the correspondent stated that in his town there were a great many orders from the colonies for edge-tools, but they were accompanied by the condition that they should be of American make. When I saw that notice I felt a chill run through my veins, because it indicated that the Americans had the reputation of making honest goods, whilst English manufacturers were suspected of sending inferior articles to foreign markets.

How has this result been brought about? I fear the answer must be, by English artizans scamping their work, and by over-haste on the part of manufacturers to grow rich. If those I now address would keep up their old reputation, and maintain the honour and prosperity of Sheffield, it behoves both master and workman to see that there is no scamping, but sound, honest workmanship.

I am not saying anything to you that does not equally apply to myself, because bishops can scamp their work like working-men. Indeed, it is easier for a bishop to do so than for a working-man. The higher they went the easier could they escape from their responsibilities. Take the man on the treadmill; he could not scamp the work. Doubtless you have heard of the magistrate who desired to know what the treadmill was like, but after a few steps wished to be relieved, but was told by the gaoler that he could not stop it, and that he must go on for the regular spell. The labourer carrying a hod of bricks could not scamp his work, but as they proceeded upwards opportunities for so doing offered themselves. You may depend upon it that in a lower kind of work, as in a higher, the man who gives a good day's work, knowing that he has a Master in heaven, whether it be as a cutler in making a razor that will stand the test of time and wear, or as a bishop in

the management of a diocese, in either case, the man who does with all his might the work he has found to do is the man who alone is worthy of the name. Such a man, since he does not scamp his work but is faithful in the small concerns of this life, may hope to share in the great things of the world to come.

Then there is the question of strikes which I should like to say a few words upon. Coal, you know, became very dear a few years ago, twice as dear as it was before, and the moment that the labourer saw the price had gone up he said, "I want a little more for my wages." Now I do not wonder that he said that, for he might properly say, "My employer is getting more out of the sale of this coal, and therefore out of my labour, than he expected, and so I think I may fairly claim a share of this prosperity."

That is quite right. But then coal begins to go down again, and the capitalist necessarily finds his profits go down too; for when his coal is lying at the top of the pit and no one will buy it except at a reduced rate, he must bring down the price or lose his customers. Such is the natural consequence when the supply overtakes the demand.

But the labourer shuts his eyes to this stubborn fact in the nature of things, and says, "I don't care about the nature of things. My wages shall not go down. I will strike first." Yes, my friend, you may strike first, but if nature is against you, I am afraid you will be beaten at last. It is like a person saying, "I won't be rained upon, I won't take an umbrella, I protest against the rain, and I will not be rained upon." You will be rained upon for all that; if nature says "yea," it is folly to say "nay." The water has gone up in vapour, and it will descend in showers, and if you are foolish enough

to go out without an umbrella, then I fear you will get wet it is all according to the laws of nature, first in ascent, then in the descent

As in the course of nature, so in the course of trade, there are certain laws which will be obeyed. The colliers were very glad to be in the ascending scale when business was prosperous; they will, if wise, submit to bear their share in its decline. If we could only get people to understand that there is a law in these matters that will be obeyed, things would go on a great deal better and smoother, and a vast deal of useless suffering would be saved. Adapted.

SAD REFLECTIONS.

[The writer of these reflections was the celebrated Oliver Goldsmith (B. 1728; D. 1774). They are such as occurred to his mind on taking a walk through the deserted streets of London, two hours after midnight.]

HE clock has just struck two; the expiring taper

THE

rises and sinks in the socket; the watchman forgets the hour in slumber; the laborious and the happy are at rest; and nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more fills the destroying bowl; the robber walks his midnight round; and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person.

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Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity or the sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, where Vanity, ever changing, but a few hours past walked before me; where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed with her own importunities.

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What a gloom hangs all around! The dying lamp

feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant watch-dog. All the bustle of human pride is forgotten; an hour like this may well display the emptiness of human vanity.

There will come a time when this temporary solitude may be made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave a desert in its room.

What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence, had their victories as great, joy as just and as unbounded, and with short-sighted presumption, promised themselves immortality! Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some; the sorrowful traveller wanders over the awful ruins of others; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every sublunary possession.

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"Here," he cries, "stood their citadel, now grown over with weeds; there their senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious reptile; temples and theatres, stood here, now only an undistinguished heap of ruin." They are fallen, for luxury and avarice first made them feeble. The rewards of the state were conferred on amusing, and not on useful, members of society. Their riches and opulence invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, returned again, conquered by perseverance, and at last swept the conquered into undistinguished destruction.

How few appear in those streets which but some few hours ago were crowded! And those who appear, now no longer wear their daily mask, nor attempt to hide their misery.

But who are those who make the streets their couch, and find a short repose from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent? These are strangers, wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are too humble to expect

redress, and their distresses are too great even for

pity.

Their wretchedness excites rather horror.

Some

are without the covering even of rags, and others emaciated with disease. The world has disclaimed them, society turns its back upon their distress, and has given them up to nakedness and hunger.

Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings

of wretches I cannot relieve? Poor houseless creatures! the world will give you reproaches, but will not give you relief. The slightest misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary uneasiness of the rich, are aggravated with all the power of eloquence, and held up to engage our attention and sympathetic sorrow. The poor weep unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species of