mother could so stifle her nature as to resign her babe to such a doom. Regular schools are kept to instruct children in the arts of begging.

It happened one day in the winter, as I was walking through Leadenhall-street towards Cornhill, that I espied just before me, and going the same way, a young man in a drover's frock, hanging with apparent importunity over the shoulder of a gentleman, as if he were begging. Neither his dress, nor his manner, was at all like a common beggar. The former was entire, and the latter unpractised. As I noticed, he proved unsuccessful. The gentleman repulsed him, and, as he fell back, I found him the next instant at my side, trying what impression he could make on me.

I was not in the humour at that moment to be moved by an ordinary application of the kind, and was in a hurry. What was still worse for the poor fellow, I had no change less than a sovereign, or one pound gold coin.

The fellow was exceedingly earnest, but awkward. He was evidently unused to the vocation. He annoyed me→ pushed his face into mine-and nearly trod upon my toes. I told him I had nothing to give, but he did not seem to hear me. I rebuked him-he did not regard it, but still hung upon my shoulder, and persecuted me with his importunities. He was hungry, he said he had had nothing to eat that day, and it was now drawing to night. In short, it seemed impossible to get rid of him. And yet I must, or give him a sovereign. Being somewhat vexed, I turned to push him from me, and in doing so, brushed my umbrella rather rudely over the back of his hand, grazing, and not unlikely breaking the skin, for I observed he looked upon his hand, and then put it to his mouth, as if it were hurt. But still, to my astonishment, he stuck to my side, and persevered in his importunities. I then rebuked him most sharply-but do not remember at this time what words I employed. I can never forget, however, the manner in which he received it. He dropped from me as if he had been instantaneously struck with absolute and perfect discouragement, and in a tone which went through my very heart, said, "You wouldn't say so, master, if you's as hungry as I." And these words he uttered as he fell back, and I saw him no more.

Except that I had been a little vexed by what I had counted as impudence, I should probably have turned immediately, and contrived to get some change. And although thoughts are quick, and my feelings began to relent, yet before they were thoroughly subdued, we had got too far apart to meet again, except by accident. I had not gone many rods, however, before I became quite anxious, and in the same degree generous. Those last words, and the heart-subduing manner and tone of them, kept ringing

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in my ears: You wouldn't say so, master, if you's as hungry as I." I stepped into a shop, got my sovereign in change, and turned about in pursuit of the young man, but I could not find him. I went through Leadenhall, and searched the streets and alleys in the vicinity for half an hour, but did not fall upon him. The longer I looked without success, the more anxious I became. Imagination then came in with all its powers, and magnified the importance of the case a thousand fold. That it was a case of real want-of pinching hunger—I had no reason on the whole to doubt. His dress, his manner, his every thing to the last I had observed, convinced me it was so. And these very appearances were such as would ordinarily prevent his success in London, until he should become more accomplished in the art of begging. By that time what would become of him? I began to feel a responsibility. First, I had rebuked him, which now seemed a cruelty. Next, I had hurt his hand-and that, though unintentional, troubled my conscience. And last, I had added to all the rest some sharpness of speech to get rid of him. I thought it not improbable that he had been trying and trying in vain till he came to me, and receiving such discouragement, he had gone and threw himself down in some secret place to perish; or at least, resolved no more to solicit alms of the unfeeling mercies of man. Every turn and every step I made in this pursuit without success, increased my anxiety. Conjectures and imaginings came upon me thick and tender, and when at last I was compelled to give up the search, it was, if possible, the most trying moment of all. The being I could not find, was now to me one of the most interesting objects. He who had vexed and put me out of humour a few moments before, by his importunate and annoying solicitations, was now most earnestly desired by me to satisfy my feelings of compunction and of pity. Most reluctantly, and for the first time in my life, I turned away from a pursuit so altogether novel. In such circumstances, I was necessarily doomed to a conflict of emotions, the remembrance of which cannot easily be effaced. The last words of the poor young man, "You wouldn't say so, master, if you's as hungry as I," followed me at every step, and reproached me at every corner. Other beggars appeared as I went along Cheapside; and to make atonement I could have begged them, had it been necessary, to accept of my pennies. But I soon found that this generosity could not satisfy the petition I had rejected. Those last words still pursued me, and I could not silence them. I even started, and looked back several times, as if the voice that uttered them had overtaken me. Most glad should I have been if the momentary and fleeting illusion had proved a reality. If it were possible for me ever to feel indifferent towards

beggars after such a challenge of my sympathies, the impressions of that scene might well be fixed within me for ever by another, not unlike it, which occurred a few days after. I had breakfasted at my lodgings in Regent Square, and was walking rapidly in a cold and windy morning to the Library of the Russel Institution. But as it happened, I was altogether unprovided for a beggar. I had not gone far before I was accosted by a man about forty years old, dressed in a style rather unusual for a beggar, and his manner equally betrayed him unaccustomed to the business. I told him I had nothing. But being upon the windward side, he did not hear me, as afterward appeared-but followed me with his importunities. His perseverance seemed to me unreasonable, and was troublesome. I stopped suddenly, turned upon him, and said rather sharply:-" Did I not tell you I had nothing?"-"O sir," said he, "I did not hear you the wind blew so hard"-and instantly drew back, and left me to proceed. As I turned to look him in the face, regarding the manner of his reply, and saw him retire with such evident regret that he had given me any occasion to be displeased-with such an earnest expression, that he would not willingly have done so ;-and observing such indubitable marks of honesty in him withal, such manliness in subdued forms, such indications of a soul where delicacy of feeling might be supposed to have had a permanent abode -such unwillingness to give trouble, and yet such a betraying of a sense of pinching want-I am sure his disappointment could not have borne any proportion to my own. The result of my reasonings, however, in this case, as in the former, came too late-except to confirm my good purposes, that I would endeavour always to be prepared for such

cases.

A CASE IN FRANCE.

I can never forget a scene which occurred one cold morning at sunrise, on my way from Calais to Paris, as the diligence stopped to change horses, and I awoke out of sleep by the call of a beggar just at my ear and by the window of the coach. It was an old woman, having all the appearances and every feature of what might well be imagined to be a very hag. There was nothing human but bodily form. Her dress, face, and every thing were frightful. One would have written a certificate that no semblance of human kindness could ever have had place under that garb. It seemed no other than a fiend. She carried in her arms a poor wretched child, about eight years old, with no covering but a tattered rag, shivering with the cold, evidently just drawn out from the straw, and thus cruelly exposed to the chills of a frosty morning. The child was made to lie upon the shoulder, so as to exhibit its face to us; and horrible to

behold, both his eyes were put out, one entirely dug from the sockets, and the other destroyed and protruding most frightfully from the head! The poor thing writhed, cried, and entreated, though with an apparent consciousness of its unavailing efforts, to be taken back out of the cold. One of my companions, accustomed to travel in France, said, to my indescribable horror, that the child's eyes were put out by violence, and expressly to be exhibited for begging! I thrust my hand in my pocket, and threw out all the copper I had, without thinking that, instead of satisfying the wretch, it would only encourage her! I had hoped she would take the poor sufferer immediately in.

Alas! I could wish that it was possible for the impression of that scene, and the look of that woman, to be effaced from my mind! The suggestion that the eyes of that child had been put out for that purpose, and the unavoidable conviction, from every look and feature, and from the behaviour of the woman, that she was even capable of enacting such a tragedy, were the blackest libel on human nature that the annals of human depravity have ever recorded! And the torture of that child must be perpetual to answer the purposes of gain! Could it be the mother? O no!

Similar cases, though not so shocking at first sight, are very common in London; and yet I know not whether the secret history of these daily transactions would not develop a character equally revolting. Pale, emaciated, half-expíring infants, sometimes one, sometimes two like twins, are exposed in a woman's arms, as she sits by the way, whose silent, imploring eloquence cannot fail to touch the heart of the passenger. In the majority of these cases, it is supposed that these monsters are not mothers, but creatures not deserving the name of human, who by some means have got possession of these little martyrs, and keep them half way between life and death to excite compassion and obtain money! Alas! that the legislation of a civilized and Christian community should not interpose to prevent such a crime! a crime of constant occurrence, and well known! Common murder is innocence compared with it! and all this in the midst of a city whose public monuments of charity are more numerous, and more imposing, than in any other city on earth.

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THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.

The King, head of the Church-Episcopal prerogative merged in the State -Wealth of the Church of England-Controverted-Difficult to be determined-Modes of estimating it-The probable amount-Compared with the revenues of States-Comparative expenses of Christianity in different nations-Revenues of the Roman Catholic Church-Ecclesiastical statistics and revenues of Spain-Ditto of France-The English Church aggrandized by a separation from Rome-Distribution of the revenues of the English Church-Church patronage-Enormous wealth of the English and Irish Bishops-Wealth of the Irish Church— Compared with others-The Church and the Army together-Tithe litigations-Lord John Russell's opinion of the Church of Ireland-Tithe slaughter of Rathcormac-The sick widow oppressed-The rector imposing tithes on a dissenting clergyman's garden-Burden of tithes on the poor-A case of tithe augmentation near London-Sale of church livings by public auction-A remarkable advertisement-The last wish of a dying woman-Injustice to Dissenters-A redeeming feature.

I SPEAK of the Church of England simply as an establishment in connexion with the state. As such it is a political institution. The king is its head. The bishops, who supervise the church, are nominated, or presented, to their sees by the king, are supervised by the king, and are required to do homage to the king in acknowledgment of his supremacy, before they can be installed, or before the act of their "enthronization;" for the bishops are enthroned. In every cathedral church is a bishop's throne, appropriated to the induction of the king's nominee into the powers and prerogatives of the vacant see.

There is, indeed, a nominal and dormant independence of the church, supposed to be vested in the convention of bishops and clergy; but it is not used. So far from asserting independence, this body do not even meet, unless it be for some idle ceremonies in recognition of a new parliament -a somewhat ridiculous pretension. The powers of this body have been absorbed by the crown, or rather, perhaps, conceded to it, as a convenient way of wresting the independence of the church from the hands of a general Episcopal College, and lodging its powers in the hands of the archbishops, and such of the bishops as may be agreeable to the primates and the king in the control of church matters-the king being always head. As a matter of fact, therefore, there is no existing Episcopal convention of the Church of England in the use of its appropriate powers. For the privilege of participating in the prerogatives of state legislation and administration, these Episcopal prerogatives have been resigned, or permitted to lie dormant.

The wealth of the ENGLISH CHURCH is at this moment a