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precious metal in the Victoria fields, and especially at Mount Alexander, appears of astounding magnitude. It is stated—though we can scarcely yet bring ourselves to believe the account—that the late findings are at the rate of about twenty millions per annum. Leaving this aside, as at least a speculative view of the matter, we have before us the ascertained fact, that the first year of the Australian gold-mining, ending in May 1852, saw L.3,600,000 exported to England. This must of course enrich the colony, notwithstanding every drawback produced by the derangement of ordinary industry. Accordingly, it is not surprising to hear, that the revenue of Victoria had risen, being in the quarter ending 31st March last, L.230,000, or L.180,000 above the corresponding quarter of 1851.

To tell our readers of the great rush of emigration of all classes that is now starting from our own shores to those of the gold colonies of Australia, would be but to tell them what every one is acquainted with. To speculate on the consequences of this emigration, and on the effect of the vast increase of gold in the world generally, would require prophetic faculties, to which we make no pretensions. That the ultimate effects of both will be beneficial, no one can doubt. In Mr Arrowsmith's map of the gold regions, appended to the parliamentary report issued June 14, 1852, auriferous spots are marked on the flanks or on the subordinate ranges of the great eastern chain, from Ballarat on the south to beyond the latitude of Moreton Bay on the north-a distance which, measured along the mountain-chain, equals a thousand statute miles in length. It would be absurd to suppose that we are yet acquainted with the half or the hundredth part of the rich auriferous deposits concealed in the vast mountain-ranges, the thousands of valleys, ravines, and gorges of this great and complicated chain. There is probably work, therefore, for many years for ten times the present population of Australia at the trade of gold-digging alone. It is, however, rich in other metals: it has thousands of square miles on which to pasture_the_best sheep, the best cattle and horses in the world; it has hundreds even for some of the best wheat in the world. The vineyards of the colonists are already becoming important; and ere many years are passed, they will be able to rival in their wines those of Bordeaux, Burgundy, and the Rhine, perhaps even those of Champagne. For any possible amount of emigration to overstock such a country in the present century, therefore, is impossible. The only difficulty about the matter is, the cost of transit; and for this the gold discoveries have provided, and will still more provide. Any man, woman, or child, with a pair of arms, and who is willing to use them, may gain what are there known as the necessaries, and which in our own countries would often, alas! be looked on as the luxuries of life. Nay, let not the one-armed, or even the one-eyed, or the one-legged man despair. Who would make so good and steady a hut-keeper as a man with one leg? A

man with one eye can see a flock of sheep, and a man with one arm tend them by day and drive them to the fold at night.

As to the more general question of the effect of the recent influx of gold on the value of property, and the prices of things here and elsewhere, we would hesitate longer to pronounce a decisive opinion. That the effect is already felt in the markets of the world is, we believe, the opinion of most commercial authoritiesfelt, perhaps, as much in anticipation as in actual present pressure. How far any great and continued accession would be absorbed in manufactures, in the substitution of a gold for a silver or paper currency, or in other ways, it is difficult to foresee, though we all know there must be a limit to these and other channels of absorption; and when they are filled, the overplus must immediately act in lowering the value of gold and gold coins throughout the world. However beneficial this effect might ultimately be, either to the world at large or to the possessors of other things that were exchangeable for gold, this would of course be a disagreeable operation for those who only possessed gold or securities for the payment of gold. We have been informed that such capitalists are even now commencing to invest their gold in land, and that it is to such a feeling, among other things, that the very marked rise in the price of land-in Ireland, for instance—is due.

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I.

T was an afternoon in November; the sun was set, but through the dull twilight, objects were still dimly visible, while a thick, wetting rain, from the unbroken canopy of cloud, fell slowly but heavily on the earth, which seemed so completely saturated that it would absorb no more. No sound was to be heard save that of the measured, melancholy fall of the rain, as it dripped from the leafless boughs on the dank fallen foliage beneath, or as, from the eaves of the houses, it plashed on the dirty, ill-paved streets of Ruthersholm-a small town in one of the inland counties of Scotland. In the outskirts of this town was a little row of cottages, belonging to the humbler class of the inhabitants, having the road in front, and behind, market-gardens, and crofts or meadows, where cows pastured in the summer-time.

At the door of one of these cottages, on the evening above mentioned, stood, as if on the look-out for some one, a young and comely girl. She appeared to be about twenty, had a plump, tight, tidy little figure, and a bright, blooming, kindly face, with the fair skin, rosy cheeks, and yellow hair which compose the favourite type of beauty among her own class in the country to which she belonged. Her merino gown, rather too fashionably made for a servant, and her coquettish little cap, trimmed with blue ribbons,

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shewed that Jessie Gibson was not without some idea that she was a beauty.

"He's no coming, mother; he'll no ha' been able to ford the water, and the ferry-boat wadna gang out sic a nicht as this.'

'Come in, hinny,' cried a voice from the interior: 'it's nae wyte o' Robin's, I'se warrant that.'

I think I see him, though-I see something doon the road,' Jessie responded joyfully. It canna be onybody else sic a nicht as this.'

And, indeed, no living creature, save a criminal fleeing from detection, or a lover hastening to his mistress, or some one urged by a passion as strong as these, would have been voluntarily exposed on so inclement a night. But for the moment Jessie had forgotten that some have no choice that there are those who have not where to hide their heads even from the pelting of the pitiless blast of November. But the night was now so dark, and the rain so thick, that the individual in question was almost close to the door, at which Jessie was standing, ere the latter perceived that instead of Robin Rae, her lover, it was an unfortunate person of this class. The new-comer looked between twenty and thirty; her poor, thin, wet garments were clinging to her emaciated figure; and her wan, sickly face, and unearthly dark eyes, were hardly shaded by her battered bonnet. She held, wrapped in a ragged petticoat of blue flannel, an infant folded to her bosom, as if she sought to give it thus a little warmth.

The momentary feeling of irritation produced in Jessie's mind, by the disappointment of finding that, after all, it was not her lover, vanished on seeing this miserable object, for her impulses were naturally both benevolent and active. The wanderer told a piteous tale. The infant, she said, was the child of a dead sister, who had been the wife of a respectable workman in a large town in Yorkshire. A depression in trade had thrown him out of employment, and while endeavouring to obtain work, he had been seized with inflammation of the lungs, which had terminated fatally. His unhappy wife, just on the eve of her confinement, had written to her sister-her only living relation-begging the latter to hasten to her, as she felt convinced her own end was at hand. This girl, who lived in Ayrshire, gaining a poor livelihood there by working the much-admired embroidery on muslin, had not hesitated to set out, expending her little all on the journey to Yorkshire. She had arrived just in time to receive the poor widow's last breath, and the charge of the babe-her dying sister's legacy. She was now on her way back to Ayrshire with the little burden. Her money being long since spent, she had come nearly all the distance on foot, and for the last two days had begged her way from door to door. 'But,' she continued, being now under the shelter of the narrow passage, into which, while she spoke, Jessie had drawn her 'now my strength has failed me; the babe, the dear, dear babe is dying, if not dead, and this

night I know not where to seek a roof to cover us.' Here the poor girl, overcome by grief and fatigue, burst into a fit of low hysterical weeping. Jessie drew her into their outer room-a sort of kitchen-a decent, cleanly, tidy apartment with a blazing fire, and a row of cups set for tea on a deal-table at the window.

The rest of the family, consisting of the mother and two or three children, a great deal younger than Jessie, crowded round the stranger, who, in a fainting state, produced by the sudden warmth of the apartment, had fallen into a great wooden chair, somewhat the shape of a half-circle, with a railing round the bow. Mrs Gibson took the baby, while her daughter administered some tea to the poor woman.

'I am dying; I can do no more-God help us!' sobbed the latter in a tone almost inaudible, and then, from sheer exhaustion, relapsed again into insensibility. Meanwhile Mrs Gibson had the infant on her knee. It, too, seemed hardly to live; and its small, pinched features, and fingers like straws, told a tale of suffering which excited in the hearts of the mother and daughter feelings of the most painful commiseration.

'Better send for the doctor,' said Mrs Gibson.

'I will rin mysel' this minute,' cried Jessie; and seizing an old shawl, without one thought of the 'best gown,' which had been put on to do honour to Robin, she rushed out into the rain, and in a few minutes returned with a surgeon who lived near. He shook his head mournfully when he saw the baby; and having felt the pulse of the poor woman, pronounced that she was in a fever, produced by exposure to cold, fatigue, and hunger. She ought, he said, to be put to bed immediately. Mrs Gibson and Jessie regarded one another in consternation. To turn out a sick, and perhaps dying stranger on such a night as this, was an impossibility to their compassionate natures-yet how to keep her, perhaps through a long illness, they knew not, for they were poor.

Mrs Gibson was a widow, who, in addition to a very small income left her by her husband, drove a trade in apples, gingerbread, wooden dolls, and other such matters, to enable her to maintain her family. Her three eldest children could now, however, support themselves. Her two sons obtained wages as journeymen-carpenters in a neighbouring town; and Jessie, who was her eldest child, was at service as housemaid in the family of a gentleman farmer in the neighbourhood. She was at present at home on a visit for a few days. She had been engaged for some time to a highly-respectable young man, a gardener, but who had not yet obtained any permanent employment, and consequently could not afford to marry. But they were both young, and had all the world before them; so they were quite happy, and looked forward to the future with mutual confidence. But to return to the sick girl and the dying infant. What was to be done? All looked blank. At last, Jessie exclaimed with a

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