brick-and-mortar mausoleums for the suffocation
as well as for the accommodation of an
increasing populace; who, if they wish to get
breath, can find nowhere to draw it from,
short of a long journey. The Lungs of
London have undergone congestion, and even
their cells are underground.

Of all the neighbourhoods of which London
is a collection, Finsbury and Islington have
suffered most. Within the recollection of
middle-aged memories, Clerkenwell Green was
of the right colour; Moorfields, Spafields, and
the East India Company's Fields, were adorned
with grass; and he must be young indeed
who cannot remember cricket-playing in
White Conduit, Canonbury, Shepherd and
Shepherdess, Rhodes, and Laycock's, besides
countless acres of other "Fields," which are
now blotted out from the face of the Country
to become Town, in the densest sense of the
word. Thanks to the window tax and the
bricklayer, fresh air will be thoroughly
bricked out, unless a vigorous effort be
made to stop the invasion of burnt clay and
water.

Mr. Lloyd, a gentleman of Islington who
dreamt a few years since that he lived in the
country, but has recently awoke to the
conviction that his once suburban residence has
been completely incorporated with the town,
determined, if possible, to arrest the invasion
of habitations. His plan is to dam out the
flood of encroachment by emparking a large
space at Islington, for the behoof of the
Borough of Finsbury, which contains a
population of three hundred thousand panting
souls. This space is, according to his plan,
that which surrounds the village of Highbury,
one of the highest and airiest suburbs of London.
It is within two miles of the City, and
might be rendered accessible to Victoria Park
in the east, and to Regent's Park in the west.
The proposed enclosure will take in a good
portion of the course of the New River,
and a large quantity of ground so well and
picturesquely wooded, that a paling and a
name are only requisite to convert it at once
into a park. In shape the enclosure would
be a triangle, the base of which is the Holloway
Road and Hopping Lane, and the apex,
a point at which the Seven Sisters' Road
joins the Green Lanes. The extent of these
grounds is about three hundred acres, and the
total cost of securing them to the public is
not more than one hundred and fifty thousand
pounds.

Mr. Lloyd has been vigorously agitating
this matter for more than nine years, and
yet—such is the pace at which the public are
apt to move in affairs in which the public
alone is itself concerned—it is only lately that
he has obtained an attentive hearing for his
plan.

A prospect of success appears now, however,
to dawn. Public meetings have been lately
held in every district concerned, in which
every sort of co-operation has been promised.
A single difficulty seems to stand in the way;
one little thing needful is only required to
turn the project into an accomplished fact,
and that is, the money,—one hundred and
fifty thousand pounds merely. Mr. Lloyd
and his coadjutors have, we believe,
mentioned their little difficulty at the Treasury,
and are awaiting an answer. This state of
things would form a curious problem for De
Morgan, Quetelet, or others learned in the
doctrine of probabilities: given, official routine
multiplied by systematic delay, what are the
chances of the cash required within the present
generation?

A park for Finsbury is too urgent a demand
for a dense population to allow of much time
being wasted in knocking at the door of the
Treasury. The public must bestir themselves
in the scheme, and it will soon be
accomplished and carried out.

THE LOVE OF NATURE.

  WHERE the green banners of the forest float,
    Where, from the Sun's imperial domain,
  Armour'd in gold, attentive to the note
    Of piping birds, the sturdy trees remain,
    Those never-angered armies; where the plain
  Boasts to the day its bosom ornaments
    Of corn and fruitage; where the low refrain
  Of seaside music song on song invents,
Laden with placid thought, whereto the heart assents,
  Often I wander. Nor does the light Noon,
    Garrulous to man's eye, declaring all
  That Morning pale (watched by her spectre moon,
    Or solemn Vesper, seated near the pall
    Of Day) holds unrevealed; nor does the fall
  Of curtain on our human pantomime,
    The sweeping by of Day's black funeral
  Through Night's awe-stricken realms, with tread sublime,
Chiefly delight my heart; beauty pervades all time.
  Morning: the Day is innocent, and weeps;
    Noon: she is wedded and enjoys the Earth;
  Evening: wearied of the world she sleeps.
    Night watches till another Day has birth.
    The innocence of Morning, and the mirth
  Of Noon, the holy calm of Eventide,
    The watching while Day is not, there is dearth
  Of joy within his soul who hath not cried:
     "I welcome all, God,—share all Thou wilt provide!"

THE PRESERVATION OF LIFE FROM
SHIPWRECK.

IT is a difficult matter to reconcile with the
sympathy, which it is well-known the sufferings
of the unfortunate always receive in
England, the apparent apathy which exists
among fhe public, on a subject so important
as the preservation of Life from Shipwreck.
Several pleas in extenuation have been urged
by those most interested. In the first place,
there is that natural hardihood and contempt
of danger in the English sailor, which it is,
occasionally, impossible to tame down to