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value of this section is, as the Registrar is not bound under it, to advertire in any case; and the mischief caused to the unfortunate individuals, who belonged to such societies remains unremedied.

Sec. 6 is the triumph of the Manchester Unity Friendly Society, and all other well-regulated institutions. "The 8th sec. of the Act 21 and 22 Vic., cap. 101, is hereby repealed."

The Act of 1855, sec. 45, provides that the trustees of societies, or the officers thereof, appointed to prepare returns, shall, once in every year, in the months of January, February, or March, transmit to the Registrar a general statement of the funds and effects of such society, during the past twelve months, or a copy of the last annual report of such society; and, also, within three months after the month of December, 1855; and, so again, within three months after every five years succeeding, transmit to the Registrar a return of the rate or amount of sickness and mortality experienced by such society within the preceding five years, and in such form as shall be prepared by the said Registrar, and an abstract shall be laid before Parliament.

Now, by the 7th section of the Act of 1860, if default is made in transmitting to the Registrar, before the 1st of June in each year, the general statement, or copy of the last annual report of any society, the officer making such default is liable to a penalty, not exceeding 20s.; to be recovered, with costs, at the suit of the Registrar, in manner provided by the Act.

The 8th section enacts, that if the accounts and returns required from societies, by the Commissioners for the Reduction of the National Debt, be not made within 30 days after requirement, the account of the society shall be closed by the Commissioners; and no interest credited until such accounts and returns are furnished, or the money be withdrawn.

By section 24 of the Act of 1855, it is provided that if any person, by false representation or imposition, shall obtain any monies, books, papers, or other effects of a society; or, having the same, shall withhold or misapply them; or, wilfully apply any part to purposes not expressed or directed in the rules; a Justice, in England, may, upon complaint of any person on behalf of the society, summon the offender, and two Justices shall hear and determine the complaint (under the 11 and 12 Vic., cap. 43); and in Scotland the offence may be prosecuted by summary complaint, at the instance of the Procurator Fiscal of the county, or of the society-with his concurrence before the Sheriff; in Ireland before Justices, as in England, under 14 and 15 Vic., cap. 93,-this is so provided by the 1st section of the Act of 1858-and the offender will be ordered to deliver up all monies, &c., and repay amounts misapplied; with a penalty not exceeding £20, and 20s. costs; or, in default, be imprisoned, with or without hard labour, for three months.

The 9th, and last, section of the new Act provides, that any application authorized by the above 24th section to be made by any person on behalf of a society, may be made by the Registrar.

These extraordinary powers, conferred upon the Registrars, have not been sought for and obtained without some object. Whispers are abroad that many societies have lent or given their funds to Trades' Unions; the purpose to which such funds were to be applied being-it is said-very well known; and for which the societies or their officers will be brought to account.

Let us hope that a Registrar, in his capacity of general watchman and prosecutor, will have very little to do in this kind of business. Let us also hope that in future sessions, Parliament will have less of this tinkering legislation to engage its attention. Friendly Societies will receive and act on good advice; but will not submit to peddling coercion.


Sharnbrook, 1860.



I ASK'D old Time, one eventide,
To lay his glass and scythe aside,
To rest himself an hour or so,-
He gravely smiled, and answered "No!
No rest for me has Heaven decreed,
Nor can I haste the least my speed,
Till life's last pulse has ceased to throb,
And all things perish with this globe."

Still on he flew on wings unheard,
The air around seem'd all unstirr'd.-
In vain, in vain, do thousands cry,
"O, Time, delay!" when death draws nigh.
No mortal power can Time retard!
No human voice does he regard!
But on and on pursues his flight,
In calm, in storm, by day, by night.

Yet, as he pass'd like light along,

Methought I heard him chant this song:-
"O, mortal man! now listen well,
And I to thee some truths will tell.
Though like yon sun that ever burns,
Or this round earth that ceaseless turns,
I constantly pursue my course
Through ages with uncheckéd force;
Yet, as I hasten to my goal,
The hours I on my way unroll,
More precious they than costliest gems
That blaze on royal diadems.—
This mighty world, instinct with life,
This scene of mingled peace and strife,
On, as I pierce the Future's night,
I bear, in my progressive flight.

"Ah! who can tell what mighty things
Are done the while I flap my wings!
The present Now is man's-when gone,
"Tis lost. The PAST belongs to none!
Then wise is he who makes the most
Of moments, ere they're wholly lost!
'Tis profitless to pule and fret,
And sour the mind with vain regret,
When gone for ever! Up, awake,
Thou sluggard soul! thyself betake
To earnest work, with all thy might,'
If thou wouldst spend thy days aright.
The longest thread of life that's spun,
Full soon its destined length will run!"
Thus sang old Time, or seem'd to sing,
As on he pass'd on silent wing;
Nor sang the aged Sage in vain,
If truths were utter'd in his strain.


Ir would have been a difficult matter to have found a single individual, from the "oldest inhabitant" to the most recent settler, in the town of B- who did not know, and who did not esteem and speak well of, John Thrifty.

And well did John merit the good report of his neighbours. He was born amongst them-he had spent his youth amongst them-he had grown old amongst them; and such had been the amiability of his manners, the benevolence of his disposition and rectitude of his conduct, that he had never, during a period of more than sixty years, had a quarrel with, or made an enemy of, a single person in all the town.

Now, it was generally supposed that John was thriving in the world, and that he would not only have a snug competency for his declining years, but would be enabled to leave a nice jointure for his widow, and a handsome dowry for his daughter Mary, the only surviving child of a numerous progeny.

It was well known that, for several years previous to his marriage, having no one but himself to support, and being in the receipt of a good salary, as book-keeper in an extensive cotton mill, he had been enabled, by a laudable economy, to make frequent investments in the savings' banks, and it was even calculated by the more exact gossips, that Jolin could not have less than £500 to commence his married life.

Heedless of the good-natured babblers, John kept plodding on. Every morning, precisely as the office clock struck nine, he might be seen taking his accustomed seat at the office desk; and every evening, as the last sound of the bell proclaiming six died upon the ear, he might be perceived brushing up his five-shilling gossamer with his coat sleeve, preparatory to leaving his duties for the night.

His regularity and integrity gained him the confidence of his employers; and several times during his long and exemplary servitude had they thought fit, without solicitation on his part, to advance his previously handsome salary. And most people said, and everybody thought, that John Thrifty was a rich man. But he wasn't! And how the folks in B- stared, wondered, gos. siped, and stared, and gossiped again-when, at the age of sixty-three, John left this world, his wife and daughter, and barely enough money to pay his funeral expenses.

But why wasn't John rich? was asked on every side, and none appeared able to solve this important problem.

We are happy, however, to have it in our power to clear up the mystery; and to show why, with all his opportunities and privileges for amassing wealth, John Thrifty died a poor man.

Then, for once, report fell short of truth, and instead of £500, John had upwards of £800 placed to his credit, in one or other of the banking houses in B-, besides being in receipt of an annual salary of £200, at the time of his marriage.


The repeated advances made by his employers during his wedded life had augmented his salary to £400 per annum ; yet, after all, John died a poor man. Strange!" methinks we hear some one of our readers exclaim, "he must have been a gambler;" another, "he couldn't make all that away in innocent and rational pursuits-he must surely have been a drunkard;" again, another, more irrascible than the others, "come now, you have told us that he was

punctual and attentive to business, regular in his habits, and amiable in lis disposition, don't leave us any longer to conjecture, but tell us at once the cause of John's 'poverty."""Well, then, John had a wife ;-" "Of course he had," puts in our short-tempered reader, "that is, if he married a woman and she hadn't gone off the hooks, run away, or been transported? but wha on earth has that to do with his poverty? surely it does not follow that because a man has a wife he must have poverty also." To this we answer, "If we are to finish the task we have undertaken, we are determined to do i in our own manner; therefore, we repeat, in contempt of our fast man's frowns, John Thrifty had a wife-beautiful in her person-graceful in her carriage-benevolent in her disposition-industrious in her habits, and to all appearances, just the woman to make the fireside of an intellectual man happy; but she had, in a multitude of excellences, one failing; she would keep up appearances.' So this failing was her own and her husband's ruin, in a worldly point of view."

No one could, or did, appreciate a woman, more than John did his wife, and though he saw and pitied her besetting sin, he hadn't the courage to denounce it. Sometimes, it is true. he would endeavour to reason with her on the impropriety of incurring certain expenses, but then, though he brought forward the most convincing and incontrovertible arguments in favour of his propositions, she had such a sweet and persuasive voice, and such a captivating manner, he was sure to be defeated; and the debate always ended with, "Well, John, love, I dare say you're perfectly right, but then, my dear, only fancy! what would the world say ?" and poor John, silenced by the unaccountable interest manifested by the world in his domestic arrangements, could only wonder how he could ever have been so oblivious of this world's approbation.

For instance, when discussing the necessary preparations for their marriage, John suggested, a cab to church-a few friends to dinner-a quadrille in the evening, and business next day; but the bride elect, anxious to "keep up appearances," remarked that, "though, for herself, she didn't care a rush how matters were arranged," yet "what would the world say ?" "Hadn't Mr.

Shuffle (who didn't get near John's salary), a couple of coaches, a pair of greys to each, outriders in liveries, and white favours: and why should they do the thing less respectably ?" This reasoning was conclusive; the world required them, and coaches, greys, outriders, liveries, and white favours were agreed upon.


Then, you know, John dear, it is always customary for newly married people who would stand well with the world, to make a wedding-jaunt, for a fortnight or so, to the lakes, Blackpool, Cheltenham, or some such place." This was a matter of course; so, to please the world, they went to Bath.

Then it was arranged that, as Mrs. Grizzle sent out cakes, cards, and gloves (and Mr. G. didn't hold half so good a situation as John), they should send out cards, cakes, and gloves too.

Then Mrs. Frizzle had such a lovely dinner-service (and her husband's income was very limited); Mrs. Dornton had such a love of a piano; Mrs. Bonsall had such exquisite China; Mrs. Crane had such handsome Brussels carpets; Mrs. Chink had such chaste bed-hangings; Mrs. Lipman had such rich window-blinds; Mrs. Screw had such a dear of a sofa; Mrs. Price had such a duck of a time-piece; Mrs. Griffin had such delicious chairs and tables; Mrs. Biffin had such charming fire-sereens; Mrs. Bouncer had such costly fittings in her church pew (and none of their husbands had the means that John had); therefore, that the world might not accuse him of parsimony, John had to copy or excel his neighbours; and the dinner-service, piano,

China, bed-hangings, window-blinds, Brussels carpets, sofa, time-piece, chairs, tables, fire-screens, and the fittings for the pew at church were all provided, secundum artem.

Then again, the babies-precious innocents-when they came, must, of necessity, be treated like other genteel babies; and elegancies and luxuries were supplied ad libitum; and, when all their attentions could not keep the little dears alive, hatbands, gloves, and biscuits must be distributed at their funerals-it would be such a shame, as this was the last token of affection that could be paid them, not to do as other respectable parents did.

And thus they went on. This deference to the opinions of the world, and this desire to compete with and outshine their neighbours, commenced with their union and ended only with the death of John and the poverty of his widow and orphan daughter. And this was the reason why John Thrifty didn't get rich." P. M. R.

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AMONG the trees, the whispering breeze
This summer morning wanders gaily;
Thro' meads I pass, among the grass
The flowers glisten purely, palely.

Shine summer morn, my soul to thee is clinging;

Shine morning; breezes wander, singing, singing, singing.

The snow white stream glides, like a dream,
With sweet, soft murmur through the meadows,
Heaven's tender hue, is stainless blue,

Earth's floor is chequered o'er with shadows.

Flow, river, flow; through this rich landscape gleaming.
Sleep, shadows sleep, till the dark woods lie a-dreaming.

Long years have passed since I stood last,
And saw the landscape in its splendour,
That time was bliss compared with this,

Tho' this time comes with mem'ries tender.

Rest, village rest! in brightest beauty lying;

Rise, Memory! wake past times; Heaven's to thee replying.

I came this morn by hope upborne,
For in this village once a maiden

Abode-o'erflowed with love I glowed,

With love then, now with sorrow, laden!

Come, dearest, come; alas, i' the grave she's lying.

Sleep, sweetest, sleep! I'll love thee, love thee, living, dying.

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