I awoke as from a long and deep sleep. Whether I had been in a trance, or asleep, or dead, I knew not; neither did I seek to inquire. With that inconsistency that may often be remarked in dreams, I took the whole as a matter of course, and awoke with the full persuasion that the long sleep or trance in which I had been laid, had nothing in it either new or appalling. That it had been of long continuance I doubted not; indeed I thought that I knew that months and years had rolled over my head while I was wrapped in mysterious slumbers. Yet my recollection of the occurrences that had taken place before I had been lulled to sleep was perfect; and I had the most accurate remembrance of the spot on which I lay, and the plants and flowers that had been budding around me. Still there was all the mistiness of a vision cast over the time, and the cause of my having laid myself down. It was one of the vagaries of a dream, and I thought on it without wonder ing.

The spot on which I was lying was just at the entrance of a cave, that I fancied had been the scene of some of my brightest joys and my deepest sorrows. It was known to none save me, and to me it had been a place of refuge and a defence, for in the wildness of my dream I thought that I had been persecuted and hunted from the society of man; and that in that lone cave, and that romantic valley, I had found peace and security.

I lay with my back on the ground, and my head resting on my arm, so that when I opened my eyes, the first objects that I gazed on were the stars and the full moon; and the appearance that the heavens presented to me was so extraordinary, and at the same time so awful, because so unlike the silvery brightness of the sky on which I had last gazed, that I raised my head on my hand, and, leaning on my elbow, looked with a long and idiot stare on the moon and the stars, and the black expanse of ether.

There was a dimness in the air-an unnatural dimness-not a haze or a thin mantle of clouds stretching over and obscuring the atmosphere-but a

darkness-a broad shadow-spreading over, yet obscuring nothing, as if above the heavenly bodies had been spread an immense covering of clouds, that hid from them the light in which they moved and had their being.

The moon was large and dark. It seemed to have approached so near the earth, that had it shone with its usual lustre, the seas, and the lands, and the forests, that I believed to exist in it, would have been all distinctly visible. As it was, it had no longer the fair round shape that I had so often gazed on with wonder. The few rays of light that it emitted seemed thrown from hollow and highland-from rocks and from rugged declivities. It glared on me like a monstrous inhabitant of the air, and, as I shuddered beneath its broken light, I fancied that it was descending nearer and nearer to the earth, until it seemed about to settle down and crush me slowly and heavily to nothing. I turned from that terrible moon, and my eyes rested on stars and on planets, studded more thickly than imagination can conceive. They too were larger, and redder, and darker than they had been, and they shone more steadily through the clear darkness of the mysterious sky. They did not twinkle with varying and silvery beams-they were rather like little balls of smouldering fire, struggling with a suffocating atmosphere for existence.

I started up with a loud cry of despair,-I saw the whole reeling around me,-I felt as if I had been delirious,

mad,-I threw myself again on the flat rock, and again closed my eyes to shut out the dark fancies that on every side seemed to assail me,-a thousand wild ideas whirled through my brain, -I was dying,-I was dead,-I had perished at the mouth of that mossy cave,-I was in the land of spirits,myself a spirit, and waiting for final doom in one of the worlds that I had seen sparkling around me. No, no,I had not felt the pangs of dissolution, and my reason seemed to recall unto me all that I had suffered, and all that I had endured,-I repeated the list of my miseries,-it was perfect, but Death was not there.

I was delirious,—in a mad fever,—

I felt helpless and weak, and the thought flashed across my mind that there I was left to die alone, and to struggle and fight with death in utter desolation, the cave was known to none save me, and-as I imagined in my delirium-to one fair being whom I had loved, and who had visited my lonely cave as the messenger of joy and gladness. Then all the unconnected imaginations of a dream came rushing into my mind, and overwhelming me with thoughts of guilt and sorrow,-indistinctly marked out, and darkly understood, but pressing into my soul with all the freshness of a recent fact, and I shrieked in agony; for I thought that I had murdered her, my meek and innocent love, and that now with my madness I was expiating the foulness of my crime.No, no, no,-these visions passed away, and I knew that I had not been guilty, -but I thought-and I shook with a strong convulsion as I believed it to be true-I thought that I had sunk to sleep in her arms, and that the last .. sounds that I heard were the sweet murmurs of her voice.-Merciful heavens! she too is dead,—or she too has deserted me, my shrieks, my convulsive agony, would else have aroused her. But no-I shook off these fancies with a strong effort, and again I hoped. I prayed that I might still be asleep, and still only suffering from the pressure of an agonizing dream. I roused myself-I called forth all my energies, and I again opened my eyes, and again saw the moon and the stars, and the unnatural heaven glaring on me through the darkness of the night, and again overpowered with the strong emotions that shook my reason, I fell to the ground in a swoon.

When I recovered, the scene was new. The moon and the stars had set, and the sun had arisen,-but still the same dark atmosphere, and the same mysterious sky. As yet, I saw not the sun, for my face was not in the direction of his rising. My courage was, however, revived, and I be gan to hope that all had been but one of the visions of the night. But when I raised my head, and looked around, I was amazed,-distracted,-I had lain down in a woody and romantic glen, I looked around for the copse and hazel that had sheltered me, -I looked for the clear wild stream

that fell in many a cascade from the rocks, I listened for the song of the birds, and strained my ear to catch one sound of life or animation; no tree reared its green boughs to the morning sun,-all was silent, and lone, and gloomy,-nothing was there but grey rocks, that seemed fast hastening to decay, and the old roots of some immense trees, that seemed to have grown, and flourished, and died there. I raised myself until I sat upright. Horrible was the palsy that fell on my senses when I saw the cave-the very cave that I had seen covered with moss, and the wild shrubs of the forest, standing as grim and as dark as the grave, without one leaf of verdure to adorn it, without one single bush to hide it; there it was, grey and mouldering; and there lay the beautiful vale, one dreadful mass of rocky desolation, with a wide, dry channel winding along what had once been the foot of a green valley.

I looked around on that inclosed glen as far as my eye could reach, but all was dark and dreary, all seemed alike hastening to decay. The rocks had fallen in huge fragments, and among these fragments appeared large roots and décayed trunks of trees, not clothed with moss, or with mushrooms, springing up from the moist wood, but dry, and old, and wasted. I well remembered, that in that valley no tree of larger growth than the hazel, or the wild rose, had found room or nourishment, yet there lay large trees among the black masses of rock, and it was evident that there they had grown and died.

Some dreadful convulsion must have taken place-yet it was not the rapid devastation of an earthquake. The slow finger of time was there, and every object bore marks of the lapse of years-ay, of centuries. Rocks had mouldered away-young trees and bushes had grown up, and come to maturity, and perished, while I was wrapped in oblivion. And yet, now that I saw, and knew that it was only through many a year having passed by, that all these changes had been effected, even now my senses recovered in some measure from the delirious excitement of the first surprise, and, such is the inconsistency of a dream, I almost fancied that all this desolation had been a thing to be looked for and

expected, for then, for the first time, I remembered that during my long sleep I thought that I knew, that days and months, and years, were rolling over me in rapid and noiseless succession. No sooner had this idea seized my mind-no sooner did I conceive that I had indeed slept that I had indeed lain in silent insensibility, until wood, and rock, and river, had dried up, or fallen beneath the hand of time-that the moon and the stars-and, prepared as I was for wonders, I started, as at that instant I instinctively turned towards that part of the heavens in which the sun was to make his appearance; prepared as I was, I started when I beheld his huge round bulk heaving slowly above the barrier of rocks that surrounded me. His was no longer the piercing ray, 'the dazzling, the pure and colourless light, that had shed glory and radiance on the world on which I had closed my eyes he was now a dark round orb of reddish flame. He had sunk nearer the earth as he approached nearer the close of his career, and he too seemed to share with the heaven and the earth the symptoms of decay and dissolution.

論

**

When I saw universal nature thus worn out and exhausted-thus perishing from old age, and expiring from the sheer want of renewing materials, then I thought that surely my frail body must likewise have waxed old and infirm-surely I too must be bowed down with age and weariness.

I raised myself slowly and fearfully from the earth, and at length I stood upright. There I stood unscathed by time-fresh and vigorous as when last I walked on the surface of a green and beautiful world-my frame as firmly knit, and my every limb as active as if a few brief hours, instead of many and long years, had witnessed me extended on that broad platform of rock.

At first a sudden gleam of joy broke on my soul, when I thought that here I stood unharmed by time-that I at least had lost nothing of life by the

Then despair and dread indeed laid hold of me then dark visions of woe and of loneliness rose indistinctly before me-thoughts of nights and days of never-ending darkness and coldand then the miseries of hunger and of slow decay and starvation, and hopeless destitution-and then the hard struggle to live, and the still harder struggle of youth and strength to die-Dark visions of woe, where fled ye? before what angel of light hid ye your diminished heads? The sum of my miseries seemed to overwhelm me-a loud sound, as of one universal crash of dissolving nature, rung in my ears-I gave one wild shriek-one convulsive struggle-and

awoke and there stood my man John, with my shaving-jug in the one hand, and my well-cleaned boots in the other-his mouth open, and his eyes rolling hideously at thus witnessing the frolics of his staid and quiet master.

By his entrance were these visions dispelled, else Lord knows how long I might have lingered out my existence in that dreary world, or what woes and unspeakable miseries had been in store for

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THESE were the opinions of an excellent practical farmer, a statesman of the first class, and an individual pre-eminent for knowledge, experience, and wisdom. In commencing our remarks on Agriculture, we strongly recommend them to the attention of our readers.

If it be at all times necessary to listen to the cry of the people in cities and towns touching this subject with caution and distrust, it is doubly so at the present moment. That which bears the name of Political Economy, but which ought to bear a very different one, has given to the ignorance and selfishness of such people with regard to Agriculture the garb of science. A body of lecturers and newspaper writers, who perhaps never saw a green field, and who could not distinguish a pod of beans from an ear of barley, oracularly proclaim that they are infinitely more knowing in agricultural matters than the most experienced agriculturists. They have drawn up a string of pretended theorems and demonstrations, which they assert to be unerring, and by means of which every inhabitant of a town believes himself to be consummately qualified for giving judgment on the Corn Laws. The city barber can show, while he is taking off a beard, that the farmer is an utter stranger to his own interestthe draper's apprentice can demonstrate, while he is measuring a yard of tape, that to plunge the farmers into ruin, and strip the landlords of income, would prodigiously benefit the nation. All this is held to be matter of proof. There is an authority to refer to, which may not be disputed ;-it is a fundamental maxim of Political Economy, that if our own producers can

not supply us at so cheap a rate as foreign ones, we ought to be supplied by the latter; and who shall dare to call its truth into question?

Of course, the cry of the people of cities and towns is no longer prompted by hunger and high prices. Up to a recent period, manufactures and commerce have been in the most flourishing condition; the masters have made good profits; the workmen have had very high wageshave enjoyed greater abundance than ever before fell to their lot, and greater abundance than has been enjoyed by very many people who rank as gentlemen. Generally speaking, the inhabitants of cities and towns have enjoyed unexampled plenty and prosperity, and yet they have continually kept up a cry for the reduction of the prices of corn. Has wheat then been unreasonably dear? No! it has not fetched two-thirds of the price that it frequently fetched during the war; and it has not been higher than it often was centuries ago. Have the farmers and their servants been in a better condition than the masters and workmen in large places? No! they have been in a much worse condition. Why then has the cry been raised? Because corn has been ruinously cheap in various foreign countries. It has not been inquired whether our farmers could afford to reduce their prices, or whether they could produce at as cheap a rate as those of other nations. No notice has been taken of the fact, that in these foreign countries the low prices have plunged agriculture into deep distress. Political Economy needed no such knowledge. Corn was cheaper in Poland, Germany, America, &c. than in England; this was all

that was necessary to be known, and this formed the sole scientific and conclusive reason why the price here ought to be reduced.

A cry like this, when those who raise it-taking into calculation the difference in profits and wages-buy their bread in reality at a cheaper rate than the producers of corn, cannot surely be entitled to much consideration. Another cause that renders it the less deserving of notice, is, the Economists who guide and mature it are as dishonest as they are ignorant. Their grand object is, not the benefit of commerce and manufactures, but the promotion of their own wishes as a political faction. In the words of Burke-" Knowing how opposite a permanent landed interest is to their schemes, they have resolved, and it is the great drift of all their regulations, to reduce that description of men to a mere peasantry for the sustenance of the towns, and to place the true effective government in cities among the tradesmen, bankers, and voluntary clubs of bold, presuming young persons; advocates, attorneys, managers of newspapers, and cabals of literary men." They care no more for the interests of the merchants and manufacturers than for those of the agriculturists; they wish to crush the latter, merely that they may gain a triumph for Republicanism.

In better times, a cry for cheaper bread, set up by the inhabitants of cities and towns amidst prosperity and abundance, would have received from the Ministry and Parliament the most marked reprobation. It would have been put down at once, not more from its un- -English character, than from its being hostile to the best interests of its authors. But we live in times when every cry is thought rational and just that demands change and innovation-when it is thought to be idiotcy to act upon old principles, and to be satisfied with existing things. Hitherto the theoretic projector has been laughed at; now he alone is to be trusted: it is the man of practical knowledge who must not be listened to. Every one is the master of any business save his own. The lawyer takes upon himself the management of foreign politics-the newspaper writer draws up laws for agriculture-the lecturer lays down systems for tradeand the surgeon regulates the relations

between master and servant. In proportion as a man is a stranger to a subject, in the same proportion is his opinion on it attended to. Who, in these enlightened days, would pay any regard to the opinion of the agriculturists on agriculture, of the silk manufacturer on the silk trade, or of the iron-master on the iron trade? No one. The opinion would be dictated by experience, and therefore it would be scorned. Not many months since, some of the Ministers declared in Parliament, that they knew they were right in opening a trade, because, although they were opposed by those engaged in, and perfectly acquainted with it, they were sanctioned by men engaged in other trades, and utter strangers to it. The primary directors of public affairs have lately been closet visionaries-men thoroughly destitute of experimental knowledge, and having a character for anything rather than ability and wisdom. The Ministry and Parliament may have carried into effect, but these menthe Humes-M'Cullochs, and Benthams-have formed the plan and laid down the principle. If the affairs of an empire like this can continue to be thus managed without injury, the science of government is certainly a very different thing from what we believe it to be. The year 1825 will be long memorable in the annals of England. The worst of its projectors have not been those of the new companies: the most fatal of its bubbles have been blown elsewhere than in the money market; these have not yet all burst, but burst they will, and fearful will be the consequences.

A

The political bubbles, as well as those of a different character, have injured most seriously, some of the better feelings of the community. clamour is kept up in favour of liberality-of a liberal system of trade. What, in plain English, is this liberality? Do our merchants, manufacturers, and tradesmen, stand forward like honest, generous, straightforward men, and say-We have too much trade-we have more than we desire -we are willing to give a portion to France, Holland, &c. without an equivalent? Does any one of them intend that his liberality shall subtract in the least from his property or income? No! all who cry up this liberal system of trade expect to make it an in