the cages, and the birds would come out and eat their crumbs on the table.' 'Where was the cat then, mamma?' asked Fanny. 'Just sitting in his allotted place,' said her mamma; 'at my brother's feet. In about another week my brother let the cages stay hanging on the wall, but opened their doors, and the little birds came flying and singing to eat their breakfast with him; and when they had finished eating, they used to sing for him until he had finished also. Then they used to fly to their cages when he rose from table, and then he fastened their doors until the next morning. The cat alone was his dinner companion, and sat very gravely on a chair near him until my brother had dined, when the cat got his dinner on a plate on the carpet. The cat and birds became at length so familiar, that the birds used to fly round him, and even to peck at his nose, and hit him with their wings, while he sat quite demurely with his eyes half shut, never pretending to see them.' 'Mamma, pray tell me what became of them at last?' said Fanny. 'The goldfinch died at last of some kind of illness, and the canary was given away when my brother left home, and the lady who got it one day placed the cage close to an open window, with the door open; some noise in the room frightened the bird, and it flew off over the roofs of the opposite houses, and she never saw it again; the cat lived to a good old age, respected and loved by all who knew him.' 'Thank you, mamma, for your story. I think I am like you, for I do not like little pets, or any pets in cages. Oh how I should love a peacock! Indeed, mamma, I would give all my nice things for one.' Fanny was a good little girl, and very affectionate, and her mamma was anxious to indulge her in any reasonable wish; so the morning after the above conversation, she asked if her thoughts were still occupied about the peacock. 'Yes, indeed, mamma,' said Fanny. I was dreaming all night of the lovely one we saw yesterday-all shining in blue, and green, and gold; and I was so sorry when I awoke that it was gone.' Well, Fanny,' said her mamma, 'I was thinking also of the peacock; and I think I can make out a plan by which you can have one.' Oh, mamma, how?-what way?' said Fanny with delight, all sorrowful expression disappearing from her countenance. First, then,' said her mamma, 'I must tell you that my plan does not require you to part with your dolls, your pigeons, your playthings, or your kitten; but you must pay a far greater price for your peacock-you must take a considerable degree of trouble, and have patience and perseverance for a long time before you obtain your wishes. Do you think you can undertake all this?' "I am sure I can, mamma,' said Fanny, clapping her hands. I shall not mind any trouble; and, mamma, dear mamma, you shall see how persevering I can be. Do, pray do, mamma, tell me what I have to do? I do not care for the length of time, if I get the peacock at last; and I will have him so tame, to follow me about, and to feed out of my hand.' "I will tell you my plan now,' said her mamma, and then you will be a better judge of what you have to undertake. Pray did you not see a peahen at Mrs Forrester's yesterday?' I do recollect, mamma,' said Fanny, 'seeing an ugly thing there; but the peacock was so beautiful, that I did not mind anything else.' some if it lives. And now tell me, Fanny, do you think that you can take all this trouble, and persevere for so long a time, to obtain a peacock?' Indeed, indeed, mamma, I shall think nothing of the trouble,' said Fanny; and you know that all the time I shall have the pleasure of seeing the dear little peas growing larger and stronger every day; and I will bring them out in the sun every fine day, and put them in again before night. Indeed, mamma, they will be no trouble to me.' 'Then,' said her mamma, 'we had better begin our work at once, and walk over to Mrs Forrester's, and ask for the eggs.' 'I am sure,' said Fanny, 'that Mrs Forrester will give them to me; for she said yesterday that she would wish to know what present I would like best, as I am her godchild. I am certain that she will be glad to give them to me.' Fanny and her mamma were soon ready, and on their way to Mrs Forrester's house. When arrived there, they found Mrs Forrester at home, who heard the whole story of Fanny's wishes, and her mamma's plan for gratifying them, and immediately sent to look for the peahen's nest, which was found; and to Fanny's great joy three beautiful, large, pale-pink eggs were brought in, and presented to her by Mrs Forrester; and Fanny carried off her prize, with many good wishes for her success in hatching. She was able to procure a hen desirous of sitting the next day, and made a comfortable nest for her in a small room on the ground-floor, and placed the precious eggs under her wings. I need not say how anxiously Fanny reckoned the days as they passed; but I will tell you how regularly she took the hen every day and fed her, and gave her water to drink, and then watched her for half an hour, while she ran about the yard to refresh herself, and then put her on her nest again: her mamma allowed her time to do all this immediately after breakfast. Fanny did not expect to see her little pets until the twenty-eighth day of sitting; but on the twenty-sixth day, when she took up the hen, she heard a few short, sweet, musical notes, like the soft tones of a flute; she examined the eggs, and found that the sounds proceeded from them: two of them were chipped at one end. She gently replaced the hen on her nest, and ran to her mamma with a face radiant with smiles, to tell her the Her mamma told her not to disturb the hen good news. until the evening, when she might venture to take a peep at her treasures again. Fanny's joy was unbounded when she returned, to see two beautiful little creatures speckled white and brown, with long graceful necks, and long wings, and large innocent-looking eyes; and they were uttering soft sweet notes continually. Fanny was in raptures, and remembered no more her past trouble. Some little girls may wonder that Fanny was so much delighted; but Fanny was a lively creature, with strong affections. By her mamma's advice, Fanny did not feed her little pets that night, but left them to be kept warm under the hen's wings until next morning, when she steeped some crumbs in warm water for them; but they only stretched out their long necks and looked at it, but did not know how to eat it. So Fanny opened their bills a little, and put small bits into them, to teach them. By her mamma's directions, she carried them and the hen to the front of the house in the sunshine: the hen immediately began to pick small seeds of grass for them, but they only stretched out their long necks and looked at them: the hen then went to the soft clay and scraped away until she found a little worm, which she held up exultingly in her bill to them; but her strange nurslings only looked at it, although she And yet, Fanny,' said her mamma, 'your hopes of pro- chucked and called to them. The poor hen then appeared curing a peacock depend chiefly on that ugly thing. This quite at a loss how to please them; but she fell to work is the beginning of June, and the peahen must have laid again, and this time she scraped up a fat earwig, which she some eggs. I asked Mrs Forrester if she intended rearing held up to them as before. This fare appeared to please any peafowl this season, and she said that she did not, as their fancy, for one of them ran over and took it, and they were too troublesome. Now if Mrs Forrester will be devoured it eagerly. The hen scraped again, and seemed so kind as to give you two or three eggs, we can get a quite contented as earwig on earwig disappeared down their farmyard hen to hatch them; but you will have much long throats, and never was at fault again to know what trouble with them, they are so delicate, and must be kept pleased them. Fanny also gave them oatmeal and barleyso carefully from the cold. The domestic hen, however, cake broken small. She took great care to bring them will be a great assistance to you, as she is a tender nurse, into the house every evening; and when the cold weather and will not bring the young birds to roost on high trees, as came, she kept them in the house on severe days, and fed a peahen would do. Then you must remember that it them there; and they got so tame, that they ate from her will be three years before you will see such a splendid bird hand, and perched on her feet and hands. They always as Mrs Forrester's; but in two years it will be very hand-came in to the parlour at breakfast-time, to get crumbs on the carpet; and Fanny was very happy to have them, and every one praised her for the constant care she took of them. When they were six months old, their kind nurse, the hen, forsook them; and Fanny was fearful about them. But her place was immediately supplied by a little bantam-cock, which took them under his protection and patronage; and it was very droll to see him marching along, followed by the peafowl, which were three times as large as himself; and when he got food, he called them and divided it for them; he also roosted with them. He continued his attentions and self-imposed care until they were able to take care of themselves, and long afterwards, for bantam-cocks are particularly affectionate; and it was not the first time that Fanny's had taken the care of orphan chickens. When June returned, Fanny's mamma and Mrs Forrester were so pleased with her attention and perseverance, that they each made her a nice present. Her mamma gave her a house for her peafowl, open at the sides, and roofed with boards on the top, which was portable, and could be placed wherever there was most shelter. It was painted green, and looked very pretty in the shrubbery. Mrs Forrester's present was a silver peacock, beautifully chased for a brooch: so she was doubly rewarded for her trouble and care, and her nurslings proved to be a cock and hen. The peacock is now in full beauty and splendour, and walks about like an emperor, to the great delight of Fanny. A LADY FREEMASON. The Hon. Elizabeth St Leger was the only female ever initiated into the ancient mystery of freemasonry. How she obtained this honour we shall lay before our readers. Lord Doneraile, Miss St Leger's father, a very zealous mason, held a warrant, and occasionally opened Lodge at Doneraile House, his sons and some intimate friends assisting, and it is said that never were the masonic duties more rigidly performed than by them. Previous to the initiation of a gentleman to the first steps of masonry, Miss St Leger, who was a young girl, happened to be in an apartment adjoining the room generally used as a lodgeroom. This room at the time was undergoing some alteration; amongst other things, the wall was considerably reduced in one part. The young lady having heard the voices of the freemasons, and prompted by the curiosity natural to all to see this mystery, so long and so secretly locked up from public view, she had the courage to pick a brick from the wall with her scissors, and witnessed the ceremony through the two first steps. Curiosity satisfied, fear at once took possession of her mind. There was no mode of escape except through the very room where the concluding part of the second step was still being solemnised, and that being at the far end, and the room a very large one, she had resolution sufficient to attempt her escape that way; and with light but trembling step glided along unobserved, laid her hand on the handle of the door, and gently opening it, before her stood, to her dismay, a grim and surly tyter with his long sword unsheathed. A shriek that pierced through the apartment alarmed the members of the lodge, who, all rushing to the door, and finding that Miss St Leger had been in the room during the ceremony, in the first paroxysm of their rage, her death was resolved on, but from the moving supplication of her younger brother, her life was saved, on condition of her going through the whole of the solemn ceremony she had unlawfully witnessed. This she consented to, and they conducted the beautiful and terrified young lady through those trials which are sometimes more than enough for masculine resolution, little thinking they were taking into the bosom of their craft a member that would afterwards reflect a lustre on the annals of masonry. The lady was cousin to General Anthony St Leger, governor of St Lucia, who instituted the interesting race and the celebrated Doncaster St Leger stakes. Miss St Leger married Richard Aldworth, Esq. of Newmarket. When ever a benefit was given at the theatres in Dublin or Cork for the Masonic Female Orphan Asylum, she walked at the head of the freemasons with her apron and other insignia of freemasonry, and sat in the front row of the stage box. The house was always crowded on those occasions. Her portrait is in the lodge-room of almost every lodge in Ireland.-Limerick Chronicle. WAIT NO LONGER! Quickening minds that long have slumbered; Wait no longer-Hope, Faith, Labour, COMPENSATIONS. W. Do you not perceive, then, that evil is necessary for the development of good: can you say that misery is not essential for happiness? Illness is the exception to health, yet what should we know of health unless illness existed to indicate it? If at this moment you were on a sick-bed, your condition would induce pity from your friends-virtue again emanating from evil. They would do all in their power to ease your sufferings-kindness, another virtue, is thus manifested. You would feel grateful for their attention-gratitude, you see, springs up! If you bear your affliction with fortitude-again good arises! If, on the contrary, you are impatient, those around you refrain from saying or doing the slightest thing to irritate you-goodness again emanates from the same soil! At length you become stronger, and then, being slightly ailing, you feel comparatively happy-thus happiness has absolutely arisen from that which, in its positive nature, is an evil; and the very affliction which made you grieve, is, by a slight modi fication, not altering its original nature, a subject for congratulation and pleasure! Thus, Alfred, depend upon it, however we may doubt the perfection of the laws of the Creator, all is completely in accordance with benevolent design; and when you complain of the existence of evil in the world, you complain of the very element which develops goodness.-Affection. DEATH. Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes. The ashes of an oak in a chimney are no epitaph of that oak, to tell me how high, or how large, that was; it tells me not what flocks it sheltered while it stood, nor what men it hurt when it fell. The dust of great per sons' graves is speechless too; it says nothing, it distinguishes nothing. As soon the dust of a wretch whom thou wouldst not, as of a prince whom thou couldst not look upon, will trouble thine eyes if the wind blow it thither; and when a whirlwind hath blown the dust of the churchyard into the church, and the man sweeps out the dust of the church into the churchyard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce This is the patrician, this is the noble flower, and this the yoeman, this the plebeian bran.-Donne. Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh. Also sold by D. CHAMBERS, 98 Miller Street, Glasgow: W. S. OSR, 147 Strand, London; and J. M'GLASHAN, 21 D'Olier Street, Dublin.-Printed by W. and R. CHAMBERS, Edinburgh. EDINBURGH JOURNAL CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF 'CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE,' 'CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE,' &c. No. 253. NEW SERIES. O RUS! SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1848. 'O Rus, quando,' &c.—' Oh country! when shall I see thee again?' may now be repeated with a more profound feeling than at any former time, for it begins to seem greatly problematical if such a thing as the country ever again can be seen. We still talk of going to the country, and when we do go out of town, and find ourselves amongst corn-fields, or by river sides, or in the midst of woods, we are apt to think or suppose, or to speak as if we thought or supposed, that we really are in the country. But a little reflection in such circumstances soon convinces us that we are not in the country at all-that is, what we have always understood to be the country. From our earliest days, we have been taught to regard the country as a place in direct contrast to the city. In the one place all is artificial, or man's work. In the other all natural, or God's work. Now, what so forcibly strikes me is, that things are not now in a more natural state in the country than in the town. Nay, I sometimes feel tempted to prefer that kind of country which Mr Paxton can make in the midst of a large city, to that larger out-of-town kind; simply for this reason, that Mr Paxton's landscape is fully the more successful in excluding artificial objects and disturbing associations. I am far from saying that the country ought to be uncultivated, in order to satisfy one's ideas about it. On the contrary, agricultural economy enters into these ideas. We think of the simple farmers of Horace and Virgil, the sunburnt Sabine wife, the oxen bearing the inverted yoke on their languid necks, the latis otia fundis, the errantes greges, the mugitusque boûm: all these things, if to be had genuine and unsophisticated, would only add to our enjoyment of the old idea of the country. But, spirit of Flaccus! what wouldst thou have thought of a large farm, with all its modern mechanism, converting it into a mere food-producing factory? Shade of Maro! where would have been thy Georgics, if thou hadst had to include considerations as to Mark Lane, and competition with the markets of Odessa and New York? Can we imagine the former poet lost in the delights of grapes and wine in remoto gramine, if that remotum gramen had been soiled with the smoke of a steam-engine, belched from a red brick chimney, which rears its tall form over the steading to the utter deformation of the landscape? Why, the very gleaners, perhaps one of the most pleasing features of old farm life, are no more. Their work is done by a machine, in order to add infinitesimally to the accounts of produce. Call you this the country? Professor Wilson has sung-for his prose articles are noble poems-of the beauties of the Scottish streams, and the pleasures of angling in them. But let the angler be careful of his choice amongst those streams, that he PRICE 1d. may plant himself on one whose banks are not ticketed with threats against trespassers. Mr Stoddart celebrates the trouting which he enjoys in and about Kelso; but Mr Stoddart knows that it is a fearful joy which any stranger could snatch with a rod in his hand in that neighbourhood. His better course would be to join the Anglers' Club, which is fain to lease a bit of Tweed's silver streams glittering in the sunny beams,' in order that it may catch its fish in peace. The Highlands one might suppose to be too wide to be beset by any such restrictions. Let any one who thinks so try to penetrate Glen Tilt. It looks like the country, but it is all a deception. It is merely a shop where game is kept for sale, and to which none can be admitted but those who are disposed to become customers. The country! with ground officers and gillies walking about it. As well call the Surrey Zoological Gardens the Vale of Tempe. O Rus, again! There are some things in which one never learns lessons from disappointment, but continually renews the effort, only to be disappointed once more. Such are one's annual autumnal attempts to see the country. With elated feelings we go to take out our ticket by the stage-coach. We make the journey in a semidelirium, thinking, 'Well, now, after all my year's toils, I am going to have two or three charming days in the country.' We get to our destination, some famed and favourite place of resort, where there are inns and lodgings for visitants like us. Say it is the Bridge of Allan, which really is a place of considerable rural merits, at least in comparison with others. Full of eager expectation, we set out to explore its most celebrated walk, which we have been told conducts through a delightful woody valley. Behold, on the other side of the pretty rocky channel of the stream, a railway cutting through the hazel banks! There is the panting, smoking train coming up, with no one knows how many passengers, first, second, and third class, or how much goods traffic. The spoil banks have spoiled hundreds of the ancient oaks and birks of Allan Water, and tamed one whole side of the valley effectually. And this is called the country! After all, your walk through the woods on the undisturbed side is pleasing.' With every fifth tree bearing the inviting shop-bill of Messrs Shaw and Baldwin, haberdashers in Stirling! This the country! O Flaccus and Maro-the country! This very village, not many years ago, was really a village, with pretty rustic objects about it, and nothing else. But it is the very fate of such places to be loved too well, and to perish in that love. City folks flock to them because they are sweetly rural, and never rest till, having converted them into smart towns, they discover that they are sweetly rural no longer, and so desert them. And thus it is that the flood of sophistication spreads over the land, until it is at last difficult, if not impossible, to find one spot which answers to our old ideas of the country. And once more we cry, 'O Rus!' I have now wandered pretty nearly over the whole of this island of Great Britain, and at length I am pretty nearly convinced that it contains no such thing as country. I once got to a charming place in a nook of Devonshire, which seemed at first sight a perfect Elysium, and sitting down on a stone, I said, 'Well, here now at last is one little place really simple and rural; here is one last vestige of the country.' Looking round, I beheld on a wall close by me an advertisement of Life Pills! On another occasion I found myself in an exquisitely-beautiful nook of the Firth of Clyde, a spot apparently so inaccessible, that I thought life might there be dreamt away without any intrusion of the base ideas of the artificial world, and with nothing around one but a few primitive-minded swains and gentle damoiselles. Behold, on turning a corner, a whole nest of boxes belonging to Glasgow citizens, and a ticket advertising the rest of the ground 'TO FEU' on the most advantageous terms, while over the neighbouring knowe came the smoke, and hiss, and plunge of a steamer, which, as the more lengthened announcement of the newspapers was sedulous to tell, called twice every day to take up and let down passengers! Look abroad, and it is all the same. In the most retired spots in Switzerland you are beset by men, women, and children, bent on converting you into capital, by being your guides to waterfalls, by selling you toys, or exercising force on your feelings of charity. The very shepherds far up among the Alpine solitudes, if there be anything fine about their situation to attract visitors, convert their châlets into auberges, and quickly lose the fine edge and flush of savage innocence in a thirst for francs and batzen. Ascend Vesuvius, and you will be pulled to pieces among competing guides. Travel in Arcadia, and it is odds against your escape from being robbed. The Castalian fountain itself is now probably, like St Anton's Well on Arthur's Seat, dealt out to the passing traveller for coppers. In short, every part of the earth proclaims that the country, the true country as it was of old, is a lost idea. We may cry 'O Rus!' till we are hoarse, but we never again shall see the country. We must rest content to have it only as a poetical tradition. It is surely a very sad consideration that, in the development of things in our age, anything so delightful should so utterly perish. Some will bring it for ward as a consolation that what comes instead is of more real value. It is not merely,' they will say, 'that farms become more productive under the exalted mechanical system to which they are now subjected, or that a pretty valley is rendered all the better thing by affording a line for railway communication; but, in the advance of all these materialities, the basis is laid for grander moralities also. Space being more densely peopled, greater social and political problems are worked out, and man, on the whole, undergoes an exaltation.' Well, I don't know-I have my misgivings. Be it observed the country is one of the things which has hitherto operated most largely on the human race —its green and its bloomery have solaced the eyes of men in all times; its solitudes have afforded a field where his soul could relax itself in meditation, and drink in the pure refreshing spirit of nature. Can they now want all this, and yet be the same beings? Will the future generations be quite what they ought to be in all respects, if there be no burns in which, while young, they may paidle, and no gowans which their infant hands may pu', and their infant eyes gaze into till the silver-set gold becomes a heart idea for ever? I fear me not, and cannot but anticipate that O Rus! must yet come as a wail from many lands. VISIT TO THE PRISON AT READING. A SHORT time ago, when at Reading in Berkshire, I took occasion to visit the prison of that place—a large and handsome building, with courtyards, occupying an airy situation on a knoll outside the town. The establishment, in its actual organisation, differs little from the prison of Pentonville, and some other new jails throughout the kingdom, and so far there was no perceptible novelty to engage attention; the only thing || probably which renders it worthy of special notice, is the reputation it has obtained for the successful reclamation of criminals; and it may be well to know how far such a result is founded on any peculiar method of treatment. The system of discipline pursued at Reading is a blending of work with moral and religious instruction; the inmates are confined each in a separate light cell, as is now almost universal in prisons of this class; and in these cells, except at intervals of exercise in the outer courts, and when attending chapel, or when consigned to an infirmary, they may be said to live from the period of entrance to departure. After visiting different wards, and looking into various cells, I was enabled to remark wherein lay the chief difference be tween the course of life in this and other establishments. It was evident there was less work going on. The Central Prison at Perth may be compared to a manufactory the prison of Reading to a monastery. My own impressions have always been in favour of giving prisoners plenty of work. I have considered labour to be in some respects synonymous with virtue, as idleness is with vice. And this is no new view. Labora et ora is not a saying of yesterday. That the framers of the new prison system now generally in vogue have enter tained similar opinions is pretty obvious—the loom, plane, hammer, have become instruments of discipline. Instead of yells, and the clanking of chains, the corridors of our prisons resound with the brisk movements of the shuttle. All this, one is inclined to believe, must be an improvement; but the authorities of Reading prison give it as their conviction that work may be carried too far as a moral engine, and therefore within their domain they have substituted religious instruction and meditation for much of the usual course of labour. I was interested in hearing explanations on this subject; and they were freely and kindly offered by the Rev. Mr Field, the chaplain of the establishment, who has recently given to the world a work, the best of its kind, on the separate system of imprisonment.* Before making any comment on the extent of the instruction afforded, it may be proper to follow Mr Field through his description of the daily life in the prison, beginning with the admittance of a prisoner. On the prisoner being conducted to the inner gates of the jail, his commitment having been examined by the officer in attendance, and the doors being closed, the constable is no longer respon sible for the safe custody of his charge. Escape, either by violence or cunning, being next to impossible, handcuffs and irons are now removed; the person of the prisoner is searched, and all things taken from him which would be either useless or injurious to him whilst in confine ment. He is then lodged, for a few hours at most, in a reception-cell, there to await the inspection of the surgeon, who daily visits the prison. This examination | having been made, the prisoner is next led to the baths, being shown, as he passes, the dark cells, which, as a preventive to breaches of discipline, he is kindly forewarned are provided for the punishment of the refractory. Whilst allowed the needful indulgence of a warm bath, his own clothes are removed to be fumigated, and laid up until his liberation, and he is provided with all requisite apparel at the expense of the county. The process of cleansing and clothing having been completed, the prisoner is next conducted to his appointed cell; if for trial, in a wing which is distinguished as the Jail, in which safe custody alone is the object sought and insured; or if convicted, in some part of the House of Correction. The cell being furnished with books, &c. the inmate finds relief in his seclusion, means of improvement are at once within his reach, some profitable employment is permitted, and the diligent occupation of time, though not enforced, is encouraged.' His course now begins. At six o'clock in the morning he is summoned from bed, opens and shakes up his bedding, washes himself, cleans the cell and corridor, and rolls up his hammock. At eight o'clock he breakfasts, and then usually spends some leisure time in preparing a lesson for the schoolmaster, which he has been recommended, but not compelled to learn. At ten minutes past nine the bell rings for chapel, to which the male and female prisoners go, each individual five paces apart, to prevent communication, the women with their veils, and the men with the peaks of their caps down. From ten till eleven the prisoner takes exercise in the airing-yard, or else is employed at the pumps. From eleven till twelve, on alternate days, he receives instruction from the chaplain in a class, and on the other days assists in cleaning the prison, or employs himself, if permitted, in working at his own trade. From one till three-Instruction, work, and receiving a visit in his cell twice a week from the chaplain. From three till four-Exercise in the open air. From four till six-He is visited in his cell by the schoolmaster, when class lessons are repeated, and he is privately taught writing, arithmetic, or something else calculated to improve the mind or to be of advantage in after-life. Intervals occupied as before. Six-Supper; after which the remaining space is devoted to mental and moral improvement exclusively, till eight o'clock, when the prisoner goes to bed. Each cell is 13 feet in length, 7 in breadth, and 10 in height, and besides being well ventilated, is kept at a proper temperature by pipes from a hot-air apparatus. Provided with a table, seat, and every needful accommodation, the cell is also lighted with gas; and, in short, nothing is wanting to render the apartment a pleasant and healthful place of residence. Unfortunately, when discharged from his prison home, the subject of so much attention finds himself exposed to that terrible necessity-independent exertion. Referring to this stage of his course, Mr Field observes: His situation is most perilous and painful. He is probably destitute, and his character is lost. Hence means of obtaining the necessaries of life by honest industry are seldom afforded. Those whose advice and example might tend to strengthen good resolutions and encourage reformation treat him as an outcast; whilst former companions in crime invite his return, offering assistance and relief. Rejected by others, he is welcomed by them. Allured by promises, and almost compelled by threats to abandon recent purposes of amendment, who can estimate the force of temptation to which the poor liberated offender is exposed? In order to stay the return to crime, by providing for the day's necessities, a small sum is given to every criminal on his discharge from Reading Jail; and if his conduct during his imprisonment has been such as to induce the hope of his refor mation, it is the practice of the chaplain to recommend him to the kind consideration of the clergyman to whose parish he may be returning, as the most effectual means of rendering good determinations steadfast. Sadly imperfect, however, must our system of criminal treatment yet remain until some plan for the employment of the released offender shall furnish him with the opportunity of obtaining an honest subsistence by his own efforts.' In this last sentence Mr Field points to what has been often referred to as a desideratum-places of voluntary refuge, where work would be given to released prisoners till they could find employment elsewhere. We would, however, recommend great caution in attempting the establishment of any such institutions. While they might benefit a few, to the greater number they would in all likelihood only prove places of rendezvous, where new depredations could be conveniently planned; and at the very least, they would be national workshops, with crime as a qualification for admission. The very projection of a scheme of this kind shows the danger to which society is exposed by the plans of an inconsiderate philanthropy. In pampering the most worthless part of the community at the expense of the toiling millions, it will generally be agreed we have gone far enough. A serious objection to the separate system of imprisonment is its enormous expense. The prisoners are handsomely lodged, well fed, and a large body of respectable individuals, including a governor and chaplain, require to be employed. In the prison of Reading, the average cost of maintenance of an inmate is 10s. 6d. per week; and reckoning expense of trial, &c. the county is put to an outlay of at least L.30 for each convicted prisoner. The expenses incurred for such purposes, however, ought not to be grudged, if the end is effected. But there lies a question. The system of separate imprisonment is expected to work beneficially in two ways-by the terror it inspires, and the reformation it effects. Compared with the vicious and inhumane practices formerly in use, it seems all that wisdom and philanthropy can suggest. If we suppose a clown transferred suddenly from the tumult of a village taproom to the stately sobriety of a drawing-room, filled with elegantly-dressed ladies, we shall not imagine so wild a change as that experienced by a criminal caught up from the midst of his associates and placed in a prison conducted on the separate system. Seclusion, stillness, order, decency, respectability-how terrible do these things appear to such a man! The world seems to be turned upside down. The morality he has laughed at is no longer a jest; the religion he has spurned is no longer a fable; the parson he has mocked is his master. It is no wonder that he believes the tales he has been told of so terrible a system creating insanity; and indeed many prisoners endeavour to take advantage of the supposed fact by pretending to turn mad! Pleasant speculations these; but unfortunately something can be said per contra. It may happen that many persons do not value liberty very highly, particularly when associated with destitution; they may rather have a liking for quarters at 10s. 6d. a week paid for by the public. The warm bath, the regular diet, the clean clothing, the light work, the books to read, and the well-ventilated apartments, which our splendid prisons invitingly offer for their acceptance, have doubtless charms for a certain class of minds. Thus in abolishing a harsh routine of penal discipline, revolting to humanity, and practically valueless as a means of reformation, we may have either gone too far in an opposite direction, or been forgetful of the new conditions into which society seems to be merging. The subject at all events demands careful consideration. Some of the humbler classes of the people are becoming so destitute, so lost to all sense of decency, that it would not be surprising to see a general run made on the prisons. In the prison of Liverpool, as it appears, a number of Irish vagrants are (or |