their names ranged alongside those of "Good"
Dukes, Peers, and M.P's.

The truth is, deep, sympathising, effectual
benevolence does not often find its way into the
subscription list at all. Neither does it go
about in mysterious melodramatic disguise,
on purpose to be found out and be all the
more blazoned; but, with unostentatious
earnestness, gives its intellect and its time, as
well as its money, to the needy and suffering.
It discriminates, inquires, and affords judicious
help rather than unqualified alms;
which though it may bless the giver, seldom
blesses the receiver; unless in cases of utter
helplessness.

Meek Charity never thrusts her hand into
her purse with the bouncing let-me-know-
what-I-have-to-pay,-and-have-done-with-it,
profusion of a rich "subscriber." She is a
great economist; for had she millions, she
could not cover and heal all the sores of
poverty that cover the land. She knows that
unwise profusion to one case is gross injustice
to many others that must be consequently
neglected.

It may be argued, that whatever be the
motives of the advertisers, for their seeming
charity, the result is good. They give their
money and that is usefully applied.

As a general rule, we doubt this. The
regular charities, of which routine advertisements
are constantly appearing in the Spring,
are, many of them, gigantic jobs; operating
less for the excellent objects pretended in
them than for the payment of large salaries
to their officers and managers. Most of the
subscribed capital goes to build magnificent
palaces for a few children, who are supposed
to be born in hovels; to pay the bills of
treasurers, who manage to get elected as
such because they are printers, or contractors
for articles used in the institution, and
enormously overcharged. The purest we
believe to be medical charities; but some of
these are full of abuses—abuses often
occasioned by their very affluence, and which they
have attained by means of a clever and
constant working of THE SUBSCRIPTION LIST.

THE EMIGRANT'S BIRD.

"These vessels carry out houses and every necessary
requisite for domestic comfort on landing; and, singular as
it may seem, every variety of English singing-bird, which,
on landing, the colonists will release, in order that they
may propagate."

To distant lands across the sea
I go, a happier lot to seek,
And tho' not one will mourn for me,
The tears are welling down my cheek!
For wife and children sleep beneath
The shadow of yon aged yew,
And I but seem forestalling death
In bidding all I loved adieu!

This house, tho' only wood and stone,
Has language in each time-worn wall;
For, as I turn and would be gone,
Loved spirit-voices on me call!
I linger in the deepening gloom,
Half hoping with the dead to meet;
To hear in some now vacant room
The music of my children's feet.

I cannot leave all home behind,
My heart—my heart would surely break!
Therefore, sweet birds, tho' now confined,
'Tis love that doth thy prison make:
When waves around us cease to foam,
Your captor's hand shall set you free;
And you shall sing to me of home,
In the far land across the sea.

THE WARILOWS OF WELLAND;
OR, THE MODERN PRODIGAL.

MANY travellers know the "Rutland Arms"
at Bakewell, in the Peak of Derbyshire. It
is a fine large inn, belonging to his Grace of
Rutland, standing in an airy little Market-
Place of that clean-looking little town, and
commanding from its windows pleasant peeps
of the green hills and the great Wicksop
Woods, which shut out the view of
Chatsworth, the Palace of the Peak, which lies
behind them. Many travellers who used to
traverse this road from the south to
Manchester, in the days of long coaches and long
wintry drives, know well the "Rutland
Arms," and will recall the sound of the
guard's bugle, as they whirled up to the door,
amid a throng of grooms, waiters, and village
idlers, the ladder already taken from its
stand by the wall, and placed by the officious
Boots in towering position, ready, at the
instant of the coach stopping, to clap it under
your feet, and facilitate your descent. Many
travellers will recall one feature of that
accommodating inn, which, uniting aristocratic
with commercial entertainment, has
two doors; one lordly and large in front, to
which all carriages of nobility, prelacy, and
gentility naturally draw up; and one at the
end, to which all gigs, coaches, mails, and still
less dignified conveyances, as naturally are
driven. Our travellers will as vividly
remember the passage which received them at
this entrance, and the room to the left, the
Travellers' Room, into which they were
ushered. To that corner room, having
windows to the Market-Place in front, and one
small peeping window at the side,
commanding the turn of the north road, and the
interesting arrivals at the secondary entrance,
we now introduce our readers.

Here sat a solitary gentleman. He was a
man apparently of five-and-thirty; tall,
considerably handsome; a face of the oval
character, nose a little aquiline, hair dark,
eyebrows dark and strong, and a light, clear,
self-possessed look, that showed plainly
mough that he was a man of active mind,
and well to do in the world. You would have
thought, from his gentlemanly air, and by no
means commercial manner, that he would
have found his way in at the great front door,
and into one of the private rooms; but he