classes? The answer was plain-it was short, but it was conclusive. Because they could not. They were overworked. Their animal spirits were destroyed, their physical energies impaired, and their mental faculties weakened by work, work, work. Suppose a poor young man toiling all day in a manufactory in intense heat, and literally wasted off the earth with steam, smoke, and toil: suppose such a man sent from the mill or the forge, at eight or nine o'clock at night, into a school to learn from a book, why he would be asleep in three minutes. He could not learn; it was not in human nature that he could do so. He wanted rest and recreation, and unless they could curtail the labour of the people, and combine rational amusement with learning, they need not hope that education would succeed, or be productive of its legitimate results. The wonder would be if education had progressed under such circumstances; and nothing but inattention on the part of the doctors could prevent them from finding out the impossibility of effecting a cure by the exclusive use of their nostrum. While all other institutions which were purely of a literary character had gone down, the Athenic Institution, although established under every disadvantage, and supported alone by working men, had risen, and was daily progressing. And why was that the case? The answer could only be found in the principles of the Society. It was based upon the only principles suited to the state of the working classes-namely, that of affording education through recreation and relaxation. They had discovered that the minds of the people were beaten down with care, labour, and anxiety, and unfitted for mental study. They gave them amusement, restored their spirits, and then gently instilled that learning from which they would otherwise have recoiled. He knew that there were thousands of the working classes who would not go to public-houses for amusement if they could find a substitute; but they had none, and it was to supply that deficiency that he and his friends were most anxious to see Societies like the Athenic established in all the towns of the kingdom."

And Lord JOHN MANNERS, after alluding to the athletic exercises of ancient Greece and Rome, said:

"But to leave those times and nations, and come to their own country, what, he would ask, was the characteristic epithet applied to it ? France might be fair;' Florence might be beautiful;' and another might be witty; but England was designated 'merry old

ATHENIC INSTITUTION AT BIRMINGHAM.

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England." Now, however, unfortunately, that epithet could not be applied, except it was used in bitter and cruel irony. He would not detain them by reciting the various games and modes by which the spirits of the people were upheld, their physical energies brought fully into operation, and that delightful and necessary relaxation afforded which contributed to establishing their character for mirth, health, and cheerfulness. They were well known, but, unhappily for the present generation, only known by name to the great mass of the population. Unfortunately, those manly games were not now publicly provided for the people. Under what circumstances and encouragements, and by whose good aid and wishes, were the members of that institution enabled to take their part in those manly and useful sports? Why it was simply and entirely to their own exertions, and not to any public provision which had been made for them, not to any efforts on the part of those whose duty he held it to be to provide for the wants of the industrious classes in that respect. But there was another and still more important object connected with their institution—namely, that of uniting together again the different classes of society. It was his firm onviction, founded upon something like a careful examination of history, that in days long gone by, when the unhappy separation of the classes which now existed in this country was not known in the land, there was by far more peace, more real happiness, and more complete security for all classes, than had or could ever exist under such a system as now prevailed in society. Their usages were hostile to anything like a cordial amalgamation. How often were they enabled to come together in amity and affection as they had done that evening? How often had they seen the three classes meet at the one table, partake of the same enjoyment? And yet, as they had often heard, in the days of feudalism the Barons of England were accustomed to sit at the same table, and partake of the same fare, with those beneath them. He knew very well that it was deemed unphilosophical to revert to those days and times, and the ancient customs of their forefathers; but, believing, as he did, that in those ancient days the peer lost nothing by his condescension, and that the poor were great gainers by it, he saw no reason why they should not dwell with pleasure on those days, and why he should not, if he could, encourage and support any legal, just, and prudent associations which would have the effect of restoring at least

some portion of that fine feeling which existed amongst the people in bygone days, which would elevate the character of those who ought to be considered the pride and glory of their country.'

This is not the language of a visionary; these are not the sentiments of a Radical Reformer; but they are the firm and conscientious opinions of one whose birth and station prevents an insinuation against his integrity of purpose, and who is infinitely too high principled and honest to seek popularity save by the most legitimate and open means. They are sentiments which may, perchance, be ridiculed: a venal and profligate newspaper may designate them "contemptible," being unable to reduce the true morality and noble feelings they express to its own miserable standard; but they are sentiments the diffusion of which, we are firmly persuaded, will conduce very much to England's future happiness and prosperity.

Bath, 1844.

STRAY LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A

CLERGYMAN.

BY HIS WIDOW.

Ar the pressing solicitation of a few friends, who were the intimate associates of my late husband, I have very reluctantly consented to publish the following selections from a Note Book, which he regularly kept during a period of more than twenty years; but as many of the parties still live, and the scenes in which they acted are yet fresh in the memory, it was necessary not only to suppress the real names of the dramatis personæ, but also frequently to vary the style and language in which the incidents were related in the manuscript.

Perhaps there is no avocation which affords so many opportunities for gaining an accurate knowledge of human nature-for investigating the hidden motives, and secret springs, which agitate the mysteriously constructed automaton we call man, as the profession of a clergyman. In rude health, and in the hey-day of youth and pleasure, the vexations and disappointments to which this chequered existence is ever subject, -the weeds which will creep in midst the roses-are confided to him as a kind and safe counsellor; in sickness too, and in the wane of years,

when some message of kindness, some last token of "a love which cannot die," is wished to be borne to the absent, he who whispers the last consolations of religion is always the fitting messenger; and when stretched on the bed of death, the wretched criminal seeks to ease a racked and overburdened conscience, to him is confessed the dark history of deeds till then unrevealed, the terrible incidents of a fearful past. From such sources were drawn the materials out of which the following notes were compiled; they are the actual records of passing events -the faithful chronicles of what the writer saw, and what may every day be seen on the great stage of the world. It is a homely picture, sketched from nature, its sole merit being a truthful simplicity, and its sole end and motive will be accomplished if to one reader of these tales a moral may be pointed.

MY PARISH.-MY RECTOR AND HIS FAMILY.

I can never bring myself to believe, that those persons who are so enthusiastic in their praise of the scenery of foreign parts, have ever travelled through the country they regard as home, unless, indeed, they have been propelled by the full speed of a locomotive and buried in the cushioned darkness of a railway carriage: at all events, I will venture to think that their business or their pleasure has never led them to the romantic spot I am about to describe, or, forswearing all exclusive admiration of the distant beauties of other climes, they would admit that the rural valleys of Old England are unequalled.

The small village of Hawthorn-dale, is situate in a beautifully wooded vale, in the finest part of the county of -, and is partially screened from the gaze of the traveller until he approach very near, by the high ridges of hills, this county, perhaps, peculiarly boasts. It is, indeed, a lovely hamlet, and still shows, uncorrupted by a devastating civilization, all the endearing characteristics of an English village,—the true home for the brave and loyal peasantry of this sea-girt isle: there is the venerable church, where the remotest ancestors of the present inhabitants have worshipped, and there, in the consecrated and still church-yard, lie their mouldering bones: the only draw-back to the hallowed feelings these time-honoured walls awake, is the erection of a parsonage-house, rendered necessary by the dilapidated state of the old building, as well as by the family of the present incumbent, my venerated rector.

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Of the Rev. George St. John, I speak from the ample experience of nearly a twenty years' uninterrupted friendship. He is now past his three score years and ten; and though you can mark the ravages of time in his milk white locks and bending gait, yet is the heart as young and the feelings as fresh as if he were still in the prime of man's existence. He married in very early life, and in less than twelve months was left a widower; but many summers passed away before the recollection of this first love was sufficiently subdued to admit a revival of the tender passion, and at the time I am writing he is again clad in sables, and regretting the loss of an amiable partner through chequered years of joy and sorrow. This time, however, he was not left alone; a son and two daughters blessed his married state, and made a prop for his declining years.

Edward, now a little more than seven and twenty, and rapidly rising at the Bar, is accomplished in manners, and although not handsome, possessed of an elegant person, and an intellectual countenance; earnest and impassioned in his language, as well as deeply tinged with poetical romance. Edward St. John will be seen not to be deficient in those qualities which usually wing the way to high renown, nor is he wanting in the more serious and matter-of-fact knowledge, so necessary for a business life. Emily, the youngest daughter, as will presently appear, is absent from Hawthorn-dale, but Madeline, two years younger than her brother, is at once her father's support, almoner of his charity, and the benefactress of his flock.

Her's is indeed a form of perfect beauty; a little above the ordinary stature of woman, and yet cast in a mould of divinest shape, from the lofty forehead, to the delicate and Cinderella like foot, everything seems in the most rare proportion; a glance will be sufficient to prove that none of nature's journeymen have fashioned forth the "Pride of Hawthorn-dale;" glossy and long brown ringlets, straying from a head on which the fingers of the phrenologist would delight to wander, down a neck and bosom, only coloured by the eloquent blood which ever and anon blushes through the transparent skin; whilst the aquiline nose, the large speaking light blue eyes, and the taper fingers, disclose a nobility of nature, the dames of Britain alone can boast, and should value dearly.

But a shadow of deep and tearful melancholy is never entirely absent from the face of Madeline St. John, or her venerable parent. How