from the enjoyments and society of his equals in age, and his affections almost entirely centred in one beloved object, who has soothed him in his moments of affliction, and participated in all his joys. Yet the feelings with which they anticipated William's introduction to the world were not wholly unmingled with pleasure. Mary fondly dreamt of the fame he should acquire by the display of powers which had hitherto been buried in retirement; while the youth himself, independent of the natural desire for improvement and distinction, which is the companion of talent, was not without a portion of that curiosity, which few young men of his age have not experienced, to mingle in scenes with which he was as yet acquainted only by report.

was a

The evening, however, preceding William's departure for very melancholy one; all pleasurable emotions were banished, by the pang of approaching separation. Mary could not suppress her tears, when she thought of her cheerless prospect for the winter, deprived, as she would be, of her friend and brother, and left alone with a parent, whose gloomy disposition had too often baffled their united efforts to enliven or cheer him. It was a fine autumnal evening, and they wandered into the little garden surrounding the house, where they had so often worked and played together, in the happy days of childhood. Every thing was still, and the general appearance of decay which that season of the year exhibits, heightened the melancholy which, in spite of their efforts, insensibly stole into their hearts. Come,' said Mary, we must not indulge in useless sorrow; you will return, and we shall again be happy together; 1 shall have the garden in nice order, and every thing will look smiling and beautiful in the month of June." "And, in the meantime, I shall assist you," said William," in transplanting this rose-bush; you wish it put into the border at the gate, do not you?”

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He accordingly employed himself in transplanting the flower, while his sister stood by, superintending the work.

"It will be in full bloom when

VOL. XIV.

you return, William," said she, making an effort to suppress a sob, which at that moment struggled in her throat. "I shall always think of you when I look at it," added she, as the tears forced themselves down her cheek.

The rest of the evening was spent in preparing for William's departure, and in talking over his future prospects. He had already taken an affectionate leave of me, promising never to forget what he owed me; not merely for the pains I had taken with his classical education, but for instilling into his mind those principles of virtue, which he declared should ever regulate his conduct.

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"You will have need of them all, my son," said Mr Lindsay, who had accompanied William to the Manse, and, impelled by the natural feelings of a parent, now broke through his customary reserve; you will have need of them all; you are going to enter scenes of vice and temptation; but be warned by the melancholy wreck you now see before you, and resist them, as you wish to retain your peace. I was once as blooming and as happy as you, but I cast peace and happiness away, in the pursuit of phantoms, which led me on to misery and want.'

Mr Lindsay said no more; nor could he have heightened the impression his words and earnest manner left upon the mind of his son. They soon after took their leave; and my young friend was the next day on his road to His sister,

to ardent affections united a strong understanding, which taught her to repress the grief she felt at his departure, and to direct her mind to other objects as much as possible, till time should have accustomed her to the loss of his society.

Her books, her garden, and household affairs, claimed each, in turn, her attention; but her chief plea sure consisted in her visits to the Manse, where she would sit for hours, talking of her absent William, to auditors who never found it an unwelcome subject.

Mr Lindsay, too, as if sensible of the deprivation his daughter had sustained, would sometimes, in his happier moods, seem to interest himself in her occupations, and draw

Bb

her into conversation. But constant attention to the feelings of others was foreign to his habits; and it was only by fits and starts he seemed aware that any exertion was called for, on his part, to support the cheerfulness of a daughter, who, without his being conscious of it, formed the chief happiness and comfort of his life. Time, however, imperceptibly passed away, and Mary began to count the weeks and days that must intervene before her brother was restored to her. He, meanwhile, introduced to scenes where his talents were called forth, and put upon the full stretch, laboured, with all the honest emulation and romantic ardour belonging to his character, for that distinction which is the dearest reward of genius. But how often, when crowned with success, did he turn, in disgust, from companions, who, far from participating in his pleasure, with a meanness and envy which were equally contemptible, endeavoured to detract from his merit, or to deprive him of its reward! He turned from them to the recollection of his sister, whose affection for him had never been tarnished by one hostile feeling, and who had a pleasure and interest in his success little inferior to his own. Amid those scenes, too, of vice and brutality, to which he was sometimes unavoidably a witness, would her pure and peaceful image steal upon his mind, as if to preserve his love of innocence and virtue; and often, after a day of fatigue and mortification, has he sunk to sleep, soothed by dreams of that peaceful home of which absence only heightened every charm. At length that period arrived which is anticipated by the student with so much eagerness, a period when the deserving reap the rewards due to industry and genius; while those who are destitute of such qualifications enjoy the meaner delights of freedom from discipline and study. William, while his name resounded through the classic hall, as the successful candidate for many a prize, felt the glow of triumph mantle on his cheek, as he thought of the delight he should give at home, where he was sure of finding at least one heart that would proudly rejoice in his success. As Mary, in

her last letter, had mentioned that her father proposed leaving home about this time, upon business of importance, William resolved to hasten his return, and calculated upon arriving several days before he could possibly be expected.

As the weather was fine, and his purse light, he determined to travel on foot, and set out, with the pleasurable emotions excited by our return to a happy home, after a first and long absence ;-and how did these emotions encrease, as, on the third day of his journey, he drew near those objects which had been familiar to him from his infancy! The spire of the village church peeping from among the trees,-the white foam of a cascade, which he had often in boyhood gazed on with silent admiration, and which was now sparkling in the summer sun, with the green hedges and white gate belonging to the Manse,-all sent to his heart a throb of inexpressible delight.

It was a lovely afternoon in the end of May; the season was remarkably far advanced; and, as the weather had been fine for some days, every thing appeared to the fullest advantage. Not a leaf stirred among the trees; no sound was heard but the singing of the birds, mingled with the distant murmur of the cascade, and now and then interrupted by the lowing of some cattle that grazed in a neighbouring field. William gazed on the peaceful scene with heartfelt delight, contrasted as it was, in his imagination, with the noisy din and bustle of the city he had quitted. He stopped at the gate of the Manse, and peeped into the green, half in expectation of seeing some old friend wandering there; no one, however, appeared, and he passed on; my first meeting," thought he, "shall be with Mary;" and he hurried along the well-known path leading to Woodside. Every bush and tree he now passed wore the aspect of an old acquaintance; at length he caught a view of his father's dwelling, and his heart swelled with rapture as he almost bounded along. He paused, on reaching the gate, to consider how he might give his sister the agreeable surprise with most effect; his eye uncon

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sciously rested upon the rose which he had planted there the night before leaving home. It had put forth its buds, and bloomed, but was now parched, and drooping in the heat of the sun. A feeling slightly allied to reproach passed over his mind, as he recollected that Mary had said it should be in full bloom when he returned. "I thought she would have cherished it for my sake," said he; but he had now reached the housedoor, and every other idea was forgotten in the expectation of embracing his beloved sister. "I shall steal upon her, as she sits at work," thought he, while he entered without knocking, and stepped softly along the passage to the little parlour usually occupied by the family. He entered with a beating heart; but no one was there. With a feeling of disappointment, that things had not happened precisely as he had anticipated, he rung the bell, and then looked round the room, to enjoy, for a moment, the satisfactory assurance of being again at home. It seemed as if he had left it but yesterday, so little alteration had taken place in its appearance. The tables and chairs stood in the same places they had occupied for years, and a bird, belonging to his sister, still carolled its accustomed note. Her work-box, too, stood upon a small table in the window, where she usually sat, but seemed to have been untouched that day. Not a book was out of its place; and, indeed, so little did the room wear the appearance of having been inhabited, that William was, for the first time, struck with a fear that his sister might be from home. As no one had answered his summons, he was about to leave the room, when it was entered by a servant, who was, however, a stranger to him. "Where is Miss Lindsay?" said he, impatiently: the girl gazed in stupified astonishment, as she exclaimed, "Miss Lindsay! ob, Sir, she died last night!" "Oh, my God! support me!" cried the wretched youth, sinking into a chair, and striking his forehead with his hands, while Reason seemed for a moment to totter on her throne.

But we must draw a veil over the scenes which followed: for what pen can describe the agonized feelings

that succeed the extinction of every cherished hope in a mind unschooled by affliction, at the moment its cup of happiness seems full? The wretched William shut himself up in solitude, refusing to be comforted, or to admit any one to his presence; even his ancient friend and pastor was denied that consolation, so absorbing, for a season, were the effects of his grief.

Mr Lindsay, who had quitted his home, uncertain when he might return, and without giving any positive direction to where he might be found, was spared for a time the overwhelming intelligence that awaited him. His daughter's illness, which had seized her the day after he quitted Woodside, had been so fatally rapid in its effects, that her brother had set out on his return home, before any intimation of it could reach The funeral was deferred for some days, in the hope that Mr Lindsay might return ere the grave had closed for ever from his sight that daughter whom, a week before, he had left blooming in health and beauty. At length, however, it took place, with all the dismal parapharnalia attendant upon such occasions. It has always struck me that there is something peculiarly touching in the appearance of a funeral, amidst the still and peaceful scenes of the country;-perhaps it may be owing to its more frequent occurrence, that, in a town, we pass by with indifference the remains of the rich and powerful going to their long home, while, in the country, we gaze with sympathy and melancholy moralizings, on seeing some simple and insignificant peasant laid in his native dust. With what mingled feelings, then, of regret and pity, did we look upon the weeping train which followed youth, beauty, and innocence, to the tomb, headed by one whose speechless sorrow and despairing countenance alone told how much he had lost!

I, who had been as another father to the departed, could not, without feelings of the most overwhelming nature, see the mournful group mov ing along the path, which, a few Sabbaths before, she whose lifeless clay they bore had trode in strength and beauty, to the house of God. Her brother, who had never raised his

eyes from the bier, had not yet recognised me; but when we had surrounded the grave, and the coffin had slowly descended into the earth, he cast round him a glance of wild and unutterable anguish, as if it said, "Is there no one to help or pity me?" I seized his hand,-he gazed on me for a moment in silence,-returned my pressure, and burst into tears. The kind and simple hearts of the villagers were melted at this sight, and stifled sobs were heard on every side, as the green sod was laid over her whom they had ever regarded with love and admiration. William retraced, alone and in silence, the path to his father's solitary dwelling; nor did I judge it wise to intrude upon his privacy, till the violence of his grief should have spent itself, and left him open to the consolations of reason and religion.

The evening after Mary was buried, I directed my footsteps to the village church-yard, that I might there indulge my melancholy musings. It stood upon a rising ground, at some distance from the village, the distant hum of which mingled with the gentle breeze that sighed among the trees surrounding the rustic burying-ground; a small stream, on one side, meandered beneath their peaceful shade, on the banks of which the village children were wont to sport with the thoughtless glee of infancy. All now, however, was still; no one ventured to obtrude near the spot which had so lately been hallowed by affliction. The sun, as I reached the church-yard, was just sinking, in full splendour, behind a distant hill; not a cloud was on the blue surface of the sky it seemed an emblem of the pure untarnished course and peaceful death of her I had come to

mourn.

While I stood for an instant gazing upon the glorious spectacle, I heard a deep groan proceed from some one near me; my eyes instinctively turned to Mary's grave, on which lay extended the unhappy William, his face pressing the turf which covered her, unconscious that any human being was witness to his agony. "Oh! Mary, my sister, my sister !" he ex

claimed, in a voice that pierced to my very soul; then starting up, he cast around him a wild and hurried glance, till his eye rested, for the first time, upon me; he sprung forward, and grasping both my hands in his, a flood of tears came to his relief. "Oh! Sir," he exclaimed,

you can pity me, for you know what I have lost; she was my sister, my friend, my all; but I shall soon follow her: God cannot doom me to such misery long," added he, while his countenance assumed a wildness of expression that terrified me. "William, my dear William," said I, when I could command composure, "moderate these transports, and learn submission to the will of Heaven; this violent indulgence of your grief is impious and unmanly; it renders you unworthy of her you mourn; I was with her in the last moments her pure spirit lingered here: Comfort my dear brother,' said she to me; tell him my last earthly thoughts were of him and of my father: bid him live to be a comfort and pride to my poor father, as he has ever been to me. Oh! William,' she continued, ' I shall never see you again in this world! but you, Sir, will teach him to look forward to our meeting, where we shall be eternally happy.' These, my dear son, were the last words of your sister-let them not be forgotten.'"Oh! never, Sir," said he, in a subdued and faltering tone; "grief had almost blinded my reason, but she has pointed out the path of duty; assist me to tread it, so shall I obey the last wishes of her who was virtue and purity itself."

I have seen William frequently since this interview; his grief is now calm, though deep, and he is successively struggling with his own feelings, to mitigate the misery of his parent, who returned two days after his daughter's funeral, to be plunged into the bitterest despair.

VII. Profit of Capital*. It seems to me that the rate of profit depends principally on three circumstances:

1st, On the safety or hazard, facility or difficulty, of accumulating and employing capital. Difficulty and hazard raise the wages of productive economy, in the same way that they raise the wages of productive labour; they raise the profits of capital, as they raise the profits of industry; and in proportion as the difficulties and dangers of accumulating and employing capital are diminished by political justice and commercial experience, the wages of productive economy, or, in other words, the profits of capital, will gradually fall. Whatever tends to secure the capital of the capitalist, will lower the rate of profit. Whatever lessens the difficulty of production, will lessen its rewards. It will lower the price, by increasing the supply.

2d, On the extent of the market. The narrower the market, the smaller will be the capital which it is possible to employ; and the smaller the capital, the higher will be the rate of profit. "The capitalist must not only live by his trade, but live by it suitably to the qualifications which it requires t;" and the price paid for these qualifications must be proportioned to the demand for them. 3d, On the rise or fall that may take place in the value of currency, during the interval between the pro

duction and the sale of the commodity. A rise in the value of currency will lower the price of commodities, lessen the difference between the price and the cost, and consequently lower the profits of capital; and a fall in the value of currency will produce the opposite effects.

Increase of commerce must produce a greater demand for currency, and raise its value. Increase of commercial confidence must lower the value of currency, by lessening the demand for ready money, (that is, for currency.) Commerce and credit naturally grow together, and counteract one another; the former tends to raise, and the latter to lower, the exchangeable value of money; and it is often extremely difficult to estimate the relative strength of these opposite principles, and thereby predict the rise and fall in the value of currency. Commercial confidence rises or falls, under the influence of a great many political causes, of which we rather feel the effects, than perceive the operation +.

An abolition of the restrictions on trade would produce a considerable rise in the relative value of currency§, and lower, proportionally, the prices of goods, and the profits of capital. It is very probable, that the price of the commodities actually in the mar let would fall much below the cost of production. This would be advantageous to the consumers; and it would not be injurious to the pro