perceptions and impulses, the continual going in and out of its thronging thoughts-those marvellous labourers, of which one troop toil in building some airy fabric, which the inroad of another group throws down-does all this action go on, then, utterly unnoticed by any eye, human or divine? Oh, no: with the perception of our utter isolation, at such seasons, in regard to man, is coupled the conviction of our close connexion with God. He, we cannot but feel, is near to us: to Him every contest between our good and evil principles is known on the dark arena of our intellectual strife the eye of an Omniscient Umpire is resting: and the winged prayer which we send forth, though, indeed, it might wander, so to speak, over the ocean of this mortal world and find no resting-place, reposes on the Ark of the Covenant, and is welcomed by Him who sitteth between the cherubim. This is the mystic "flight of the individual man to the one God." And, in Him, the lonely one not only finds a Guardian and a Friend, but he finds also a point of union with the Many. For while directing our prayers to God, we are brought into contact with humanity in its innumerable forms.

We pray for our kindred, and their glad faces gather round us. We pray for the sick, and we see him extended on his bed of woe.

We pray

for the captive, and he stands before us, holding forth his hands bruised by the chain. We pray for the heathen, and we hear the shrieks of the human victim, dragged to the bloodsmeared altar; or start, as the Thug rushes on his prey. We pray for the poor, and the thronged workhouse or the roofless hovel rises in hideous distinctness before us.

Thus we find that, though actually alone, we are still, in spirit, surrounded by our kind. We find that it is impossible for us to break the chain with which man is bound to man, and to burst forth into a desolate immensity.

The very thought that we are alone, seems to bring us into the

more immediate presence of God; and in God we once more find our fellow-men. For them his Son became incarnate, and died: for them his Spirit descended; for them he has commanded us to pray and in their welfare he has ordained that we should be interested. He condescends, sometimes, to detach us from surrounding objects, that he may bring us nearer to himself; but then he sends us back to a still closer union with our kind; for "this commandment have we from him, that he who loveth God love his brother also."

Thus, too, we are led to look forward to that wondrous day, when the resuscitated millions of the human race shall meet in solemn re-union before the throne of judgment, and the thoughts of all hearts shall be revealed. Then, in the presence of the assembled Many, will be rewarded or punished, not only the heroic struggles of the conqueror with whose fame the world has rung-not only the labours of the sons of genius who have shed a flood of glory on their fellows not only those deeds of shame from which mankind have turned away in suddering disgustbut also the hidden conquest or defeats which the solitary one has gained or suffered in the darkness of his seclusion. Then will the courage which, through divine grace, put to flight the hosts of evil, or the cowardice which yielded unresistingly to their influence, be made manifest : and the feeble sufferer, who, unnoticed and unpitied, bore in patience the anguish of sickness, or the wrongs of slighted affection, or the galling chains of uncongenial employment, may, perhaps, be declared to have performed exploits exceeding in brilliance those of the hero or the sage: while the man who descended to his grave laden with the spoils or the plaudits of half a world, may be covered with disgrace, because in the privacy of his own heart he suffered defeats, the ignominy of which no public glory can efface.

M. N.

September, 1845. SIR, I have copied out the following history from one of my old diaries, written thirty years ago, and send it to you for publication, in case you think it likely to be of service. Should any reader be led from its perusal to act upon that injunction, "As ye have opportunity, do good unto all men," I shall be thankful. I remain, Yours truly,

ONE morning, as I was walking from the West End of the town, towards Soho Square, I was accosted by an interesting-looking female at the corner of Nassau-street, who asked charity. They who live in London are so accustomed to beggars, and they who seek out real objects of want and misery have so many claims upon their purse, that numbers, like the Levite, ". by on the other side," instead of relieving all who ask them. Being in a great hurry, I walked on; but the transient view of this young woman had made such an impression, that I walked back the whole length of the street to speak to her.

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She looked surprised at my return, and was standing in the same spot where I had left her. She had a basket with pins, stay-laces, &c., on one arm, and a lovely baby in the other. I observed to her that "the mode of life she had chosen was an idle and dangerous one for so young a person as she appeared to be." "Yes, maʼam,” she replied, “but I can find no other, and I have no friends now.' I asked her, "if that child was her own?" She answered, “Yes.” then enquired, "Is your husband living?" She turned away her head and

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wept seemingly tears of bitterness. I then asked her for her address, and relieved her with a small sum. On my return home I related my adventure to my frinds, and begged permission to call next day at the house where the young woman had directed me. I could not gain FEBRUARY-1846.

their consent, as the part of the town where she resided was so disreputable, and two or three days passed before I succeeded in my entreaties to call upon her. It was considered that a livery-servant would attract attention in such haunts of vice, and ladies could not go without some protector. In the midst of my dilemma, a gentleman called (a near relation of my own) and he being considered a fit person to escort me, it was with real pleasure that I set off upon my expedition.

We reached the house, which appeared to have been formerly the residence of some respectable person. The lower story was let out for shops, and I entered one of them, and asked a middle-aged man who stood behind the counter, if he could tell me if a young woman, called Mary Hayward, lived there. He touched a bell, which a tall, dirty, middle-aged, and forbidding woman answered, and we followed her into a wide passage, in the middle of which was a handsome well-staircase, very wide, with richlycarved banisters. The light was admitted from the top, and a square gallery all round opening into different chambers.

Our guide conducted us to the attic story. The name of "Mary Hayward" was sounded by the shrill voice of our companion, and a garret door opened, when she pointed to it, without troubling herself to ascend the additional pair of stairs, and we proceeded alone to a small room, very whose window view was bounded by the deep leaden gutter which surrounded the house. There we found a decently-dressed woman, with four children.

There was a little bit of fire in the bottom bar of the grate, and one bed in a corner, and a bundle rolled up in another corner, which looked as if it might be another bed.

"Is Mary Hayward out?" I enquired. "she

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"Yes," replied the woman

I then made more enquiries, and found that Mary had lived nearly 15 months with my informant, who was her landlady; that she paid her halfcrown a-week for sharing that garret with her landlady, her husband, and their four children, and had also to find her own food. This food, the woman added, was nothing but weak tea, almost hot water; and how she suckles her child on that, often surprises me."

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To my inquiries as to Mary's history, the woman informed me, "She had some very good friends, and had still two aunts, very respectable women, who followed the business of pearl-stringing; that Mary was a servant, and doing well in her place, till seduced under a promise of marriage; but that since this, her time of trouble,' her conduct was most correct, her payments exact, and her temper so good, it was a pleasure to live with her. That a bed of straw was placed in one corner of this garret for Mary and her baby, and a second one in another corner for the landlady's three elder children, while she, her husband, and the baby had the bedstocks."

I also found that my informant's husband was by trade a bricklayer, and out of regular work.

Requesting her to send Mary to my residence the following morning, I left my direction, took leave of my new acquaintance, and finding our way back into the shop, we returned home.

Next day, Mary called, having left her child with her landlady. She was shown into a parlour, and I was sent for. Whilst conversing with her on the best method of her future endeavours for support, the dear relative whom I so much wished to interest in Mary's favour entered the room. When she was gone, my friend asked who that pretty-looking, neat young woman was, with whom he had found me conversing. I then named all I knew of her, and added, that, till something better offered, my wish was to try and supply her with

needle-work, as that stay-lace selling was an idle trade.

For some weeks my family assisted me in finding work for Mary, and all went on very satisfactorily; but she gave me such distressing accounts of the poverty of her landlord's family, that, hearing he was a bricklayer, and out of work, the gentleman, who had been so much pleased with Mary's first appearance, undertook to get her landlord regular employment in a quarter where it was not likely to be withdrawn; so that his wife and children were to accompany him to reside at Woolwich.

And now came a fresh trouble in Mary's history. The bricklayer and his wife were the only friends she had; and she almost felt to be parting with a father and mother. Her going with them was most undesirable; and yet she had no home when they left London. The man whose professions had brought Mary to her present state of shame and want, was a master-baker by trade. Her baby was nine months old, and it appeared impossible to provide for the mother whilst she had the child.

Various plans were designed for Mary; but none seemed likely to answer, till one morning, when the poor girl brought home a bundle of work, I said, "Mary, I do hope you have some sense of your sin in the sight of God, as well as shame for it in the sight of man, and that you really wish to spend the remainder of your days to his glory, and to have your child rescued from the dangerous path you have trodden? What say you to entering the London Female Penitentiary yourself, and sending your infant to the Foundling?"

The girl begged an explanation of the two above-named Institutions; and when I told her the regulations of the Foundling Hospital, she exclaimed, "Oh, no, ma'am, I cannot do that, I cannot part with my poor, dear baby; I have almost starved myself with wet, cold, and want of food, for its sake, and I cannot be separated from it now."

Reader, I was not a mother then, or, perhaps, I could not have proposed this plan to Mary, even in her desolate case!

She left me with more needle-work, and in two or three days she returned it, requesting to speak to me. She seemed much agitated when I went to her, and said to me, "I called to tell you, ma'am, that I have made up my mind to part with my baby. What my love for it would not let me do when I saw you last, gratitude for all kindness makes me feel now your I should do; and, therefore, if you can get me received into the institution you spoke of, I am willing to let my dear child go to the Foundling." I expressed my pleasure at her determination; and desired her to wean her baby immediately, and to call upon me in the course of a few days. Having applied to the London Female Penitentiary, and got permission to send her there, I next interested some gentlemen connected with the Foundling Hospital, and all seemed to promise success to my plans, both for mother and child.

The day arrived when Mary was to part with her infant, and she called at my house with it on her way to the Foundling. Its unconscious smiles were enough to touch a heart of stone, and no wonder its poor mother felt ready to sink with her weight of feeling; believing that was her last walk with the only object she held dear on earth! She left me, but to my surprise, she returned in the course of a few hours, saying, "that her child was not admissible, in consequence of her having received two or three shillings when she left the workhouse, after her confinement there."

This was a sad blow to all my prospects; but as her mind had been made up to separate from her baby, I just said, “Mary, could you bring yourself to let it go to the workhouse? I will see after it, and let you know from time to time how it comes on.'

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She replied hastily, "If it goes to the workhouse, I shall see it again, then, some time or other, and if I do well at the Penitentiary, and the ladies can recommend me to a place, perhaps I may be able to provide for my poor babe myself.”

I agreed with her suggestion,and she left me. Two days after this she called again, and told me she had taken her child to the workhouse,

where they had received it; "and now," she added, "my kind friends will remove to Woolwich to-morrow, and I shall have no home then, so I am ready to go to the Penitentiary, whenever they will permit me."

As I had previously made all the necessary preparations for her reception there, I desired her to call upon me the next morning on her way, for a note of introduction to the ladies on the Committee. She did so, and I had the satisfaction of hearing from time to time of Mary's obliging, modest, and humble conduct, together with her active habits; and was assured she was likely to obtain a place much sooner than many of the females who had been longer in the institution than herself. But I must not forget to say, that I fulfilled the promise I made of seeing her child; and I called occasionally for this purpose at St. Giles's workhouse. The Master of this workhouse appeared to be a plain-spoken, but a kind hearted man; and observing the interest I took in Mary's baby, he would sometimes send me a note, stating how it was coming on. These notes I sometimes sent, or else took to its poor mother; and I had the gratification of observing that her heart seemed to be gradually opening, like Lydia's of old, to attend to the things which belonged to her eternal peace.

She appeared to notice the religious instruction which she received in this excellent institution, and spoke to me with deep gratitude of the mercy of her removal there. She delighted to relate passages of sermons which she had heard from the good chaplain, and as her general behaviour kept pace with this approbation of her spiritual privileges, I hoped that the work of grace was really begun in her heart, and that I should see her decidedly turned "from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God."

But to return to the child. It is customary to send children from the workhouses in London to be nursed out in the country; and I one day received a note from the Master of St. Giles's, saying that "Mary Hayward's child was gone