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they are very careful not to produce another. Confessedly, the depreciation which did exist was most baneful, and the cause of much positive spoliation. But there is no use in magnifying injustice. The smallest portion of it is hateful enough; and it certainly shews no hatred of it, to exaggerate the past as the ground of fresh perpetrations.

2. The second money column records the current price of wheat during a longer period. From 1801, part of the high price is confessedly due to the low value of the paper; but how little connexion do these figures establish between that low value and the fluctuations of price! There existed, therefore, some far more powerful deranging cause.

3. The third and last money column, shows all these prices reduced to gold prices; so that it points out the fluctuations which took place independently of the depreciation, viz., the natural fluctuations. These were owing wholly to the seasons and obstructed importation. The elevation, it will be observed, down to 1814, is sufficiently great to have given rise to much speculation, and the subsequent fall quite adequate to account for the ensuing loss. The depreciation did indeed aggravate all, but it was not the principal cause. The disappointed speculators in cotton or silk might have cried out for adjustment with as good face as the agriculturists; and so perhaps they would, but they were ruined outright and set adrift, whereas the wailings of many finger-burnt estate-purchasers have not ceased until the present hour. The difference arose from the possibility of obtaining permanent loans upon

estates.

Attention to the facts contained in the foregoing table will enable us to reduce much of this ridiculous and unfounded clamour to its true dimensions.

II. On the effect of the Resumption Act.

It appears from the foregoing table that, in 1819, when Mr. Peel's Bill passed, the depreciation of paper was only £4, 9s. per cent.; that, in the year 1829, it fell to £2, 12s. per cent., and the next year sank to 0,—or that then paper rose to par. Now it would seem manifest, that the only effect which the passing of that act, or, in other words, that substitution of gold for paper, could have had upon general prices, is measurable by the small amount of depreciation appearing in our table; and, certainly, if it had any other effect, that effect has not, up to this moment, been demonstrated or explained. It is Mr. Cayley, we think, who asserts that although the subsequent fall of prices has never been proved to be connected with Peel's Bill as with its CAUSE, it must, nevertheless, be referred to it on account of concomitance: an odd principle, and not hitherto accepted in logic. Concomitance is nothing, but a reason for our inquir ing, whether or not the concomitant circumstance is a cause. Attempts have often been made to get over the apparent difficulty, by imagining a rise in the value of gold of 20 or 25 per cent. on account of our new demand for it as circulating medium; but they are marked by the exaggeration usual to the dogmatists we combat. Taking into account the whole mass of precious metals in Europe, it is not possible that the ten or twelve millions exported in consequence of our Restriction Act could have lowered their value in the general market more than 1 per cent., even had other circumstances remained the same; and, supposing another 1 per cent. of rise to have taken place on our resumption of metallic currency, the sum of 2 per cent. was the very utmost requiring to be added to the foregoing amount in order to adjust it into a correct measure of the depreciation. But other circumstances did not remain the same. Instead of having its value on the continent lowered by the supply from Great Britain, gold was very scarce there, and hence very high during the whole period of the war. Nor is the reason a mystery. A vast quantity of it was absorbed in the military chests of the leading powers; and a still greater quantity disappeared, in consequence of that practice of private hoarding necessarily connected with a state of war. These disturbing causes ceased on the restoration of tranquillity: the precious metals re-appeared, and their value returned to par. If gentlemen who are so apt to theorize with vast confidence on this intricate subject, would but take the trouble to look into its details with something of the spirit in which they would inquire into a dark point connected with their own affairs, we should, doubtless, much sooner attain the knowledge we are in quest of. It would be painful to think that the passion for a little transient notoriety, or the offering up of a whiff of incense to personal obstinacy or conceit, could occupy, in any good reformer's mind, the place of that only noble, that only laudable ambition-the desire to dissever truth from union with falsehood and half-knowledge, and thereby to advance the permanent interests of our own minds, as well as those of all mankind. Referring again to the effects of Peel's Bill, be it noticed, that if mystery is still thought to rest over them, the cloud will never be blown away by thoughtless or random assertion.

THE PROSPECTS OF BRITAIN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "POLAND."
As on some hot and cumbrous summer noon,
When in the distance heavy clouds are hung
Betwixt the silent earth and silent heaven,-
When the sole spirit that is called abroad,
The Thunder, glideth onwards in his car,
Awake but voiceless, like some Indian beast
Crouching and trembling forwards in its den,-
Nature is still; and, in that deep suspense
"Twixt expectation and the thrill of fear,
Hushes her mighty heart; the winds, her breath,
Pent in her bosom, and how fixed her eye!
So is it with the nations: When a calm
Of such unspeakable and nerveless dread
Locks up their pulse; when in the eyes of men
We read not stormy passion, nor the flush
Of indignation, wrath, or hope, or wo;
When not one voice is raised to tell its
To pray for justice, or to urge revenge;
Watch, for the storm is working! If it bursts,
Wo to the iron despots of the world!
Wo to the evil counsellors who fling
Pernicious poison in the nation's cup!
Wo to the haughty minions! to the proud
Who set their heavy feet on freemen's necks,
And, save themselves, deem every man a slave!
Yet sometimes will the conflict pass away.
Sometimes the gentle wind, with flattering breath,
Will woo the thunder homewards unrevealed:
So hath it been with Britain! Dark portents,
Of most oracular and shrouded depth,

ongs,

Flitted like moving shadows o'er her face;

Men looked, and thought, and wisted not, but looked Forward with doubt, as did the ancient seer

For Salem's ruin. In the shifting scroll

Of their own hearts they tried to read their doom,
But found no answer; then they turned to gaze

Upon their neighbour's face, as if to see

The index of all hearts; but there was writ

No words, but doubt and dread inscrutable!

Look on them now: that doubt has passed away;
And hope, the parent of all happiness,

Sits lightly on their breasts; yet not with shouts,
With laughter, or with idle revelry

They hail the image of all freedom, Truth.
Something is done, but more remains behind,
Ere thou, my country, shalt be freed and cleansed
From stains of perverse ages! Cancerous rust
Hath gathered on thy helm and on thy shield!
And e'en thy sword is glued into the sheath.
Therefore, thy children wait, and wait with hope,
Even as men who keep the midnight watch,

After some day of victory and death,

When still upon the outskirts of the plain

The foe lies hovering. Let us watch and pray,

Silent but not asleep: the hurricane

Gives to the idle gazer small presage

Or warning of its advent; he who reads,

Morning and night, in Heaven's mysterious book,

Wherein the birth of coming wrath is told,

Knoweth its hour, and fleeth unto the plain.

Truth may be learned from semblance-life from that

Which lives not save in fancy; the thin shades,

Wrought by a master-hand, have attributes
Of power, which bear this virtue in their face,—
That, though life changes, they can never change.
These are the true memorials of the past,
Which speak but to the eye; therein we read
More truly what the poet's tale has told:
Then take two pictures of the self-same spot
At different seasons-when the hand of Time
Had placed a gap between the first and last.

One was a landscape, in a northern clime :
It was the end of autumn, and the clouds
Hung cold and moistly underneath the sun,
Clipping him of his radiance; a dull light
Spread o'er the surface of the sullen ground,
And a dark mist seemed oozing from its pores
Amidst the unhealthy herbage. Trees there were
Half naked of their leaves; the biting blast
Had done its work, and yet methought it seemed
As if some blight had marred their beauty more.
An old and ruined Temple stood beside-
Some shafts were broken, and their capitals,
Of rich Corinthian sculpture, with the grass

Mingled their mimic foliage; within

The shade was dense; yet through the watery gloom

One might discern a huge and shapeless shrine,

A heavy altar, on whose base was writ

"CORRUPTION !"-Some there were who knelt to pray

Not as a good man prays unto his God,

But as some wretch, who by unholy league

Hath bargained with a fiend, prefers his wish,

Half-shuddering, to the master whom he serves !
One object only was there in the scene
Unmarred with desolation.-Near a grove

Of leafless pines, a hundred winters old,
Laced and consumed by parasitic growth
There stood a palace: stately was its build.
Pillar on pillar, in long colonnade,

Bore on their heads the bold and simple arch;
Turrets of Gothic mould were reared above;
And marble steps, of white and slippery breadth,
Rose to the sculptured gates. Around there stood
A crowd of houseless beggars, lean and pale;
Famine with them had done the work of years,
Had chased the blood from out the livid cheek,
And in their scanty veins had mixed disease!
There stood the mother with her child,
Weeping for food: that child perchance more dear
To her, with all her wretchedness and wo,
Than is the infant cradled up in wealth

To its patrician mother!-there the sire

Beside his dying babes-and there the son
Gazing upon the parent by his side,
In utter misery! The poorest food

Spurned by the menials in that lordly hall

Were here a blessing. Yet the gates were closed!
Closed like their master's heart: perchance the ear

Of God may be as closed to him and his !
There was no other object. Far behind
The dark and sullen ocean stretched away.
The second was the contrast of the first.

A morn in spring time, when the balmy winds
Lift the light clouds across an azure sky,
Giving fair promise of a calmer day.

The sun was breaking from a melting veil,

And pouring chastened splendour on the scene;

The light-green buds were bursting on the trees
To masses of young foliage; every seed,
After its winter's sleep, was putting forth

Its germ above the ground; the early flowers,
Crocus, and primrose, and anemone

Were carpeting the mead; and through the glade
Of the more distant forest leap'd the deer

In gamesome gambol. Joy beamed everywhere;
Joy such as Spring, the morning of the year,
Alone can give, ere Summer's looks diffuse
A warmer influence and more tempered love.
Behind, upon the gently-ruffled sea,

Ships, whitely winged, were passing to and fro,
Bearing the produce of a thousand shores
Into the distant harbour. In the front
There was a temple still, but not the same.
Massive and large it was, and in the midst,
Upon a tall and stately altar, stood
A marble statue. Beautiful its brow,
And beautiful its limbs; erect it rose
In all the grandeur of unshackled might!
In one hand was a torch, and in the other
An open scroll, wherein it seemed to read
A new redemption to rejoicing man.

One word was writ beneath-one word—no more-
"FREEDOM!" and thousands crowded round its feet,
To gaze upon the image of that power

Which was their only mistress and their queen!

But where was that high palace? Where the gate Shut to the poor and opened to the rich,

As if a different blood had swelled their veins,

And mankind were not brothers? They were gone-
But in their stead a comely heap was raised

Of happy homes; the clematis and vine
Clustered around each lattice, where at times

A mirthful face was seen. No pomp was there;
No grandeur sprung from littleness of soul
Polluted that fair landscape; there at once
The poet's day-dream of the Golden Age,
Ere War, and war's twin-sister, Misery,
Defaced the beauteous earth, was realized!
There happiness might dwell, for love was there,
And love's no stranger where contentment is.
Oppression had gone by, and with it fear;

No door was shut against the wanderer's prayer,
For dove-eyed pity had resumed her reign;
Each day had its own task, each task was sweet;
Labour no longer mourned its pilfered fruits,
Nor spent its toil for others!

Such the scenes

Such Britain was, and such shall Britain be!

Which is the better? Tell me, ye faint hearts,
Who dote on ancient rules because your sires
Have thriven beneath their thraldom, which is best
Of these two scenes the latter or the first?
Perchance you love the first, because your lot
Is cast in the high places; you can see
Famine, and tears, and wretchedness around,
Nor give the poorest boon you have to give,—
Pity! because your withers are unwrung!
Then pity not! for, as the rebel waves
Bowed not to Canute's sceptre, so the flood
Springing from Britain's heart is all too strong
To be withstood by barriers such as yours:
Nor force nor fraud can stem it.-Then beware
Lest that vast current sweep you not away!

ON PERIODICAL LITERATURE.

VOLTAIRE was just, in commenting upon the singular degree to which societies of men become the bond-slaves of mere words. They persist in fashioning their opinions and conduct according to the precept of a dogma, or the definition of an adage, either of which has long since lost all fitness to the objects of its application. Such catch-words and noms de guerre resemble the camp-fires cunningly left burning by a retreating army; which make a shew of a great host, whereas the men-at-arms, horses, and baggage have betaken themselves elsewhere. They peculiarly flourish in literature; in which, as it deals with men through their imagination and reflections thus indirectly influencing their conduct, heresies and mistakes are not necessarily detected, as in more practical matters, by the test of immediate experiment. Thus, one entire generation continued, in defiance of much weariness, to read the folio romances of Calprenéde and his compeers, because such had been reputed delectable and courtly by the previous age. For a hundred years, from a similar cause, have the French, in spite of their natural feelings and necessities, been adoring the models of their classicisme; and have only in the present day discovered, that what they swallowed for bread was, after all, but a stone. The pretension of a religious title, in many amusing instances, has won for a work long and unquestioned currency amongst the devout, until some orthodox inquirer discovered, to the consternation of the faithful, that it was bristling with damnable heresies. And in England, at the present day, our works of imagination, in spite of the achievements of Scott and Edgeworth, with many respectable persons yet labour under a censure, adhering to the awful term "Novel," which was uttered with less injustice during the period when Monk Lewis and the Minerva press were in full blow and activity.

Most peculiarly, however, is the error, produced by attaching inflexible meanings to such changeable matters, to be remarked in the contradictory position of our Periodical Literature. It is still customary to speak of Journals and Magazines as of things trivial, unimportant and ephemeral. This is the more curious, inasmuch as the immense circulation of these literary teachers proves, either that in practice they are otherwise regarded, or that (which Heaven forefend!) two-thirds of English readers have grown utterly frivolous and distracted. But the advance of Periodicals upon the territory of other schools has been comparatively recent; their predecessors were abundantly insignificant; accordingly, while natural feeling eagerly devours their words, old habit stands by and sneers, even while the bonne bouche is between the lips. The effect of this inconsistency, both upon those who write and those who read, is, like every false thing, purely mischievous; and, since the authority and diffusion of Periodical works are destined, unless we mistake the signs of the times, to wax yet stronger and wider, and to exercise a most significant influence over the intellectual prospects of the next century, we shall not deem the time misapplied in conveying to our readers some long-digested thoughts upon the subject.

The origin of our literary democracy is, as we have remarked, recent. It is not half a century since the public had nothing more fresh or substantial in this line than the doting "Gentleman's," or still more vapid

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