CANADA to time, and join with us. We are of the same family-speak the same language. The answer of WEBSTER has caused our heart to yearn towards our brave descendants. With all their faults, their jealousies, their national follies, their boasting, and the occasional vulgarity of go-a-headism, there is something daring, manly, and spirited about the Yankees. There is something there, that is fast waning here-something they derived from us, that we possess no longer-something, that sailed on board the Mayflower-an old English pluck and principle, which these men, driven from their native shores, bore with them into the heart of the wilderness, there to fecundate and spread through the heart-strings of a mighty empire speaking the English tongue, after it should be stifled by a millocracy, a shop-ocracy and a money-ocracy, at home. Still, we say, England, that now seems careless of all, should be prepared for all. What, then, is our state? Our army is a farce-our navy neglected. The eyes of the world will see, and there is a great deal in seeing it, that we are unarmed. A quarrel may arise that shall inflame the minds of all. It may be about Wiseman, or the adjudication of a prize for a pattern utensil. It may result from the interference of French police, a row in Leicester Square, or an insult to the Queen. An Austrian Jew may refuse, from ignorance or impudence, to take off his hat during the performance of “God save the Queen:" Tomkins may knock it off, and thus "bonnet" the dignity of Croatia. The grim identity of Haynau may be resuscitated by the Times, big with revenge and pregnant with Absolutism. It may happen anywhere

-anyhow. Quien sabe? But we feel pretty sure that it will happen. Close quarters, hot weather, and national

jealousy will ferment until it boils over the chimney-pots of London. Imagine a set of French Republicans, or Austrian despots, or a Jesuit school, determined to break panes of glass in Hyde Park, and armed with pebbles. Of course, we shall all begin by being very polite. Cosmopolitan host and guest will rival each other in scrapings, bowings, and grimaces. But the people do not understand a minuet imposed upon them by their rulers without teaching. In short, we declare our belief that nothing could be devised more likely to lead to a breach of the peace, including an Irish wake or a St. Giles's christening, than this philanthropic réunion of the world at John Bull's fireside; we beg pardon, we should have said in his "Greenhouse" for all nations. How, then, will the moral force of the A Division and five thousand soldiers deal with it? Imagine so small a band of heroes in the midst of four millions of people!

The mere collection of so vast a breathing mass of humanity into one spot is a dangerous experiment. Such has never yet been followed by a good result. The numbering of the people in Holy Writ was considered an offence against the Deity. As such it was punished by a pestilence. But Heaven, even in the age of miracles, was pleased to work by a natural agency. The natural consequence of the congregation of a vast multitude into an already populous city is pestilence. Thus the anger of God is, in this respect, a physical fact, which man may, if he please, easily avoid. Look at the present state of lodginghouses. Regard the drain of emigration which is found necessary, and then invite your two millions of additional inhabitants to London without thinking of the consequences. If all should go well, we do not deny that 1851 will be a

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brisk year for London tradesmen, and even for trade throughout the country. But then look at the reaction. What speculation—what ruin will result!

The great curse of all we have not yet touched upon. It is that of foreign competition. Taxed to the utmost, and indebted to a number of unproductive fundholders, Jews and foreigners, England is hurrying on her own dissolution by this extravagant piece of folly. Had she kept the exchanges in her hands-had she made a fit use of her colonies--had she provided for herself granaries under her own command--had she cherished her physical force—the gold of California might perhaps have poured in and gradually redeemed her people from their debt and restored, if wisely used, the vitality of the kingdom. Had her government even kept the railways in their own hands, much of this might have been done. Had she chastened and kept pure her Church, the Papists had been disarmed of their power, and, consequently, of their insolence. But now England seeks to redeem her credit by the mere superficiality of a national fête mocking her squalid workhouses and prisons. She blindly believes the wretches, whose individual desperate interests are best consulted during the panics and vicissitudes of general ruin. The Exhibition is a great selling-off of the nation's last means of existence. It is the stupid sacrifice of her unparalleled industry,-her matchless perseverance and invention. She draws upon herself the eyes of strangers who will not wait for her certain and gradual decay, but who remember the thousand insults which attended her superiority, and will hasten to degrade her.

Of the private and domestic vice and immorality that will ensue, let us say nothing in the awful contemplation of a great nation's ruin!

Pitt first developed the ruinous credit system. It is reserved for the Ministers of the present day to furnish the balance-sheet of the nation, with its crowning item of extravagance-the sale of her last means to foreigners under the roof of a transparent toy-shop, and the cession of her great privileges; whilst she clings with all the tenacity of dotage to trifles whose importance but suffices to embroil her with those who are unhappily too eager to pick a quarrel with the once haughty and independent islander.

JANUARY, 1851.

WHAT WILL FRANCE DO?

FRANCE, at this moment, presents a curious spectacle. As a nation she is literally tired out-something more than un peu fatiguée-and is disgusted with revolution and change. Her present form of Government is actually threatened in its infancy, and yet she is barely excited. It is the reaction which invariably attends the outbursts of a volatile temperament. But the Government itself must, of course, remain the object of prurient ambition, and all kinds of inferior men and some clever spirits are wrangling over the débris of kingly power and republican violence upon which at present Louis Napoleon sits with all the dignity of nonchalance, like a facetious CAIUS MARIUS, cigar in mouth, with the occasional relief of a tooth-pick. There is really something sublime, or ridiculous, in the quiet possession of so much power, on the verge of annihilation, acquired from nothing, and hitherto maintained by nothing— but the absence of points. We really think that, if he do not out-weather the squall which has broken upon him, in

the midst of a treacherous calm from all points of the compass, he well deserves to do so. In his present position genius might ruin, good-sense preserves, him. It is astonishing how many excellent rulers there are in the world, of whom no one knows anything-gentlemanly fellows who have squandered their fortunes, who have passed les grandes sécousses, and who yet would have the taste to abstain from committing themselves, would people but put them in a position of greatness. These good-humoured mauvais sujets are good for nothing but the billiard-room, save and except to wield the destinies of a great empire. Of such is Louis Napoleon. He had nought in common with his uncle, yet they made him President; and why now seek to fasten a quarrel upon him because of his shortcomings? We cannot help being amused also with the position of General Changarnier. He, poor man, said nothing; and, therefore, it was imagined by his friends and enemies that he thought the more. He is a General Monk and a Sphinx, by turns, whether he will or not. If he did not plot, Frenchmen thought he ought to have plotted. It was natural to a man situated as he was. It was suspicious, to say the least, if he did not. To a certain extent, he is the child of a Revolution. He is not eaten by it, but overlain !

To recur to the President. We really think that a feature of some kind must present itself in his career, before he can be condemned by his rivals, or unseated by the greedy swarms of second-rate men about him. France herself is not stirring. It is merely a selfish struggle for power on the part of would-be representatives of persons or facts. Joinville persists in his honourable alienation. The Duke de Bordeaux plays romances on a piano in Germany and dreams of the Stuarts. He would not even animate a melodrama on the stage. He sighs and weeps and gives old