we may secure that important consideration
—steadiness in the supply of food for the
factory.

HUMAN BROTHERHOOD.

THE monarch, glitt'ring with the pomp of state,
    Wears the same flesh as those that die of hunger;
Like them, the worm shall be his loathsome mate,
    When he resigns his glory to a younger.

The beauty, worshipp'd by the limner's eye,
    On whom a hundred suitors gaze admiring,
Is sister to the hag, deformed, awry,
    Who gathers in the road her scanty firing.

The scholar, glorying in the stamp of Mind,
    Master of all the wisdom Time has hoarded,
ls brother to the lumpish, untaught hind,
    Whose vulgar name will perish unrecorded.

Therefore let human sympathies be strong,
    Let each man share his welfare with his neighbour;
To the whole race Heaven's bounteous gifts belong,
    None may live idly whilst his fellows labour.

THE KING OF THE HEARTH.

"Do thee go on, Phil," said a miner, one of
sixteen who sat about a tap-room fire. "Do
thee go on, Phil Spruce; and, Mrs. Pittis,
fetch us in some beer."

"And pipes," added a boy.

"Mr. Spruce contemplated his young friend
with a grim smile. "Well," said he, "it's a
story profitable to be heard, and so—"

"Aye, so it be," said a lame man, who made
himself a little more than quits with Nature,
by working with his sound leg on the floor
incessantly. "So it be," said Timothy Drum.
"Phil's a philosopher."

"It always strucked me," said a dirty little
man, "that Phil has had a sort of water in
him ever since that night we lost old Tony
Barker."

"What happened then?" inquired the
squire's new gamekeeper.

"Did ever you see down the shaft of a
pit?" asked Phil.

No; and I'd rather not."

"A deep, deep well. Whatever they may
do in other pails, we sing hymns, when we
are pulled up, and if so be any of our butties
at such times says a wicked word, he gets
cursed finely when we be safe up at the top.
We gon up and down different ways. In
some old pits they have ladders, one under
another, which reminds me—"

"Always the way with Phil."

Mr. Spruce gazed sternly in the direction
of the whisperer, and drank some beer.
"Which reminds me that once—"

We must here announce the fact concerning
Mr. Philip Spruce, that his method of
telling a story ("Which reminds me," always
meant a story with him) is very discursive,
He may be said to resemble Jeremy Bentham,
who, according to Hazlitt's criticism, fills his
sentence with a row of pegs, and hangs a
garment upon each of them. Let us omit
some portion of his tediousness, and allow
aim to go on with his tale.

"It was in the year One thousand, eight,
four, four; by token it was the same month,
November, in which the block fell upon Tim
Drum's leg, I was invited to a Christmas
dinner, by old Jabez Wilson. You are
aware, gentlemen, that hereabouts there are
a great number of deserted pits. The
entrances to these are mostly covered with a
board or two. There aren't many stiles in
our pit-country, so we are drove to using these
for firewood. The old pit mouths being left
uncovered, and sometimes hidden in brush-
wood, it is a very common thing for sheep to
tumble in, and if gentlemen go shooting
thereabouts, they may chance to return home
without a dog your good health, Timothy.
—As I was saying, I love to ponder upon
causes, and compare effects. I pondered as I
walked——"

"And the effect was that you tumbled into
a pit, Phil Spruce."

"The truth has been told, gentlemen, but it
has been told too soon. And now I've
forgotten where I was. Ay, pondering." Here
Phil hung up a long shred of philosophy on
one of his pegs; and after the first ten
minutes of his harangue, which was chiefly
occupied in abusing human nature, a fierce-
looking individual said, "Go on, Sir; you've
brought things to that pass where they won't
bear aggravation. The company expects you
to fall down the pit directly."

"In the middle of my reflections—my
natural Christmas thoughts," continued Phil,
"I felt a severe bump on the back and a
singular freedom about my legs, followed by
a crash against the hinder part of my head—"

"To the bottom at once," said the fierce-
looking man.

"I was at the bottom of a pit in two
seconds. By what means my life was
preserved, I cannot tell; certain it is that I
sustained at that time no serious injury. Of
course, I was much stunned, and lay for a long
time, I suppose, insensible. When I opened
my eyes there was nothing to be seen more
than a faint glimmer from the daylight far
above, and a great many dancing stars which
seemed like a swarm of gnats, ready to settle
on my body. I now pondered how I should
obtain rescue from my dangerous position,
when an odd circumstance arrested my attention.
I was evidently, unless my ears deceived
me, not alone in my misfortune; for I
heard, as distinctly as I now hear Mr. Drum's
leg upon the fender, I heard a loud voice.
It proceeded from a distant gallery. 'Who
did you say?' inquired the voice in a hoarse
tone; a softer voice replied, 'Phil Spruce, I
think.' 'Very well,' answered the big sound;
'I'll come to him directly.'"

"Here was a state of things. A gentleman
resided here and was aware of my intrusion