munication by sea, by rivers connected with the sea, or by inland roads. The supply of food to such a city must be drawn from a larger area than the country immediately around it. London is most favourably situ ated in this respect; and we believe that even in the time of Elizabeth there could have been no difficulty in supplying with food any amount of inhabitants in the capital. The increase of its inhabitants must, to a certain extent, have been always proportionate, if not to the actual increase of the other inhabitants of the country, to the increase of the whole productive power of the country. London could not be fed during an increase of its inhabitants, if the capital and profits of London did not proportionally increase. But that increase of capital would increase the food by the best of all possible means -by increasing the productive power by which it could alone be supplied. We may dismiss therefore, once and for ever, the notion that London can sustain a deficiency of food as long as she has the means of purchasing food. The wonderful precision with which her daily supplies are regulated may be almost termed the result of a law of nature. Nothing is done in concert; but each man acts upon the dictates of his own interest; and thus, and thus alone, there is no deficiency, and no waste.

But there was a third cause of apprehension in the proclamations of Elizabeth, with regard to the increase of people in London, which we seem rather to have shut our eyes against. It has been one of those things which it is not pleasant to look upon. It has not made to itself a loud voice, like that of the rogues about Queen Elizabeth's coach. It has not been an imaginary evil, like that of the fancied disproportion between the demand and the supply of food. The proclamation complains of "great multitudes of people inhabiting in small rooms, whereof many be very poor, heaped up together, and in a sort smothered with many families of children in one house." This is an evil which exists up to the present hour. If the legislators of the time of Elizabeth had understood how to correct the evil, they would have encouraged building in the suburbs, instead of legislating

We occasionally

against the local extension of London. sweep away the wretched dens, hidden in back courts and alleys, where the poor are in a sort smothered; but neither do we make any provision for them, by building habitations fit for their reception.

[1841.]

THE SPRING SONG.

WINTER, Winter, is hurrying away;

There's a leaf on the brier and a bird on the tree; And the butterfly flits in the noon-tide ray,

And the furze hath spread its flower for the bee:

The lark ventures up in the pearly sky,

The almond-bloom shows its faint blush to the sun,

A wandering swallow here dares to fly,

The jolly young Spring his kingdom hath won.
Winter, Winter, is hurrying away.

Winter, Winter, will still remain ;—

There's a frost on the grass and a blight on the flower; And the beetle is locked in the earth again,

And the sheep gather close in the morning shower: The thrush is silent that sang before,

The violet shrinks to her leafy nest,

The mountain runnels in torrents roar,-
The pale Spring hides in old Winter's breast.
Winter, Winter, will still remain.

Winter, Winter, is over and gone;—

There's a dew on the lily, a scent in the rose,
And the moth is out in the sunny morn,
And the May-fly dies in the daylight's close:
The stock-dove is building in many a bower,
The trees and the insects breathe again,—
There's a charm in the day and a joy in the hour,-
The steadfast Spring hath fixed his reign.

Winter, Winter, is over and gone.

MARY WILLIAMS:

A TALE.

In the neighbourhood of a small town in the south of England there came to dwell, some years ago, a young mother, whose family consisted of a boy six years old, and a lovely little girl three years younger. She was a stranger to the inhabitants; and there was about her something of mystery, which the uncharitable interpreted to her disadvantage, and which prevented even the kindly disposed from warmly interesting themselves in her fortune. Her name was Mary Williams.

Mary Williams lived for some time unknown and unnoticed. She intimated her wish to maintain her family by receiving the children of her neighbours to instruct in the rudiments of education and in their Christian duties: but no pupils presented themselves. She desired to be employed as a seamstress; but no work was offered her. Mary saw her little savings visibly declining; she sometimes looked upon her children with a sad foreboding, and wiped the secret and unbidden tear from her sunken eye.

The inmates of the cottages which surrounded her little dwelling were excessively curious to know the history of Mary Williams. She was seldom seen in the day-time, for she was employed in instructing her little boy, who was docile and industrious; or she was endeavouring to conceal the approaches of poverty by additional care in the preservation of their humble garments. She and her children were still ever neat and clean. But on a summer evening she sat in the garden in front of her door, and, listening to the prattle of her loved ones, endeavoured to forget the cares which had removed the bloom of youth from her cheek. It was at this hour of repose that the gossips would sometimes come around her. Their manifest intention was to break through the

reserve which she had resolved to maintain. They sometimes made her feel bitterly; but she was not uncivil to them; and they generally went home with an impression that Mary Williams was a strange young woman, but that there was no harm in her.

Mary still wanted employment. The full difficulties of her situation now became visible to her. A few shillings only remained to provide for the necessities of the passing week. But she had still the comfort of feeling that she had not been improvident, and the equal satisfaction of knowing that she was not in debt. Her spirit did not sink; for she had been accustomed to place a firm reliance on the mercy of the Most High; and she looked for a sure relief to the Almighty Protector of the widowed and the fatherless.

On the day that her last shilling only remained to her, Mary Williams determined to make a more strenuous effort to procure work as a seamstress. Should this fail, her only resource was to engage herself as a servant, and bestow all her earnings upon her children. But she dreaded a separation. She therefore resolved to conquer her natural timidity, and to solicit that assistance which she felt that she could honestly ask. She stated her case to several tradesmen. Their first question was, "Are you a widow?"-she could only answer by her tears. The conclusion was, that her children were illegitimate, and that she was unworthy. She returned home without success, and almost heart-broken. For the first time she sat down and sobbed aloud in the presence of her children.

Her little Susan clung around with unconscious indifference ;-but her Henry felt and shared her grief. "Mother," he said, "you have told us that God will take care of us, and why do you cry ?" "My dear boy, that is the last loaf of bread I have the power to procure; and must I see you starve, my children, O my children ?” "My dear mother, that is sufficient for to-day, and God will take care of to-morrow." The afflicted parent remembered the promises of Scripture; she kissed her children, and wiping her tears, fell on her knees, and

silently prayed for a short space. She then turned to her Bible and read aloud the sixth chapter of Matthew. She confided in the promises of her Redeemer, and laid herself down to sleep in the tranquillity of innocence and of faith.

In the morning Mary rose with a resigned heart. She had sufficient left for the first meal of her household; and she sat down to her scanty fare with thankfulness, in the assurance that her "heavenly Father," who "feedeth the fowls of the air," would supply their future wants. They had scarcely breakfasted, when a lady of mild and benevolent appearance entered the cottage. "I have heard," said she, "of your necessities and your desires. But I love sincerity; let me know your history without reserve, and if you are deserving, you will not want a friend."

There was something in the manner of this kind visitor that told Mary Williams she had no idle curiosity to shrink from; she felt that her prayers had been heard. Dismissing her children, she respectfully requested the lady to be seated, and in a faultering voice commenced her narrative. She was a woman of good sense and strong feeling; she spoke from her heart, and she therefore at once produced conviction, and obtained pity.

"Oh, Madam!" she said, "I have perhaps been wrong in keeping my sorrows to myself, and in thus exposing myself and my poor children to want, it may be, to reproach; but though I blush not for my own crimes, I blush for the fault of one I loved, the father of those dear little ones. I was the only daughter of a decent tradesman; a good man, but not a rich one. He died and left me a little money. I was too young and inexperienced to engage in his business; I conquered my false pride, and determined to go to service. About the time that I had formed this resolution, a young man who had been apprenticed to my father returned to our town. He possessed many good qualities, which blinded me to the evil parts of his character. I knew that his passions were violent, and that he was habitually indifferent to Religion. He paid his addresses to me; and I fondly