All these things considered, we would describe the present state and prospects of the humbler portion of the community in a different manner from the writers alluded to. There is much to be deplored, much to find fault with; but there never was less, and agencies are now at work for making it less than ever. But the improvement of the condition of the unendowed will only be advanced by a harmonious exertion on the part of society at large. It will not be favoured by unjust estimates of the existing circumstances of the humbler classes, or by unfounded accusations against their superiors. Neither will it be promoted by that kind of philosophy, so predominant in the present day, by which everybody is excused from the responsibility of his own fate, and the burden thrown on something or somebody else. We all owe a duty to each other in the social world, as has often been affirmed in our pages; and if this be neglected, as it often is, great evils will be the consequence. But there is some limit to this principle, and the views entertained about it by some writers are of a fatal kind. We would take leave to insist on the impolicy of the doctrine which makes out every person in humble circumstances to be an ill-used man, for whom something should be done! A man in humble circumstances is but too apt to despair of any efforts of his own for his own benefit-too readily does he incline to look for aid from external sources. To lead him, therefore, to think that he has no charge over himself, since others are to see after him-that he need deny himself nothing, since it is somebody else's conduct which makes him what he is can only give him a deeper position in the mire. The middle classes, moreover, having for the most part risen by their own efforts, are repelled when they hear such doctrines propounded, and their aid is lost. Better to let the industrious orders understand that, with all the good-will in the world, the other classes can only help a little in the good work, and that even this help can only be of any avail if the parties proposed to be benefited exercise such vigilance and energy as nature and circumstances have placed in their power. Blessings only come when they are sought-Heaven only helps those who help themselves—and it seems equally a law that those only shall receive any advantage from the kindly benevolence of their fellow-creatures, who seek to come to the same results by well-directed efforts of their own.

THE MATIN BELL.

A TRADITION OF PORTUGAL.

THERE were great rejoicings in the city of Lisbon when Denis of Portugal, the warrior and poet king, celebrated his nuptials with the young and lovely Infanta of Castile. The monarch's popularity was at its height; the multitude, who had already conferred on him the title of Father of his People,' were roused to the most enthusiastic loyalty by the feasts and largesses bestowed on them; and the nobles, whose national pride was gratified by the alliance, found an additional source of satisfaction in their young sovereign's prudent dismissal of the queen's train of Castilian attendants, which prevented the possible influence of foreign favourites-over one whose beauty and grace rendered it more than probable that she would become their 'ruler's ruler.' At the queen's request, however, a young page, whose insignificance appeared to make his presence or absence of little moment, was retained.

With all external circumstances thus conducing to happiness (for her royal husband was as courteous and accomplished as he was brave and politic), Isabella of Castile had just cause to rejoice in her brilliant destiny; and during the first two months of her residence in her new home, not a shade obscured its brightness. At the expiration of that period, however, her quick perception detected the one infirmity of Denis's otherwise noble

nature. He was most painfully jealous. He could endure no rival in her thoughts, not even the natural and pious love of her kindred and her country. A cloud ever rested on his brow when she spoke to him of Castile, of her parents, of her youngest and favourite brother; nay, when, with the candour of her nature, she told him of her regret at parting from the friends and associations of her childhood, he had answered her with harshness. Isabella was very young, and very timid. From that moment she avoided all mention of her family and her native land; but, by a natural consequence, they obtained a stronger hold on her memory and her affections. Fear of awaking her husband's displeasure, on the queen's side, and a jealous doubt on that of the king, that the marriage of policy had not given him the love he craved, produced a constraint in their intercourse which was painful to both; and Isabella, chilled by the want of sympathy with her feelings in all around her, sought it at length in her young countryman, the page Gonzales. He could talk to her of dear and distant Castile; he could sing the songs doubly sweet now to her ear from their association with the past. Whenever the young queen sat alone with her ladies at their embroidery, the Castilian was summoned to beguile the time with his guitar, or with reminiscences of his royal lady's childhood; and this imprudent and somewhat undignified intercourse between the queen and her attendant was partially excusable, from the fact that Gonzales was the son of a noble Castilian lady, to whom the care of her own youth had been confided. He had been reared from infancy in her father's palace, and shared her own and her brothers' pastimes. And then Gonzales was so unlike the generality of pages! He was so gentle, so pious, so refined and humble in manner, that he found favour in the eyes of even the gravest and most prudish of the ladies of honour. He was of a slight delicate figure; and though very handsome, it was less the beauty of feature than of expression, which won the admiration, and even the affection, of those who gazed on his calm, thoughtful eyes and open brow. People in this evil world cannot, however, be more than ordinarily excellent, or more than usually beloved, without incurring envy; and the gentle virtues of Gonzales were

not likely to make him popular with his wild young comrades, the pages of the palace. The greater number came to the conclusion that his true vocation was the cloister, and suffered him to pursue his own course with a contemptuous pity; but one, who was far beyond them in intellect and forethought, and whose

future fortunes depended almost wholly upon the royal favour, beheld with all the bitterness of an envious and vindictive nature the Castilian page.

Bernardo di Silva had sought with unwearying diligence the notice of his queenly mistress. She was devout: he became most earnest in his attention to her confessor; in his attendance at mass. His conduct was exemplary, his services performed with grace and neverfailing care. Nevertheless he failed in his design: nature had not bestowed on him the power of winning love. He gained but a cold approval-the homage paid to the semblance of virtue-no more.

No marvel, therefore, that he hated Gonzales, and, with the inconsistency of our nature, looked on his unconscious rival as his enemy-as one who stole from him the favour of his queen. Of a more vindictive spirit than even the generality of his countrymen, he mentally resolved to avenge what he considered his wrongs on the young Spaniard; and the opportunity came at last. When is there ever an occasion wanting to do evil?

though all unconscious of its purport. The opening day was even more than usually beautiful, and his path, which at first lay through the groves surrounding the palace, was gem-strewed with crystal dewdrops. The page's mind was keenly susceptible of beauty, and the holy voice of nature never spoke to his heart in vain. Thoughts and aspirations that were not of the earth awoke under the influence of the fresh balmy air and the music of the birds; and when the matin-bell from a sylvan chapel joined the general song, he started, and felt a sudden awe mingle with his thrill of delight. His feet lingered on the sod. The sweet yet solemn sound seemed to call him like a familiar voice; and obeying the promptings of his heart, he turned aside from the path, entered the consecrated building, and knelt in devout and humble prayer before the altar.

It was noonday; King Denis paced his chamber alone, a prey to the most torturing reflections. By this time his vengeance was sated, and with that thought came a reaction of feeling. A terrible doubt arose in his mind as to the possibility of his having been deceived: in short, reason was resuming its empire, and, dispirited and uncertain, he ordered Bernardo di Silva to his presence. The page could not be found; he had left the palace some two hours before. The attendant was in the act of giving this information to the agitated sovereign, when a low knock at the door interrupted him. Opening it at the king's command, he beheld Gonzales, pale, trembling, with an expression of unutterable horror on his usually calm features, standing before him. Had he turned his eyes towards his royal master, he would have been still more astonished at the expression his countenance wore as he recognised the page, who, whilst the king stood mute and motionless with amazement, advanced, and bending his knee, said in a faltering voice, 'Your will has been obeyed, sire!-my unhappy comrade is no more. I reached the limekiln in time to hear his death-cry.' He shuddered, and continued, after an instant's pause, The murderers-I crave your Grace's pardon the executioners charged me to inform their king, that when he found resistance and intreaty vain, the miserable Bernardo acknowledged the justice of his fate; and his last audible words declared that he had wronged the queen, and abused your royal ear with

falsehood.'

In emotion too great for speech, Denis of Portugal heard this extraordinary communication; and when at last he found words, it was to utter an ejaculation of thanksgiving to the Divine Providence which had saved him at least from the guilt of shedding innocent blood.

A long and careful inquiry explained the mysterious substitution. The morning mass was long, and ere Gonzales had quitted the chapel, Bernardo, believing that he must be already dead, left the palace, and proceeded to the kilns, to gratify his fiendish malice, by ascertaining that he had no longer a rival. He had either not heard the words agreed upon, or else, by a natural inadvertence, his first question was, Is the king's will done?' and the lime-burners, recognising the sign, at once seized him, and, in spite of his intreaties and remonstrances, inflicted on him the fate intended for his betrayed comrade.

This fearful lesson was not wholly lost on Denis. His jealousy, if not entirely, was partially cured; and no after-imprudence on the part of the terrified and shocked Isabella gave occasion for its display or its control. Gonzales ceased, apparently, to be her favourite; but his rising fortunes did not therefore suffer. He became, in after-years, a powerful and confidential minister and counsellor of the king; the founder of a noble family in his adopted country. And never did the aged noble hear, without paying devout obedience to its summons, the voice of the matin bell!

Whether this singular legend be true or otherwise, it is a curious picture of a rude and nearly lawless age, and as such we present it to our readers. If the former, it is a striking instance of the visible working of that

Divine Power which, both history and experience teach us, frequently causes the wickedness of a man to fall on his own head;' so that in the pit he had privily digged for another, his own foot should be taken."

HUGH MILLER'S FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND AND ITS PEOPLE.* EVERYTHING that proceeds from a mind of such nerve and comprehensiveness as Hugh Miller's, must be entitled to attention. In the present volume he has embodied the observations he made upon the people of England during a two-months' tour, undertaken with a view to the recovery of health. But Mr Miller is a geologist: hence much, at intervals, regarding the Dudley coal-field, the ideas of Dean Cockburn, and so forth. He is also a zealously pious man: hence frequent references to the state of religion in England, with many general remarks on the character and effects of ChrisThus the book is a melange of somewhat tianity. whimsically grouped materials; and yet there is one unfailing principle of unity over all, in the energetic thinking, and rich though diffuse style of the author. We venture to recommend the book in an especial manner to intelligent Englishmen, as fitted to introduce them to a strain of opinion and mode of judgment to which they are all but strangers.

For our part, we are disposed, for the meantime at least, to overlook Mr Miller's geology, though that is in general masterly, and also his polemics, in order to arrive at those parts of his book which are of widest interest. It so happens that he received a bent in early life towards some of the English poets of the last century, who are now considered as mediocre. The accounts he had read of the poet-haunted mansion of Hagley, and of the landscape poem of the Leasowes of which Shenstone was the author, fixed themselves in his mind, and he now visited them with a pilgrim's reverence. 'Who has not heard,' he says, 'of Hagley, the "British Tempe," so pleasingly sung by Thomson in his Seasons, and so intimately associated in the works of Pope, Shenstone, and Hammond, with the Remarking, Lord Lyttelton of English literature?' very justly, how necessary it is for the description of a place to state those geologic features which may be said to form its bones, he tells us that Hagley derives its beauty from being a portion of a range of trap hills (the Clent Hills) starting up on the southern shore of the Dudley coal basin. In company with an under-gardener, Mr Miller emerged into the park, and began to ascend the hill by a narrow inartificial path, that winds, in alternate sunshine and shadow, as the trees approach or recede, through the rich moss of the lawn. Half-way up the ascent, where the hill-side is indented by a deep, irregularly-semicircular depression, open and grassy in the bottom and sides, but thickly garnished along the rim with noble trees, there is an octagonal temple, dedicated to the genius of Thomson-" a sublime poet," says the inscription," and a good man"-who greatly loved, when living, this hollow retreat. I looked with no little interest on the scenery that had satisfied so great a master of landscape, and thought, though it might be but fancy, that I succeeded in detecting the secret of his admiration, and that the specialities of his taste in the case rested, as they not unfrequently do in such cases, on a substratum of personal character. The green hill spreads out its mossy arms around, like the arms of a well-padded easy-chair of enormous propor

London: John Johnstone. 1847. Pp. 407.

where it seemed to flutter for an instant longer, and then vanished. At the same moment his eye fell upon a female figure in white, standing at the bed-foot, in which he at once recognised, says Warner, "the spectre of the unfortunate lady that had haunted him so long." It solemnly warned him to prepare for death, for that, within three days, he should be called to his final account; and having delivered its message, immediately disappeared. In the morning his lordship seemed greatly discomposed, and complained of a violent headache. "He had had an extraordinary dream," he said, "suited, did he possess even a particle of superstition, to make a deep impression on his mind ;" and in afterwards communicating the particulars of the vision, he remarked-rather, however, in joke than in earnest-that the warning was somewhat of the shortest; and that really, after a course of life so disorderly as his, three days formed but a brief period for preparation. On Saturday he began to recover his spirits; and told a lady of his acquaintance at Epsom, that as it was now the third and last day, he would, if he escaped for but a few hours longer, fairly "jockey the ghost." He became greatly depressed, however, as the evening wore on; and one of his companions, as the critical hour of midnight approached, set forward the house-clock, in the hope of dissipating his fears, by misleading him into the belief that he had entered on the fourth day, and was of course safe. The hour of twelve accordingly struck; the company, who had sat with him till now, broke up immediately after, laughing at the prediction; and his lordship retired to his bedroom, apparently much relieved. His valet, who had mixed up at his desire a dose of rhubarb, followed him a few minutes after, and he sat up in bed, in apparent health, to take the medicine; but being in want of a teaspoon, he despatched the servant, with an expression of impatience, to bring him one. The man was scarce a minute absent. When he returned, however, his master was a corpse! He had fallen backwards on the pillow, and his outstretched hand still grasped his watch, which exactly indicated the fatal hour of twelve. It has been conjectured that his dissolution may have been an effect of the shock he received, on ascertaining that the dreaded hour had not yet gone by: at all events, explain the fact as we may, ere the fourth day had arrived, Lyttelton was dead. It has been farther related, as a curious coincidence, that on the night of his decease, one of his intimate acquaintance at Dartford, in Kent, dreamed that his lordship appeared to him, and drawing back the bed-curtain, said, with an air of deep melancholy, "My dear friend, it is all over you see me for the last time."

'The story has been variously accounted for. Some have held, as we learn from Sir Walter Scott in his "Demonology," that his lordship, weary of life, and fond of notoriety, first invented the prediction, with its accompanying circumstances, and then destroyed himself to fulfil it. And it is added, in a note furnished by a friend of Sir Walter's, that the whole incident has been much exaggerated. "I heard Lord Fortescue once say," says the writer of the note, "that he was in the house with Lord Lyttelton at the time of the supposed visitation, and he mentioned the following circumstances as the only foundation for the extraordinary superstructure at which the world has wondered: A woman of the party had one day lost a favourite bird, and all the men tried to recover it for her. Soon after, on assembling at breakfast, Lord Lyttelton complained of having passed a very bad night, and having been worried in his dreams by a repetition of the chase of the lady's bird. His death followed, as stated in the story."" Certainly, had this been all, it would be scarce necessary to infer that his lordship destroyed himself. But the testimony of Lord Fortescue does not amount to more than simply that, at first, Lord Lyttelton told but a part of his dream; while the other evidence goes to show that he subsequently added the rest. Nor does the theory of the premeditated suicide seem particularly happy. If we must indeed hold that the agency

of the unseen world never sensibly mingles with that of the seen and the tangible,

"To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee,"

we may at least deem it not very improbable that such a vision should have been conjured up by the dreaming fancy of an unhappy libertine, ill at ease in his conscience, sensible of sinking health, much addicted to superstitious fears, and who, shortly before, had been led, through a sudden and alarming indisposition, to think of death. Nor does it seem a thing beyond the bounds of credibility or coincidence, that, in the course of the three following days, when prostrated by his illconcealed terrors, he should have experienced a second and severer attack of the illness from which, only a few weeks previous, he had with difficulty recovered.'

·

On approaching the Leasowes, Mr Miller had occasion to ask his way at a small nail workshop. The sole workers in the nailery were two fresh-coloured, good-looking young girls, whose agile, well-turned arms were plying the hammer with a rapidity that almost eluded the eye, and sent the quick glancing sparks around them in showers. Both stopped short in their work, and came to the door to point out what they deemed the most accessible track. There was no gate, they said, in this direction, but I would find many gaps in the fence: they were in doubt, however, whether the people at the "white house" would give me leave to walk over the grounds: certainly the nailer lads were frequently refused; and they were sorry they couldn't do anything for me: I would be sure of permission if they could give it me. At all events, said I, I shall take the longest possible road to the white house, and see a good deal of the grounds ere I meet with a refusal. Both the naileresses laughed; and one of them said she had always heard the Scotch were long-headed." Hales Owen and its precincts are included in the great iron district of Birmingham; and the special branch of the iron trade which falls to the share of the people is the manufacture of nails. The suburbs of the town are formed chiefly of rows of little brick houses, with a nailshop in each; and the quick, smart patter of hammers sounds incessantly, in one encircling girdle of din, from early morning till late night. As I passed through, on my way to the Squire's Mill, I saw whole families at work together-father, mother, sons, and daughtersand met in the streets young girls, not at all untidily dressed, considering the character of their vocation, trundling barrowfuls of coal to their forges, or carrying on their shoulders bundles of rod-iron. Of all our poets of the last century, there was scarce one so addicted to the use of those classic nicknames which impart so unreal an air to English poetry, when bestowed on English men and women, as poor Shenstone. We find his verses dusted over with Delias, and Cecilias, and Ophelias, Flavias, and Fulvias, Chloes, Daphnes, and Phillises; and, as if to give them the necessary prominence, the printer, in all the older editions, has relieved them from the surrounding text by the employment of staring capitals. I had read Shenstone early enough to wonder what sort of looking people his Delias and Cecilias were; and now, ere plunging into the richly-wooded Leasowes, I had got hold of the right idea. The two young naileresses were really very pretty. Cecilia, a ruddy blonde, was fabricating tackets; and Delia, a bright-eyed brunette, engaged in heading a doubledouble.'

Mr Miller is able to repay the compliment the two female nailers paid to his nation. There was,' he says, 'a nail-manufactory established about seventy years ago at Cromarty, in the north of Scotland, which reared not a few Scotch nailers; but they seemed to compete on unequal terms with those of England; and after a protracted struggle of rather more than half a century, the weaker went to the wall, and the Cromarty nailworks ceased. There is now only a single nailforge in the town; and this last of the forges is used for other purposes than the originally-intended one. I