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where he was more humanely treated. The hours were about fourteen, excluding meals. The next mill he went to was Trolick Mill, three miles from Dundee, where the hours of working were also fourteen, excluding meals; amounting altogether to about fifteen hours' confinement. The next place was Mayfield Mill, about four miles and a half from Dundee, where he was a spinner; his treatment there was harsh-sometimes the hours were sixteen:

What effect upon the children--the female children more especially has this long standing to their labour any effect? It has a great effect. I have observed it at the mill: the feet of the girls have swelled so, that they have

been ready to take off their shoes.

Does it occasion positive deformity sometimes?—Yes, very often the girls become in-knee'd and bow-legg'd.

To a considerable extent ?-Yes, to a great extent. I know one girl so bow-legg'd that you could put a chair between her legs.

Was that excessive working accompanied by excessive beating?-Yes; very frequently they were beaten; children least fault, they were beaten excessively. were not able to stand the work; and if they had made the

Did you ever hear of any one attempting to escape from that mill ?—Yes; there were two girls that made their escape from the mill through the roof of the house, and left nearly all their clothes behind them.

No person, says the commentator on this evidence in the Chronicle, will have anything to do with any of the unfortunate wretches so reared, for they are quite helpless. If the females, when grown up, are not ugly, they may find relief in prostitution. The flogging or strapping is continual, and when it happens to be extreme, the overseer is fined:

Did you know any individual brought to trial for inflicting the extreme punishment you have described ?-I heard of one; there was an overlooker in Mr. Edwards's mill at West End, Dundee, who was brought before the Justice for licking a girl, and on being examined before the

Has it at all affected you?—Yes; I am very much Justice he was fined; but the master returned the fine back knock knee'd.

Have you seen one of the witnesses in waiting of the name of Openshaw, a boy?—Yes.

Is there any body that you have witnessed in your neighbourhood that is as strikingly deformed as he is ?-A great deal more so-one man that is working now at a mill near Brechin, about twenty miles from Dundee, and who is about thirty years of age. This man does not stand, with his deformity, above four feet six inches high; and, had he grown to his proper height, I think he would have been about five feet eight or nine. He has been in mills since he was five years old, and he is reduced to that state, that he slides about on a stool to do his work; and though he is about 30 years of age, he can now do no more than a girl's

work.

The next mill was Strathmartin, distant only

to the overlooker, and turned away this girl whom he had struck, and also her sister and two other sisters who were connected with her. Mr. Edwards was questioned about it in the Advertiser paper, and he refused to answer. The only reply he made was, that he could do anything he liked with his own, though four or five suffered by that transaction of taking the overseer to justice for that bad usage.

The sit

This is not a tithe of the evidence. tings of the Committee occupied forty days; and though every body knows how the public business is managed through the agency of these sauntering, lounging, dilatory, or, with reverence be it spoken, humbug Committees, many facts were brought to light which make one ashamed of their age and their country. The evidence of the medical men examined shows clearly how the manufac

half a mile from the former. Fifteen hours, exclusive of meals, the time. But the overseers were jealous of their knowing the time :— After the overlooker found I was possessed of a watch Ituring system must ultimately, and indeed soon afhad lost the key, and he took the watch and broke it, and gave it me back, and said I had no use for a watch, and chastised me for letting the hands know the time of day. Here the boys and girls all slept in one apartment, with a small division, about four feet high, between them. After staying a year and a half there, he endeavoured to get some other employment, but was forced to return back to Duntruin Mill as overlooker. There the system, since he had been away from it, was worse :

At what time of the morning did you have to attend your labour there?—I have been called up by the master, who stood at the door cursing and swearing, at three o'clock in the morning.

How late in the night were you kept at that work? We were never less than till ten and eleven o'clock at night.

Were the hands principally young ones at that mill?

Yes; there was a great number of them below twelve.
Were they very poor?-Yes, very poor; the poorest of
the poor.

Where did they come from?-Some from the poorhouses in Edinburgh.

Were they sent young ?—Yes; they came at six and

seven years old.

And they were sent for a stated length of time?—Yes. For a number of years?—Yes; I know some that were engaged for three and four years.

Were those children worked as long as you have been stating ?-Yes.

No exceptions in favour of the younger children and the girls-Not in the least.

fect the whole population of the British isles. We hope we shall hear no more of those wire-drawn principles of political economy which seek to prevent interference, in a case so glaring as is this. If the regulation of slave-labour, and the education and protection of the Africans, are fitting subjects of legislative interference, the state of the more helpless white slaves of the factories is even more pressing. The negro holds over his owner's humanity the bond of self-interest; but the limited period of service of the white, of which the most must be made, as it is soon to terminate, sets the master above this wholesome influence. The whole system of our regulations is one of direct interference with individuals. A man cannot make a bushel of malt, or sell an ounce of tobacco, nor perform the simplest action, without being liable to direct, and often to senseless and irritating interference; but he must not be interrupted or restrained in his systematic torturing and oppressing, for his private gains, miserable and unprotected children, and leaving them depraved and dwarfed in mind and body, a burden and a curse to the community. It is well said by the Morning Chronicle that in reading this evidence, one is almost tempted to wish that machinery, and such places as Leeds and Manchester, had never been heard of.

THE BOURGEOIS OF PARIS-A SKETCH.

It is amusing to compare the Parisian Bourgeois, not quite a Badaud, with the Cockney citizen of London, or with his counterpart in Scotland, Bailie Jervie or Provost Pawkie. It is in this class that national distinctions are the most strongly marked: and yet differing so widely in important trifles, how closely they approach in every important particular. An Esquimaux or New Zealander could not perceive any difference.

"The bourgeois of Paris is on the wrong side of forty. Before that age, he had lived under the control of his parents; and this, together with the smallness of his income, the long servitude of his education and apprenticeship, his noviciate in the ways of life, his constant exertions in his business, and his daily apprehensions of being unsuccessful in his yet uncertain establishment, had prevented him from before acquiring that air of decision, that confidence in himself, and that freedom of motion, so necessary to one who assumes the rank of a master tradesman in the city. Besides, a bourgeois of Paris must be a teller of good stories:-it is a condition of his existence, a necessity, and fortunately a pleasure to himself. He owes to his family, his friends, and his customers, an account of all that has occurred for at least thirty years past,-not only in his own neighbourhood, but within those walls which encircle his universe, beyond which he sees only foreign countries. If he has nothing to say about the taking of the Bastile, or the events of Fructidor, Thermidor, or Vendimiaire, he enjoys no power, elicits no respect; and as during that agitation of business which divides his whole time with sleep, the bourgeois of Paris cannot read much, he must trust to what he has seen or heard, must store his head with facts resulting from his emotions of each day, and lay in his stock of events whilst he is spending his years.

The bourgeois of Paris is of moderate stature, and decidedly fat. His countenance is generally smiling, and he seems somewhat ambitious of dignity. His whiskers form a slight curve, ending at the corner of his mouth. He is well shaved, and cleanly dressed. His clothes are large and full, without any affectation of those forms which fashion borrows from caprice. Ignorant painters always put an umbrella into his hand ;-but this is a mistake suggested by malevolence and party-spirit. The umbrella belongs to small annuitants and clerks in public offices; that is to say, to the imbeciles of the industrious world. The bourgeois of Paris carries a cane to give himself an air of consequence, to drive away dogs, and to chastise saucy boys. But he fears not the weather. If it rains, he calls a coach, as he takes care to inform you beforehand. You must hear a bourgeois of Paris say, "If it rain, I'll call a coach," to be able to appreciate the satisfaction and security with which the improvement in public conveniences fills the heart of a man who is conscious that he can pay for them. In spite of gibes and taunts, the bourgeois of Paris married young, as his father and mother did before him. At Paris, more than elsewhere, there always exist a swarm of single men who systematically remain so from taste, reason, constitution, and calculation;-a species of Bedouins, who wage war with conjugal happiness, exist by rapine, live in noise, and die in solitude. When young, they are agreeable dancers, dashing gamesters, hawkers of news and of entertaining anecdotes, until they acquire the honour of exciting jealousy ;—when old, they are treated without ceremony, and their greatest piece of good fortune is, now and then at the house of an old friend, to sit at a side-table between the two children, in order to avoid at the other table the fatal number of thirteen.

I must now speak of the bourgeois' wife. She never was handsome, and her features want regularity; but every body has agreed to call her pretty. The effect she produced upon the spectators, the day on which she got out of a glass coach before the door of St. Roch's Church, is by no means forgotten. Her form was then more slender, but she was not more blooming than at present: her husband, on the other hand, was young, active, slim, and wore his

hair curled. The marriage ceremony was splendid; there was a gold cross, and crimson velvet chairs, purchased by the churchwardens at the sale of some fallen prince! There which was in those days through a large court-yard. Few was likewise a grand dinner at Grignon's, the entrance to Sundays pass without the husband leading the conversation to some reminiscences of this happy day, during which he displays more than ordinary tenderness towards her whom he congratulates himself every hour upon having married. The bourgeois of Paris respects his wife naturally, or rather instinctively; the most refined study could have taught him nothing better.

Certain gossips have asserted, that the wife of the bourgeois was once a cocquet, and that finding years grow apace, she had taken precautions not to attain old age without re taining at least one tender recollection. But what matters this to her husband? If it be true, he is not aware of it. His life has not been troubled; nothing in either his comforts or his habits has been interfered with; and he has never ceased for an instant to retail the old jests of the stage against duped husbands. When he comes home he almost always finds his wife in the house. If he be sometimes obliged to wait for her, she always returns loaded with purchases, among which there is generally something for him. She pours out his barley-water when he has a cold, and is silent whenever he speaks. More than all this,-not only is the wife of the bourgeois the mother of his children, but his privy-counsellor in his business, his partner, and his book-keeper. He does nothing without her advice, and she knows the names of his debtors and of his correspondents. When he is in a merry cue he terms her his Minister of the Interior; and if he be in doubt about the spelling of a word, he applies to her, for she is learned, having been educated at a boardingschool.

We now come to the children. I do not well know the name of his daughter ;-there are so many pretty names to be found in novels. She has just left boarding-school; she draws and plays upon the piano: in short, she has learned all that is necessary to forget when she marries, and commences the same obscure and simple mode of life as her mother. The son is called Emile, in honour to the memory of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. There are few families in Paris in which an Emile is not to be found, who has been put out to nurse, led about afterwards by a maid, and then sent for education to a school containing two hundred and nineteen other Emiles. The bourgeois' son is gifted by nature, and has not been neglected. He has both facility and intelligence, and is looked upon as likely, by the prizes he will gain at the annual distribution, to do honour to the school to which he belongs. He is therefore caressed and made much of by his masters. All this increases the bourgeois' happiness. With joy and pride he contemplates the child of his love. He lets him talk, and admires the chattering of the infant pedant, whom he is proud of not being able to comprehend; nor does he resume his authority until the rash boy has thrown himself into the arena of politics. The young dog has a penchant for republicanism, and secretly reads the journals of the mouvement, just as we children of the Empire used to read Pigault Lebrun's novels. The reign of Terror is, moreover, a fine opportunity for a display of paternal admonition. When the storm is blown over, Emile's prospects are talked of. Since he is a clever boy, he must be a sworn appraiser; but if this cleverness amount to positive talent, why then he must be an attorney ;-for each generation of the bourgeoisie seeks to elevate itself one step higher, and that is the reason why the top of the ladder is so encum

bered.

I have already hinted at the bourgeois' politics. In the first place, he loves order-he will have order and he would put every thing out of place to obtain order. Order, as he understands it, is the easy and regular circulation in the streets, of carriages and foot-passengers; the shops displaying their splendid riches on the outside, and the gas which lights them in the evening, throwing the reflection of its light upon the pavement. Give him these things,-and let

him not be stopped by any other groups than those which surround ambulating musicians, or contemplate the last agonies of a dog just run over;-let his ears not be assailed by unusual cries, by the dense clamour of a discontented mob; let him not fear that a lamp will fall at his feet; -let him not hear the crash of breaking windows, the sinister noise of closing shutters, the retreat beaten at an unusual hour, and the precipitous footsteps of horses-and he is satisfied. Give him but this physical tranquillity, and you, who arrogate to yourselves the direction of public opinion-you, who wish to bring him to your way of thinking-you who want his vote at a public meeting, his signature to a petition, or his voice in a judgment-go all of you to him without fear; reason, attack, traduce, abuse; work boldly in overturning principles and slandering reputations he will bear all without anger! If your period be well rounded, he will adopt it; for he also plays the orator. If your epigram be well pointed, he will repeat it at his own table; for he is also fond of a bon-mot. If you bring him news, he will bet against your word; for he religiously believes in everything that is printed. There is no fear of his detecting disorder in a black coat, whose wearer speaks loud, turns a period well, and affects a pensive air. The disorder which he fears, and against which he would go into the streets with his musket and his knapsack, has naked arms, a hoarse voice, breaks open shops, and throws stones at the municipal guard.

Then the bourgeois of Paris is tenacious of political liberty. It is his property, his personal conquest, and it belongs to his creed. The three syllables forming this word bring a smile upon his lips, and throw an air of proud importance over his whole person. If you point out to him any individual as not being desirous of freedom, he will reply, without hesitation, that such individual must be sent to prison. To preserve this precious right, there are no difficulties, no privations, no sacrifices, to which he would not submit. Persuade him that liberty is in danger, and he will immediately forego his dearest interests, quit his simple and industrious mode of life, his business, and his family, and submit to every possible inconvenience, to guardhouse duties, and to all the severity of military discipline. He will be the first to insist that the city gates be closed, houses searched, and suspicious individuals apprehended. He knows that liberty cannot defend itself alone; that it requires the assistance of the police, the activity of a Judge of Instruction, and laws of exception which operate with promptitude and vigour, at a distance as well as near. For the sake of liberty, he becomes a gendarme, a police officer-anything, in short, but an informer. For, take notice, that he holds espionage in abhorrence. In the utmost blindness of his zeal, he would let go a Jesuit to run after a mouchard.

he has raised an impenetrable rampart round his conscience, against which all friendly recommendations, and all the seductions of intrigue strike and rebound without injury. He reads with attention the declaration of each candidate, takes notes for the purpose of comparing their sentiments and promises; which notes he regularly indorses, and places in a box by themselves. On the day of election be retires to his closet, but without his wife, takes out these papers regularly one after another, and reads as follows:"No. 1. M. PETER. Independent. Fortune honourably acquired. Ardent zeal for public liberty. Love of order. Engages to accept no office to which a salary is attached. No. 2. M. PAUL. Fortune honourably acquired. Independ ent. Engages to accept no office to which a salary is attached. Love of order. Ardent zeal for public liberty." And this goes on to No. 13, which is the last, without any other difference than change of expressions. The bourgeois then goes to the preparatory meeting, and returns more in doubt than ever upon whom he shall fix his choice; for the claims of each candidate, which he had considered so fully and clearly made out, had there been terribly shaken. At length the day arrives, and he returns home satisfied; be has maintained his resolution to the last, and voted a cording to his conscience-for his vote was lost from being not sufficiently specific.

The bourgeois of Paris is likewise a juryman-this is another act of his political religion. He prepares himselt for a due execution of these functions by reading the Gazette des Tribunaux every day for a fortnight before he is to act. Then, behold him in the jury-box frouting the prisoner. On the first day he suspects both the public prosecutor and the president of the court. He leans upes his elbows, that he may not lose a word uttered by the counsel for the defence. He takes compassion upon pics pockets, and acquits, at once, all those whom want has led to the commission of theft. Next day, he is less tenderhearted-less easily moved. On the last day, he has be come a judge more inflexible and more severe than these who professionally occupy the judgment-seat, and whose souls are blunted by their daily contemplation of crime and suffering. On returning home at the end of the session, he has a safety-bolt put upon his doors, and discharges his maid-servant. With regard to political offences, however, his feelings are worked upon in an inverse ratio. At first he fancies society shaken to its very foundations by the party violence of a writer, or the temerity of a caricaturist. He soon becomes accustomed to these things, and they then afford him amusement; and, at the end of the session be carries home the libellous caricature to hang it in his dining-room.

The bourgeois of Paris is one of the national guard. There he stands, soul and body, under the uniform of the Amid the various revolutions which have so often changed soldier-citizen. But he is ambitious of rank. He aspires the name of his street, the scarf of his municipal officer, not indeed to that of captain, which of right devolves upon the colours of the flag waving over the dome of the clock the notary of the neighbourhood; -for a superstition in by which he regulates his watch, the postman's cockade, favour of notaries still exists in certain parts of Paris. and the armorial bearings over the snuff shops, he has re- Still less does he elevate his views to the higher grades. tained a respect for the constituted authorities. He is They belong to individuals whom the law excuses from therefore puzzled when the newspaper he takes in becomes ordinary service,-to magistrates and deputies. He is cohostile to the existing government; for he has a great tent to be sergeant-major, a rank which forms the just me esteem for this journal, is one of its oldest subscribers, re- dium between command and obedience. The sergeant. gularly takes to its office the amount of his patriotic con- major sleeps at home in his own bed, and this is a great tribution, and is addressed there by his name. The cen-point gained. Besides, he finds a pleasure in seeing all h sure of government by this paper makes him uneasy during the whole day. He thinks, however, that Ministers may have been deceived; that the article in his favourite paper will open their eyes to the truth; and, in this hope, he goes to sleep, reconciled to the administration, and to the Prefect of Police, who will perhaps be dismissed the very. next day.

neighbours, receiving their claims, granting them favours,
knowing what excuses they send for non-service, and hunt
ing out those who are refractory.
Do not laugh at the
sergeant-major; he is a person of importance; and is be
sides one of the churchwardens of his parish.

In private life, the bourgeois of Paris is an active and ir telligent tradesman. He is not, it is true, a man of bright parts, but he has sufficient intellect to show that he is n fool, and that he knows quite as much, as his brethren of Bourdeaux or Rouen. He is, moreover, civil, punctas and of the most rigid honesty. He has some spare time for pleasure; and he enjoys, but in moderation, all thos He suspects every one fascinations which attract strangers to Paris. A public festival, in particular, has marvellous charms for him. The

The bourgeois of Paris is an elector, and was so before the law which extended the franchise. This last circumstance he always takes care to state. Whenever the Electoral College of his district is convened, he seems to have suddenly grown a foot taller. There is in his look an expression of pride and mistrust.

who approaches him of a design upon his vote. But

most urgent business, nay, every domestic vexation, must give way to a review, a race, a splendid funeral, or a display of fire-works. He finds some attraction even in a religious procession. The noise, the dust, the heat of the weather, the confusion, the blows of the soldiers, the ebb and flow of the crowd as it is driven backwards and forwards all this is delightful;-it is a subject of conversation and a source of pleasing recollections to the bourgeois of Paris. And how dearly he loves to bestow a great name upon those individuals who pass on horseback with epaulets and crosses. At the last procession, General Lafayette passed before fifty bourgeois who knew him, and yet he did not leave his house on that day. Among the multitude who look upon these solemnities, great personages are multiplied by numerous copies: each of which some one has seen, and pointed out as the original, to his children, who, in their turn, will talk to their children of having seen the great man.

The bourgeois of Paris is also a lover of the fine arts. He has had his portrait painted, which has, moreover, been sent to the exhibition. Who does not recollect, in the exhibition of 1831, at the place where new pictures, enriched with gothic frames, concealed the old works of Rubens, and next to the tigers of Delacroix, the portrait of a national guard, with a flaxen wig, his cap a little on one side, with a laughing, jovial face, which seemed pleased at being painted? This was a bourgeois of Paris. Honour be to the artist; he did full justice to the character of the original. I would tear what I have written, could I but substitute a copy of this picture; it would enable you to understand the bourgeois of Paris at a single glance.

Among the amusements of the burgeois, I must not forget the play, although it has lost much of its attractions in his eyes since it aimed at producing emotions of a new kind, too strong for his sensibility if they are serious, and too monstrous for his reason to admit if they are only inventions. Do not expect to find him at the Italian Opera; he never goes there, because he is determined, when he pays, to understand what is sung. He passes with a sigh before the Theatre Français, like a man of the most refined taste and highly cultivated mind. If the Comic Opera were not so often shut up, it would be his favourite theatre. He goes there with his whole family four times a year, and from the present state of things, this may constitute him an almost regular frequenter of it. When it is closed, he consoles himself with vaudevilles. The plots of the latter are not, he says, very first-rate, but then they make him laugh, and that is what he wants. The Gymnase alone startles him a little. The characters there are too rich; one might suppose that the revolution had not yet reached the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. You must not now talk to him of melodrames, formerly so noble, so pathetic, and so popular, when tyrants wore the the knightly costume, with yellow boots and long beards, and spoke in a deep, hoarse tone-when there were abductions of princesses, and captive lords, and dungeons, and gaolers, and children, and miraculous rescues. The melodrame of the present day disgusts him with its rags, it broad truths, and its slang. He leaves its enjoyments to delicate fine ladies, and to fishwomen--to the low vulgar rabble, and to dandies.

christened. He even approves of his wife going to mass on Sundays. He considers it a good example; and if you press him, he will tell you that religion is necessary to keep the vulgar in awe.

Were I to give current to my thoughts, I should never have done with the bourgeois of Paris. But this is my last word. If you seek a specimen of an ardent mind,-young, enthusiastic, impassioned, capable of great exertion in the pursuit of virtue, or of daring courage in the practice of crime; if you seek one of those boldly-drawn figures, stamped with energy of character, which adorn historical pictures of a high order,-look for them elsewhere-any where but in a city of which Julius Cæsar has spoken, which has so many revolutions to tell of, so many names engraved on its monuments one day, and effaced the next; resort not for such a purpose to a city where man is stifled in a crowd, and worn down by constant friction. If you require only a good, honest, simple, generous, confiding, and hospitable creature, with one of those peaceable and smiling countenances which look well in a family picture, take the bourgeois of Paris. You may safely trust him with your fortune, your honour, or your secret; and may depend upon him for a kind service, whenever it does not interfere with his dinner-hour. Only I would advise you, if you call upon him the day after an insurrection, not to sit down.

WAGES IN ENGLAND IN THE FOURTEENTH
CENTURY.

IN the year 1352, 25th of Edward III., wages paid to haymakers was but a ld. a-day. A mower of meadows 3d. per day, or 5d. an acre. Reapers of corn, in the first week of August, 2d.-in the second, 4d. per day, and so on till the end of August, without meat, drink, or other allowance, finding their own tools. For thrashing a quarter of wheat or rye, 24d. a quarter of barley, beans, pease, and oats, 1d. A master carpenter, 3d. a-day, other carpenter, 2d. per day. A master mason, 4d. per day; other masons, 3d. per day; and their servants, 14d. per day. Tilers, 3d, and their knaves, 14d. Thatchers, 3d. per day, their knaves, 14d. Plasterers, and other workers of mud walls, and their knaves, in the like manner, without meat or drink, and this from Easter to Michaelmas; and from that time less according to the direction of the justices. By the 34th of Edward III., 1361, chief masters of carpenters and masons, 4d. a-day, and the others, 3d. or 2d. as they were worth. By the 13th of Richard II., 1389, the wages of a bailiff of husbandry, 13s. 4d. per year, and his clothing once a-year at most; the master had 10s.; the carter, 10s. ; shepherd, 10s.; ox-herd, 6s. 8d.; cow-herd, 6s. 8d.; swineherd, 6s. ; a woman labourer, 6s. ; a day labourer, 6s. ; a driver of plough, 7s. From this time up to the time of 23d of Henry IV., the price of labour was fixed by the justices by proclamation. In 1445, 23d of Henry IV., the wages of a bailiff of husbandry was 23. 4d. per annum, and clothing of the price of 5s, with meat and drink; chief hind, carter, or shepherd, 20s.; clothing 4s. ; common servant of husbandry, 15s,; clothing, 3s. 4d.; woman servant, 108.; clothing, 4s,; infant under fourteen years, 6s.'; clothing, 3s. Freemason or master carpenter, 4d. per day; without meat or drink, 5d. Master tiler or slater, mason or mean carpenter, and other artificers concerned in building, 3d. a-day; without meat and drink, 41d; every other labourer, 2d a-day; without meat or drink, 34d.; after Michaelmas to abate in proportion. In time of harvest, a mower 4d. a-day; without meat and drink, 6d. ; reaper or carter, 3d. a-day; without meat and drink, 5d.; a woman labourer, and other labourers, 2d. a-day; without meat and drink, 44d. per day. By the 11th of Henry VII., 1496, there was a like rate of wages, only with a little advance; as, for instance, a freemason, master carpenter, rough mason, bricklayer, master tiler, plumber, glazier, carver, joiner, was allowed from Easter to Michaelmas, to take 4d. a-day; without meat and drink, 6d.; from Michaelmas to Easter to abate ld. A master having under him law proceedings, bankruptcies, and bad management, it can scarcely Henry VIII., 1515, the wages of shipwrights were fixed six men, was allowed a 1d. a-day extra. By the 8th of

His repugnance is not only one of taste, but it has a higher feeling; he is indignant at the immorality of the thing.The bourgeois of Paris prides himself upon being a moral man, and this pretension constitutes one of his titles, one of his identical peculiarities. By it he places himself in comparison with his superior in rank and condition, and gives the preference to his own merits. When be says, "I am a moral man," it is with the same feeling of pride and self-esteem, that a noble would display in saying, Iam of high lineage,!or a banker, in saying, "I ám a rich man.”

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Perhaps you will ask me whether the bourgeois of Paris is a religious man! What a silly question, when you know he was married in church, and had his children

A sad fatality seems to pursue this beautiful theatre. What with

ever be kept open for six months in succession,-TR.

as follows:-A master ship-carpenter taking the charge of the work, having men under him, 5d. a-day in the summer season, with meat and drink; other ship carpenter, called a hewer, 4d.; an able clincher, 3d.; holder, 2d. ; master calker, 4d.; a mean calker, 3d.; a day labourer by the tide, 4d.

ON THE CULTIVATION OF HEMP.

WE spare our readers, or the few among them that can be immediately interested in studying this subject, any long preface on the advantages of growing hemp, a crop suited to pieces of ground which are generally fit for nothing else, and at once describe the process :-The soils most suited to the culture of this plant, are those of the deep, black, putrid, vegetable kind, which are low, and rather inclined to moisture; and those of a deep, mellow, loamy, sandy description. To render the land proper for the reception of the crop, it should be reduced to a fine state of mould, and clear from weeds by repeated ploughings. In many instances, it will require to be dressed with well-rotted manure. The quantity of seed sown per acre, is from two to three bushels; but, as the crops are greatly injured by standing too closely together, two bushels, or at most two bushels and a-half, will be generally found sufficient. In the choice of seed, care should be taken that it is new, and of a good quality, which is known by its feeling heavy in the hand, and being of a bright and shining colour. The best season for sowing it in the southern districts is, as soon as possible, after the frosts are over in April; and, in the more northern districts, towards the close of the same month, or beginning of May. The most general method of sowing it is broadcast, and, afterwards, covering it by slight harrowing; but when the crops are for seed, drilling it in rows, at small distances, may be advantageous. This sort of crop is frequently cultivated on the same piece of ground, for a great number of years, without any other kind intervening; but, in such cases, manure is required in pretty large proportions. It may be also sown after most sorts of grain. When hemp is sown broadcast, it in general requires no after culture; but, when it is drilled, a hoeing or two will be found advantageous. In the culture of this plant, it is particularly necessary that the same piece of land should contain both male and female, of what is sometimes called frimble hemp; the latter contains the seed. When the crop is ripe, which is known by its becoming of a whitish yellow colour, and a few of the leaves beginning to drop from the stems, which happens generally in about thirteen or fourteen weeks from the period of its being sown, it must be pulled up by the roots, in small parcels at a time, by the hand, taking care to shake off the mould well from them before the handfuls are laid down. In some districts, the whole crop is pulled together; while in others, which is the best practice, the crop is pulled at different times, according to its ripeness. When, however, it is intended for seed, it should be suffered to stand till it is perfectly ripe. After the hemp is pulled, it should be set up in small parcels; and, if for seed, the bundles should be tied up in the same manner as corn, till the seed becomes dry and firm; it must then be either thrashed on cloths in the field, or taken home to the barn. The after management of hemp varies greatly in different places; some only dew-ripen or ret it, whilst others water-ret it. The last process is the best and most expeditious; for, by such process, the grassing is not only shortened, but the more expensive ones of breaking, scratching, and bleaching the yarn, are rendered less violent and troublesome. After having undergone these different operations, it is ready for the purposes of the manufacturer. The produce of hemp-crops is extremely variable-the average is, generally, about five hundred-weight per acre. Hemp, from growing to a great height, and being very shady in the leaf, leaves land in a very clean condition; hence it is sometimes sown for the purpose of destroying weeds, and is an excellent preparation for wheat crops.

A PRODIGY IN PAPER.-At the White Hall Mill, in Derbyshire, a sheet of paper was manufactured last year, which measured 18,800 feet in length, four feet in width, and would cover an acre and a half of ground.

CHURCHES FOR THE RICH.

THE subjoined lines were sent us for publication shortly after an article appeared in the Schoolmaster, Number 14, They are written by a upon places of public worship. mechanic, who felt what is described, as he had come to town from a rural parish :

The churches here, like palaces,
With grandeur strike the eye;
But they are shut against the poor—
I need not tell you why.

Pride, Pomp, and Luxury are there
To mar the solemn scene,-
Exclusive Fashion cannot bear
The vulgar, poor, and mean.

O Wordly Fashion, Wealth, and Pride!
Ye wield an iron rod,

And drive your humbler brethren forth,
Even from the House of God!

But Pride shall fall, and Wealth shall fly,
And Fashion pass away;

And high and low shall level meet,

Some not far-distant day.

Now spurned from Christian fellowship,
I sometimes walk abroad,
And in the distant quiet fields,

I praise and worship God.
Tho' sometimes down my care-worn cheeks
The burning tears will fall-
Yet for my bless'd Redeemer's sake
I do forgive them all.
Misfortunes sad caused me to leave
The vale where I was born,-
And here, in poverty, I bear

The rich man's haughty scorn.
My memory oft doth backward glance,
To where, 'midst foliage green,
The simple pastor's modest manse,

And parish kirk were seen.

A pastor's name he well deserved,-
The Father of his flock :
The sad he cheer'd, the poor reliev'd,
From out his slender stock.

Your parsons here

Sometimes some fashionable church
I enter, as by stealth,
And stand afar off, lest my rags
Defile the garb of wealth.

I hear but cannot comprehend,

That which should simple be :-
Your pompous parson's fine discourse
Is far too high for me.
With learned phrase he but makes dark
The word that is divine:
For Truth needs no embellishment
To make it brighter shine.
Your frothy, flowery eloquence,

No good it doth impart ;-
The sermon, earnest, solemn, plain,
Sinks deepest in the heart.
Leave off your haughty arrogance,
Ye scorners of the poor :-
God's Word should he preached free to all,

And open'd each church door.

CONSUMPTION OF GAS IN LONDON.-The gas which lights London is calculated to consume 38,000 chaldrons of coals per annum, lighting 62,000 lamps in shops, houses, &c., and 7500 street lamps. In 1830, the gas pipes in and round London were above 1000 miles in length. Gas lights of half an inch in diameter, supply a light equal o 20 candles; of one inch in diameter, equal to 100; two inches, 420; three inches, to 1000.

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