand in a similar way.

On the opposite side of the theatre are the

variegated prints which busy Manchester pours forth in a profusion which would clothe the world. The products of the swarming manufacturing towns which dot the north of England, and from among which the great voice of Corn-law Repeal first went forth over the land, are all represented here by the fruits of their numerous branches of industry. Nor are the far-off cities of Scotland mute. Glasgow sends carpets soft as velvet-elastic to the foot as living turf, glowing with colours bright and glancing as the plumage of oriental birds-real romances of the loom. One of these, of large dimensions, is woven without a seam-a gorgeous piece of glowing texture. And Glasgow's neighbour, Paisley, sends shawls-delicate as Cachmires-the fit vestments of beauteous forms. The north against the east for the oriental garment! The Land of Cakes against that of Roses! Galashiels too contributes plenty of her peculiar fabrics-variegated tartans and shepherds' hoddin grey. Gala-water is a classic brook; the ancient minstrels sung of its "braw, braw lads." In olden times the moss-trooper, reeking from the foray, plunged his panting horse through its gurgling rapids. Now there are mills upon the banks, where feudal strongholds stood, and their inhabitants are free-traders, not free-booters. The times of modern reality are far better than those of ancient romance. Coventry-the town of the three spires-of peeping Tom-we see your ribbons glancing and glittering like so many rainbows condensed into shot silk. Leicester is here in her rich hosiery, and the busy hand of Nottingham is shadowed forth by her stores of gloves. Honiton sends laces elaborate as those of Valenciennes. Northampton-being of opinion that there is nothing like leather-contributes boots and shoes, for all occasions and places-from the muddy field through which the labourer splashes, to the gilded salon in which the carpet knight picks his mincing way. From the busiest centre of our manufacturing industry, to its remotest outskirt, have arrived offerings. Our great English and Scotch towns, surrounded by railways-swarming with artisans-ringing and shaking with the clatter of engines, forges, and looms-and the remote islands of the Orkneys, placed "far amid the melancholy main"-have all of them done their duty to the Free-Trade Bazaar. These last out of the world specks of barren rock and bleak moor, dotting the wild northern sea beyond Cape Wrath, have offered their knitted hosiery-worked in smoky cabins in long winter nights-delicate fabrics-warm and fleecy-congenial to the bleak northern clime. Then, turning from the products of the loom to those of the