will say that I died true and blest, because he
was what he was; and that I bade him a fond
adieu, until we should meet again in a better
world. For, O! we shall meet again; I have
a testimony within, which will not deceive
me!'

"She then reverted to her father.

"'He will come back,' she said; 'you will
see that he will come back, and he will inquire
what is become of me—why his child
has forgotten him and is silent. It will be the
silence and forgetfulness of the grave. Perhaps
he will come back as he went; his heart yet
unchanged; defying and despairing. Tell him
not — be patient with him, good kind friend,
for my sake. There is good in him—good he
knows not of, himself; that nobody knows of,
but his loving child, and the God who made
him—weak and erring as he is. Tell him, he
must no more be weak and erring; tell him
there is forgiveness for all who will return at
last, but that forgiveness supposes newness
of life. Tell him—"

The sentence was unfinished by the lady,
for he who listened fell prostrate on his face
upon the floor.

They raised him up; but his heart seemed
broken. He neither moved nor spoke.
Life, however, was not extinct; for in this
condition he remained many days.

They could not keep him where he was,
for this benevolent institution was strictly
devoted to women of the more refined orders.
He was carried to a Hospital. There was
nowhere else to carry him.

Seven days he lay without speaking; but
not absolutely senseless. The spirit within
him was at work. In his worst days he had
never wanted energy. His heart was ever
strong for good or for bad. What passed
within him, in those seven days, was between
his soul and the Highest. He came out of
his death-trance an altered creature.

The once handsome, dashing, profane,
luxurious Julian Winstanley, looked now a
very old, old man. Quite grey, very thin, and
stooping much. From that time, he continued
to earn his bread honestly, as an attendant
in the very hospital where he had been
recovered. He had a little room to himself,
and it was filled with certain simple treasures,
hallowed by his recollections.

His patient and tender attendance upon
the sick, his assiduous discharge of all his
duties, was beyond praise.

One day, a man who had risen to a very
high post in one of our colonies, came to
visit him. The two were long together. When
they parted, it was evident that both had
wept much.

The old man, after that, faded rapidly.
One morning they found him dead in bed.
His hands were clasped together, as if he had
departed in the act of prayer. He lies buried
in a neighbouring churchyard, under a simple
mound of earth, such as covers the humblest
and the poorest.

He had left behind him a scrap of paper,
earnestly imploring that so it might be. So
it was. May God forgive us all!

THE WONDERS OF NAILS AND
SCREWS.

SEVENTY-FIVE years ago our fathers were
told, by a man of high character whose testimony
could not be doubted, that he had himself
seen several boys, under twenty years of
age, each of whom could make two thousand
three hundred, nails in a day. This
gentleman—Adam Smith—explained that, to
produce so surprising a result, these boys
must have passed their whole lives in nail-making;
for that a smith, who had been
pretty well accustomed to making nails but
not wholly devoted to it, could not make more
than from eight hundred to one thousand in
a day; while a smith who could handle
his tools cleverly but was unused to making
nails, could not turn out more in a day
than two or three hundred. The making
of nails, Adam continues, is by no means a
simple operation: he tells how the bellows
have to be blown, and the fire mended, and
the iron heated, and every part of the nail
forged; and how the tools have to be changed
when the head comes to be shaped. Considering
all this, it seemed, in 1776 (when this
account was published), a wonderful example
of dexterity, that young people should be
able, with due effort, to make two thousand
three hundred nails in a day.

That year seems not so very long ago: 1776
was the date of the American declaration of
independence: and we are fond of saying how
extremely young a nation is that of the United
States. It is the date of our compulsory permission
to that young nation to take care of
itself, and to see what it could do by its own
faculties. It has done a great many wonderful
things; and, among others, it has invented,
and sent over to us, a machine by which
boys can make more nails in a day than our
readers would remember, if we were to set
down the long row of figures. These Americans
used to buy our nails, made in the way
that Adam Smith describes. But in a few
years, they found they had the iron and coal,
and the heads and hands necessaiy for making
steam-engines and nail-cutting machines—all
at home: and instead of taking our nails, they
have shown us how to make so many, that, if
the same number were made in the old way,
it would take half the nation to accomplish
the work.

We do not want all these nails ourselves.
Of the smallest kind of nail (tacks), some are
still made on the anvil; and those are probably
for home use. They must be regarded
as a humble manufacture, remaining from old
times, on account of the expense of the new
machinery. The establishment we saw, the
other day, at Birmingham, makes twenty tons
of nails per week, of all sizes together; that is,