to me, that the absence of these charities would be an absence of evil to society." Ib. p. 35.

Schools are another evil, where maintenance is given as well 'as education'; and gratuitous instruction is to be continued only till the poor have learned to consider' education as indispensable. The Workhouse Infirmary is worse than all. All this looks like Malthus burlesqued; and still more the extravagance of the following.

"The wonder is, how the pauper system has failed to swallow up all our resources, and make us a nation of paupers. This is the condition we shall infallibly be brought to, Louisa, unless we take speedy means to stop ourselves. We are rolling down faster and faster towards the gulf; and two of our three estates, Lords and Commons, have declared that we shall soon be in it ;-that, in a few more years, the profits of all kinds of property will be absorbed by the increasing rates, and capital will therefore cease to be invested; land will be let out of cultivation, manufactures will be discontinued, commerce will cease, and the nation become a vast congregation of paupers."

"DREADFUL! brother. How can we all go quietly about our daily business with such a prospect before us?"

ter

"A large proportion of the nation knows little about the mat

"But how long has there been so much cause for alarm?" "Only within a few years."

This can be meant, we said to ourselves, only as satire. Besides, would any woman, any cultivated, clever, tender-hearted woman, volunteer in the ungracious service of ridiculing and running down charities for her own sex, alms-houses for the aged, infirmaries and dispensaries for the sick poor, private alms-giving, as well as parish relief, the duties which the Scripture most peremptorily enjoins as the very test of pure and undefiled religion;—and all this on the self-contradictory and absurd pretext, that such charity 'is found to extinguish charity,' and 'to injure the good while relieving only the bad-the bad being the indigent, and the good those who can help themselves?-The thing is utterly incredible. We will not believe it. And yet, it is hard to say how far philosophical fanaticism may transport even an amiable and intelligent mind, which, entrenched and frozen up within its own opinions, may be led to make a virtue of defying the clamours of the sentimental, and to argue as Miss Martineau makes her spokesman, Mr. Burke.

"And then what a hard-hearted, brutal fellow I shall be thought," said her brother, smiling.

"No, no: only an ODDITY.'

-p. 44.

Willingly would we claim-if possible, reclaim so exceedingly

clever and accomplished a personage, as a coadjutor. If not,if she is really downright earnest' in advocating these blunders of selfishness, our public duty compels us to say, in her own words, the system is execrable, however well-meaning its authors.' The Author of the Observations on the Law of Population is, in the main, a Malthusian; and he controverts Mr. Sadler's theory, that prolificness diminishes in proportion to the condensation of the population, as the consequence of a recondite law of nature,—not by denying the fact, but by contending that density of population has an undoubted tendency to lessen the mean duration of life.

That the human race advances more rapidly in the earlier stages of society, and that its increase is gradually retarded as population becomes more dense, is a fact which Mr. Malthus acknowledges as readily as Mr. Sadler himself,-they differ only as to the cause; and it may, perhaps be admitted, that if the latter be not warranted in announcing the special interposition of the Supreme Being, the former is somewhat too exclusive, in attributing the effect in question to the pressure of population upon food. It is true, indeed, that a desire to procure food is the ultimate cause of all that tension of mind and overstrained exertion, by which the vast and complicated system of a highly civilized society is distinguished. Where there are most people collected together, there the human mind, as a matter of necessity, is in the greatest activity-improvement in the arts of life is desired and sought after with the utmost eagerness; but this is only to be attained by exposure to the many dangerous accidents which intense competition entails upon those who start together in pursuit of one common object. Hence, those baneful rivalries and contentions-those jealousies and heartburnings-the arrogant ambition of the prosperous-the pining and despair of the unfortunate,-tending, in various degrees, to the abridgement of human existence, and leading to that continual temptation to crime and violence, which amply justify the satirist's remark, that man alone preys upon his fellow-creature:

-Parcit

Cognatis maculis similis fera ;

Ast homini ferrum lethale incude nefanda
Produxisse parum est.'

pp. 62, 63.

It is, however, an admitted fact, that a very material improvement in the duration of life has been observed, in this country, within the last half century; and at this moment, the average duration of life in England, is much higher than in countries where the population is far less dense, and the climate is deemed more genial. The Writer very ingeniously labours to shew, that this fact is not incompatible with his theory; arguing that the tendency of condensation to shorten the duration of life, has been counteracted by favourable circumstances, but not less really exists;-that one effect has concealed and moderated the other,

but they may nevertheless both continue to be in operation at the same moment. This, however, is mere theory. The fact is, that the average duration of life in this country has not been shortened in consequence of the increase of population; whereas the rapid increase must be ascribed, in part, to the extended duration of life, and to the improvements in the medical treatment of the poor. But, if the longevity of the inhabitants of this country generally, has been raised, the more frightful are the exceptions which are concealed within the average estimate. Calculating the mean duration of life from mortuary registers, it is, in London, about 32 years; in Paris, 31; in Manchester, where the Factory system prevails, 24; in Stockport, 22. Among the operative spinners, few, it is said, survive forty. Infantile labour, leading to premature marriage, crowds the generations one upon another, and contributes to swell the numbers of the people; while it frightfully diminishes the number of the athletic and active, raising up, in their stead, a puny, stunted, vicious race, precocious in vice, and old before they are aged. The regulation of the system which is chargeable with this complication of physical and moral evil, is an imperative duty of the Legislature. We shall take some future opportunity of recurring to this subject, but can, at present, only recommend Mr. Sadler's speech to the attention of our readers; and shall conclude our article with an extract much to the point from The Manchester Strike.'

"How is Martha ?" was Allen's first inquiry on meeting his wife at the head of the stairs. Martha had been asleep when he had returned in the middle of the day; for it was now her turn for nightwork at the factory, and what rest she had, must be taken in the day. Her mother said that her lameness was much the same; that she had seen Mr. Dawson, the apothecary, who pronounced that rest was what her weak limbs most required; and that as perfect rest was out of the question, her mother must bandage the joints while the child was at her work, and keep her laid on her bed at home. Here was the difficulty, her mother said, especially while Hannah was with her, for they were both fond of play when poor Martha was not too tired to stir. She was now gone to her work for the night.

The little girl repaired to the factory, sighing at the thought of the long hours that must pass before she could sit down or breathe the fresh air again. She had been as willing a child at her work as could be, till lately; but since she had grown sickly, a sense of hardship had come over her, and she was seldom happy. She was very industrious, and disposed to be silent at her occupation; so that she was liked by her employers, and had nothing more to complain of than the necessary fatigue and disagreeableness of the work. She would not have minded it for a few hours of the day; but to be shut up all day, or else all night, without any time to nurse the baby or play with her companions, was too much for a little girl of eight years old. She had never been so sensible of this as since her renewed acquaintance with Hannah.

This night, when the dust from the cotton made her cough, when the smell and the heat brought on sickness and faintness, and the incessant whizzing and whirling of the wheels gave her the feeling of being in a dream, she remembered that a part of Hannah's business was to walk on broad roads or through green fields by her father's side, listening to the stories he amused her with, and to sit on a stile or under a tree to practice a new tune, or get a better dinner than poor Martha often saw. She forgot that Hannah was sometimes wet through, or scorched by the sun, as her complexion, brown as a gipsy's, showed; and that Hannah had no home and no mother, and very hard and unpleasant work to do at fairs, and on particular occasions. About midnight, when Martha remembered that all at home were probably sound asleep, she could not resist the temptation of resting her aching limbs, and sat down, trusting to make up afterwards for lost time, and taking care to be on her feet when the overlooker passed, or when any one else was likely to watch her. It is a dangerous thing, however, to take rest with the intention of rousing oneself from time to time; and so Martha found. She fairly fell asleep after a time, and dreamed that she was attending very diligently to her work; and so many things besides passed through her mind during the two minutes that she slept, that when the overlooker laid his hand upon her shoulder, she started and was afraid she was going to be scolded for a long fit of idleness. But she was not harshly spoken to.

"Come, come, child; how long have you been asleep?"

"I don't know. I thought I was awake all the time." And Martha began to cry.

"Well, don't cry. I was past just now, and you were busy enough; but don't sit down; better not, for fear you should drop asleep again."

Martha thought she had escaped very well; and winking and rubbing her eyes, she began to limp forwards and use her trembling hands.'

pp. 63–67.

Art. V. The Destinies of Man. By Robert Millhouse. 12mo. pp. 88. Price 4s. London, 1832.

THE man who could produce this poem, how humble soever his origin or occupation, is not to be ranked with the John Joneses and Ann Yearsleys, the Ducks and Taylors, who rank among the illiterate wonders of poetic literature. Wherever he picked up his education, Mr. Millhouse is not illiterate; and although we are informed that he composes his verses, like poor Bloomfield, in the midst of a family of six persons, whose daily bread he has to earn in the humble capacity of a Nottingham operative,-poetry like his stands in no need of such apology. The public can require no editorial patron or panegyrist to inform them that Robert Millhouse is a poet,-that he has received from nature a spark of that innate, irrepressible genius which ennobles its possessor in any circumstances, and stamps him, though a peasant, an hidalgo in right of mind. Where is the Nottingham operative to be detected in this vivid picture of the Deluge?

• XXI.

The world was filled with violence; and Heaven
Has wisely kept its history from our view.
Vainly had Adam, Seth, and Enoch striven
To wake repentance in the sinful crew;
Repentance knew them not, and ages flew,

Till righteous Noah forewarned them of their doom;
In vain he told their fate, while onward drew
The days of retribution and of gloom,

In which the impious race should find an ocean-tomb.

· XXII.

Unheeded as the voiceless foot of Time,
The terrors of their destinies drew nigh;
The Earth, unconscious, smiled as in its prime,
And the glad sun illumed the cloudless sky;
The gentlest gales o'er new-born flowers passed by,
And choral birds were shouting forth their lays;
The eagle left his cliff and soared on high;
The forest beasts pursued their trackless maze,
Nor pointed out to man that eve of dreadful days.

'XXIII.

• In human haunts that day like others past;
No fear of judgment checked their vicious schemes;
Mirth danced along, nor thought that dance his last ;
No dark forebodings broke the conqueror's dreams:
The earth was stained with blood's accustomed streams,
Till jaded carnage panted on the plain;

And, in sequestered shades, while evening beams
Led wantonness to riot with her train,

Their harp of lawless joys sent forth its dying strain.

XXIV.

The sun was setting: from the east arose

Black threatening clouds in terrible array ;

The face of heaven was blotted, save where flows

The fading crimson of expiring day:

On came the tempest with impetuous sway;

A pitchy mantle o'er the earth was hurled;

And that bright space where sank the western ray,

In awful contrast marked how first unfurled

The winding-sheet of clouds, which wrapped a guilty world.

The night began with earthquakes and with storms;
The winds went raging in their dreadful sweep;
The playful shafts of lightning shewed the forms
Of direful objects, leading not to sleep;