(as seems to be a natural consequence) there
is very little crime—so little, that the spirits
of the moralist and the lover of his kind might
rise to an unprecedented point, if it were not
too certain that, with the next visitation of
adversity, want and crime will recur. The
open-hearted and light-headed work-people
will not, as a body, take warning from past
trials. Some—many—lay by a portion of
their present earnings ; but the greater number
are as childish in pleasing themselves to-
day, without thought of to-morrow, as if they
had never known what it was to hunger
themselves, or to shudder at a neighbour's
crimes. Rich spendthrifts are visited with
curses for the social injury that they inflict.
Cursing does no good, against high or low ;
but a remonstrance—now—in the day of
prosperity—when it cannot be mistaken for a taunt,
may be worth trying ; and, to begin with a
small particular, we would suggest to the
buyer of bread, that it would save many a
shilling, and much indigestion, if he would
eat his loaf, not steaming hot, but one day
old ; and that the loaf should be fairly devoured
up, and not thrown into corners and channels
where even the pigs are not the better for it.
There are creatures of a higher order than
pigs who would gladly scrape off the mud and
dust for the mouthful within ; and who shall
say which of us may not have to stoop to the
gutter for our loathsome dinner, if we will not
take measures to secure ourselves from being
brought to such a pass ? If we all spent, day
by day, whatever we have, we should be
fighting in the gutters for existence ; and why
should that recklessness be excused in any
which would be fatal in all ? So let all
Birmingham pay down for its loaf, and, however
large the loaf, eat up the crusts.

FORGIVE!

BY all the turmoil thou hast felt
Within thy tempted breast,
When fiery passions strove to melt
God's image there impress'd ;
By all the struggles of thy will
To quell their rebel might,
Forgive the wretch, who, battling ill,
Was worsted in the fight !

Thou knowest not what cunning snares
Were spread beneath his feet ;
What foemen lurk'd in ambush' d lairs
To intercept retreat ;
The weakness thou wouldst harshly chide
Should tender pity woo ;
If thou hadst been as sorely tried,
Thou mightst have fallen, too!

Forgive, and breathe a gentle word
Of sympathy and love,
Like that by weeping Mary heard
From One now throned above ;
And thou mayst win from depths of woe
The soul that went astray ;
And light anew Hope's faded glow
To change its night to day.

But harshness raises higher yet
The waters of despair,
And weaves around a stronger net
To mesh the erring there ;
Till, settling heavily, they sink
Beneath the tumid wave ;
And thou, though standing on the brink,
Didst stretch no hand to save!

AN ASCENT OF ADAM'S PEAK.

ADAM'S Peak is, to the natives of Ceylon,
a sacred spot; but to myself and my friend
Lister it presented itself simply as a mountain
to climb.

On a lovely July morning we sallied out
of the old Dutch fort of Colombo before the
sun had risen, and with something of the
freshness of the departed night still lingering
in the air. Our grooms and coolies had
gone on the previous evening to prepare for
our reception at our first halt. Our steeds,
not the finest-looking animals in the world,
but excellent roadsters, were, like ourselves,
in very superior order, and evidently entered
on their task with pleasure. We were dressed
in suits of strong blue-checked cloth, such as
is found most serviceable in the jungle; large
boots, like those of the Life Guards, coming
above the knees, defending our extremities;
and hats made of pith, resembling jockey-caps
or helmets. Thus we wound through the
passages leading from the strange old fort,
over the drawbridges, and by the side of
bastions and gabions of apparently interminable
length. But who shall tell the inward
content, the mental exhilaration which
possessed us in setting forth to explore the
mysterious summit of the mysterious
mountain? As the sun rose, the long line of
hills of which it forms the culminating point,
were distinctly visible upon the horizon,
whilst above them towered the point
towards which we had set our faces—the
whole, as it stood out in bold relief upon
the glowing eastern sky, not unlike the
gigantic outlines of the head and out-spreading
wings of some huge bird, whose body
was concealed by the earth, whilst it struggled
with head and bill erect to free itself from
its trammels.

We were on the road to Sitaivaka, an ancient
but almost ruined town, through which the
most accessible path lies to the foot of the
Peak. The high road we were soon obliged
to leave, and enter upon a detestable bridle-
path. After floundering through a brawling
rivulet, the road ran almost perpendicularly
up a steep bank on the opposite side,
which, having been climbed by our labouring
steeds, we found a rugged hill before us;
over which we had to proceed into the valley
beneath.

It was nearly nine o'clock before we reached
the large barn-like building, in which our
guide, Poonchy, our coolies and grooms, were
awaiting our arrival. Poonchy was both cook