can. That Mr. Huskisson has been unfairly censured for a supposed rashness, or a commercial coup de main-ship, in introducing the Free Trade System, the following passages on the advantages of foreign trade, taken from his pamphlet on the currency published in 1810, will shew, and besides may be received as no bad specimen of his state of thought and expression :

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"The mind and faculties of man are constantly engaged in pursuit of his own happiness, and in multiplying the means of "subsistence, comfort, and enjoyment. Trade, which effects the "exchange of a part of the productions of the soil, industry, and "talent of any country, against those and the soil, industry, and "talent of any other countries, is the great instrument of multiplying "these means. By the aid of this exchange, not only those natural productions, which Providence has distributed in abundance in one portion of the globe, and refused to some other, are rendered common to all; but the soil of every country, and of every portion "of every country, is left at liberty to be cultivated principally, or wholly, if necessary, in raising those productions for which it is "best calculated and adapted; those which, by experience, it has "been known to afford of the best quality, in the greatest abundance, "and at the least expense of capital and labour. Labour and capital, employed in manufactures, is enabled to avail itself of "local situations and natural advantages (for instance, a stream or a "coal mine), and to adapt itself exclusively to those pursuits in "which, from any peculiar disposition, dexterity, ingenuity, or for"tuitous discovery, the people of any particular country, or any "particular part of them, may excel. The advantage derived from "the division of labour, is well known. What is effected by the "operation of that principle, for a single undertaking, is, by the aid "of commerce, effected for the whole world. Commerce enables "the population of each separate district to make the most of its "peculiar advantages, whether derived from nature, or acquired by "the application of industry, talent, and capital; to make the most "of them for its own consumption; leaving, at the same time, the greatest possible remainder to be given in exchange for any other "commodities produced more easily, more abundantly, or of better quality, in other districts of the world. It is thus that a country "is enriched by commerce." This is preparing the way for the easy application of the free trade doctrine.

N.

THE FADED FLOWER.

Thou fair faded flower! that so lately wert blooming,
The pride of the garden where careless I strayed;
Thou still might'st have blossom'd, the morning perfuming,
Hadst thou rested content with thy peers in the shade.

But fond to be notic'd, and ripe for thy ruin,.

Thy gadding young stem caught my eye on its way;
I sought not thy beauties, nor will'd thy undoing,
But heedlessly pluck'd thee, then cast thee away.

Not reckless, however, I gaze on thee, blighted,
A verse and a tear thy brief moral shall share;
For, oh! thoughtless Beauty, thus thou art requited,
While the spoiler speeds on, and forgets thou wert fair.
Dumfries.

C. G.

TO MY CHILD.

WRITTEN IN A DANGEROUS ILLNESS.

Thou darling boy! the pride of this sad heart,
That shrinks from death, yet struggles to be free:
Though from thy dearer Father armed to part,
A pang peculiar pierces me through thee.
For e'en the thought, that thou, of all I love,
Shalt heave no sigh, shall drop for me no tear,
Hath power my boasted fortitude to move,

And weary Nature shrinks and shudders here!
Fantastic thought! and yet how strangely sad!
That when in Death's cold arms the mother lies,
Thy youthful mother! once in thee how glad,
Thou may'st as now gaze on with laughing eyes,
Peering on arduous tiptoe o'er her bed,
Unconscious that she never more may rise!

Dumfries.

C. G.

THE WILLI-DANCE.

AN HUNGARIAN LEGEND.

The haughty Baron von Lowenstein looked from the balcony of his castle window down upon the road which wound round the valley by the foot of the mountain, and lost itself in the distance of the wellinhabited plain. He gazed upon a tall and gallant youth who rode forth from the castle upon a noble steed; he watched him as, with the fiery spirit of youth, he urged his courser forward; he smiled sternly, and ordered a page to desire the attendance of his daughter Emelka.

She came into the hall glowing like the star of Love amidst the dusky clouds. Her father called her to the window and spoke: "Seest thou that rider fast disappearing in the dust, and knowest "thou him?" With difficulty, repressing her anxiety, she replied: "Yes, my father, it is thy page Gyula." "Him thou wilt, then,

never see more," returned he coldly. At these words her senses failed, her eyes grew dizzy, and she would have fallen from the balcony, had not her father's strong arm withheld her. He ordered her attendants to convey her to her chamber.

In the mean time, Gyula was riding on without suspicion of what was meditated by the gloomy Baron; he thought the object of his journey was the Templar's Convent at Posteng. He had been

directed to convey a letter to the Prior, with commission to deliver it to him in secret. It seemed to him, that he was more and more advancing in the favor of his Lord, and saw, in this secret commission, the beginning of the utmost confidence. Who can tell all the lovely dreams which floated round him, such as lovers weave from foundations weaker than the spider's web?---The reader knows well that he loved Emelka, and was fondly loved again by her.

At the decline of day, he entered a wood which lay at the foot of the convent, and there he waited for the coming of night, intending to seek the Prior under cover of its darkness. It was one of the loveliest days of spring; the purple tints of the evening melting off into the purest and most cloudless blue, the clear warbling of the nightingale, the countless odours springing from the flowers, the gentle rustling of the branches, as the breezes played among them, filled his bosom with tender extacy: it seemed as if his heart expanded to the whole world; and he abandoned himself to the delicious reveries so natural to young and ardent minds, when the face of internal nature seems to accord with the inward feelings,---till the iron sound of the convent bell warned him to break off, and roused him once more to the exertions of active life.

At the end of the long and winding path, the gloomy walls of the convent suddenly rose before him, and as they fell darkly on the scene, they seemed, to his already-excited fancy, to afford a just emblem of the mode in which the realities of the world frown on the

illusions of affection. With a sigh, he gave the token which had been communicated by him to the Baron; the porter opened the iron gates, which groaned heavily on their hinges, and asked with subdued voice, "Come ye from the brothers of the order?" "No! from "the Baron of Lowenstein to the Prior." "Well, follow." They ascended from an arched and narrow passage, which echoed to their steps, up a winding staircase. The leader stopped at the nearest door, knocked thrice quickly and gently, a voice replied, "I am "alone." The porter pointed to the door, and disappeared among the gloomy passages, and Gyula entered.

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On an old and carved chair, dimly lighted by a single lamp, sat the Prior motionless, and resembling an ancient figure upon old tapestry. When the youth drew nearer, and the old man discerned his features by the broader light, he passed his withered hand before his face like one who endeavours to remember something that has been long forgotten. The youth presented him with the Baron's letter: the Prior opened it, and read in silence. His countenance deepened as he read, and his eyes seemed rivetted to the paper. All was so silent that Gyula could hear the beating of his heart. At length the Prior broke the silence: "Thy name?" "Gyula "Forhegy." "Thy parents?" "Geisa Forhegy and Suse Lorandi, "both dead." "The ring upon thy finger?" "The last present of "a dying mother." A slight red passed over the pale features of the Prior. He signed to him to sit down, and spoke: "My predecessor was so suddenly called away, that it appears he had not time to apprize the Baron, for this letter is addressed to him. He writes: "To death with the bearer of these tokens, to death; the "'audacious plebeian dares love my daughter, to death with "him, that I may never see him more; but let it be done in "secret." "Does love then acknowledge the pride of ancestry?" asked the youth. "Silence!" returned the Prior, "I "have commands from my superiors to obey the directions of the "Baron." Gyula was bursting forth, but the Prior added-" but "thee I will not, and cannot, harm; yet swear that thou wilt conceal "for ever what thou now hearest." Gyula swore: the youth pressed his hand in gratitude, and the old man spoke with a voice, in which the warmth of long repressed affections mingled a softened tone. "Thou must away this night; leave this country; here is a letter to "the master of our order in Croatia. It was intended for another, "now be it thine; read it, and mark well the name. The Superior "will place thee in our brotherhood; behave nobly, and leave the rest "to heaven: and should all others fail thee, I will remain firm." "Wherefore have I merited this kindness?" asked Gyula, deeply affected; the Prior answered: "Thou hast called back time long "since past by: my heart has become weak, and it urges me to "tell thee what dwells in its inmost cell,-what never passed my "lips before; and to let thee know that thou hast owed thy life to "thy mother a second time. I loved her with all the glow of youthful "heat; I love her yet as a star in the gloomy night. I saw her often

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"when she was yet a maid, in her father's castle; but there, too, thy "father saw her, and loved her as I did; and, oh! who would not "have done the same? Shall I unveil to thee all the sorrows of my "heart? I could not bear suspense: with the resolution to know my "fate, I rode to her father's castle, determined to make known to "her my love. There met me on the way a squire who greeted me: "You come in good time; all is gaiety in the castle, for Suse is just "betrothed.' I gave the squire a ring, the same which thou now "bearest on thy finger, as a present for her; I turned my horse's "head and rushed away. I became a Templar: scarcely had it happened that I was bound by my vows, when a knight came to "convent. He spoke of many things which I regarded not till he " mentioned thy mother's name. My heart leaped up: he described "the festivity of the bridal, and said how melancholy seemed the "bride; and that the report was she loved another, and had given "her hand to her husband in obedience to her father. These tidings "were so many dagger-strokes to me! since then I have heard "nothing of her. I forbade myself to ask of her. I was sent into "the East; I sought for death, and found it not. It is but few weeks "since I returned; a few days only since I have been here, and I no longer murmur that the Saracen lance has spared me, for I can savethy life. But see, the hour-glass has run down, the stars are disappearing, time presses, depart; and when thou art about to give way to sorrow, think of me, and how I have had to suffer."

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The youth sank into his arms in wordless emotion-the Prior roused himself as the servant entered-Gyula hastily retreated, and sprung to horse almost before he knew what had happened. Sorrowfully did he look back where the domains of Lowenstein extended; and his heart was convulsed with the bitterest anguish, when he turned his horse from the well-known and delightful paths, obliged to seek a home among a stranger race.

Gloom hung on the Castle of Lowenstein; scarcely had Emelka recovered from her swoon, when a messenger arrived from the Prior to say that the squire of Lowenstein, on his return, had been waylaid and murdered.

Emelka sank into a melancholy illness-the only daughter of his house-the last scion of a noble race;-the hard heart of the Baron was convulsed with sorrow. He summoned a skilful Monk, who delivered her from death, but could not banish the secret disease of her mind. It seemed as if she revelled in grief.

The summer vanished, autumn came and went, and winter reigned in all its severity; the Baron seemed to dwell in the forest, hunting the wild boar, and yet oftener he went to Temetsving, with whose lord it appeared as if he had weighty matters to transact. At these times, when Emelka was alone, and the snow fell in thick flakes, and the twilight spread its dusky wings, and the silence was only broken by the rushing of the Aar, struggling with the icy masses floating in its current, she summoned the attendance of her nurse Gunda; while the fire crackled on the hearth, and the lady reclined