muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!"
said Stephen, with an anxious smile;
"when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we
can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers!
'Tis not by them the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis
not wi' them 't commences. I ha no favor
for 'em—I ha no reason to favor 'em—but
'tis hopeless an useless to dream o' takin
them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their  trade fro them! Aw that's now about me in
this room were heer afore I coom, an will
be heer when I am gone. Put that clock
aboard a ship an pack it off to Norfolk
Island, an the time will go on just the same.
So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit."

Reverting for a moment to his former
refuge, he observed a cautionary movement
of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back,
he put his hand upon the lock. But, he had
not spoken out of his own will and desire;
and he felt it in his heart a noble return for
his late injurious treatment, to be faithful
to the last to those who had repudiated
him. He stayed to finish what was in his
mind.

"Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an my
common way, tell the genelman what will
better aw this—though some working-men o'
this town could, above my powers—but I can
tell him what I know will never do't. The
strong hand will never do't. Vict'ry and
triumph will never do't. Agreein fur to mak
one side unnat'rally awlus and for ever right,
and toother side unnat'rally awlus and for ever
wrong, will never, never do't. Nor yet lettin
alone will never do't. Let thousands upon
thousands alone, aw leadin the like lives
and aw faw'en into the like muddle, and they
will be as one, an yo will be as anoother, wi'
a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as
long or short a time as assitch like misery can last.
Not drawin nigh to fok, wi' kindness an
patience an cheery ways, that so draws nigh to
one another in their monny troubles, and so
cherishes one another in their distresses wi'
what they need themseln—like, I humbly
believe, as no people the gentleman ha seen in
aw his travels can beat—will never do't till
th' Sun turns t' ice. Last o' aw, ratin 'em as
so much Power, and reg'latin 'em as if they
was figures in a soom, or machines: wi'out
loves and likeins, wi'out memories and
inclinations, wi'out souls to weary an souls to
hope—when aw goes quiet, draggin on wi'
'em as if they'd nowt o' th' kind, an when
aw goes onquiet, reproaching 'em fur their
want o' sitch humanly feelins in their dealins
wi' yo—this will never do't, sir, till God's
work is onmade."

Stephen stood with the open door in his
hand, waiting to know if anything more were
expected of him.

"Just stop a moment," said Mr. Bounderby,
excessively red in the face. "I told you, the
last time you were here with a grievance,
that you had better turn about and come
out of that. And I also told you, if you
remember, that I was up to the gold spoon
look-out."

"I were not up to't myseln, sir; I do assure
yo."

"Now, it's clear to me," said Mr. Bounderby,
"that you are one of those chaps who have
always got a grievance. And you go about,
sowing it and raising crops. That's the business
of your life, my friend."

Stephen shook his head, mutely protest ing
(hat indeed he had other business to do for
his life.

"You are such a waspish, rasplsh, ill-
conditioned chap, you see," said Mr. Bounderby,
"that even your own Union, the men who
know you best, will have nothing to do with
you. I never thought those fellows could be
right in anything; but I tell you what! I so
far go along with them for a novelty, that I'll
have nothing to do with you either."

Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face.

"You can finish off what you're at," said
Mr. Bounderby, with a meaning nod, "and
then go elsewhere."

"Sir, yo know weel," said Stephen expressively,
"that if I canna get work wi' yo, I canna
get it elsewheer."

The reply was, "What I know, I know
and what you know, you know. I have no
more to say about it."

Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her
eyes were raised to his no more; therefore,
with a sigh, and saying, barely above his
breath, "Heaven help us aw in this world!"
he departed.

BRITISH PHENOMENA.

This is what I am told by a French writer:
"Generally the people of a nation are very
ignorant concerning the phenomena of their
own land; they must turn to strangers to
get the solution of them." I am told this in
the course of a book, published in Paris,
within the last twelve months, which
contains solutions of English problems, or,
sketches of English manners, thrown into the
form of tales. To assist my fellow-countrymen
in this praiseworthy struggle to
comprehend themselves I will faithfully set
down some few of the ideas I have obtained
from Monsieur Méry's Nuits Anglaises.

Our first study shall be Mr. William
Shoffield, a Birmingham cutler, who retired upon
fifteen thousand pounds a year to a house
just on the other side of Highgate archway,
in the county of Kent.

The retirement of Mr. Shoffield took place
in the year eighteen hundred and thirty-
four, and the establishment set up by
him consisted of two servants in blue
gloves, a berlin with three horses, and an
emanciplated negro coachman—berlin, horses,
and coachman being sold to him by Milne,
the famous coachmaker of Edgar Rood
(called, in our ignorance, the Edgeware
Road). The Bethibrth coach, passing his