composed, renders it impossible to give more than a faint idea of the enormous supplies of food required to victual the capital for a single year. But the conception may be somewhat assisted by varying the process. Country papers now and then astonish their readers by calculations to show how many times the steel pens manufactured in England would form a necklace round their own little town, or how many thousand miles the matches of their local factory would extend if laid in a straight line from the centre of their market-place. Let us try our hand on the same sort of picture, and endeavour to fill the eye with a prospect that would satisfy the appetite of the far-famed Dragon of Wantley himself.

If we fix upon Hyde Park as our exhibition-ground, and pile together all the barrels of beer consumed in London in a single year, they would form a thousand columns not far short of a mile in perpendicular height.

Let us imagine ourselves on the top of this tower, and we shall have a look-out worthy of the feast we are about to summon to our feet. Herefrom we discover the Great Northern Road stretching far away into the length and breadth of the land. Lo! as we look, a mighty herd of oxen, with loud bellowing, is beheld approaching from the north. For miles and miles the mass of horns is conspicuous winding along the road, ten abreast, and even thus the last animal of the herd would be seventy-two miles away, and the drover goading his shrinking flank considerably beyond Peterborough. On the other side of the park, as the clouds of dust clear away, we see the Great Western Road, as far as the eye can reach, thronged with a bleating mass of wool, and the shepherd at the end of the flock (ten abreast), and the dog that is worrying the last sheep, are just leaving the environs of Bristol, one hundred and twentyone miles from our beer-built pillar. Along Piccadily, Regent Street, the Strand, Fleet Street, Cheapside, and the eastward Mile End Road line, for seven and a half miles, street and causeway are thronged with calves (still ten abreast), and in the great parallel thoroughfares of Bays

water Road, Oxford Street, and Holborn, we see nothing for nine long miles but a slowly-pacing, deeply-grunting herd of swine. As we watch this moving mass approaching from all points of the horizon, the air suddenly becomes darka black pall seems drawn over the sky; it is the great flock of birds (game, poultry, and wild-fowl) that are come up to be killed. As they fly wing to wing, and tail to beak, they form a square, whose superficies is not much less than the whole enclosed portion of St. James's Park, or fifty-one acres. No sooner does this huge flight clear away than we behold the park at our feet covered with hares and rabbits. Feeding two thousand abreast, they extend from the marble arch to the round pond in Kensington Gardens-at least a mile.

Let us now pile up all the half-quartern loaves consumed in the metropolis in the year, and we shall find they form a pyramid which measures two hundred square feet at its base, and extends into the air to a height of one thousand two hundred and ninety-three feet, or nearly three times that of St. Paul's.

Turning now toward the sound of rushing waters, we find that the seven companies are filling the mains for the day. If they were allowed to flow into the area of the adjacent St. James's Park, they would in the course of the twentyfour hours flood its entire space with a depth of thirty inches of water, and the whole annual supply would be quite sufficient to submerge the city part of London (one mile square) ninety feet.

Of the fish we confess we are able to say nothing: when numbers amount to billions, the calculations become too trying to our patience. We have little doubt, however, that they would be quite sufficient to make the Serpentine one solid mass.

Of ham and bacon, again, preserved meats, and all the countless comestibles, we have taken no account; and, in truth, they are little more to the great mass than the ducks and geese were to Sancho Panza's celebrated mess-" the skimmings of the pot."

The railways having poured this enormous amount of food into the metropolis, as the main arteries feed the human body, it is distributed by the various dealers into every quarter of the town; first into the wholesale markets, or great centres; then into the sub-centres, or retail shops; and lastly into the moving centres, or barrows of the hawkers: by which means nourishment is poured into every corner of the town, and the community at large is supplied as effectually as are the countless tissues of the human body by the infinitely divided net-work of capillary vessels. These food distributors amount to about 100,000. Among them are no less than 7000 grocers, nearly 10,000 bakers, and 7000 butchers. DR. WYNTER.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

[OLIVER GOLDSMITH was born at Pallas, in the county of Longford, in 1723, and died in 1774. He was the son of an Irish curate, and was educated at Dublin, Edinburgh, and Leyden, with a view to the medical profession. But his eccentricities and careless conduct were the prolific source of difficulties to himself and friends. Goldsmith is a very extensive writer, being at once a poet, an essayist, a dramatist, and a historian. His two principal poems, "The Traveller" and The Deserted Village," belong to the highest class of descriptive poetry, and the latter is certainly the most finished of all his productions.]

SWEET Aúburn! lòveliest village of the pláin,

Where health and plénty! chéered the labouring swàin;
Where smiling spring' its earliest visits páid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms' delayed;
Déar lovely bowers of innocence and eáse,

Seats of my youth, when èvery sport could please!
How often have I loitered o'er thy gréen,
Where humble happiness' endéared each scène;
How often have I páused on every chàrm—
The sheltered cót, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy míll,

The decent church that tópped the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the sháde,
For talking áge and whispering lòvers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remítting' lent its turn to play,

And all the village tràin, from labour frée,
Led up their spórts! beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young conténding! as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol' frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of árt and feats of strength went round;
And still, as each repeated pleasure tíred,
Succeeding sports! the mirthful band inspired.

Sweet' was the soúnd, when oft, at evening's clóse, Up yonder hill' the village murmur1 rose; Thére, as I passed with careless steps and slów, The mingling notes! came softened from below: The swáin, responsive' as the milkmaid' súng; The sober hérd, that lowed to meet their yoùng; The nóisy gèese, that gàbbled o'er the pool; The playful children' just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whispering wind; And the loud laugh, that spóke the vacant mind. Thése all, in sweet confusion, sought the shade, And filled each páusel the nightingale had made.

These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succéssion, taught even tòil to please;
Thésel round thy bòwers! their cheerful influence shéd,
Thésel wère thy charms-but all these charms' are fièd.
GOLDSMITH.

THE POWER OF PRAYER.

CHILD of God! pray òn. By prayer thy hànd can touch the stárs, thy árm stretch up to heaven. Nor let thy holy boldness be dashed by the thought' that prayer has no power to bend these skies, and bring down thy Gód. When I pull on the rope which fastens my frail and little boat' to a distant and mighty shíp, my poor strength may not draw its vast bulk to me, but I draw myself to ìt-to ride in safety!

under the protection of its gúns, and enjoy in wánt' the fulness of its stores. And it èqually serves my purpose, and supplies my needs, that prayer, although it were powerless to move God to mé, moves mé to Gòd. If He does not descend to earth, I ascend to heaven.

Child of God! pray òn. Were it indispensable for thy safety that Gòd should rend these heavens, it should be done -a wondering world' should seè it done. I dare believe thát; and “I am not mad, most noble Festus." Have not these heavens been already rent? Eighteen hundred years ago, robed in humánity, God himself came down. Thèse blue skies, where only làrks now sing and eagles saíl, were cleft with the wings, and filled with the sóngs of his angel train. Among the ancient orbs of that firmament, a strànger star appeared, travelling the heavens and blazing on the banner borne before the King, as he descended on this dárk and distant world. On Canaan's dewy ground, his lowly béd, the eye of mórning' saw the shape and fórm of the Son of God; and dusty roads, and winter snows, and desert sànds, and the shores and very wàves of Galilee, were imprèssed with the footprints of the Creator. By this mànger, where the kingly babe lies crádled-beside this cròss, upon whose ignominious arms the glory of the universe is húng by this silent sèpulchre, whére, wrapped in bloody shroud, the body reposes on its bed of spíces, and while Roman sentinels walk their moonlit round, Deàth, a bound captive, sits withín, so soon as the sleeper wákes, to be disàrmed, uncròwned, and in hìmself have death pút to death-faith can beliève all that God has revealed, and hópe for all that He has promised. Reading on that mànger, on that cross, deeply lettered on that rocky sepulchre, these glorious wórds-"Hé that spared not his own Sòn, but delivered him up for us áll, how shall hè not with hím also freely give us all things?"-Faith lifts an eagle eye to heaven, and rising to the boldest flights, soars alóft on the wings of prayer. DR. GUTHRIE.