"In the heart of the best woman," says a German writer, "there glows a shovelful, at least, of infernal embers; in that of the worst, there is a little corner of Paradise."

The real benefits which depend on the influence of the softer sex are thus described:—

"One of the peculiar offices of women is to refine society. They are very much shielded by their sex from the stern duties of men, and from that intercourse with the basest part of mankind which is opposed to the humanizing influence of mental cultivation. On them, the improvement of society in these respects chiefly depends; and they who consider the subject with the views here offered, will become more and more convinced of the service they might render. Manners are, in truth, of great importance. If real refinement be a merit, it is surely desirable that it should show itself in the general deportment. Real vulgarity is the expression of something mean or coarse in sentiments or habits. It betrays the want of fine moral perceptions. The peculiarities in manner and deportment, which proceed from the selfishness of the great world, when stripped of the illusory influence of their apparent refinement, become grossly offensive. A cold repulsive manner, such as is commonly assumed by persons in high life, is sometimes a necessary shield against the pushing familiarity of underbred persons. Their tasteless imitations of habits and manners which do not belong to their station or character, deserve the ridicule they meet with. The most offensive form vulgarity can take, is an affectation of the follies and vices of high life. It is true that the notion of vulgarity is affixed, in the fine world, to many trifling modes of dress and deportment, which in themselves have no demerit whatever, except that something opposed to them has acquired an ephemeral propriety from the fancy of the great. But in real good breeding there is always a reason. It is far too little attended to in England in any class, though, from acting as a continual corrective to selfish and unsocial affections, it is peculiarly requisite in all. Good manners consist in a constant maintenance of self-respect, accompanied by attention and deference to others; in correct language, gentle tones of voice, ease, and quietness in movements and action. They repress no gaiety or animation which keeps free of offence; they divest seriousness of an air of severity or pride. In conversation, good manners restrain the vehemence of personal or party feelings, and promote that versatility which enables people to converse readily with strangers, and take a passing interest in any subject that may be addressed to them."

The writer takes occasion to regret the narrow spirit which prevents our nobility, or, to speak more properly, our fashionable coteries, from acquiring a healthier tone, by mixing with societies in which habits of more vigorous thought predominate. In France, to whatever degree frivolity may be carried, a French lady would be ashamed not to affect an interest in the great writers by whom her country has been ennobled; and to betray an ignorance of their works, or an indifference to their renown, would be considered a proof not only of the greatest stupidity, but of bad taste and unrefined habits. Here we are distinguished unfavourably from our neighbours—exceptions, of course, there must always be—but in general to betray an acquaintance with any literature beyond the last novel, or the current trash and gossip of the day, might provoke the charge of pedantry, but at any rate would fail in exciting the slightest sympathy. Hence men of letters, and women of letters, form a caste by themselves much to their own disadvantage, and still more to the injury of those to the improvement of whom they might imperceptibly contribute; hence the statesman, or the lawyer, or the writer, generally keeps aloof from the great world, which he leaves to idle young men and aged coxcombs; or, if he enters it, takes care to abstain from those topics on which his conversation would be most natural, instructing, and entertaining. Instances, indeed, may be found, where men, eminent for science and literature, or of high professional reputation, inflamed with a distempered appetite for fashionable society, "drag their slow lengths along" among the guardsmen and dowagers who frequent such scenes; but they are rather tolerated than encouraged, and the sacrifices by which they purchase their admission into the dullest society of Europe are so numerous, their appearance is so mortifying, and the effect produced upon themselves so pernicious, that hitherto such instances have served not as models to imitate, but as bywords to deter. Instead of improving others, they degrade themselves; instead of inspiring the frivolous with nobler aims and better principles, they condescend to be the echoes of imbecility; instead of raising the standard of conversation, they yield implicitly to any signal, however corrupt, worthless, or utterly unreasonable may be the quarter from which it proceeds, that the most submissive votaries of fashion watch for and obey. The system is denounced by our author in the following vigorous and eloquent passage:—

"The assembly-room or dinner-table is the very focus of care and anxiety, so that a funereal dulness often overhangs it; and there, where there is the greatest amount of money, time, and contrivance expended on pleasure—there is least animation of spirits. For one who is pleased, a dozen are chewing the cud of some petty annoyance, and the flow of spirits excited and animated by rapid interchange of ideas is scarcely known. When it occurs, it is seldom owing to those who live for dissipation, but to men whom the duties of office compel to work very hard. Notwithstanding their wealth, the pursuits of ambition compel them to become men of business, and the elasticity of their minds is preserved. That languid and depressed condition which cankers the very heart of social enjoyment, loses its solemn character on occasions of disappointment and vexation. Its pleasures are not cheerful, but its distresses are ludicrous, and are felt to be so. Each laughs at his neighbour's mortifications, and the consciousness he is supplying the same malicious amusement in his turn, does not take the sting from his own griefs when they arise.

"Nor is it merely as destructive of social enjoyment, that the habits of the great world are unfriendly to happiness. It is not the place for those who have warm imaginations and tender hearts. There is scarcely any circumstance in which that sphere differs more from others, than in the deficiency of strong affections. The chances are many against their existence; and if a woman be born to move in the haunts of the worldly, it were almost cruel to snatch her from that immersion in their follies which may serve to stifle the pangs of disappointed affection. For after all that can be said of the misery of its empty pursuits and corrupted tastes, the disappointments that end its petty passions, and the mortifications that cling to its apparent splendours, sorrows like those bear no comparison with tears of anguish shed by the grave of love. Surrounding pleasures, even the tranquil and elevating beauty of external nature, seem but a mockery when offered in place of the one thing needful—perfect and overflowing affection. The exterior decorum and attention on the part of an altered husband, which betrays to the world no dereliction of morals but what its easy code passes over as a right, is no substitute for love. Not unfrequently there is something almost appalling in the sense of solitude, which on occasions of sickness or retirement oppresses a young woman, who to all appearance is overwhelmed with attendance. The hand is not there that would render every other superfluous. A voice is wanting, whose absence leaves the silence and horror of death. The eyes are missed, whose glances first called forth the fervour of her affections from their peaceful sleep; or, if looking on her for a moment, they express nothing but indifference. These are the occasions that dispel the laboured illusion, wherewith, under the garb of business, or cares, or natural manner, she had sought to disguise from herself the marks of an estranged heart. In these sad and desolate hours her memory retraces her early years, her mother's tender watchfulness, and the soft voices of sisters contending for their place by her bedside. The contrast with her present stately solitude bursts resistless through every effort to repel it; and life and youth, with their long futurity, present her with nothing but a frightful chasm."

"Alas! alas my song is sad; How should it not be so, When he, who used to make me glad, Now leaves me in my woe? With him my love, my graciousness, My beauty, all are vain; I feel as if some guiltiness Had mark'd me with its stain.

"One sweet thought still has power o'er me, In this my heart's great need; 'Tis, that I ne'er was false to thee, Dear friend, in word or deed: I own that nobler virtues fill Thy heart, love only mine; Yet why are all thy looks so chill Till they on others shine?

"Oh! long-loved friend, I marvel much Thy heart is so severe, That it will yield not to the touch Of love and sorrow's tear. No, no! it cannot be, that thou Should seek another's love; Oh! think upon our early vow, And thou wilt faithful prove.

"Thy virtues—pride, thy lofty fame, Assures me thou art true, Though fairer ones than I may claim Thy hand, and deign to sue. But think, beloved one, that, to bless With perfect blessing, thou Must seek for trusting tenderness: Remember then our vow!"

"Collectively," says our author, "women might do much to remove the national stigma of leaving men of science and letters neglected. But their education is seldom such as enables them to know the great importance of science and literature to human improvement; and they are rarely brought up to regard it as any part of their duty to promote the interests of society. They would not, indeed, be able directly to reward men of talent by employment or honours, but they might make them acquainted with those who could; at all events, mere social distinction, the attention and approbation of our fellow creatures, is in itself an advantage to men who seldom possess that passport to English respect—wealth. Though learning is tacitly discouraged in women, yet the access to every species of knowledge requisite to direct their efforts wisely and well, is as open to them as to men. With this power of forming the mind of the rising generation, this influence over the opinions, the morals, and the tastes of society, this direct power in promoting objects both of private benevolence and national importance—with so many advantages, how is it that women are still exposed to so many sufferings, from dependence, oppression, mortification, and contempt? why are their opinions yet sneered at? why is their influence rather deprecated than sought? Is it not that they have never learnt even the selfish policy of connecting themselves with the spirit of moral and intellectual advancement? Is it not because their liberty, their privileges, their power, have proceeded in many respects, less from a spirit of justice in the other sex, or a sense of moral fitness, than from the love of pleasure and luxury, of which women are the best promoters?"

In England, these evils are peculiarly great; for in England they are without compensation. It is possible to imagine such brilliant conversation, such varied wit, such graceful manners, such apparent gentleness, that would stifle the complaints of the moralist, and cause the half-uttered expostulation to die away upon his lips. So we can conceive that Arnaud and Nicole may have listened to the enchanting discourse of Madame de Sevigne, and under an influence so irresistible, have forborne to scan with severity the faults, glaring as they were, of the system to which she belonged. But with us the case is different—compare the English lady in her country-house, hospitable to her guests, benevolent to her dependents, as a wife spotless, as a mother most devoted, caring for all around her, dispensing education, relieving distress, encouraging merit, the guard of innocence, the shame of guilt, active, contented, gracious, exemplary: and see the same person in London—her frame worn out with fatigue, her mind ulcerated with petty mortifications, her brow clouded, her look hardened, her eye averted from unprofitable friends, her tone harsh, her demeanour restless, her whole being changed: and were there no higher motive, were it a question of advantage and convenience only, were dignity, and the good opinion of others, and consideration in the world, alone at stake, can any one hesitate as to which situation a wife or daughter should prefer? We should, indeed, be sorry if our demeanour in those vast crowds where English people flock together, rather, as it would seem, to assert a right than to gratify an inclination, were to be taken as an index of our national character—the want of all ease and simplicity, those essential ingredients of agreeable society, which distinguish these dreary meetings, have been long unfortunately notorious. No nation is so careful of the great, or so indifferent to the lesser, moralities of life as the English; and in no country is society, indebted, perhaps, to polished idleness for its greatest charms, more completely misunderstood. Too busy to watch the feelings of others, and too earnest to moderate our own, that true politeness which pays respect to age, which strives to put the most insignificant person in company on a level with the most considerable—virtues which our neighbours possess in an eminent degree,—are, except in a few favoured instances, unknown among us; while affectation, in other countries the badge of ignorance and vulgarity, is in ours, even in its worst shape, when it borrows the mien of rudeness, and impertinence, and effrontery, the appanage of those whose station is most conspicuous, and whose dignity is best ascertained. There is more good breeding in the cottage of a French peasant than in all the boudoirs of Grosvenor Square.

But God forbid that a word should escape from us which should seem to place the amusements of society, or the charms of conversation, in competition with those stern virtues which are the guardians of an English hearth! The austere fanaticism of the Puritans, tainted with hypocrisy as it was, was preferable a thousand times to the orgies of the Regent and the Parc-aux-Cerfs. If purity and refined society be, indeed, incompatible—if the love of freedom and active enterprise necessarily exclude the grace and softness which lessen, or at least teach us to forget, the burden of existence, let us be what we are; and, indeed, it is the opinion of many, that the rant of social pleasure is the price we pay for the excellence of our political institutions. It is because before the law all men are equal, that in the world so much care is taken to show that they are different. If to this we add the mercantile habits of our countrymen, the enormous wealth which their pursuits enable them to accumulate—the great honours which are the reward of successful industry and ambition—the absurd value annexed to technical distinctions—the manner in which, in our as in all free countries, those distinctions are conferred—and a certain disposition to sneer at any chivalrous, or elevated feeling, from which few of our ladies are exempt—we shall find it easy to account for the cold, stiff, ungraceful, harsh, and mercenary habits which disfigure, to the astonishment of all foreigners, the patrician class of English society. Nothing, indeed, can be less graceful than the frivolity of an Englishman. Naturally grave, serious, contemplative, if his angry stars have endowed him with enormous wealth, he carries into the pursuit of trifles the same solemnity and perseverance which, had he been more fortunately situated, would have been employed in a professional career—he carries a certain degree of gravity into his follies and his vices; as Pope, no less keen an observer than finished a poet, observed, he

"Judicious sups, and greatly daring dines"—

devotes himself to an eternal round of puerile follies, with a pompous self-importance that would be ludicrous were it exhibited in the discharge of the noblest and most sacred duties. Plate and wine seem his religion, and a well-furnished room his morality—his dinners engross his thoughts—his field sports are a nation's care. He writes books on arm-chairs, hunts with the most ineffable self-sufficiency, and talks of his dogs and horses as Howard or Clarkson might speak of the jails they had visited, and the mourners they had set free. He commits errors with a stolid air of deliberation, which the reckless passions of boiling youth could hardly palliate, but which, when perpetrated as a title to fashion, and as a passport to society, no epithets that contempt can suggest are vehement enough to stigmatize. The Englishman's vice has a business-like air with it that is intolerable—there is no illusion, no refinement—it is coarse, direct, groveling brutality—it wears its own hideous aspect with no garnish or disguise; and how seldom, even among that sex which these volumes are intended to instruct, does the brow wreathed with roses, amid the haunts of dissipation, wear a gay, a serene, or even a contented aspect! Where all the treasures that inanimate nature can furnish are scattered in profusion—where the air is fragrant with perfume, and vocal with melody, how vainly do we look for the freshness and animation, and the simplicity and single-mindedness of buoyant and delighted youth! We feel inclined, amid this gloomy dissipation and depressing pleasure, to reverse the most beautiful passage in Euripides, and to say, that the banquet and the festival do require all the heightening of art, all the embellishments of luxury, all the illusions of song, to conceal the struggles of corroding interest, and the pangs of constant mortification.

"There" (but we quote one of the most remarkable passages in the book) "is a general aversion from the labour of thought, in all who have not had the faculties exercised while they were pliant, nor been supplied with a certain stock of elementary knowledge, essential alike to any subject of science that may be presented to their maturer years. By means of the press, many broken and ill-sustained rays pierce across the neglect or indifference of parents, to the minds of the young. Gleams of a rational spirit and enlarged feeling may often be found among the daughters of country gentlemen, whose sons are still solely devoted to sporting and party politics.

"When we think of those mighty resources we have just been adverting to, the strength all such tastes acquire by sympathy, and the observation of nature and of human life they tend to excite, we might expect they would furnish society with everlasting sources of excitement and mutual interest, that they would create a universal sympathy with genius and ability wherever it was found, and soften the repulsive austerity with which it is the nature of rank and wealth to look on humble fortunes.

"Little or nothing of all this takes place. Frivolity and insipidity are the prevailing characters of conversation; and nowhere in Europe, perhaps, does difference of fortune or station produce more unsocial and illiberal separation. Very few of those whom fortune has released from the necessity of following some laborious profession, are capable of passing their time agreeably without the assistance of company; not from a spirit of gaiety which calls on society for indulgence—not from any pleasure they take in conversation, where they are frequently languid and taciturn, but to rival each other in the luxury of the table, or, by a great variety of indescribable airs, to make others feel the pain of mortification. They meet as if 'to fight the boundaries' of their rank and fashion, and the less definite and perceptible is the line which divides them, the more punctilious is their pride. It is a great mistake to suppose that this low-minded folly is peculiar to people of rank: it is an English disease. But the higher we go in society, the wider the circle of the excluded becomes, consequently, the greater the range of human beings cast forth from the pale of sympathy; and the more contracted do the judgment, experience, and feelings of its inmates become. The lofty walls, the iron spikes that surround our villas, and the notices every where affixed 'that trespassers will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law,' are meet emblems of the social spirit that connects the different orders of society in England. The effect of this is to produce narrow minds, or, what is worse, narrow hearts on one side, and a host of dissocial, irritable passions on the other. In each step of the scale, those beneath see chiefly the unamiable qualities of their superiors."

The disproportion of the happiness of society with its means, is a subject which calls forth all the eloquence and sagacity of this writer. Nor is this surprising; for it might startle the most sluggish indifference—the most incurious stupidity. How does it come to pass, that with us misery is the fruit of successful labour, that with us experience does not teach caution, that with us the most munificent charity is unable to check the accumulation of evil, moral and physical, with which it vainly endeavours to contend? How is it, that while the wealth of England is a proverb among nations, the distress of her labourers is a byword no less universal; that while her commerce encircles the globe, while her colonies are spread through both hemispheres, while regions hitherto unknown are but the resting-place of her never-ceasing enterprise, the producers of all this wealth, the causes of all this luxury, the instruments of all this civilization, lie down in despair to perish by hundreds, amid the miracles of triumphant industry by which they are surrounded? How happens it, that as our empire extends abroad, security diminishes at home? that as our reputation becomes more splendid, and our attitude more commanding, the fabric of our strength decays, and our social bulwarks rock from their foundations? Who can say that the skill and valour of the general who has added a province to our Indian empire—who, triumphing over obstacles hitherto insurmountable, has caused the tide of victory to flow from East to West, and make the Sepoy invincible—may not erelong be called upon to fulfil the thankless task of suppressing insurrection, and to control the kindling fury of a mistaken, it is true, but of a kindred population? Shall the day indeed come when in our streets there shall be solitude, and in our harbours be heard no sound of oars, neither shall gallant ship pass thereby? Is the vaunted splendour of this country to furnish a melancholy lesson of the instability of earthly power, and its fate to conclude a tale more glorious, to point a moral more affecting, than any which Tyre, or Sidon, or Carthage have furnished, to curb the insolence of prosperity, and to show the insignificance of man?

"Quamvis Pontica pinus, Sylvae filia nobilis, Jactes et genus et nomen inutile."

After dwelling on the supply of information which the present age enjoys, and which is quite without parallel in any former period, and pointing out the inconsistencies among us, of which, nevertheless, every day affords perpetual examples, the writer asks—

"Do these evils proceed from some moral perversity in the people? Is there some natural barrier in England against the effects of capital, industry, science, and religion; or is it not that ignorance of the laws that regulate and harmonize social existence, and of those that govern the human mind, has hitherto been extensively prevalent, and is still resisting the remedies of riper experience?

"But the poor and ignorant cannot educate themselves; it must be the upper classes who give them the means of improvement. In the natural laws of society, the use of a class who are independent of labour for subsistence, is, that a certain part of the community should have leisure to acquire that general knowledge which is the parent of wise institutions and pure morals. That they should have such affluence as to give weight to their example and authority, is also desirable. Government, as has already been observed, cannot act effectively against a very great preponderance of error and prejudice, but must legislate in the spirit of truths that are generally known, and in the service of interests that excite general sympathy.

"The object of this work is not to advocate particular measures, nor even to assume that every thing that is wrong is so through culpable neglect; but it is to call attention to the grievous evils, that neither legislation nor zeal and charity can counteract with effect, till the increased education of all classes assists their efforts. Something must be wanting, when such unrivalled knowledge and wealth are accompanied by such various and wide-spread evils. It is not benevolence that is deficient, for nowhere can we turn without meeting it in private, struggling against miseries too great for its power, and in public devoting abilities of the first order to the cause of humanity.

"It is the wider diffusion of knowledge we require: more heads and hands still are wanted, qualified for acting in concert, or at least acting generally on right principles. Too many persons capable of generous feeling are absorbed and corrupted by luxury and frivolity; too many waste their efforts from shallow, mistaken, and contradictory views."

Then follows a splendid description of scientific energy, the gratification which it affords, and the noble objects to which it points the way.

"In examining the prodigious resources at the command of the upper classes of English society, it is finely remarked, that 'the fine arts are the materials by which our physical and animal sensations are converted into moral perceptions.'

"Every thing in the form of matter, however coarse—the refuse and dross of more valuable materials—is resolvable, by science, into elements too subtle for our vision, and yet possessed of such potency that they effect transmutations more surprising than the fables of magic. The points that spangle the still blue vault, and make night lovely to the untaught peasant, interpreted by science, expand into worlds and systems of worlds: some so remote, that even the character of light, in which their existence is declared to us, can scarcely give full assurance of their reality—some, kindred planets which science has measured, and has told their movements, their seasons, and the length of their days. Such resemblances to our own globe are ascertained in their general laws, and such diversity in their peculiar ones, that we are led irresistibly to believe they all teem with beings, sentient and intelligent as we are, yet whose senses, and powers, and modes of existence, must be very dissimilar, and indefinitely varied. The regions of space, within the field of our vision, present us with phenomena the most incomprehensibly mysterious, and with knowledge the most accurate and demonstrable. Light, motion, form, and magnitude—the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms—have their several sciences, and each would exhaust a life to master it completely. No uneasy passion follows him who engages in such speculations, where continual pursuit is made happy by the sense of continual progress. He leaves his cares at the threshold; for when his attention is fixed, so great is the pleasure of contemplation, that it seems good to have been born for this alone.

"If we turn to the moral world, where, strange as it seems, we meet with less clearness and grandeur, yet there our deep interest in its truths supplies a different, perhaps a more powerful attraction. While we wonder and hope, the general laws of sentient existence give us glimpses of their harmony with those of inanimate nature. The latter seems assuredly made for the use of the former. The identity of benevolence with wisdom presents itself to our minds as a necessary truth, and, notwithstanding our perplexities, brings peace to our hearts. Social distinctions sink to insignificance when contemplating our place in existence, and the privilege of reading the book of nature, and sharing the thoughts and the sentiments of the distinguished among men, atones for obscurity and neglect; neither would the troubled power of a throne nor the flushing of victory repay us for the sacrifice of those pleasures."

The second volume opens with a dissertation on luxury, in which the subject is treated with the depth and perspicuity that the extracts we have already made will have prepared our readers to anticipate. Luxury is a word of relative, and therefore of ambiguous signification; it may be the test of prosperity—it may be the harbinger of decay: according to the state of society in which it prevails, its signification will, of course, be different. The effect of civilization is to increase the number of our wants. The same degree of education which, during the last century, was considered, even by the upper classes, a superfluity, is now a necessary for the middling class, and will soon become a necessary for the lowest, or all but the lowest, members of society. Most of our readers are acquainted with the story of the Highland chief who rebuked his son indignantly for making a pillow of a snowball. Sumptuary laws have always been inefficient, or efficient only for the purposes of oppression. Public morality has been their pretext—the private gratification of jealousy their aim. In republics they were intended to allay the envy of the poor—in monarchies to flatter the arrogance of the great. The first of these motives produced, as Say observes, the law Orchia at Rome, which prohibited the invitation of more than a certain number of guests. The second was the cause of an edict passed in the reign of Henry II. of France, by which the use of silken shoes and garments was confined to princes and bishops. States are ruined by the extravagance, not of their subjects, but of their rulers.

Luxury is pernicious when it is purchased at an excessive price, or when it stands in the way of advantages greater and more attainable. The worse a government is, the more effect does it produce upon the manners and habits of its subjects. The influence of a government of favourites and minions over the community, is as prodigious as it is baneful. Every innocent pleasure is a blessing. Luxury is innocent, nay, it is desirable, as far as it can contribute to health and cleanliness—to rational enjoyment; as far as it serves to prevent gross debauchery; and, as one of our poets has expressed it,

"When sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy,"

it should be encouraged. It does not follow, because the materials for luxury are wanted, that the bad passions and selfishness, which are its usual companions, will be wanted also. A Greenlander may display as much gluttony over his train oil and whale blubber as the most refined epicure can exhibit with the Physiologie du Gout in his hand, and with all Monsieur Ude's science at his disposal. When the gratification of our taste and senses interferes with our duty to our country, or our neighbours, or our friends—when, for the sake of their indulgence, we sacrifice our independence—or when, rather than abandon it, we neglect our duties sacred and imperative as they may be—the most favourable casuists on the side of luxury allow that it is criminal. But even when it stops far short of this scandalous excess, the habit of immoderate self-indulgence can hardly long associate in the same breast with generous, manly, and enlightened sentiments: its inevitable effect is to stifle all vigorous energy, as well as to eradicate every softer virtue. It is the parent of that satiety which is the most unspeakable of all miseries—a short satisfaction is purchased by long suffering, and the result is an addition to our stock, not of pleasure, but of pain.

The next topic to which our attention is directed is the influence of habit. Habit is thus defined:—

"Habit is the aptitude for any actions or impressions produced by frequent repetition of them."

The word impressions is used to designate affections of mind and body that are involuntary, in contradistinction to those which we can originate and control. For instance, we may choose whether or not we will enter into any particular enquiry; but when we have entered upon it, we cannot prevent the result that the evidence concerning it will produce upon our minds. A person conversant with mathematical studies can no more help believing that the diagonal of a square is incommensurable with its side, than, if his hand had been thrust in the fire, he could help feeling heat. The remarks which follow are ingenious and profound:—

"The more amusements," continues the writer, "partake of an useful character, the more lasting they are. This is never the case with trifles; when the enjoyment is over, they leave little or nothing in the mind. They are not steps to something else, they have no connexion with other and further results, to be brought out by further endeavours. The attempt to make life a series of quickly succeeding emotions, will ever prove a miserable failure; whereas, when the chief part of our time is spent in labour, active power increases—the exertion of it becomes habit—the mind gathers strength; and emotion being husbanded, retains its freshness, and the spirits preserve their alacrity through life. It follows that the most agreeable labours are those which superadd to an object of important and lasting interest a due mixture of intermediate and somewhat diversified results. To a mechanic, making a set of chairs and tables, for example, is more agreeable than working daily at a sawpit. But nothing can deprive the industrious man (however undiversified his employment) of the advantage of having a constant and important pursuit—viz. earning the necessaries and comforts of life; and when we consider the uneasiness of a life without any steady pursuit, and how slight is the influence that such as one merely voluntary has over most men, it seems certain that, as a general rule, we do not err in representing the necessity of labour as a safeguard of happiness."

Active habits are such as action gives: passive habits are such as our condition qualifies us to receive. In emotion, however violent, we may be passive, the forgiving and the vindictive man are for a time equally passive in their emotions. It is when the vindictive man proceeds to retaliation upon an adversary that he becomes a voluntary agent. It is often difficult to analyse the ingredients of our thought, and to determine how far they are involuntary and how far they are spontaneous. Nor is this an enquiry the solution of which can ever affect the majority of mankind: it is not with such subtleties that the practice of the moralist is concerned. It is a psychological fact, which never can be repeated too often, that habit deadens impression and fortifies activity. It gives energy to that power which depends on the sanction of the will—it renders the sensations which are nearly passive every day more languid and insignificant.

"Mon sachet de fleurs," says Montaigne, "sert d'abord a mon nez; mais, apres que je m'en suis servi huit jours, il ne sert plus qu'au nez des assistants." So the taste becomes accustomed to the most irritating stimulants, and is finally palsied by their continued application, yet the necessity of having recourse to these provocatives becomes daily more imperious.

"Crescit indulgens sibi dirus hydrops Nec sitim pellit."

The tanner who lives among his hides till he is insensible to their exhalations—the surgeon who has conquered the disgust with which the objects around him must fill an ordinary individual—the sensualist, on whose jaded appetite all the resources of art and all the loveliness of nature are employed in vain—may serve as common instances of the first part of the proposition; and the astonishing facility acquired by particular men in the business with which they are conversant, are proofs no less irrefragable of the second. Can any argument be conceived which is more decisive in favour of the moral economy to which even this lower world is subject, than the undeniable fact, that virtue is fortified by exercise, and pain conquered by endurance; while vice, like the bearer of the sibyl's books, extorts every hour a greater sacrifice for less enjoyment? The passage in Mammon's speech is no less philosophically accurate than it is poetically beautiful—

"Out torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper, which must needs remove The sensible of pain."

So does man pass on his way, from youth to manhood, from manhood till the shadow of death falls upon him; and while his moral and physical structure adapts itself to the incessant vicissitudes of his being, he imagines himself the same. The same in sunshine and in tempest—in the temperate and the torrid zone—in sickness and in health—in joy and sorrow—at school and in the camp or senate—still, still he is the same. His passions change, his pleasures alter; what once filled him with rapture, is now indifferent, it may be loathsome. The friends of his youth are his friends no longer—other faces are around him—other voices echo in his ears. Still he is the same—the same, when chilling experience has taught him its bitter lesson, and when life in all its glowing freshness first dawned upon his view. The same, when "vanity of vanities" is graven upon his heart—as when his youthful fancy revelled in scenes of love, of friendship, and of renown. The same, when cold, cautious, interested, suspicious, guilty—as when daring, reckless, frank, confiding, innocent. Still the dream continues, still the vision lasts, until some warning yet unknown—the tortures of disease, or the loss of the very object round which his heartstrings were entwined, anguish within, and desolation without—stir him into consciousness, and remind him of that fast approaching change which no illusion can conceal. Such is the pliability of our nature, so varied are the modes of our being; and thus, through the benevolence of Him who made us, the cause which renders our keenest pleasures transient, makes pain less acute, and death less terrible.

It follows from this, that in youth positive attainment is a matter of little moment, compared with the habits which our instructors encourage us to acquire. The fatal error which is casting a blight over our plans of education, is to look merely to the immediate result, totally disregarding the motive which has led to it, and the qualities of which it is the indication; yet, would those to whom the delicate and most responsible task of education is confided, but consider that habits of mind are formed by inward principle, and not external action, they would adopt a more rational system than that to which mediocrity owes its present triumph over us; and which bids fair to wither up, during another generation, the youth and hopes of England. Such infatuation is equal to that of the husbandman who should wish to deprive the year of its spring, and the plants of their blossoms, in hopes of a more nutritious and abundant harvest.

"The inward principle required to give habits of industry, temperance, good temper, and so forth, is the express intention of being industrious, temperate, and gentle, and regulating one's actions accordingly. But the inward principle exercised by a routine of irksome restraints, submitted to passively on no other grounds but the laws of authority, or the influence of fashion, or imposed merely as the necessary condition of childhood, may be only that of yielding to present impression. He who, in youth, yields passively to fear or force, in after life may be found to yield equally to pleasure or temper; the habit of yielding to present impressions, in the first case, prepares the mind for yielding to them in the second, without any attempt at self-control.

"The necessity of reducing the young, in the first instance, to implicit obedience, and the utility of a strict routine of duties, is not hereby disputed. The impressions arising from every species of restraint and coercion, whether from the command of another or our own reason, being almost invariably unpleasant at first, it is necessary (on the theory of habit) to weaken their force by repetition, before the principle of self-government can be expected to act. But the point insisted on is, that weakening the pain of restraint and of submission to rules, will not necessarily create an intention of adhering to the rules, when coercion ceases. An intention is a mental action, and even when excited, it is neither impossible nor uncommon that the practice of forming intentions may be accompanied by the practice of breaking them; and as the shame and remorse of so doing wear out through frequency, a character of weakness is formed."

Although we regret the omission of some observations on waste and prodigality—remarks in which the most profound knowledge of the best authorities on this subject is tempered with a strict attention to practical interest, and a minute acquaintance with the affairs of ordinary life—we proceed to the chapters on "Frivolity and Ignorance," with which, and an admirable dissertation on the authority of reason, the volume terminates. These chapters yield to none in this admirable work for utility and importance; there are three subjects on which the influence of frivolity, baneful as it always is, is most peculiarly dangerous and destructive—education, politics, and religion. On all these great points, inseparably connected as they are with human happiness and virtue, the frivolity of women may give a bias to the character of the individual, which will be traced in his career to the last moment of his existence. The author well observes that frivolity and ignorance, rather than deliberate guilt, are the causes of political error and tergiversation. If there are few persons ready to devote themselves to the good of their species, and carrying their attention beyond kindred and acquaintance, to comprise the most distant posterity and regions the most remote within the scope of their benevolence; so there are few of those monsters in selfishness, who would pursue their own petty interests when the happiness of millions is an obstacle to its gratification; but as a leaf before the eye will hide a universe, self-love limits the intellectual horizon to a compass inconceivably narrow; and the prosperity of nations, when placed in the balance with a riband or a pension, has too often kicked the beam. Professional business, and the love of detail, which is so deeply rooted in most English natures, tends also to contract the thoughts, to erect a false standard of merit, and to fill the mind with petty objects. As an instance of this, it may be remarked that Lord Somers is the only great man who, in England, has ever filled a judicial situation. So wide is the difference between present success and future reputation—so weak on all sides but one, are those who have limited themselves to one side only—so technical and engrossing are the avocations of an English lawyer. The best, if not the only remedy for this evil, is, in the words of our author, the "study of well-chosen books."

"Life must often consist of acts or concerns which, taken individually, are trivial; but the speculations of great minds relate to important objects. By their eloquence they draw forth the best emotions of which we are capable, they fill our minds with the knowledge of great and general truths, which, if they relate to the works of creation, exalt our nature and almost give us a new existence; or if they unfold the conditions and duties of human life, they kindle our desire for worthy ends, and teach us how to promote them. We learn to consider ourselves not as single and detached beings, with separate interests from others, but as parts of that great class who are the support of society— that is, the upright, the intelligent, and the industrious. Hence we cease to be absorbed by one set of narrow ideas; and the least duties are dignified by being viewed as parts of a general system. The bulk of mankind must and ought to confine their attention principally to their own immediate business. But if they who belong to the higher orders, do not avail themselves of their command of time, to enlarge their minds and acquire knowledge, one of the great uses of an upper class will be lost."

The trite and ridiculous axiom, the common refuge of imbecility, that women should take no interest in politics, is then sifted and exposed; it would be as wise to say, that women should take no interest in the blood that circulates through their bodies because they are not physicians, or in the air they breathe because they are not chemists. The people who are most fond of repeating this absurdity, are, it may be observed, the very people who are most furious with women for not acquiescing at once in any absurdity which they may think proper to promulgate as an incontrovertible truth. Ill temper, and rash opinions, and crude notions, are always mischievous; but it is not in politics alone that they are exhibited, and the women most applauded for not meddling with politics, (an expression which, as our author properly observes, assumes the whole matter in dispute,) are generally those who adhere to the most obsolete doctrines with the greatest tenacity, and pursue those who differ with them in opinion with the most unmitigated rancour. In short, it is not till enquiry supersedes implicit belief, till violence gives place to reflection, till the study of sound and useful writers takes the place of sweeping and indiscriminate condemnation, that this aphorism is brought forward by those who would have listened with delight to the wildest effusions of bigotry and ignorance. But in the work before us, the author (convincing as her reasons are) has furnished the most complete practical refutation of this ridiculous error.

Infinitely worse, however, than any evil which can arise from this or any other source, is that which the opinions and ideas of a frivolous woman must entail upon those unhappy beings of whom she superintends the education.

"Turpe est difficiles habere nugas Et stultus labor est ineptiarum,"

is a text on which, even in this great and free country, many comments may be found.

The pursuit of eminence in trifles, the common sign of a bad heart, is an infallible proof of a feeble understanding. A man may dishonour his birth, ruin his estate, lose his reputation, and destroy his health, for the sake of being the first jockey or the favourite courtier of his day. And how should it be otherwise, when from the lips whence other lessons should have proceeded, selfishness has been inculcated as a duty, a desire for vain distinctions and the love of pelf encouraged as virtues, and a splendid equipage, or it may be some bodily advantage, pointed out as the highest object of human ambition? To set the just value on every enjoyment, to choose noble and becoming objects of pursuit, are the first lessons a child should learn; and if he does not learn their rudiments on his mother's knees, he will hardly acquire the knowledge of them elsewhere. The least disparagement of virtue, the slightest admiration for trifling and merely extrinsic objects, may produce an indelible effect on the tender mind of youth; and the mother who has taught her son to bow down to success, to pay homage to wealth and station, which virtue and genius should alone appropriate, is the person to whom the meanness of the crouching sycophant, the treachery of the trading politician, the brutality of the selfish tyrant, and the avarice of the sordid miser, in after life must be attributed.

This argument is closed by some very judicious remarks on the degree in which the perusal of works of imagination is beneficial.

"It is not easy to explain to a person whose mind is trifling, the consequences of the over-indulgence in passive impressions produced by light reading, or to make them understand the different effect produced by the highest order of works of imagination, and the trivial compositions which inundate the press, with no merit but some commonplace moral. Both are classed together as works of amusement; but the first enrich the mind with great and beautiful ideas, and, provided they be not indulged in to an extravagant excess, refine the feelings to generosity and tenderness. They counteract the sordid or the petty turn, which we are liable to contract from being wholly immersed in mere worldly business, or given up to the follies of the great world; in either case confined too much to intercourse with barren hearts and narrow minds. It is of great use to the 'dull, sullen prisoner in the body's cage' sometimes 'to peep out,' and be made to feel that it has aspirations for somewhat more excellent than it has ever known; and that its own ideas can stretch forth into a grandeur beyond what this real existence provides for it. It is good for us to feel that the vices into which we are beguiled are hateful to our own minds in contemplation, and that it is our unconquerable nature to love and adore that virtue we do not, or cannot, attain to."

The remarks on the influence of frivolity on religion, on the mistaken name and worldly spirit introduced amongst its most solemn ordinances, are no less excellent. After pointing out the danger of mistaking excitement for devotion, and of separating the duties of man from the will of God, the sanctions of religion from the lessons of morality, the writer observes—

"The weak and ignorant are peculiarly liable to be infected with these doctrines, and to them they are peculiarly hurtful. Unable to take a just view of their particular duties, or of the uses and purposes of our natural faculties, creatures of impulse, slaves of circumstances, the pleasures of this hour fill them with vanity, the devotion of the next with enthusiasm, or perhaps terror. Charmed by worldly follies because they are ignorant or idle, and without resistance to vice because they have never learned self-command, they seek to extirpate all the natural emotions and desires which they do not know how to regulate, and so give up the world. But they deceive themselves; their moral defects are not lessened; they have only changed their objects. The frivolity which formerly made trifles absorb them, now spends itself on religion, which it degrades. Whatever the former defects of their character, whether selfishness, vanity, pride, ill-temper, indolence, or any other, it remains unconquered, though the manner in which it exhibits itself is different. In one respect they are much worse; formerly they were less blind to their own imperfections; they sometimes suspected they were wrong; now they are quite satisfied they are right; nor can they easily be undeceived, because, when about to examine their hearts and their conduct, the error in their views directs their efforts to a false standard."

We think we cannot more appropriately close the faint outline, in which we have endeavoured, however feebly, to shadow forth the merit of these volumes, than by placing before our readers the tribute to departed excellence, which this touching and finished picture is intended to convey.

"Leaving the contemplation of feverish excitement, fantastic and complicated subtleties, angry zeal, and dissocial passions, I turn to the records of memory, where are graven for ever the lineaments of one who was indeed a disciple of Christ, and whose character seemed the earthly reflection of his. Wherever there was existence her benevolence flowed forth, never enfeebled by the distance of its object, yet flushing the least of daily pleasures with its warmth. Her views rose to the most comprehensive moral grandeur, while her calm, uncompromising energy against sin, was combined with an ever-flowing sympathy for weakness and woe. She spent her life in one continued system of active beneficence, in which her business, her projects, her pleasures, were but so many varied forms of serving her fellow-creatures. Never for a moment did a reflection for herself cross the current of her purposes for them. Her whole heart so went with their distresses and their joys, that she scarcely seemed to have an interest apart from theirs. The simplicity of her character was peculiarly striking, in the unhesitating readiness with which she received—I might even say, with which she grasped at—the correction of her errors, and listened to the suggestions of other persons. One undivided desire possessed her mind—it was not to seem right, but to do right.

"What heightened the resemblance between her and the model she followed, was, that her counsels came not from a bosom that had never been shaken with the passions she admonished, or the sorrows she endeavoured to soothe. Her character was one of deep sensibility and passions strong even to violence; but they were controlled and directed by such vivid faith as has never been surpassed. Her long life had tried her with almost every pang that attends the attachment of such beings to the mortal and the suffering, the erring and perverse; and when those sorrows came, that reached her heart through its deepest and most sacred affections, the passion burst forth, that showed what the energy of that principle must have been, that could have brought such a mind to a tenor of habitual calmness and serenity. When every element of anguish had been mingled together in one dreadful cup, and reason for a week or two was tottering in its seat, she was seen to resume the struggle against the passions that for a moment had conquered. The bonds that attached her to life were indeed broken for ever, but she recovered her heart-felt submission to God, and she learned by degrees again to be happy in the happiness she gave.

"It was this depth and strength of feeling that gave her a power over others, seldom surpassed, I believe, by any other mortal. In her the erring and the wretched found a sure refuge from themselves. The weakness that shrunk from the censure or the scorn of others, could be poured out to her as to one whose mission upon earth was to pity and to heal; for she knew the whole range of human infirmity, and that the wisest have the roots of those frailties that conquer the weak. But in restoring the fallen to their connexion with the honoured, she never held out a hope that they might parley with their temptations, or lower their standard of virtue: a confession to her cut off all self-delusion as to culpable conduct or passions. While she inspired the most uncompromising condemnation of the thing that was wrong, she never advised what was too hard for the "bruised reed;" she chose not the moment of excitement to rebuke the misguidings of passion, nor of weakness to point out the rigour of duty. But strength came in her presence: she seemed to bring with her irresistible evidence that any thing could be done which she said ought to be done. The truths of religion, stripped of fantastic disguises, appeared at her call with a living reality, and for a time, at least, the troubles of life sank down to their just level. When our sorrows are too big for our own bosoms, if others receive then with stoicism, it repels all desire to seek relief at their hands; but the calmness with which she attended to the effusions and perturbations of grief, seemed the earnest of safety from one who had passed through the storm. The deep and tender expression of her noble countenance suggested that feeling with which a superior being might be supposed to look down from heaven on the anguish of those who are still in the toils, but know not the reward that awaits them.

"Every thing petty seemed to drop off from her mind, but she imbibed the spirit of essentials so perfectly, she followed it throughout with such singleness of heart, that its influence affected her minutest actions, not by an effort of studied attention, but with the steadiness of a natural law. Nature and revelation she regarded as the two parts of one great connected system; she always contemplated the one with reference to the other; her views were therefore all practical and free from confusion, and nothing that promoted the welfare of this world could cease to be a part of her duty to God. It was her maxim that the motive dignified the action, however trivial in itself; and all the actions of her life were ennobled by the motive of obedience to an all-powerful Being, because he is the pure essence of wisdom and goodness. In the virtue of those who had not the consoling belief of the Christian, she still saw the handwriting of God, that cannot be effaced from a generous mind; and she used to dwell with delight on the idea that the good man, from whose eyes the light of faith was withheld in this life, would arise with rapture in the next, to the knowledge that a happiness was in store for him which he had not dared to believe.

"It was not the extent of her intellectual endowments that made her the object of veneration to all who knew her; it was her extraordinary moral energy. The clear and vigorous view she took of every subject arose chiefly from her habit of looking directly for its bearing on virtue or happiness; she saw the essential at a glance, or could not be diverted from the truth by a passion or a prejudice. Hence, also, her lofty undeviating justice; her regard to the rights of others was so scrupulous, that every one within reach of her influence reposed on her decisions with unhesitating trust; nor would the certainty that the interests of those she loved best were involved, have cast a shadow of doubt over her stainless impartiality.

"She could be deceived, for she was too simple and lofty always to conceive the objects of base minds:—

"'And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill, Where no ill seems.' Paradise Lost.

"Nevertheless, she generally read the characters of artifice and insincerity with intuitive quickness, though it was often believed she was duped by those whom she saw through completely. Of this she was aware, but she was so exempt from all desire to prove her sagacity, that she never cared to correct the misconception; and she held that it was neither useful nor quite justifiable to expose all the pretences we may discover, till it became necessary to set the unwary on their guard.

"She never renounced the innocent pleasures or pursuits of life, nor the proprieties of a distinguished station, though she partook so little of its luxuries, that she could pass from the splendour of her own establishment to one the most confined, apparently without sensibility to the change. Wherever she moved, she inspired joy and cheerfulness; yet she was by no means unreserved, except to those she tenderly loved, and it was surprising how any manner so gentle, could at the same time oppose a barrier so impassable to the advances of the unworthy. She enjoyed the beauty of nature with passion. Her mind, at an advanced age, had all the elasticity and animation of the prime of life, and she could be led to forget half the night in the excitement of conversation. Happy were the hours spent with her in the discussion of every subject that could call forth her opinions, and her wide knowledge of the eventful times in which she had lived!—hours that exalted the feelings, informed the understandings, and animated the playfulness of younger minds, who found that forty years of difference between their age and hers, took nothing from their sympathies, but added a new and rare delight to their intercourse.

"But she is gone! To those who knew her, her counsels are silent and her place void; but there remains the distinct consciousness, that to them had been given a living evidence of the true Christian spirit, for if hers were not true, than many errors be more excellent than truth! Far distant, and with unequal steps, they endeavour to follow her course and perhaps the distaste with which they turn from the defective and ill-proportioned models that are forced on their admiration, is scarcely consistent with the charity she always taught."

Great, indeed, is the task assigned to woman. Who can elevate its dignity? who can exaggerate its importance? Not to make laws, not to lead armies, not to govern empires, but to form those by whom laws are made, and armies led, and empires governed; to guard from the slightest taint of possible infirmity the frail, and as yet spotless creature whose moral, no less than his physical, being must be derived from her; to inspire those principles, to inculcate those doctrines, to animate those sentiments, which generations yet unborn, and nations yet uncivilized, shall learn to bless; to soften firmness into mercy, to chasten honour into refinement, to exalt generosity into virtue; by her soothing cares to allay the anguish of the body, and the far worse anguish of the mind; by her tenderness to disarm passion; by her purity to triumph over sense; to cheer the scholar sinking under his toil; to console the statesman for the ingratitude of a mistaken people; to be the compensation for hopes that are blighted, for friends that are perfidious, for happiness that has passed away. Such is her vocation—the couch of the tortured sufferer, the prison of the deserted friend, the scaffold of the godlike patriot, the cross of a rejected Saviour; these are the scenes of woman's excellence, these are the theatres on which her greatest triumphs have been achieved. Such is her destiny—to visit the forsaken, to attend to the neglected; amid the forgetfulness of myriads to remember—amid the execrations of multitudes to bless; when monarchs abandon, when counsellors betray, when justice persecutes, when brethren and disciples fly, to remain unshaken and unchanged; and to exhibit, on this lower world, a type of that love—pure, constant, and ineffable—which in another world we are taught to believe the best reward of virtue.

* * * * *



A PLEA FOR ANCIENT TOWNS AGAINST RAILWAYS.

It is impossible to look, without surprise, to the progress of the railway system since the first experiment in 1830. The Liverpool and Manchester line was opened in the September of that year, at an expense of L.1,200,000; and in the thirteen years since that period, line after line has been laid down and opened for traffic, till the completed railways amount to many hundred miles in length, and the expenditure of capital has been many millions of money.

The advantages of a line between Manchester and Liverpool were obvious. It connected the two towns—the importing and the manufacturing—which needed connexion the most; and, in fact, the harbour gained an enormous manufacturing population, and the population gained a harbour. The outlay, prodigious as it was, was found a profitable investment; but the benefits of the improvement were so great that the mere profits on the undertaking, as a pecuniary speculation, were lost sight of, in the higher view of the impetus given to the trade of these two main seats of our commercial enterprize. It became a national undertaking; Birmingham and the other wealthy towns were determined to have the same advantage; London became, of course, the great centre to which every new line tended; and in an incredibly short space of time, at an incredible expenditure of money, the iron and cotton emporiums of the north, the packet stations of the south and south-west, the agricultural and manufacturing districts of the north-east, all were moved into the actual neighbourhood of the capital. The beautiful Southampton water flowed within three hours of the Bank. Ipswich was not much further off than Hammersmith; and Bath and Bristol were but a morning's drive from Buckingham palace or Windsor.

What has been the effect of all these improvements, and to what do they all tend?

If the whole prosperity of a nation depended on rapidity of conveyance, there could be but one answer to the enquiry—but even in that case the prosperity must depend on rapidity of conveyance between the particular places which the railway unites—Manchester and Liverpool, Birmingham and London, and generally the great towns at the termini, and some throughout all of the intermediate stations, have cause to rejoice in the improvement. And land and houses in the neighbourhood have increased in value, their correspondence is conducted in half the time, and money is of course distributed in fertilizing rills by the crowds of travellers who pass through them on their way to join the train. But these advantages are local, and an opinion is now gaining ground that they are obtained at the expense of other places. What possible benefit can accrue to a town or neighbourhood near which the railway passes, but where there is no station? Can it encourage the trade of such a town as Dangley or Standon to know, that the five or six thousand beings who are whirled past them, with almost invisible rapidity, every day, arrive in Liverpool in ten hours after leaving London? On the contrary, is it not found to be directly injurious to them by the encouragement it gives to towns and villages more favourably situated; while their inns become deserted, their tradespeople are drifted out of the great stream of business, their turn-pikes are ruined, and grass grows in their streets. Let us take any one of the great lines, and see the number of towns whose ancient prosperity it has destroyed. From London to York a few years ago, ten or twelve coaches gave life and animation to all the places they passed through. Their hotels and commercial rooms were filled at every blowing of the guard's horn; tradespeople looked out from behind their counters with a smile, as, with a dart and rattle, the four thoroughbred greys pulled the well-known fast coach up the street, loaded inside and out. They became proud of their Tally-ho, or Phenomenon; they got their newspapers and parcels "with accuracy and despatch," and enjoyed the natural advantages of their situation. Now the case is altered; a two-horse coach, or perhaps an omnibus, jumbles occasionally to the railway station, and the traveller complains that it takes him longer time to go the ten or twelve miles across the country than all the rest of the journey. Then he grumbles at the inconvenience of changing his mode of conveyance, and only revisits the out-of-the-way place when he cannot avoid it.

A person settling in one of these towns twenty years ago, establishing trade, buying or building premises, in the belief that, however business may alter from other causes, his geographical position must, at all events, continue unchanged, must be as much astonished as was Macbeth at the migratory propensities of Birnam forest, when he perceives that towns a hundred miles down the road have actually walked between him and London; get their town parcels much earlier, and have digested and nearly forgotten their newspaper, while he is waiting in a fever of expectation to know whether rums is much riz or sugars is greatly fell. He calls for a branch railway to put him on equal terms; but a vast hill, perhaps, rises between him and the main line—it would cost forty thousands pounds a mile—he must bore an enormous tunnel, and fill up a prodigious valley, and the united wealth of all the shopkeepers in the town would fall far short of the required half million. He sinks down in sheer despair, or takes to drinking with the innkeeper, who has already had an attack of delirium tremens, gives up the Times newspaper for the Weekly Despatch, and thinks Mr Frost a much injured character, and Rebecca a Welsh Hampden. The railway has touched his pocket, and the iron has entered into his soul. He feels as if he lived at the Land's-End, or had emigrated to the back woods of America. All the world goes at a gallop, and he creeps. Finally, he is removed to Hanwell, and endeavours to persuade Dr Conolly that he is one of Stephenson's engines, and goes hissing and spurting in fierce imitation of Rapid or Infernal. And all this is the natural consequence of having settled in an ancient city inaccessible to rails. A list could easily be made out that would astonish any one who had not reflected on the subject before, of cities and towns which must yield up their relative rank to more aspiring neighbourhoods on whom the gods of steam and iron have smiled. It will be sufficient to point out a few instances in some of the main lines of mail-coach travelling, and see what their position is now.

Let us go to Lincoln, region of fens and enterprize, of fat land and jolly yeomen. The mail is just ready to start; we pay our fare, and, after seeing our luggage carefully deposited in the recesses of the boot, we mount beside the red-faced, much-becoated individual who is flickering his whip in idle listlessness on the box; the guard gives a triumphal shout on his short tin horn, the flickering of the whip ceases, the horses snort and paw, and finally, in a tempest of sound and a whirlwind of dust, we career onward from the Saracen's head, and watch the stepping of the stately team with pride and exultation—a hundred and forty miles before us, and thirteen hours on the road.

In fifty-five minutes we are at Barnet—pick up a stout gentleman and plethoric portmanteau in the green shades of Little Heath lane; and dashing through Hatfield, as if we were announcing Waterloo, change horses again at Stanborough. Away, away, the coach and we, with two very jolly fellows on the roof, and cross in due time the beautiful river Lea, scattering letter-bags at every gentleman's lodge as we pass, with a due proportion of fish-baskets and other diminutive parcels. Hedges, row after row, dance past us with all their leaves and blossoms—milestone after milestone is merrily left behind—we have crossed the Maran, the Joel; the sluggish Ouse, trotted gaily on under the shadow of the episcopal towers of Buckden, and perform wonders with a knife and fork, in the short space of twenty minutes, in the comfortable hotel at Stamford. Refreshed and invigorated with a couple of ducks and a vast goblet of home-brewed—for it is well known we and all other good subjects are rigid anti-Mathewsians—we continue our course through unnumbered villages and market towns, Coltersworth, Spittlegate, Ponton, Grantham, till Newark opens her hospitable gates; and finally, as "the shades of eve begin to fall," we descend from our proud eminence and commit ourselves to the tender attentions of a civil landlord, two waiters, and a stout chambermaid, in the chief inn of the good town of Lincoln.

Many coaches followed our track. Like the waves of the summer, as one rolled away, another as bright and as shining, came on. Every lane formed a "terminus," where a motion of the hand gave notice to the coachman that a passenger wished to get in; and it is impossible to doubt that the traffic along that smooth and wide highway was a source of prosperity to the whole neighbourhood.

The coaches are now off the road—the letters are carried by a mail train, and forwarded across in a high gig with red wheels, and the liveliness and bustle of all the villages and country towns are gone—a few more years, and the ruin of every turnpike trust in England will be another proof of the irresistible power of steam.

It is not contended that rapid intercommunication is an evil; or even that the towns we have mentioned, and hundreds of others, in all parts of the country, do not participate in the advantage, to the extent of being within a shorter distance of London than they were before; for it is evident, that to go to Lincoln would occupy less time if you went to Leicester by the railroad, and travelled the remaining miles by coach. But this is what we maintain—that towns or lines of road through which the railway runs, have an undue advantage—and that the prosperity so acquired, is at the expense of the towns which are not only at a distance from the new mode of communication, but are deprived of the old. Twelve years ago, upwards of a hundred coaches passed through Oxford in the four-and-twenty hours. We will be bound to say, not half a dozen pass through it now; and whatever the University may think upon the subject, it is certain that the alteration is of great detriment to the town, and makes little less difference to the Corn-market and High Street, than the turning the course of the Thames would do to Westminster and Wapping. Who is to keep the beautiful roads by Henley and High Wickham in repair? And who is to restore a value to the inns at the tidy comfortable towns along the line? Will the prosperity of Steveton bring back the gaieties of Tetsworth or Beaconsfield, and the numerous villages within an easy distance of the road? We repeat it—the towns which formerly enjoyed the natural advantages of their geographical position, are now deprived of them; they become subordinates instead of principals, and will sink more and more, as new competitors arise in the towns which will infallibly gather round every railway station.

In every county there are numbers of towns whose fate is sealed, unless some great effort is made to preserve their existence: Marlborough, Devizes, Hindon, Guildford, Farnham, Petersfield, the whole counties of Rutland and Dorset, and the greater part of Lincoln, besides hundreds, or probably thousands, of other places of inferior note.

But what is the effort that should be made, and how are the parties interested to bring their powers to bear in staving off the destruction that threatens them? It is to these points we are now about to address ourselves; and we trust, in spite of the lightness of some parts of this paper; the real weight of the subject will command the notice of all who feel anxious to benefit any neighbourhood in the position of some of those we have mentioned. And the attention of the trustees of high-roads throughout the kingdom is solicited to the following suggestions.

It is conceded on all hands, that where speed is required in draught, the horse cannot compete with mechanical power. At three miles an hour, the horse is the most perfect locomotive machine; but if his velocity be increased to ten, most of his power is consumed in moving himself. The average exertion in each horse in a four-horse heavy coach, is calculated by the author of the excellent Treatise on Draught, appended to the work published on the Horse by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, not to be equal to a strain of more than 62-1/2 lbs., and at twelve miles an hour to be barely 40 lbs. It is therefore useless to rely oh horse-power to enable a neighbourhood to retain its advantages in competition with a railway. To meet this difficulty many ingenious men turned their attention to the possibility of inventing a steam-engine applicable to common roads; and although, in several instances, their experiments succeeded, and many of the difficulties were overcome, still it is not to be denied that, on the whole, macadamized roads are not adapted to locomotive machines. Even when the road is in the best possible condition, the concussion is found so great as materially to interfere with the action of the machinery; and if the road be slightly muddy, or sandy, or newly gravelled, the draught will be double, or even treble what it is on the same road when free from dirt or dust. The author of the Treatise on Draught, accordingly, concludes against the use of steam-carriages on common roads, chiefly on account of their want of uniform hardness and smoothness, and the consequent wear and tear of the coach. "Perfection in a road," he says, "would be a plain, level, hard surface;" and in another passage—"Hardness, therefore, and consequently the absence of dust and dirt, which is easily crushed or displaced, is the grand desideratum in roads."

These opinions were published in 1831, and since that period the desideratum has been supplied. A method of preparing a road has been discovered, uniting all the qualities required for the perfection of a highway. We allude to the system recently introduced of paving a road with wood. On this smooth and hard surface a steam coach goes more easily than on iron rails, and the expense of laying it down is trifling in comparison.

At a meeting of the South-eastern Railway Company in July 1843, a branch line to Maidstone, ten miles in length, was proposed; and as the directors were satisfied it would be beneficial to the parent line, they determined to raise L.149,300, on loan notes or mortgage, to complete it. This gives an expenditure of L.15,000 a mile, and, judging from the estimate of other lines, the estimate is exceedingly low. For less than a third of the sum, the distance could have been laid down in wood without interfering with the traffic of the present road; for one great advantage of the proposed method consists in this, that by setting aside a portion of the present highway, where it is wide enough, or widening it a few feet where it is too narrow, the turnpike would derive a considerable income from the steam-coaches, and the traffic would continue in its accustomed channels. Where a portion of the road was set apart for the sole use of the steam-coaches, they could travel at a very considerable rate, and at a third of the expense of horse-power. And even if the wooden lines were laid down on the common road, with no exclusive barriers between them and other vehicles, a speed of fifteen or sixteen miles an hour could be maintained with perfect safety to themselves and the public. On the 27th of April last year, Mr Squire tried his steam-carriage in the streets of London, and ran along the macadamized part, then in fine condition, at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. On coming to the wooden pavement the difference was at once perceptible; and he pronounced that on such roads he should have no difficulty in keeping up a velocity of thirty miles an hour. In other respects, his carriage appeared to be perfect, and was guided with much greater facility than an ordinary coach.

This gentleman had run his carriage on common roads with great success; and the experiments made in 1831 had attracted so much notice, that a Parliamentary Committee was appointed in that year; and another in 1834, to examine into the subject. As the decision of these committees was eminently favourable, in spite of the difficulties, at that time generally thought insurmountable, arising from the nature of the highways to be travelled on, we shall quote some portion of their reports, from which it will be seen that all other difficulties were overcome.

Mr Goldsworthy Gurney, the first inventor of steam-coaches adapted for common roads, says in his evidence—

"I have always found the most perfect command in guiding these carriages. Suppose we were going at the rate of eight miles an hour, we could stop immediately. In case of emergency, we could instantly throw the steam on the reverse side of the piston, and stop within a few yards. The stop of the carriage is singular; it would be supposed that the momentum would carry it far forward, but it is not so; the steam brings it up gradually and safely, though rather suddenly—I would say within six or seven yards. On a declivity, we are well stored with apparatus: we have three different modes of dragging the carriage."

"You stated in your former evidence, that you anticipated that passengers would be carried at one-half the rate by your steam-carriages that they are by the common carriages; what difference in the ordinary expences of carriage would it make, if you had a paved road for this purpose?

"I think it would reduce the expense to one-half again."

"To what velocity could you increase your present rate of travelling with your engine?"

"I have stated that the velocity is limited by practical experience only; theoretically it is limited only by quantity of steam. Twelve miles, I think, we could keep up steadily, and run with great safety. The extreme rate that we have run, is between twenty and thirty miles an hour."

"What is the greatest number of passengers you have taken on that carriage?"

"Thirty-six passengers and their luggage. The greatest weight we could draw by that carriage, at the rate of ten miles an hour, is from forty to fifty hundred-weight. The greatest weight we ever drew on the common road, at a rate of from five to six miles an hour, was eleven tons. We made the experiment on the Bristol road. The weight of the drawing carriage was upwards of two tons; it drew five times its own weight. The eleven tons included the weight of the drawing carriage, and I did not consider that its maximum power."

In a very scientific and interesting Treatise on Locomotion, by Mr Alexander Gordon, a civil engineer of eminence, we find an account given of the trial of power alluded to by Mr Gurney. A pair of three feet wheels were used on the hind axle, and the engine drew with ease a large waggon loaded with cast-iron. After going about a mile and a quarter, a cart also loaded with cast-iron was attached to the waggon. The engine started with these loaded carriages, and returned to Gloucester. The additional weight made so little apparent difference to the engine, that on the way back several persons among the spectators got up and rode; the number altogether amounted to twenty-six. The united weight amounted to ten tons. Going into Gloucester, there is a rise of one foot in twenty, or twenty-five.

Two great objections were advanced by the opponents of the proposed innovation, which are most emphatically answered by the Report of the Committee of 1834. Even in 1831, the Committee reported as follows:—

"It has frequently been urged against these carriages, that wherever they may be introduced, they must effectually prevent all other travelling on the road, as no horse will bear the noise and smoke of the engine. The Committee believe that these statements are unfounded. Whatever noise may be complained of, arises from the present defective construction of the machinery, and will be corrected as the makers of such carriages gain greater experience. Admitting even that the present engines do work with some degree of noise, the effect on horses has been greatly exaggerated. All the witnesses accustomed to travel in these carriages, even in the crowded roads adjacent to the metropolis, have stated, that horses are very seldom frightened in passing."

But in 1834, the report is still more conclusive on this point. Mr Macneil, a distinguished civil engineer, gives the following evidence:—

"At the time the Committee sat in 1831, I could speak as to having seen only one steam-carriage on a turnpike road, and as to the effect on horses that passed it on the road. From considerable experience since that time, I am quite certain, that in a very short period there will be no complaint of horses being frightened by steam-carriages. I do not know that I have seen more than two or three horses in all my experience, that were at all frightened by any of the carriages. I travelled with, and I have passed many times through some of the most crowded streets in London and in Birmingham, in steam-carriages. I have also seen horses out in the morning, led by grooms, which would in all probability be startled by any object at all likely to frighten a horse, and they did not take the least notice of the engine. At another time, several ladies passed on horseback without the least alarm, and some of them rode close after the carriage, and alongside of it, as long as they could keep up with it."

This evidence is corroborated by all the other witnesses; and great as the noise, and fearful as the horrid gasping of the engine may be, we are not prepared to say that terror may not as naturally be excited in the heart of the most gallant of Houyeneans by the thunder and glitter of a fast coach, rushing downhill at the rate of sixteen miles an hour. In fact, the horse that has ceased—like a young lady after her second season—to be shy, will care no more for a steam-engine than a tilted waggon. And it is decidedly our private and confidential opinion, from a long experience of vivacious roadsters, that a quadruped which maintains its equanimity on encountering a baker's cart with an awning, will face the noisiest and most vociferous of boilers. But granting that the committee is right in coming to this conclusion as far as regards the danger arising to horses, the other objection we alluded to was a poser, from which we shall be glad to see how they extricate themselves—we mean the injury done to the turnpike road. Why, it turns out that a steam-coach does no injury at all; but, from the necessity it is under to sport the widest and strongest of wheels, it acts as a sort of roller, and might pass for a deputy Macadam. Mr Macneil, who has had great experience in road surveying, says that, even in 1831, he had stated that, from the examination he had made as to the wear of iron in the shoes of horses, compared with the wear on the tire of the wheels of carriages, the injury done to the turnpike roads would be much less by steam-carriages than that done by mail and stage coaches drawn by horses. Since then, "I have had practical experience on this point, and have carefully examined the roads in different parts of the country where steam-carriages have been running, and I have every reason to believe the opinion I then gave was correct; indeed, I have not the least doubt in my mind, that if steam-carriages ran generally on the turnpike roads of the kingdom, one-half of the annual expense of the repairs of these roads would be saved."

It is supposed that the tolls throughout England are let for more than a million and a half a-year! A saving of one half in this enormous amount would fructify in the pockets (now remarkably in need of some process of the kind) of the public, to the entire satisfaction of Rebecca and all her daughters. And yet with this evidence, of perhaps the best practical authority on the subject, before their eyes, let us see what the wiseacres of certain rural districts did to encourage economy and inland transit. By means of a tremendous instrument of tyranny called a local act, (for which the Grand Sultan would be very glad to exchange his firman,) the road trustees of various neighbourhoods have laid an embargo on all steam carriages, by enacting intolerable payments. Thus on the Liverpool and Prescot road, a steam-carriage would be charged L.2, 8s.; while a loaded stage-coach would pay only four shillings! On the Bathgate road the same carriage would be charged L.1, 7s. 1d.; while a coach drawn by four horses would pay five shillings. On the Ashburnham and Totness road, steam would pay L.2; and a four-horse coach three shillings. And how did these sages settle the rates of payment? The reader would never guess, so we will tell him at once-they charged for each horse power as if the boiler contained a whole stud, all trampling the road to atoms with iron shoes; whereas they ought have let the broad-wheeled carriage go free, if, indeed, they were not called on to pay it a certain sum each journey for the benefit it did the highway.

Such was the evidence that led the committee to decide, in 1834, on the practicability, the safety, and economy of running steam-carriages on common roads. It will be sufficient to give a list of the witnesses examined, to show that the highest authorities were consulted before the report was framed. They were—

Mr Goldsworthy Gurney. Walter Hancock. John Farey, civil engineer. Richard Trevethick. Davies Gilbert, M.P., president of the Royal Society. Nathanael Ogle. Alexander Gordon, civil engineer. Joseph Gibbs. Thomas Telford, president of the Institution of Civil Engineers. William A. Summers. James Stone. James Macadam, road surveyor. John Macneil, civil engineer, and Colonel Torrens, M.P.

Since the date of the last Report railways have run their titanic course; and whether from the opposition of wise road trustees, or a want of enterprise in steam-carriage proprietors, or from some other cause, steam locomotion on common roads has not made any progress. But, in spite of the powerful evidence we have quoted, we cannot conceal from ourselves that there was always an if or a but attached to the complete triumph of the new system. The if and the but, it will be seen, had reference to the nature of the road. Mr Macneil and the other able and scientific gentlemen examined, all concurred in calling for a vast improvement on the highways to be travelled on—"a smooth and well-dressed pavement"—"a hard pavement"—"a smooth pavement on a solid foundation"—they all agree in thinking indispensable to the complete triumph of steam. "If on the road," says Mr Macneil, "from London to Birmingham, there were a portion laid off on the side of the road for steam carriages, and if it be made in a solid manner, with pitching and well-broken granite, it would fall very little short of a railroad. It would be easy to fence it off from fifteen to twenty feet without injury to property." And a statement to the same effect was made in November 1833, to which the following names are appended:—

Thomas Telford, P.I.C.E. John Rickman, commissioner for Highland roads and bridges. C.W. Pasley, colonel royal engineers. Bryan Donkin, manufacturing engineer. T. Bramah, civil engineer. James Simpson, manufacturing engineer. John Thomas, civil engineer. Joshua Field, manufacturing engineer. John Macneil, civil engineer. Alexander Gordon, civil engineer. William Carpmael, civil engineer.

"There can be no doubt," say they, "that a well-constructed engine, a steam-carriage conveyance between London and Birmingham, at a velocity unattainable by horses, and limited only by safety, may be maintained; and it is our conviction that such a project might be undertaken with great advantage to the public, more particularly if, as might obviously be the case, without interfering with the general use of the road, a portion of it were to be prepared and kept in a state most suitable for travelling in locomotive steam-carriages."