two of the Highland clans, whilst others have taken the wild plants of their mountains as their cognizances. The heath fresh gathered is the Highlander's bed, and hospitality is so much regarded by him that, were his enemy in his power, he would tend him as a friend. Instance when Rhoderic Dhu, addressing James Fitz-James, says—

"Rest thee here till dawn of day,
Myself will guide thee on the way."

"I take thy courtesy, by Heaven,
As freely as 'tis nobly given."

"With that he shook the gathered heath,
And spread his plaid upon the wreath;
And the brave foemen, side by side,
Lay peaceful down like brothers tried."

The bluebells of Scotland, as they bend to the breeze, blend their fairy notes with the moorland's wild hymn. "Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue,

With heath and harebell dipt in dew."

The lowly Gentian (though named after Gentius, a king of Illyria) rises from its daisy-like leaves close to the ground, holding up a large deep blue reflected cup, tinged on the outer side with green, as though it waited a goodly supply from the "Cloud Urns"-or was presenting the parting cup. More gems are here, but I cannot let the corn flowers pass away-later in the month they will be gone. I will pass on to the fields of the hamlet. The corn is ripening for the sickle-what a variety of golden tints there are! The corn has one peculiar to itself; how rich is its colour, as under the mid-day sun it sways to the breeze. The poppies in scarlet, or scarlet and purple, are here.

"They are the slumberous poppies,

Lords of Lethe downs;
Some awake, and some asleep,
Sleeping in their crowns."

In olden times, no grain was thought good unless the poppy was in the midst. Of an equal degree of colour is the blue bottle (centaurea cyanus); in Scotland, “blue bonnet;" in France, "bluét." It is a favourite flower in Germany for bridal wreaths. The corn marigold (chrisanthemum segetum) is not a shade behind the others in depth of colour. The arrangement of the petals were thought to bear a resemblance to the rays round the Virgin's head, from this its name. It was called also calendula, because it was in bloom on the calends of every month, which it is in its distant home. With the Italians it is florencia, the flower of every month.

The tall corn cockle (agrostemma githago) and cichicorium intybus may vie with each other. The flower of the former rests on the top of its stem—an elegant blue, rose-coloured salver-the points of the calyx stretching out beyond, and adding a peculiar elegance to it. Its leaves and stems are whitened with silky down. The brilliant blue chicory (Arabic chikouryeh) is one of Flora's time-keepers. The "keeper of the way" of the Germans, and it does well in its place, for it takes toll of anything it can lay hold of -it is also called "spiny cushion;" it is so tough it cannot be gathered, it must be cut. I have seen it put to base uses, to sweeping chimneys, also for fuel. Dying, it fires its own requieum, volley after volley. "The flower which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven."

Proud I am of my bouquet. In so circumscribed a space where could I fill my hand with such a brilliant display of colour? Scarlet, deep blue, golden yellow, brilliant blue, and rosy purple; I can yet add to it the golden

grain. The green spurge, whose yellow green flowers rest on tiny plates; and the one-sided red bartsia. I purpose taking home lavender (lavendula spika) from the cottage at the gate. Its name from lavere, to wash. It was formerly used in baths, and to perfume linen newly washed. From it we have oil of lavender or oil of spike. In the little garden grows the flax (linum usatatissamum); it has narrow leaves, and delicate blue flowers, tinged with pink, so delicate that, did I gather them, they would faint and die ere I reached home-called "blue lint flowers." St. Bertha (St. Distaff) was the patroness of spinners. Her day was the next after Old Christmas Day, when the festivities were over. It does not appear that they were willing at once to go to work; for it was "Half work and half play,

On St. Distaff's Day."

The sound of the wheel is heard no more, as when "The cottage maiden tuned her lay,

And spun the snowy twine."

Though that occupation be gone she will find another, and yet sing and dream

"For love is ever busy with his shuttle,

Is ever weaving into life's dull warp

Bright gorgeous flowers and scenes arcadian,
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about
With tapestries that make its walls dilate
With never ending vistas of delight."

The stars in Orion's belt were Bertha's distaff, the ellwand of the Scotch.

ANCIENT MARINERS.

THE real original ancient mariner was no shadowy crea tion of the poet's mind. As a class, he lives and breathes and has his being, as does everyday life vouchsafe. He tumbles up at strange times, in shady lanes, in dusty streets, in the court, the camp, the grove he meets us, and divulges the sorry secrets of his life. He. is ever with us, and, when he disappears, and his place knows him not, everyday life wonders where he can have gone, and never discovers. He does not confine himself to any set form of expression; he has his little idiosyncrasy, which he sticks to with limpet-like tenacity. cal form of the class is the mariner that Fate, according to his own account, has behaved most unjustly to. In imagination he was sent upon this earth to be guilty of great things, but something or other has put a stop to it; he may have been on the high road to Fame, but without the wherewithal to pay the tolls. It is not such a difficult matter to become successful; but one must eat and drink while endeavouring to become so.

The typi

But "ways and means are not always the burthen of the song sung by these melancholy sons of the briney: these children of the ocean of life have other ills save the lack of paltry counters. They may pull down their barns, and build greater, and have much store laid up for many days, at good interest, but society may put her face away from them; and though they may promise to behave with the greatest propriety, they are not admitted within the sacred precincts. The mariner who has been working morn, noon, and night for the benefit of his fellow-beings, and does not succeed in obtaining that amount of popularity which early impressions lead him to imagine would eventually be his reward, is about the worst of his class. Woe betide the one of three that he stoppeth, and worse

There is the mariner, with dramatic authorship proclivities, who feels convinced that if his nautical drama, in five acts, were to be produced, it would obtain Colleen Bawn notoriety. But managers dont see it, and his piece remains on the author's hands, who sees no good in any playright, and feels convinced that all pieces are produced through influence. He may be right, he may be wrong; but why should he quote portions of his play, and breathe his woes into ears that are compelled, through common politeness, to listen to his strain. The nautical one that passes for a poet in society is even a greater nuisance than the would-be dramatist. He has but contributed "an address to the sea" in some provincial weekly, or an ode "on her eyes" in the said "her's" album; and yet he walks through private life as if he were a Tennyson, while lovelorn maidens, with poetic tendencies, taken with his poetic melancholy appearance, cast eyes at him, and languish for his smile-a smile which never comes. Jones, the dramatist, and Smith the poet, are, no doubt, mistakes. Nature erred when she hatched them, and gave them too few or too many brains, and we, the evenly balanced, are victims to her freak, and suffer from her thoughtlessness.

On they go, "the tuneful quire,' singing ever like the murmuring of the sea, chanting their varied strains in welcome or unwelcome ears. Like the murmuring sea truly; it sings over and over again the same lullaby, and so do our croakers. Don't we all know the pathological mariner, whose frequent journeyings to warm climes has hardened his liver, or who may be naturally of an irritable disposition. How friendly such a one becomes with you if you are equally unwell, or have any physical defect. He produces powders and potions from his pockets, and almost entreats you to take his recipes. His great happiness consists in the self-accredited knowledge that he is absolutely worse than his neighbour, and that there is some one that feels a pang in unison with him.

The mariner that is always going to set sail in life, and whom adverse winds prevents, is an important member of this nautical band. He sets out in life with youth at the helm and pleasure at the prow; but storms set in, and he returns to port disabled; he has no fixity of purpose, but he has twice the perseverance of his neighbours; he is always attempting, never accomplishing. He is ever setting out in life, and returning with nothing accomplished, nothing done. But be of good cheer, my shipwrecked one. I have known mariners quite as unfortunate who have become steadfast as the pole star, and who have reached snug ports, and returned "from the golden coast of South America," and have sat amongst the great of the land.

Why will ancient mariners insist upon stopping me at the corner of every street? Why can't they let me pass by in peace, and breathe their tales in more Christian ears? Don't I shun passing a certain doorway in a certain street, where there is always standing a careworn mariner, who, so surely as he sees me, rushes out and divulges to me a secret that I have been entrusted with a hundred times-the story of his life-a common tale enough, and chaunted by many ancients: a sorry tale of blighted prospects, of wasted time, and with a half-crown borrowing sequel. Am I not an ancient mariner myself, have I not my own dismal ditty? which, when my messmates are not singing, I oft repeat, taking myself mentally by the button-hole, and singing over and over again. And when the good ship, the world, sails on regardless of

the hum of the waves of life, that are quietly telling their own sad tale. Are we not handling tarred ropes, and soiling our hands day after day; taking in reefs and letting them out, and taking them in again, with the thought of some day reaching a haven of rest, where all we mariners hope for peace; where we shall know no more rough weather, no more stormy seas; each mariner at peace with his brother, and unconscious of dismal ditties.

WOULD WE HAD NEVER MET.
WOULD we had never met,

Known each other's smiles;
My lip still with thy kisses wet,
My heart reviles.

Our little wrongs heal'd with a kiss,
Our ills away caress'd,

As basking in each other's bliss,
We thought us bless'd.

Ah me! though Fate unkind
Has bid us sever,
The lovings of the mind
Are parted never.

THE LIFE OF A PIANOFORTE. SKETCHED FROM ITS OWN REMINISCENCES.

CHAPTER IV.

As time passed on in my quiet life at the Lingard's, I could perceive a great change to be coming over Jane. It did not pass unnoticed by either Alice or her father. Both rallied her, and declared she was in love; and though the accusation was impetuously denied, the mention of a certain William Foster served to dye poor Jane's cheeks with a tell-tale crimson. At length, in a moment of confidential exuberance, the truth transpired. Jane was in love. "Though I would not tell anyone in the world but you, Alice dear," said she, "for spite of his having, as you know, given me every reason to suppose the sentiment was reciprocal, yet he has not said so in words; and I don't think he ever will," added she, with a tone and countenance strongly bordering on tearful emotion.

Miss Lingard exerted every means of tender comfort; "he can only be waiting for the removal of pecuniary difficulties," she soothingly suggested; "for although he is undoubtedly very clever as a doctor, still he has not long set up in the town, and must make his way ere taking a wife.”

"But I am not extravagant," eagerly interrupted Jane. "No! indeed you are not," returned her friend, smilingly embracing her; "but, be as economical as you will, a wife is an expense, and you know you cannot live on love."

Jane seemed to have strong doubts on this point, but prudently kept them to herself, only further murmuring fears of Mr. Foster never asking her. "He has quite changed lately, and from paying me great attention, now scarcely notices me.

"But he does look at you sometimes," demanded Alice. “Oh, yes, that is the provoking part; he only looks and does not speak."

“Ah! my dearest Jane, then you may make your mind easy, for love's truest eloquence lies in the eyes, not the tongue," exclaimed Alice with a ringing laugh, whose comforting heartiness at once succeeded in dispelling the doleful gloom of her love-sick friend.

Miss Lingard's words were shortly verified, for Mr. Foster relieved Jane's nervous despondency by "speaking” as well as "looking." The happy day was named, the bridal attire and all the etceteras. of a wedding prepared and arranged between Alice and her friend. The eventful morning arrived; Mr. Lingard and his daughter set off at an early hour to attend the Parvenews; and, when they returned, Alice looked so lovely in her bride'smaid dress, that I did not wonder at her father giving her a warm embrace of paternal pride.

"You have taken one step towards a higher grade, my dear child," said he, "and when the bridal wreath encircles your own head, what will become of me?"

"There will be no change, my dear father, for Walter would never ask me to leave you," earnestly answered his daughter.

"No," replied Mr. Lingard; "and, thank God, there will be no need for your ever leaving for India: I expect in a short time to realise all my hopes, and then neither I nor Walter need work any more, except in the loved labour of pleasing our darling Alice."

I would willingly linger over such scenes of domestic happiness, but if I dwell on them much longer I shall lose all courage to relate what now becomes a painful task, in the terrible contrast presented by those I am about to depict.

Some months after Jane's marriage I noticed something peculiar in Mr. Lingard's conduct. He looked anxious and unsettled; when he took up a book his eyes, and not his mind, seemed on the page, while often it would fall to the ground without his being aware of the loss. Sometimes he would in the evening sit for hours gazing into the fire-for it was now the depth of winter- and his face began to wear the careworn expression of anxious pre-occupation. The loving Alice quickly remarked the change in her father, but, finding her questions only appeared to teaze him, she, with affectionate tact, desisted from further annoying him. She became thoroughly miserable, and, even when seeking consolation from me, she could only draw forth the trembling sympathy of my wires. Thus, things went on for a few weeks, when one evening-how well I remember it-Mr. Lingard and his daughter returned to the drawing-room from dinner; the gas was lit, the curtains drawn, and the fire burned brightly. As its glare fell on Mr. Lingard's face, I was shocked to see the furrowed lines wrought there by the hand of care and distress. Alice gazed at him with tearful earnestness, and, going up to his side, she said in her winningly gentle manner, My dear father, I cannot bear to see you so dull to-night, for to-morrow is my birth-day, and I want you all joy. I have been studying a new piece as a surprise for you on my birth-day, but as you are so dull now, I will give you a foretaste of the pleasure, just to enliven you." Her gaiety was fondly dissembled, as she stepped forward to me, and commenced her performance. But she had scarcely played the first bars, when her father exclaimed, in a tone of suppressed anguish, "Alice, my love, do not play any more to-night."

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Surprised at such a request, Alice turned with startled rapidity, and beholding her father burying his face in his hands, she rushed to him with the wildly anxious demand,

if he were ill. Mr. Lingard slowly raised his face, which was pale as ashes; he rose from his seat, opened his arms, and pressed his daughter in them. Then he held her from him, and gently stroked her hair, while she gazed at him in sorrowful bewilderment. He at length relieved it by saying in a low, but firm voice, "Alice, my darling child, it has ever been my pride to see you always display the reverse of a faint heart or a weak mind, but little did I think, my love, to put you to such a test as I am going to do. Alice, to-night your father stands a ruined man!" 'Oh, father!" exclaimed Alice.

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“Oh, father,” eagerly interrupted Alice, "fear not for me, I shall be happy anywhere with you and my piano! And then Walter will work for us both."

A look of the most terrible anguish silenced her efforts at consolation. Mr. Lingard seemed completely unmanned as he explained—

"Oh! Alice, Alice, I see you do not understand me. It is ruin, ruin of the most irretrievable kind that has fallen on me; the labour of my father's life and my own is in a day dashed to the ground. The speculation entered into is one that involves Walter's destruction with mine, though, God knows, my sole motive was in yours and his interest. I knew some weeks ago it had failed. To save myself the terrible consequences, I then hazarded all I had, and sought the aid of friends to recover my position. I am not only a beggar in its fullest sense, but a debtor too. And you, my sweet Alice, my cherished child-"

Agonised sobs choked his utterance, and he fell back on his chair, sensible only to the tender solicitude of his beloved daughter in her display of womanly and filial love. It is in moments like those that the worth and power of affection is truly proved. Those two beings were all in all to each other, and the misery they felt was for each other. But I must draw a veil over the heartbreaking scene, for there is something so sacred in sorrow such as theirs that it demands respect and forbids revealment.

I can only now give general outlines of what followed this part of my narrative; to describe it in detail would, I feel, be beyond my strength. The house became entirely altered, and I learnt, with horror, that I was to be sold. Mr. Lingard being in debt had, I suppose, no right to keep anything for the Parvenews, who offered all the assistance of loving sympathy, were gently but firmly refused the affectionate desire of re-possessing me. Jane had returned home suddenly from her wedding-trip; Alice's misfortune had clouded her own bright happiness.

Seeing that her greatest misery was in losing me, she used every endeavour to purchase me; "for our house, William's and mine," said she, "will be your home, dear Alice, and when you find your old piano friend there, it will not seem like a stranger's."

Alice only answered such loving comfort by an embrace, where smiles and tears struggled for the mastery.

Miss Lingard had never touched me since the fatal night she had essayed her birth-day piece; and when they commenced preparing the drawing-room for the auction, and had ticketed me, I felt all was lost, and I should never see her more. Much as I writhed under the indignity of

the "ticket," my own sufferings were as nothing in comparison to what I endured for her sake, whom I feared I should never see again. But I was mistaken. That very night, when the household had retired to what rest they might be supposed to take, and must certainly have needed, the door opened, and showed me the pale, wan figure of Alice Lingard. She had on her dressing-gown, and held a candle in her hand, whose flickering glare made her appear almost unearthly in the pallor of her sad beauty. She entered the room, and gazed around her, as if to bid adieu to each familiar article, and then approached me. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks as she turned back my lid, and gazed long at me, with eyes of mournful despair. She was about to place her hands on my keys, when a very spasm of agony shot across her face, she pressed her heart as if to prevent its bursting, tears came faster and faster, she clasped her hands, and while she touched my keys with her trembling lips, sobbingly murmured, "Oh! farewell, farewell!"

Such was my sad parting with my loved young mistress; 1 saw her once again, but must reserve the details for the last chapter of my chequered life.

RAILWAY RISKS.

"THOSE who go down to the sea in ships" have been hitherto supposed to require a special providence, whilst the general protection from "Peril by Land" has been considered enough for railway travellers, but we are now forced to the conviction that the iron road has established its claim to recognition as a special danger. The public has taken, as usual, in the aggregate, a correct view of the subject, but in detail it is all wrong.

The broad question of danger can be seen by the most unskilled eye, but it requires an expert to find out microscopically the elements of which it is composed.

After every great casualty, the scheming public begins to ferment, and boils over into the channels of public print, but the result is nothing but scum, impossible breaks, impracticable signals, and visionary schemes of a totally new railway system are frothing up in brilliant colours, but burst at once when they are touched, for there is nothing in them. All the schemes which propose the adoption of a new form of carriage entirely must belong to ignorant people, for a very moderate knowledge of railway matters prevents such ideas entering the head. The British public does not think of the immense amount of capital invested in rolling stock, as it is called-carriages, wagons, and engines. An engine costs from two to three thousand pounds; a carriage from two to four hun dred; and a wagon from eighty pounds to one hundred pounds on the average. Now, how many engines do you think are required to work a line? judge by one example. The London and North-Western Railway Company have nearly two engines for every mile of their line; then, how many carriages will that make, how many carriages to an engine, and how many wagons? Remember, then, that any change in the form of arrangement of one carriage, to be beneficial, must be carried through the whole stock; and further, that the numerous junctions of lines, mutual running privileges, and interchange of carriages, would render it absolutely necessary that all the carriages in the kingdom should be altered

at once.

Imagine, then, the cost of making the carriages an inch wider, or laying the road metals an inch further apart.

The width of rails and height of buffers is universally the same on all English and Scotch lines, and the other dimensions and peculiar forms of rolling stock are so far influenced by these and each other, that it would incur almost a second national debt to alter any of them.

This applies chiefly to those schemes which suggest sweeping reforms, but the most inconsiderable change brings with it a certainty of immense expenditure. Economy in railway management is indeed almost a In a certain part question of dotting i's or crossing t's. of a locomotive, copper bolts are used; and, at Crewe Engine Works, so many locomotives are made, that it is found worth while to stamp every bit of copper rod, so that the chips may be identified after cutting off short ends of the bolts that may have been a little too long.

To separate the rails a foot more than at present, so as to carry wider carriages, would involve the total reconstruction of almost every line in the kingdom with new engines, stations, and carriages-almost as though no railways had existed-because the width of embankments, bridges, and tunnels would be too small. So much for the adoption of American systems in a hurry. We do not deny that the patrol system, as it is called, has great advantages, and that the gradual supplanting of compartmented carriages by saloons, may in time bring about a beneficial change; but, in the meantime, we can try to reduce the evils of our present system by alterations and emendations of the present carriages.

It may, for convenience, be as well to classify our subject in the same way as some great man classed the human race, into two great divisions-"People who smoked and people who didn't smoke." We will say, that in railway trains we may expect two sorts of danger, from the outside and from the inside-to the former belong such accidents as collisions, obstructions, getting off the line, coupling breaking, or "something wrong with the engine;" to the latter we have only to append a list of the various thefts, assaults, murders, and miscellaneous incidents that destroy comfort, property, and life, inside a carriage.

Now, to be systematic, we should tabulate the causes of both evils, and recite the remedies proposed. The external applications are amusing, and the internal remedies are little better. The inventions most numerously developed are instantaneous breaks and means of intercommunication along the train; of the former, it may be sufficient to say, that a break which could stop the train at once would do as much damage to it as a collision against a stone wall, because it really does not matter to the passengers inside how they are stopped, whether by another train, or a break, if they are subjected to the same shock in either case. The effect of a sudden stoppage of any sort may judged of from the fact, that an ordinary express train travels quicker than it would if dropped from the roof of a house.

be

A few examples of schemes that have been tried may not be uninteresting; but to render them intelligible, a little dry technical information is necessary. A railway carriage of any sort is, in its primary condition, only a strong frame upon wheels, and even engines are so like ordinary carriages in this respect, that it would be difficult for an inexperienced person to find out the difference. A rough wood frame, made in the simplest way, is fixed upon springs, and these again upon the axles of wheels; and no

* Excepting the Great Western for a short length.

matter what is built on the frame, be it animated ironmongery for engine works, or cases for cattle, all the pulling and hauling has to be borne by the frame. Springs are put inside to stand the tension of couplings, and other springs are put nearer the outside to stand the compression of buffers. All the appliances for stopping or starting the trains must, therefore, be to some part of these frames; and since they are by the elasticity of these springs permitted to approach or recede from each other a great distance, these appliances must have some provision for corresponding extension or contraction. In Newall's continuous breaks this is effected by a square rod sliding in a tube, so that the rod will turn round when required, no matter what its length may be. This is one of the best schemes, but requires too much trouble in connecting the carriages.

Other schemes have been proposed, by which the mere shutting off steam on the engine brings compression on the buffers from the force of the carriages running up against the engine, and squeezes the breaks against the wheels. This does not answer, because it acts when it is not wanted, and would cause more accidents than it could prevent. Another scheme connects all the carriages and the engine by a separate coupling, which is only attached to the breaks, so that if the other original coupling separates from any cause, the breaks are put on all the way through the train; and the engineman at one end, and guard at the other, have the means of separating, or what is the same in effect, of lengthening the coupling of the tender and van at will. This is good for a broken coupling, but might be rather awkward if too suddenly applied, as it would bring us back to our sudden stoppage difficulty; and, indeed, it may be taken as a general rule, that no train should be stopped in less than fifty yards.

Another drops a system of legs on each side of the train between the wheels, converting the train at once into a sort of stationary centipede. Of course advocates of this system say "If the rails are scrubbed out of shape, or rubbed up altogether, they must be put down again, people should make their rails strong enough to bear anything." And then again, the idea of giving every nervous old woman a bell-pull with which to stop the train when she liked, would render the copyright of Mr. Bradshaw's interesting book of comparatively small value, for no train could keep its time.

The advantages of punctuality are great at such a place for instance as Newton Bridge or Warrington Junction, where a train passes every two minutes throughout the day, and, indeed, very far into the night too. We are inclined to believe that, as a general rule, railways are pretty well managed to carry on so much traffic with so few casualties. You would run fourteen times the risk in old stage coaches. Statistics tell us all about it, and perhaps you do not know that the precautions of the railway companies have revealed a new danger, which you could not have found out very easily yourself. It is this, that some people cannot tell red from blue; some cannot even distinguish red from green; whilst others are totally "colour blind," as it is called, and can only see light and shade. All this turns out from the careful examination of men who present themselves to be engine drivers or guards, and one out of every forty is found imperfect in some way. Engine drivers and guards are, as a class, very good and steady fellows, and you may be pretty sure of the sharpness of a man who has been a few years guard on a railway.

But let them be as sharp as they like, you must not ask them to do impossibilities, and it is impossible for a guard to keep rambling about outside a train on the footboard, and attend to his present duties as well. Say, for example, that his train has a dozen 'stoppages, he will, no doubt, have twenty parcels or letters to deliver, and the apparent confusion on the floor of his van is the result of a scientific system of his own, by which he can bring the boxes and parcels in succession at the right time towards the door of the van, as he approaches a station; and what with doing this at the end of each short interval, and getting his parcels into order ready for the next, he has almost as much as he can do with stations of five mile intervals. It is quite true that on some Scotch lines there is a sort of patrol system, by which a guard may chance to turn up on pretence of taking tickets; but we want something more than this, and cannot get it, for this reason-The footboards cannot be widened, because there are many stations with platforms up to the carriage level, as close to them as can safely be permitted; therefore, either the patrol system must be content with present footboards, or alter the stations. Another difficulty which meets almost every scheme for continuous break or platform, is the expansion and contraction of a train at starting and stopping, which, in an ordinary way, makes a difference of two or three yards in its length. Now, in the face of all these difficulties, how are we to hope for any improvement. Time, no doubt, works wonders, but he is frequently very slow about it. We must now begin to sum up, and see what all this leads to. We find that danger from the outside arises greatly from the use of the same line of rails with two speeds-the quick traffic runs into the slow. This will in time be corrected by the use of two separate lines, one for the goods train, another for passengers; for it is becoming a well-known fact amongst railway managers that, until this is done, they cannot compete with canal carriage; indeed, if it were not for the arrangements with canal companies, railway goods carriage would not pay either the sender or carrier.

The next difficulty, "of communication," can only be met by gradual change of carriages, and this will remedy the last and greatest of dangers from the interior of the train. It may be honour or life to woman or man. The pane of glass in the partition may do something-it is already adopted on the South-Eastern line; but lights in tunnels, and the patrol system, will do more. In the meantime there is no harm done by the agitation, although the force of public opinion will be more powerful in proportion as it is properly directed. At present there is no man so brave as not to doubt his neighbour, and few so heartless as to expose a woman to the insults that are possible when she is travelling alone. The railway companies have to please the travelling public on the one hand, and also to consider the interests of that other great public, the shareholders, on the other; and although they may be wrong in the present system, it must be remembered that all other countries started on a fresh basis, with our example before them, whilst we retain the incubus of the original imperfections.

NOTICE.-All communications for EVERY MONTH to be addressed to the Editor, Prince's Buildings, North John Street.

Printed and Published for the Proprietors, by ALFRED WHITTY, of 8, Catharine Street, and 18, Cable Street, in the Parish of Liverpool.