essential for an editorship, and it is at the same time insisted on, that judgment is exactly the quality which the editor has not. An author is praised in a review ; he is grateful to an individual writer, whose name he has industriously inquired for; an author is condemned in a review; he is unspeakably disgusted with the editor. Week after week, month after month, the said editor succours the oppressed, raises up the weak, applauds virtue, exalts talent; he pens or promulgates the praises of friends; of their books, pictures, acting, safety-lamps, and steam-paddles; but from the catalogue of golden names his own is an eternal absentee. Greater selfdenial was not shown by the late Mr. Massingham of Drury-lane, who held office in the theatre for nearly forty years without once witnessing play or farce! Being solely responsible, the editor is compelled not only to review, but even to read, new volumes. There is another peculiarity in his condition. Of all the MSS. that come before him, it is his fate to peruse only those which will least repay the trouble. Observe: a contributor writes nonsense ten times over, the articles are returned; he sends one much better, it is inserted; a third exhibits a striking improvement; a fourth contains touches of genius; a few more papers are written and accepted, and their author has won a character for assured and established excellence of composition. It is superfluous to read further. Of so masterly a style, not another specimen need be perused. The editor can rely upon his contributor. His productions were read while they were worthless or indifferent, but they are now so admirable, so full of thoughts "that give delight and hurt not," that to inspect any more such MSS. would be clearly a waste of time. May it be so with ours!

THE POLICE MAGISTRATE.

THE traveller, when he came within view of the gibbet, knew that he had entered a civilised country. The Police Magistrate is of opinion that a spacious and well-filled prison is an object of national pride. He measures the resources of a nation by the number of offences it can afford in a year; he calculates its moral greatness by the square acres covered by its gaols. That, in his eyes, is the land of liberty, where there are plenty of prisons for the accommodation of the people. He is a friend to popular rights, and contends that the subject has the same right to his gaol which the sovereign has to his palace. He can see no reason why the number of culprits should not be regularly kept up, on the plan laid down in the Army and Navy; when volunteers are scarce, a bounty might be offered. He has no objection to the project for building new churches, and admits that the new workhouses may fairly claim the approval of all who are friendly to the extension of imprisonment; but laments that there is a shameful want of public spirit with regard to the erection of new prisons. He is sure that there would be no want of offenders, if there were more gaols. He begrudges the money spent on the National Gallery at Charing-Cross, but hints that a House of Correction at the entrance to Parliament Street is much wanted. He rejoices in the reform of the Criminal Code, and would go yet further; for, as he says, to transport a man for life gives him no chance of repeating his offence, which is unfair towards the magistrate, and can only tend to depopulate our prisons. The more depraved, however, are better away; for nothing grieves him more than sending a hardened sinner to gaol. Prison discipline is too precious to be wasted on a wretch without feeling, on one who only

corrupts the morals of the innocent prisoners, and teaches them not to mind picking oakum. He holds that man to be unworthy of the tread-mill, who seeks to lessen the misery of his fellow-prisoners. Those whom he has the greatest satisfaction in committing are the roving rogues, who, although they know they are without food, are not ashamed of having an appetite that many a magistrate would be proud of when he goes home to dinner. The wicked wanderers who own to being houseless, and are nevertheless convicted of sleeping in the open air--perhaps of singing in the day-time-these he commits con amore; and often does his heart ache at the reflection that imperious custom and vulgar prejudice prevent him from awarding more than a fortnight's imprisonment. But he never repairs to his club to dine, or visits the theatre in the evening, with so heavy a heart as when, by a series of unlucky accidents, his morning has been devoted to examinations that have ended in nothing— in the discharge of the prisoners; when, after a fierce contest, he has failed to return a single member to the House of Correction. On such occasions (they are rare) he exclaims, with a bitterness never felt by the old Roman, "I have lost a day!" These misfortunes will happen to the best of magistrates; and they are chiefly attributable to the indulgence shown to the accused in the production of evidence to substantiate their innocence. A man who would prove himself not guilty can have little respect for the bench; no sympathy with the feelings of the magistrate, who is obliged to release him. It is questionable whether, in such cases, the complainant might not be committed instead: for surely magistrates should not sit for nothing? Prisoners, however, of a certain station in life, may be acquitted without violence to his feelings. If Sarah Jenkins,

charged with shoplifting, be fashionably attired, and in affluent circumstances, she is addressed as Mrs. Jenkins, and accommodated with a chair and a glass of water. The magistrate laments that an investigation should be called for, and casts a furtive glance to his private room. The witnesses are in this case persons whose testimony must be received with exceeding caution. They have something suspicious in their aspects; while the prisoner at the bar, or rather the "party accused," looks so very respectable. At every serious turn of the disclosure, he ejaculates, "The party is so respectable; it's a pity!"

But there is one class of persons whom he particularly holds up for the reprobation of mankind; the people who don't come forward to prosecute. This he regards as a moral offence of the blackest dye: nothing provokes him so much. Trial by jury is so excellent an institution that it ought to be encouraged. The prisoner, he assumes, has faithfully done his duty; and shame be on the prosecutor who neglects his own.

THE BORROWER.

THE borrower, with admirable consistency of character, borrows his motto from Shakspeare, "Base is the slave who pays!" He understands the meaning of the verb "to give," as in the case of a political subscription or a charitable donation, of which lists are published in the papers. Generous people give; poor-spirited people pay. He looks upon himself as a professor of the most ancient and noble art extant, the art of borrowing. He is proud to call himself an Englishman, because the said art has here been cultivated beyond any other. In modern times, more especially, it has been brought

almost to perfection; and has been so closely studied and so fondly cherished by statesmen and economists, that it may justly lay claim to be distinguished as the great national art. Mr. Pitt is, of course, his beau-ideal of a minister; and he holds Britannia to be the envy of surrounding nations by virtue of her having been able to get her acceptances discounted to the extent of eight hundred millions. He thinks it the duty of every subject living under such a state to follow the state's example; and as he preaches, so he practises.

By the art of borrowing, he of course means borrowing money. All other loans he despises except in cases of extremity, as misapplications of great powers, and as tending to bring a great principle into a familiarity which breeds contempt. To be sure, the man who borrows ready-made articles is no fool, but he is a small dealer, and generally disgraces the art. What can he promise himself? What does he attain to? He can seldom get beyond a set of books, an umbrella, or a great-coat this is poor work, and renders borrowing a bore to both parties. The highest achievement in this department is a horse and gig; and what can you do with it when you have got it? A borrower cannot afford to injure his credit by driving anything so suspicious as a gig; and to sell a borrowed one for even twice as much as it is worth is an offence against the laws a borrower of this stamp can hardly pretend to more sagacity than a lender. Borrowing a house, ready furnished, of course, for the season, or a sailing-boat for a month, may be a more respectable course, and it occasionally receives high sanction; but in the end both the villa and the vessel must be delivered back to the right owners (as the phrase is), which, to a borrower of the smallest susceptibility of feeling, is always unpleasant.