and nobody shall save it." A great outcry is made that the Yankees have turned goldsmiths, and will deal only for the precious metals; but what can that signify to us, if we do not, on our part, commence papermakers? People do not usually part with their gold for nothing; they must either get goods for their cash, or pay their debts with it. If the Yankees want a larger supply of gold and silver than is thus attainable, they must pay a price for the commodity, which would soon drive them out of the market. The Rothschild creatures would take care of that. But the evil is not in America, it is at home, where money jobbing, joint-stock banking, and ruinous speculation are deluging the country with paper, and would drive gold to the continent, though the Yankees should become sellers, instead of buyers. In Ireland, where there is the least capital, fixed or floating, the quantity of paper thrust upon the market has been most extensive; and bankers, like the far-famed roast pigs of the land of Cockayne, run up and down the streets, not, indeed, with knives and forks in their backs, and crying "come eat me," but with their own notes in their hands, and discounting, right and left, for petty farmers and artizans, without a sixpence beyond the prospective profits of a coming harvest, or a job in nubibus. Accordingly, the first breath of suspicion, and before even the system was in full operation, brought on a panic, and the machine refused to work. Well, the money, the real money, not having yet been lost, the banks, though probably at considerable sacrifices, discharge their obligations: but the consequence to the public is not a wholesome warning; on the contrary, it is a renewal of blind confidence, and a desire to get hold of some share of what is going, no matter what may be the ultimate consequence. The mischief is not at an end.

If it be asked what 1836 has done for literature, we must answermaterially, a great deal; intellectually, little enough. The demand, indeed, for paper and type was never greater; and printing steampresses toil after the market in vain. But the quantity in this case is not accompanied by a parity of increase as to the quality. Authors now work against time; if they slacken in their pace, they are sure to be anticipated,—the mass, moreover, having become readers, their tastes are to be consulted. The writer who gets the start of his age, or who soars above it, has no chance of a sale.

If such be our recollections of the past, what must be our anticipations for the future? If such has been 1836, need we apprehend that 1837 will set the Thames on fire? We, indeed, are not Milleniumites; but neither do we despair of our species. We are not Optimists; but we do not believe in the doctrine inculcated by Candide. We have found mankind hitherto in a progressive course of improvement in some particulars; and we hope for ameliorations yet to come in others. Still we do not set up for prophets, and have no ambition to make the "New Monthly " the successor of Francis Moore, Philomath. We are more confident, therefore, in our anticipations of what will not come to pass than of what will. We look not for the discovery of the philosopher's stone, nor expect to see the universal solvent, nor the cup that is to hold it. We do not count upon a panacea, nor on a unity of religious faith. We doubt very considerably of the advent of a pure republic in England, and of the prompt payment of the National Debt. The geological history of our planet shows a gradual and progressive develop

ment of animal life on its surface: it is possible, therefore, that successive formations, yet to come, may produce a creature as superior to man as man is to a mastodon. But without some such elementary revolution, we do not look forward to a material reduction of naso-ductility, or to the disappearance of quacks-medical, legal, or theological. Future generations, perhaps, may witness a suspension-bridge across St. George's Channel; but there is an immediate prospect of a political bridge between England and Ireland. A tunnel may hereafter pass under La Manche; but Frenchmen will, in all likelihood, be still Frenchmen, and John Bull continue to believe in soup-maigre and frogs. It is not probable that any mountains remain to be discovered in Holland; nor will there soon be a railroad across the Atlantic. To the best of our belief, the next century will not witness another Shakspeare, Milton, or Pope; but there may be more "Worlds before the flood," and "Roderick" may not be precisely "the last of the Goths." It is not impossible that a Raffaelle or a Michael Angelo may arise in England; but then, “by the Lord!" they will not be R.A.'s, even though they should not dabble in aquafortis. It is upon the cards, also, that architecture may revive once more in these realms; but we cannot believe (can you?) that Buckingham Palace can ever be exceeded! The coal-mines of Great Britain may possibly be some day exhausted, but its cullability never. We do not foresee that gravitation, or the circulation of the blood, will ever be disproved; but we will not undertake that they shall not go out of fashion. To conclude,-Parliament may be purified from bribery, cabinets from intrigue, law from uncertainty, and learned societies from cabal;—the Church may cease to have firebrands in its bosom, -the State may lose its pensioners, literature may become independent of pretence,-science, of backbiting,-and universities may cease to be stationary. London may lose its fogs and its smoke,Birmingham may become a cotton factory, and Manchester deal in hardware,-Bengal may trade in ice, and Lapland in pine-apples,and, to sum up all, pigs may whistle, though it must be allowed by the impartial that they have rather an awkward mouth for the operation.

μ.

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,

My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.
Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that lean'd to Heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given—
Obedient-easy to be reconciled—

And meekly-cheerful-such wert thou, my child !

Not willing to be left; still by my side

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ;— Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide

Thro' the dark room where I was sadly lying,

Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.

Oh boy, of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness,-prone to fade,—
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower,-
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind!

Then THOU, my merry love ;-bold in thy glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,

Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,
Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth!

Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy!
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth;
Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth;
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply,
Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye!

And thine was many an art to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile;-the frequent soft caress ;The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found,

But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound.

At length THOU camest; thou, the last and least;
Nick-named "The Emperor" by thy laughing brothers,
Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others;
Mingling with every playful infant wile

A mimic majesty that made us smile :

And oh! most like a regal child wert thou!

An eye of resolute and successful scheming;
Fair shoulders-curling lip-and dauntless brow-
Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreaming:
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim,
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either, by this love's comparing,
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call-

But in the Mother's heart, found room for ALL!

THE GURNEY PAPERS.

THAT portion of the late Mr. Gurney's memoirs which periodically appeared in this Magazine having been very favourably received by the public, I have been induced to continue my search amongst his manuscripts in order to afford its readers some further information connected with the annals of his family.

The concluding words of the final portion of his papers which has been published are, "WE WERE MARRIED;" which words refer to his union with Harriet, eldest daughter of the Reverend Richard Wells, Rector of Blissfold in the county of Hants. After this event Mr. Gilbert Gurney, as every man when he marries should do, turned over a new leaf-in his common-place book; and I find a hiatus, "valde deflendus," of nearly two months in his memoranda. Love, I presume, left him no leisure for literature, at least there is nothing discoverable in the way of detail affecting either the celebration of the wedding, or the subsequent excursion which fashionable delicacy appears to have rendered indispensable upon such occasions; and the first resumption of his notes occurs on the first day of the year succeeding that in which he became a Benedick, and thus he writes:

I begin a new year in a new character-I am now a married man. "Marriage," says Johnson, " is the strictest tie of perpetual friendship, and there can be no friendship without confidence, and no confidence without integrity; and he must expect to be wretched who pays to beauty, riches, and politeness, that regard which only virtue and piety can claim." Johnson was right.

Cuthbert's munificence has enabled me to establish myself in perfect comfort. He has made one stipulation-he desires to make our house his home; and when the young Falwassers, his wife's children, have their school vacations, they are also to pass their Christmas and Midsummer holidays here. This is all right and pleasant-a combination not very common in the affairs of this world. Cuthbert has an apartment of two rooms, consisting of a study and bed-chamber, allotted to him, which open to Harriet's flower-garden on the south side of the house; for his long residence in India has rendered him extremely sensitive as far as our capricious climate is concerned.

Fanny Wells is staying with my wife, to whom she was always an affectionate sister; and we are all as happy as we could wish, and perhaps even happier than we deserve to be. I feel myself snatched from the follies and frivolities of an idle vagabond life, and placed by Providence in a haven of security where nothing but quietness and comfort are to be found.

There was certainly something remarkably odd in the way in which I was inveigled into matrimony. My father-in-law's conduct might, in many other cases, have been attributed to interested motives, and his eagerness to conclude a matrimonial treaty between his daughter and myself, put to the account of his anxiety to get her off his hands, and settle her advantageously in the world; but that cannot be thought or imagined, the moment the smallness of my income is taken into consideration. What startles me most, and most powerfully excites my

gratitude to Providence is, that circumstances should have occurred not only to prevent distress and uneasiness, and perhaps worse calamities in my wife's family, and not only rescue us from the necessity of undertaking a voyage to India, but to place us in a state of most agreeable competency as that in which we found ourselves.

When Cuthbert first established himself at Ashmead—a somewhat pastoral "name" for my first "local habitation"-I was very much surprised at his absolute helplessness. His servant is qui-hi'd into his room every five minutes-lighting a taper or sealing a letter appear to be Herculean tasks to him, and the listlessness which pervades the conduct of his life, manifests itself so strongly when we are at breakfast or dinner, that I am sure if, amongst the innumerable classes of domestics with which India abounds, there were such an officer as an Eatabadar to be had, Cuthbert would have him at any price.

When we first met at Gosport, he was so evidently labouring under the effects of bad health and depression of spirits, that I could quite understand this abasement of animal exertion; and before I knew how nearly we were connected, felt the deepest sympathy for his unhappy Now, that feeling is changed into wonder and astonishment, that a being, who, by what he calls his own exertions, has contrived to realize a handsome fortune, should seem to possess no power of exerting himself upon any occasion whatever. His health is good, his spirits are recovering rapidly, but his torpor continues.

case.

He is, I find, like our friend Nubley, afflicted with occasional fits of absence. I am afraid if Harriet were to speak truth, she and her sister Fanny would not break their hearts if the fit were permanent. He crawls or is wheeled out of his own rooms every day about noon, and seats himself in the drawing-room, in order, as he says, to amuse the ladies and the visitors who chance to call; and the ladies are forced to remain where they are, in order to amuse him. He talks to everybody with whom he meets, as if he had known them all his life; and I cannot conceal the fact from myself, that he talks about nothing in the world, let him talk long as he may.

Wells rather enjoys his peculiarities, and Nubley listens to him with the deepest interest. In short, strange as it may seem, I believe Cuthbert's anxiety that I should take this house was mainly attributable to his desire to be near his old friend and former partner. To Harriet, of course, remaining in the neighbourhood of her father and mother is extremely agreeable; but I see that poor dear Cuthbert, with all his kindnesses, conferred as they are, in the oddest manner, is a bit of a bore to the ladies of the circle. Harriet, disliking the formality of calling him brother-in-law, which, on account of the differences in our ages, she does not approve, and not venturing to address him as Cuthbert, has transformed him into a cousin, and "cousin" she always calls him. I heard Wells, after she had once used this endearing appellation, say to her, loud enough for me to hear it, "Harriet, don't you wish he was a cousin once removed?"

This naturally worries me. I am one of those few people in the world who see the faults and imperfections of my nearest relations and connexions, perhaps even more plainly than others; and I often wonder to myself, when I hear fathers extolling the eminent powers and abilities of their children, husbands puffing off the talents of their