Bloomfield used to say, that to encounter Old Age, Winter, and Poverty, was like meeting three Giants; she might have added two more, as huge and terrible, Sickness and Ignorance the last not the least of the Monster Evils; for it is he who affects pauperism with a deeper poverty-the beggary of the mind and soul.

"I have said how unavailing is luxury when the body is distressed and the spirit faint. At such times, and at all times, we cannot but be deeply grieved at the conception of the converse of our own state, at the thought of the multitude of poor suffering under privation, without the support and solace of great ideas. It is sad enough to think of them on a winter's night, aching with cold in every limb, and sunk as low as we in nerve and spirits, from their want of sufficient food. But this thought is supportable in cases where we may fairly hope that the greatest ideas are cheering them as we are cheered that there is a mere set-off of their cold and hunger against our disease; and that we are alike inspired by spiritual vigour in the belief that our Father is with us,-that we are only encountering the probations of our pilgrimage,—that we have a divine work given us to carry out, now in pain and now in joy. There is comfort in the midst of the sadness and shame when we are thinking of the poor who can reflect and pray,-of the old woman who was once a punctual and eager attendant at church,-of the wasting child who was formerly a Sunday-scholar,—of the reduced gentleman or destitute student who retain the privilege of their humanity,-of 'looking before and after.' But there is no mitigation of the horror when we think of the savage poor, who form so large a proportion of the hungerers,-when we conceive of them suffering the privation of all good things at once,-suffering under the aching cold, the sinking hunger, the shivering nakedness, without the respite or solace afforded by one inspiring or beguiling idea.

"I will not dwell on the reflection. A glimpse into this hell ought to suffice (though we, to whom imagery comes unbidden, and cannot be banished at will, have to bear much more than occasional glimpses); a glimpse ought to suffice to set all to work to procure for every one of these sufferers, bread and warmth, if possible, and as soon as possible; but above everything, and without the loss of an hour, an entrance upon their spiritual birthright. Every man and every woman, however wise and tender, appearing and designing to be, who for an hour helps to keep closed the entrance to the region of ideas,-who stands between sufferers and great thoughts, (which are the angels of consolation sent by God to all to whom he has given souls,) are, in so far, ministers of hell, not themselves inflicting torment, but intercepting the influences which would assuage or overpower

it. Let the plea be heard of us sufferers who know well the power of ideas,-our plea for the poor,-that, while we are contriving for all to be fed and cherished by food and fire, we may meanwhile kindle the immortal vitality within them, and give them that ethereal solace and sustenance which was meant to be shared by all, without money and without price.'

Never, then, tell a man, permanently sick, that he will again be a perfect picture of health when he has not the frame for it-nor hint to a sick woman, incurably smitten, that the seeds of her disease will flourish and flower into lilies and roses. Why deter them from providing suitable pleasures and enjoyments to replace those delights of health and strength of which they must take leave for ever? Why not rather forewarn them of the Lapland Winter to which they are destined, and to trim their lamps spiritual for the darkness of a long seclusion? Tell them their doom, and let them prepare themselves for it, according to the essays before us, so healthy in tone, though invalid; so wholesome and salutary, though furnished from a sick room.

ALBUMS.

Ar the present day, when every fine lady has an equally fine album, and inexorably levies contributions from each of her fine acquaintance, it is dangerous to appear in the drawing-room, unless duly victualled and crammed with elaborately prepared impromptus, and carefully finished fragments, ready for adorning "the virgin page." (I don't mean the button-boy.) The fair one's good word for you may depend on your own bon mot, and a judicious jeu d'esprit may give

you a locus standi among the gownsfolk before all the senior wranglers of the season. You had better forget your card case, than your scrap case; and to be prepared with a new bit of scandal is less important than to be primed and loaded with a brilliant "pellet of the brain" for the album. If, however, you are too dull or too indolent to manufacture a scrap out of your own raw materials, you must "call up spirits from the vasty deep" of some needy author, who, for a consideration, will make them respond to the call. But be sure you get the entire copyright for your coin, and that the impromptu-seller does not supply a duplicate to some other dunce. I shall never forget the laugh of a lively young lady, on her showing to me the same poetical offering to her beautiful charms, laid upon her scriptorian altar, in different places, by divers worshippers, who, unknowingly to each other, had purchased the same goods at the same workshop, each inscribing it as born of his own spontaneous mother wit. But, as the young beauty remarked, who ever heard of three Minervas issuing, fully armed, from Jove's head? I remember the first verse ran thus :

"Fair lady, when my hand you ask

Your album to embellish,

You offer a delightful task,

Apollo's self might relish."

My fair informant told me that one of the would-be-witty contributors happened to forget the fourth line. He was fairly stumped. In vain he bit the feather end of his goosequill; the line had flown from his memory;-in vain he plunged his pen into the ink again and again, knuckle-deep; he only darkened his fingers, without enlightening his faculties. At last he was closing the book in despair, when his eye was caught by the gorgeous splendour of the red, green,

and gold cover,-a thought struck him, he was suddenly inspired, and dashed off the really original line—

"'Tis bound uncommon swellish."

Such an accidental bit of opportune inspiration may not always be your fortune; and therefore take care to get your scrap well by heart, so that every word shall flow currently and smoothly, without hitch or blot, from your fingers' ends.

There was once related to me another case of lapse of memory at the important moment. A rare album writer was in the constant habit of repeating over his intended impromptu addresses to the fair this, or charming that, while shaving himself at his glass. On one occasion the album was presented to him, but alas! it was in vain he had made ready, for he could not fire-he had forgotten his couplets. The barrel was charged, but the leaden contents remained as harmlessly quiet as wet gunpowder. What was to be done to restore suspended animation? He feigns sudden illness, retires to another room, gets a servant to bring him warm water and a razor, and prepares for a shave. The experiment is quite successful; for no sooner does the glass reflect his face in a lather, than his memory revives, and the lost effusion is recovered. This was but an awkward piece of business after all; and I should say, if you must have some association to fix your memory, avoid making that association with a razor, lest some day or other you chance to cut a ridiculous figure.

The old adage, that we may judge of the character of another by the character of his or her associates, with some exceptions and no rule is without exceptions-applies to an album, whose contents generally form a tolerably correct

index of the peculiar society and character of its possessor. Men do not gather grapes of thorns, and we should scarcely find the album of a she-Friend seasoned with any spicy morsel about love or wine, of the flavour of Anacreon or Tom Moore. As well might we expect to hear, "Friend of my soul this goblet sip," sung in full chorus by a Quaker congregation in a meeting-house. A Friend's scraps are for the most part peculiarly characteristic. One spinster of pallid complexion and petulant temper, who dwelt in the street called Whitecross, is said to have obtained from a Friend on the eve of his departure to Bombay the following:

"For export to India no ale can be fitter

Than thee Betsy Butt, thou 'rt so pale and so bitter.
"Thy friend,

"OBADIAH HOGG."

This was no flattery. It was decidedly uncivil towards Miss Butt, who, however, ought to have known better than expect wit or good manners from a hogshead more accustomed to pale ale than politeness.

Professional jokes in a lady's album are generally outrageous violations of all propriety. They are frequently not understood, or misunderstood, or unappreciated by the fair one, who usually prefers, to the most pointed of such witticisms, any jingle, how lackadaisycal soever it may be, about eyes and flies, hearts and darts, dove and love, single and mingle, arms, charms, kisses, blisses, willing, thrilling, billing, killing, &c., &c., &c.

One young lady, who had recently taken Father Mathew's pledge, was entirely horrified when I translated for her a prescription, which a rattle-brained medical student of Guy's