is, that they must have been instituted,---and instituted by Jehovah himself,---before Abel "brought of the firstlings of his flock," as "an offering unto the Lord," and that this was, in a divinely appointed way, the expression of his faith in the "Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world."

And thus it is that "he being dead yet speaketh.' He speaks in the language of most solemn warning; he addresses us the accents of most persuasive encouragement. He warns us that we presume not, as fallen sinners, to approach a Holy God, but through the great and only Mediator between God and man; that there is no access to the Mercy Seat, no acceptance, no communion with "the Father of Spirits," but through Jesus as "the way." He encourages us by the assurance that the "blood of Jesus Christ his Son, cleanseth from all sin," and that they, who, by faith "have received the atonement,"---die when, and where, and how they may,---" depart," like Simeon, "in peace." PASTOR.

THE MERCHANT'S CLERK.

PART VI.

My time passed on marked by no events worth noticing. I soon removed to my lodging at Kennington. The old widow lady and her daughters were such very commonplace characters, and have so little to do with my narrative, that I shall not say much of them, except that they were dissenters, or what I called Methodists, and exceedingly vulgar. They were always leaving little tracts with strange titles about my room, which I was much annoyed at, and determined never to read. Sometimes too I heard their harsh voices united in a long drawling hymn. They were really good persons, with very narrow minds, and very weak heads. Their conduct in many ways towards me was dictated, I am now convinced, by true, kindness of heart, and holiness of principle; but it had the very contrary effect from that which they intended on me. They made religion ridiculous and disagreeable to me. They felt for a long time a peculiar interest about me, for I was really regular in my habits, and generally well-behaved. I treated every woman with politeness, and therefore I was a favourite with my new female acquaintIn the counting-house all went on well with me. I was always at my desk as the clock struck the appointed hour. My books were written up with the fairest exactness, and Mr. Brekelman looked upon me with favour; he even invited me with another of the clerks to his house one evening, and lent me a valuable Meerschaum pipe to smoke with him, which I did, till I was half sick. He entertained us with long lectures on the necessity of correctness and regularity, and told us long stories on mercantile affairs.

ances.

I dined twice in the week, and usually on Sundays with the Youngs; on other days some of the clerks and myself were accustomed to adjourn for dinner to one of the coffee-houses near the Exchange.

Among my companions I soon became most intimate with a young man about two years older than myself, named Stanley. I do not know that there was any similarity in our tastes or dispositions; but as he lodged in the same house with me, we usually walked and returned together to and from the counting-house, Stanley was well

I

principled and steady, and his manners remarkably pleasing, so that he was not only a pleasant, but a safe companion for me. He had certainly no genius, but he was so uniformly cheerful and good tempered, that his society never wearied me. I know not how you like business, he said one day to me, but for my part, I am convinced I shall never learn to be a good merchant, unless I keep my head clear, and live a regular life. After all, there is a good deal of truth in old Mr. Brekelman's dry sayings; see what a merchant he is. "A good merchant, he may be, I replied, but is he a man of general information? Has he any knowledge of the world? If he is the character you would point out as one's pattern, if one is to toil on year after year in his dull regular way only to become a Mr. Brekelman, 'tis but a poor prospect one has.” "You do not quite know Mr. Brekelman, (said Stanley.) I will allow that his manner is repulsive enough, and that his conversation has no charm for the ears of young men like ourselves; he has, however, an abundance of strong sense, and he is a firm friend." "Well," I replied, "I dare say I shall like him by and bye-but do let us change this subject. How fond you are, Stanley, of prosing on about old formal Mr. Brekelman! Why, let me look at you, do think you are a little like him; you are tall, quite as tall as he is, and tolerably thin-you only want a small brown wig, and a few wrinkles about your forehead, and a pair of huge spectacles, and a suit of his oddly cut clothes;-yes, I think you may entertain very reasonable hopes of becoming in due time rather like him." "Rather like who cried Chillingworth, another of the clerks, who came up to us, smacking Stanley on the back with his open hand as he spoke, like who, he said as I repeated Mr. Brekelman in a low voice, like whom, and he thrust his face almost into mine with a sharp and exquisitive look:-"Like old Brekelman. What you Jack? I hope not, my good fellow." "No, not me," I answered laughing, "not like me, but Stanley." "Ah, you're quite right there! I often call him old Brekel. Don't I, Stanley? But now old Brekel, and young Wilton, I wanted to see you. What do you say to a beef steak and a pint of port at the new Hummuns to day, at half past four; and we can go to the play, to Fizarro afterwards. I shall be delighted to go, I cried instantly." "And I," said Stanley, very calmily, "yes, I will go too. "I half wish that old Stanley had refused me," said Chillingworth, as Stanley turned away. "I like him well enough, but he is so terribly correct. He always rows the waiter if the dinner is not brought at the moment it is ordered; and he always will take the half pence in change when he pays the bill, and he never gives the waiter more than sixpence; and he will sit out the whole play, and go home before the afterpiece begins, that he may not keep his old Landlady up late!"

We went to the Hummuns, and I laughed as Stanley coolly put the half-pence he received in change into his pocket, and then put down sixpence for the waiter on the table. The man took up the money, looked at it, and with something like a smile, put it down again. "Very well, Sir," said Stanley, looking up in the waiter's face, and he put the sixpence after the half-pence into his pocket. We rose up immediately, and I felt ashamed, but half inclined to despise him.

As we crossed over the street to the Piazza, a poor halfnaked wretched woman begged for money. Stanley gave more than the sixpence for two pieces of silver slipped from the woman's hand, which he stopped to pick up for her out of the mud: I felt that I could not despise him. We entered the theatre, and walked straight to the pit door. "Oh, not to the pit, I hope," cried Chillingworth. "I wish to see Kemble in Rolla, and the pit is the best place," replied Stanley. "I hate the pit, come, Wilton, let Stanley go to the pit, I am for the boxes, you'll go with me," "Or with me," said Stanley; and he put his arm within mine,

and paying for two tickets, he drew me along with him, leaving Chillingworth staring after us. When the play was over, Stanley took out his watch, and asked if I had any objection to leave the house. "It's late," he said, holding up the watch, "do you wish to stay for the long noisy pantomime?" "No," I replied, "I do not much care about staying." He saw that I hesitated, and he instantly moved to depart. I followed him, and cast a longing and lingering look round the brilliant and crowded house as I entered the dark passage, leading from the pit. "Button your coat well over your chest," said Stanley, turning round as we passed out into the open air, "It's a terribly cold night!" What with the noise of the carriages, and the roaring of the link boys, I hardly knew which way to turn.

I was staring about me, much bewildered, when a link boy rushed past me with such violence, that he almost pushed me down, and half deafened me as he roared close to my ear. "Make way there; coach, coach!" The doors at the box entrance, near which I was standing, were flung widely open; and a little gentleman arm in arm with two tall ladies, came quickly down the steps; I turned round as their loud laughter burst upon me, and recognised Chillingworth. He did not observe me, and I was looking for Stanley, whom I had just missed, when the same linkboy came rushing back, hallooing, as he ran, to light them to their coach. "Ha, my boy, what you're here, are you?" cried Chillingworth, who now saw me, "and where's Stanley? Oh! you've lost him. All the better. Now I'll tell you what you shall do; we'll give you a seat in our coach,- -we are going to supper at a friend's, and then with a party to the Masquerade at the Saloon. You'll enjoy it, I promise you. Here Rosa," he said, turning to one of the ladies, "take Mr. Wilton's arm." "Who are these ladies, "I whispered;" are they relations of yours?" "Oh, yes, relations, certainly," and he laughed.

Sisters of mine allow me to introduce Mr. Wilton. My sister Caroline, Mrs. Painter, and Miss Rosa Chillingworth. I took off my hat to the two ladies, and Miss Rosa immediately seized my arm. We walked forward to the coach, I looking about me all the while for Stanley. The coach door was rattled open by the noisy link boy, and Chillingworth handing in his married sister, sprung in after her. Miss Rosa, accepting my assistance with a smile, followed, and my foot was on the step, when I felt myself dragged back. In an instant the door was firmly shut, and I heard Stanley's voice loudly commanding the coachman to drive off. Miss Rosa's neck was seen extended out of the window and then Chillingworth's red face as he roared out; "stop, stop," but Stanley hurried me on swiftly and dashing through crowds of men and carriages we were soon walking quietly along the left hand side of the Strand, on our way to Black Friars Bridge. I now thought I should be able to make Stanley understand me, for I had tried in vain to do so before. He did not answer a word at first, but as I described Chillingworth's introduction of me to his sisters, and the invitation I had received, he laughed aloud. "But have I not been very rude? Will Miss Chillingworth forgive me?" I said earnestly. "Oh yes, yes," he said, 66 pray don't distress yourself, Miss Chillingworth is doubt. less gracious enough; much more so than our old landlady would have been had you kept her sitting up till daylight." "But this meeting must have been a surprise," I continued, "for now I reccollect it was but yesterday that I heard Chillingworth telling you that his mother and sisters were settled in a new house at Richmond, and I must have misunderstood him, I thought he said Richmond in Yorkshire. He must have meant Surrey, not Yorkshire," "Well never mind where they are settled, my dear fellow," said Stanley, "tell me how you like Kemble ?"

On the Existence of Natural and Civil Evils,

I. It must have been already evident that I am far from espousing the opinion that happiness is diminished by civilization, or from denying that it is the general tendency of education to increase both its quantity and its purity. Nor have I any doubt, that upon the whole, the happiest, as well as the most perfect human beings, are to be found among the best educated men in the most civilized society. Their capacity of happiness is larger, being increased by all their powers of intellectual enjoyment; and its nature is purer, because it depends upon objects least liable to change, and least injured by the admixture of alloy. But the capability, is not the possession, of enjoyment. And could the individual who is the best educated in the most refined community be discovered and pointed out, it need not be said how infinitely the chances are against that being the happiest man, to whom the most multiplied sources of happiness are open.

From what causes it arises that the actual enjoyment of happiness is much more equally distributed, than the power of attaining it would at first sight appear to authorize, will be obvious to all who have pursued what has been emphatically called "the proper study of mankind." This study acquaints us, that affluence, and civil distinctions, the desire of which is so natural as to be the chief source of human industry and prosperity, are contingent circumstances no more necessary to happiness than they are essential to virtue. The vulgar, indeed, imagine, and with some reason, when they are so earnest ly sought, that these are the very constituents of happiness; but the philosopher knows that they contribute little towards it; and the possessor often feels too sensibly that they cannot confer it. That elastic adaptation of the mind to its permanent situation, which we call the power of habit, equalizes the apparent inequalities of fortune; and blunts the edge of imagined hardships, whilst it depreciates the value of what we are used to consider luxurious indulgences. Those who commiserate the condition of the industrious poor, are for the most part persons, who, born in a different sphere, and accustomed to a different manner of living, have learnt to consider the superfluities of their station no less important to human nature generally, than use has rendered them to their own enjoyment. They proceed, too, upon an assumed uniformity of dispositions and tastes, which ob servation immediately confutes: and which, if it did exist, must give a death-blow to the business of the world. It would be scarcely more unreasonable for the members of one profession to pity those devoted to another, than to suppose that the degress of satisfaction

"To estimate the real situation and feelings of another, we must divest our minds, if possible, of every idea they have imbibed; and undertake the still more difficult task of infusing into them the ideas of the person, of whose situation we pretend to judge. For, happiness of misery in this world seems to depend chiefly upon the relative proportion of what is usually called good or evil, which befals us, compared with what we have been in the habit of partaking. A poor chimney-sweeper will eat, drink, and be merry, will feel the excess of joy and happi ness, in situations where a man of delicacy and refinement would die of horror, vexation, and disgust." Weyland's Observations on Mr. Whitbread's "Poor Bill," p. 23.

which life admits of, were confined to the well-educated or affluent. Every one perceives that the sedentary pursuits of literature and learned occupations, in which one man places his pride and pleasure, would be disgusting to another, though born in an equal station, and gifted with equal talents, but employing them on other objects. Yet there is not a greater difference, in external appearance, between the comforts of the peasant and the affluent, than between the accommodation of the studious recluse, and of those who follow the profession of arms. Habit, which reconciles the soldier to his tent and the sailor to his deck, reconciles the peasant to his cabin.* The want of those superfluities which are supplied by affluence, is as little distressing to the poor, as the mere possession of them can be satisfactory to the rich; and a probable assurance that the necessaries of life will not be wanting, is the only thing which can be justly considered an indispensable condition of comfortable existence.

This force of habit is spontaneously recognised by the common feelings of mankind. Even a beggar is the object of their occasional relief, but seldom of their habitual commiseration. No one doubts that he has satisfactions of his own; that his lot is made easy, perhaps endeared to him by custom; and that cheerfulness may dwell under tattered garments and a squalid mien. The object of our pity is not the common soldier, but Belisarius reduced to beggary; the man who begins to labour towards the close of a life of ease; or who is fallen into indigence, after having been pampered by superabundance. This man we visit with kindness and compassion, even though his fall is probably the punishment of imprudence, and he is still provided with conveniences which would be superfluous to one who had been born and educated in a humbler station. But it is not with his condition, but with his change of condition, that we sympathize.

There is, indeed, a description of the inferior ranks, which, if it were just, would forbid any man to sit easy under the advantage of fortune and education. It speaks of the peasant or artisan, as rising early to his labour, and leaving off every night weary and exhausted. He never repines, but when he witnesses luxuries he cannot partake, and that sensation is transient; and he knows no diseases but those which rise from perpetual labour. The range of his ideas is scanty; and the general train of his sensations comes as near as the nature of human existence will admit, to the region of indifference. This man is in a certain sense happy. He is happier than a stone."+

If this were an impartial description of the labouring ranks among the civilized states of Europe, human life would cease to be what we profess that it is, a state of discipline. But it is the description of a variety not of a genus. It may be possible, no doubt among our native peasantry to meet with those who have scarcely extended their ideas bey od the field they have cultivated, or the spot where they were born. But as poverty is a thing separate from indigence, so is this sort of stupidity from

"Nihil miserum est, quod non in naturam consuetudo perduxit." Seneca ad Helv. "Paulatim enim voluptates sunt, quæ necessitate cæperunt." He exemplifies this in a manner much to the present purpose from the customs of the Germans.

"Political Justice p. 444. vol. ii.

poverty. It is not its general character, but either the result of individual ill fortune, or neglected opportunities. Among the inferior ranks, there is no want of intelligence upon the subject with which they have to do; no indifference about affairs within the range of their observation and interest. In conversation with their equals they show a mind active, though uninformed, generally intent upon some subject of common concern, and often less trifling than that of a station far above them. Whether or not it can be true of a negro slave, that "he slides through life with something of the contemptible insensibility of an oyster,"* need not be here inquired; it certainly is not true of the inhabitants of any country where Christianity is preached and understood. Other religions, encouraging the ignorance by which they flourish, contract the human mind: but it is the peculiar nature of Christianity, to awaken energy, to inform and to enlighten; to raise, in short, the standard of human intellect. It effects this not only by the advantages of public worship and instruction, which is in itself a species of education; but by turning the mind towards its own operations, and teaching it to reflect, to compare, to combine, and to reason. The man who has attained just views upon a few important subjects, is elevated considerably above dull indifference: and that this is the case in general with the labouring classes in a Christian country, may be doubted by the philosopher, but is familiarly known by those who have entered into the habits and feelings of the poor.

If, then, it be undeniably true, that comparative happiness cannot be weighed or measured according to any definite rule, we must judge of it by the index of the countenance, and the expression of the tongue. A reference to this test gives us a very different result respecting the equality of enjoyment, from that produced by a survey of external circumstances. The countenances of the labouring poor are not depressed by care; their language is not that of repining or discontent. In their daily intercourse with each other there is as much cheerfulness, in their occasional conviviality as much mirth, as can be found among their richer neighbours. The man of refined taste may find fault with this mirth, and call it turbulent and noisy; but so will a circle of Frenchmen appear to a well-bred Englishman; and so to a Turk will that English circle which the Frenchman considers dull and phlegmatic. A party of rustic labourers taking their customary meal under the shelter of a tree, may seem an object of wretchedness to those who make their own feelings the only standard of comparison; but will be less pitied by those who have compared the hilarity which accompanies their meal, and the activity which succeeds it, with the ennui, formality, and lassitude which so frequently attend the banquets of the rich and great. As to luxurious living, few can fail to know by their own experience how entirely such a taste is formed by habit, and how habit blunts the sensibility to such gratifications. It might be truly affirmed, that the peasant has usually more actual enjoyment from the satisfaction of his hunger by the most frugal fare, with

The

an appetite sharpened by air and labour, than those receive whose table is regularly spread with sumptuous variety. There are, indeed, evident proofs of this; for we deem it a proof of great sensuality, if the rich man reckons the appeasing his appetite among his serious pleasures, which the poor man seldom fails to do: and the occasional gratification which he enjoys from a meal more elaborate than his usual fare, is a clear accession of gain to his advantage. He may not perhaps think this. He sees the value which is commonly set upon the luxuries of life, and can only conceive it founded in reality; and what he has tasted of them have come to him recommended by the adventitious charm of novelty. truth is only known to those who have studied in theory, and observed in practice, the effect of these things upon the mind. It often indeed happens, that the rich, for the sake of recovering health or avoiding pain, confine themselves to as little variety, and live as sparingly, as the poorest peasant; and this, after having been bred to different habits, and without the same incentives to appetite. Yet how little do these persons seem to lose of the enjoyment of life! and how little should we sympathize with their lamentations over a vegetable meal, and compulsory abstinence from wine! Here is surely a general conviction that we must look to other sources for the presence as well as the privation of happiness.

What has been here argued more particularly with respect to the sustenance of man, may be extended to all his ordinary relaxations. Habit is the equalizer of them all. The poet did not consult his own imagination, but human nature, when he complained that sleep is not to be purchased by the canopies of state, or sounds of sweetest melody. The ship-boy's hammock, the peasant's hut, the mechanic's truckle-bed, disgusting as different habits render them to the rich and luxurious, receive their owners as comfortably, and send them forth as much refreshed, as the best furnished apartment and the softest down.

*

It is not, therefore, so just a subject of complaint as it has been often thought, and may at first appear to be, that, in the most civilized states of Europe, "vast numbers of their inhabitants are deprived of almost every accommodation that can render life tolerable or secure. It is not a subject of complaint, if these accommodations contribute no more than experience shows they do contribute to the happiness of the habitual possessor. The power of habit mitigates such privations; and such privations only are the peculiar evil of poverty. Pain presses upon the poor man only in common with his richer superiors; or rather it might be said, if it were not unnecessary to push the argument too far, that pain presses upon him less severely, from the hardiness of his frame, and his exemption from the scourges of luxury.

II. Is it, then, to be concluded, that happiness is altogether imaginary, or uniformly equal? By no means: but the essentials of it have not been hitherto brought into view. They do not consist of the gifts of fortune. By the common principles of our nature, one of the first of these is occupation. Provided only that it be tolerably agreeable to the physical or mental powers, occupation is happiness. Nothing, indeed, is more usually heard than complaints of the fatigue of labour, and wearisomeness of business; but if a comparison could be instituted between the satisfac

• Pol. Just, p. xv. vol, i,

tion of a man who rises with a certain portion of business to be performed, and of him who looks forward to no definite and fixed employment of the day, it would be clearly understood how favourable to happiness is a regular occupation. Nor is this assertion inconsistent with that love of ease and relaxation, which is the great incentive to industry. Relaxation is certainly advantageous, and probably even necessary, to the bodily and mental powers. Every age has found it so: the ancients sought it in their games and spectacles: the warlike exertions of savages are followed by feasts and carousals: the man of business and the man of literature alike indulge in their season of rest; the peasant and the artisan relax on the sabbath, in their occasional festivals, at wakes, and fairs, and harvest-home. But relaxation is not enjoyed by the habitually idle. Ease is their labour, want of occupation their fatigue; a fatigue far more oppressive, and less susceptible of alleviation, than any which the necessities of the poor can impose upon them.*

The truth of this and of the preceding observations is evident from the various inventions by which the ingenuity of man contrives to divert the hours of idleness, and to find a point for the mind to fix upon. The chief allurement to gaming seems to be the hold it takes on the attention; and the persons most addicted to it are undeniably those who seek a refuge from ennui, and an employment of vacant time.t The more rational amusement of field sports affords a mixed satisfaction, arising, in part, from the animating glow of health which is produced by active exercise and air; but receiving its completion from the energy with which the mind is inspired, intent upon the pursuit of its object. If bodily labour were, in itself, an evil, or a pain without compensation, it would not be thus voluntarily undertaken.

We hear, however, frequent complaints of the severity and constant recurrence of manual exertion. But the irksome routine of sedentary business, from which a very small portion of mankind is exempted, calls forth com plaints as loud, and probably as reasonable. That both are founded on a miscalculation of the nature of happiness, appears from the disappointment which commonly ac companies a change of life: a circumstance to which most persons look forward, when pressed with temporary burdens; but which is never attended with the expected satisfaction, unless the activity of the mind finds new resources for itself, in occupations no less busy and constant than it had pursued before.

The poorer ranks of society, therefore, are not deprived of happiness because they are condemned to labour, unless that labour is oppressive to their bodily strength and fa culties. That this is not the case may be ascertained, not only from what we know of human strength, and its gradual adaptation to the burden imposed upon it, but from what we see of the recreation of the poor, which are, in favourable seasons and climates, invariably athletic and active. In those countries of Europe which enjoy a dry atmosphere and mild temperature, the peasant's evening is regularly concluded with dancing. The exercises are all

* So Cotta, in Cic. de Nat. Deor. argues against Epicurus "nihil cessatione melius existimantei. At ipsi tamen pun etiam cum cessent, exercitatione aliquâ ludicrâ delectantur." A remarkable confirmation of may this be drawn from the early life of the Italian poet, Alfieri, whose account of the misery ex perienced from listlessness would be incredible if it did not proceed from himself.

+ Robertson, Amer. ii. 213. "The same causes which so often prompt persons in civilized life, who are at their ease, to have recourse to this pastime, render it the delight of the savage. The former are independent of labour, the latter do not feel the necessity of it; and as both are unemployed, the run with transport to whatever is interesting enough to stir and to agitate their minds." See to the same purpose, Paley, Mor, Phil, vol. i. p. 32

athletic with which the labouring poor of our own country divert the close of the day, and relax from its serious fatigues.

To these general views of the effect of labour upon happiness, manufactures, at first sight, appear to afford a solitary exception. The mechanical exercise of the manufacturer bears no comparison with the manual labour of the peasant, whose horizon is expanded, and whose employments are various: while the manufacturer breathes an air which custom may render tolerable, but nothing can render salutary; and his gregarious mode of living is too often productive of dissoluteness and vice. We find, however, by experience, that the extension of manufacturing industry is not necessarily followed by injury, either to the mind or bodily frame. Care and attention on the part of the employer, in well-regulated concerns, diffuse the comforts of improved manufactures, without the drawback of individual distress. Happily, too, in proportion as the division of labour has narrowed the circle of the mind's activity, it has diminished the necessity of labourers in crowded rooms by the introduction of machinery.

It must by no means be supposed, though it is frequently affirmed, that the walls which confine the manufacturer, are the limits to the expansion of his mind, which runs the same dull round to which his hands are habituated. Let it be considered, how few are the avocations of life, either among the educated or illiterate classes, in which the mere prosecution of their daily employments furnishes any material improvement to the intellect. This is left to the hours of recreation or leisure. In point of fact, the manufacturer derives a superiority over the peasant, from his constant intercourse with society, and the collision of various minds to which he has been accustomed from his youth. And as for the mechanic, whose labour does not confine him to a single spot, whose work demands the frequent resources of his ingenuity, and who is constantly interested in the pursuit of some new employment or operation, none of the evils of manufactures must be considered as applying to him; his active mind might be an object of envy to many who profit by and reward his toil; and is often found of a superior rate, as to quickness of talent and reasoning powers.-Extract from "Records of the Creation," by John Bird, Bishop of Chester, Vol. ii. p. 276-283.

Beyond the intrinsic merit of the above extract, which will recommend it of itself to our reader's attention, the reference which this periodical is designed to bear to the opinion and practices of the present followers of Mr. Owen

There are manufactories which by the care and judgment of their superintendents, have become even schools of moral discipline: nor is there any existing reason why they should not commonly exhibit such an appearance, if the excellent practice of Mr. Owen of Lanark were general. It would be a great benefit to society if that gentleman would submit to the world an account of his management, in exact and minute detail. As to the unhealthiness of manufactories, Dr. Jarrold's observations are of importance, because they are the result of local experience He speaks of the cotton-works in the neighbourhood of Stockport. "As children are admitted to work at the age of eight or ten years, it might be expected that the injurious influence of their occupation would, at that tender age, be most apparent; on this account I have attended much to them, and I do not scruple to declare, that children so employed are as healthy as those of the poor brought up in great towns usually are, and more so than such as are apprenticed to tailors, shoemakers, or basket makers: it is true, their countenances are pale and delicate so are all children kept within doors: their clothes, covered with cotton, give them a forlorn appearance, but their health is not injured by their work. What has been said of children applies with equal force to adults." Dissertations on Man. p. 60. Out of near 3000 children employed in the mills at Lanark, then in the occupation of Mr. Dale. " during a period of twelve years, from 1785 to 1797, only fourteen died, and not one became the object of judicial punishment." "Society for the Poor Reports," vol, ii,,

makes the notice of the Mills at Lanark, in the note, peculiarly interesting. There was a time, when Mr. Owen conducted a large manufacturing establishment on principles very different from those which he advocates now, and saw results produced which might have satisfied his mind as to the course to be followed, by any man who had the welfare of his fellow creatures at heart. The Mills, at New Lanark, were originally founded by Mr. Dale, a Believer in the Bible, a man of primitive integrity and piety. He knew, that the only true foundation for happiness was belief in the doctrines of the Gospel, and a life at harmony with the spirit of its precepts. Under this impression he took care that every child in the establishment should enjoy the benefit of sound scriptural education. He took care that the Sabbath should be observed with all that wholesome strictness which belongs to Sabbath observance in Scotland. Immorality, levity, irregu larity of every sort were discountenanced. The whole weight of his influence was exercised steadily and strongly on the side of religion, uumixed and unalloyed by modern refinements, and the result was that the establishment at Lanark exhibited a scene which had not been witnessed before, because it had not been attempted before, the union of great manufacturing activity with much of moral improvement, a prosperous business and a well conducted people; a proprietor of machinery surrounded by attached and affectionate operatives; in a word, a system which seemed to realize the promise of the world that now is, and likewise of that which is to come.

Mr. Dale died in a good old age, rich in the returns of business, richer still in good works, and the remembrance of those whom he had benefited.

If the system which he had introduced was altered by his successors; if the foundation of religion was forgotten, and nothing considered but the superstructure of intellectual accomplishments; if succeeding managers thought themselves at liberty to despise the wisdom of their founder, and to substitute their theories for his sound and practical wisdom, we cannot wonder if the change of system led to a change of result. The consequence of that change has been, that the operatives at New Lanark are no longer noted as they were for morality and integrity; and that Mr. Owen instead of presiding over one of the largest and most prosperous manufacturing establishments in the kingdom, has been successively an inhabitant of England and America, the founder of communities which bore the name of Harmony, but which offered nothing but Discord: the suggester of schemes which have never been realized from their obvious absurdity, and the Head and Advocate of a system, which, if carried out into action, would complete the evil which was commenced at Lanark, and spread over the world, the ruin, which was only averted there, by his withdrawal from the concern.

Journal of a District Visitor.

No. III.

MR. N. was a man above eighty years old, and in a most miserable condition, both as regards his body and his soul. Age and infirmity had destroyed even the last appearance of the wreck usually stamped upon the face of man to prove that at some remote period he was created in the image of God; nothing of the sort could I trace in his countenance, which looked altogether inhuman. One of his legs too was reduced to one mass of corruption-and yet, awful to say, in this hopeless state-at this advanced agewhilst racked with pain-he treated the offer of salvation as a light matter, and his great and only desire was, not to know what he must do to be saved, but what must he do so that he might again be able to enter into the world, and mix with his evil associates. He did not treat with contempt the words which I spoke to him-he was conscious of the truth of what I said, nay, he trembled and shook like a leaf when I pointed out to him bis dangerous situa