a look at the daisies, when you've sold your mind to Miffy Stofilis; and there's a Divil waiting for your last proofs, as he did for Doctor Forster's. I know it's killin me, says he; but if I die of overwork it's in the way of my vacation. Poor boy! I did all I could to nurridge him: Mock Turkey soop and strong slops, and Wormy Jelly and Island Moss; but he couldn't eat. And no wunder; for mental laber, as the Doctor said, wares out the stummack as well as the Branes, and so he'd been spinning out his inside like a spider.

And a spider he did look at last, sure enuff-one of that sort, with long spindle legs, and only a dot of a Boddy in the middle.

"Another bad thing is settin up all nite as my Sun did, but it's all agin Natur. Not but what sum must, and partickly the writers of Polliticks for the Papers; but they ruin the Constitushun. And, besides, even Poetry is apt to get prosy after twelve or one; and some late authors read very sleepy. But as poor Robert said, what is one to do when no day is long enuff for one's work, nor no munth either? And to be sure, April, June, November, and September, are all short munths, but Febber-very! However, one grate thing is, relaxing-if you can. As the Doctor used to say, what made Jack a dull boy-why being always in the workhouse and never at the playhouse. So get out of your gownd and slippers, says he, and put on your Best Things and unbend yourself like a Beau. If you've been at your poeticle flights, go and look at the Tems Tunnel; and if you're tired of being Witty, go and spend a hour with the Wax Wurk. The mind requires a Change as well as the merchants.

"So take my advice, Sir-a mother's advice-and relax a littel. I know what it is: You want brassing, a change of Hair, and more stummuck. And you ought to ware flannin, and take tonicks. Do you ever drink Basses Pail? It's as

good as cammomile Tea. But above all, there's one thing I'd recummend to you: Steal Wine. It's been a savin to sum invallids.

"Hoping you will excuse this libberty from a Stranger, but a well-meening one,

"I am, Sir,

'A SUBSCRIBER."

THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK.

AN ALLEGORY.

THERE'S a murmur in the air,
And noise in every street-
The murmur of many tongues,

The noise of numerous feet-
While round the Workhouse door
The Labouring Classes flock,
For why the Overseer of the Poor
Is setting the Workhouse Clock.

Who does not hear the tramp
Of thousands speeding along
Of either sex and various stamp,
Sickly, crippled, or strong,
Walking, limping, creeping
From court, and alley, and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping
Like rivers that seek the main ?

Who does not see them sally
From mill, and garret, and room,

In lane, and court and alley,

From homes in poverty's lowest valley,
Furnished with shuttle and loom-
Poor slaves of Civilization's galley—
And in the road and footways rally,
As if for the Day of Doom?
Some, of hardly human form,

Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil;
Dingy with smoke and dust and oil,
And smirch'd besides with vicious soil,
Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.
Father, mother, and careful child,
Looking as if it had never smiled-
The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan,
With only the ghosts of garments on-
The Weaver, her sallow neighbour,

The grim and sooty Artisan ;

Every soul-child, woman, or man,

Who lives or aies-by labour.

Stirr'd by an overwhelming zeal,
And social impulse, a terrible throng!
Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel,
Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel,
Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel-
Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal-
Gushing, rushing, crushing along,
A very torrent of Man!

Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wreng,
Grown at last to a hurricane strong,

Stop its course who can !

Stop who can its onward course

And irresistible moral force;

O! vain and idle dream!

For surely as men are all akin,
Whether of fair or sable skin,

According to Nature's scheme,

That Human Movement contains within

A Blood-Power stronger than Steam.

Onward, onward, with hasty feet,
They swarm-and westward still-
Masses born to drink and eat,

But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat,
And famishing down Cornhill!

Through the Poultry-but still unfed-
Christian Charity, hang your head!
Hungry-passing the Street of Bread;
Thirsty-the street of Milk;
Ragged-beside the Ludgate Mart,
So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art,
With cotton, and wool, and silk!

At last, before that door
That bears so many a knock
Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor,
Like sheep they huddle and flock-
And would that all the Good and Wise
Could see the Million of hollow eyes,

With a gleam deriv'd from Hope and the skies,
Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock!

Oh! that the Parish Powers,
Who regulate Labour's hours,
The daily amount of human trial,
Weariness, pain, and self-denial
Would turn from the artificial dial

That striketh ten or eleven,

And go, for once, by that older one

That stands in the light of Nature's sun,
And takes its time from Heaven!

REVIEW.

A NEW SPIRIT OF THE AGE.

Ir was our intention to have reviewed this work seriously, in the present number of the Magazine; but an unlucky curiosity prompting us to turn, first, to the chapter at page 57, volume 2, we stumbled on so bewildering a passage, that we have done nothing but grope about in it ever sinceeven as the old woman who had her identity "cut all round about," and tried, in vain, to recognise herself by the help of her little dog.

"Mr. Hood was a wit about town, and a philosopher while recovering from the effects of last night.' His writings tended to give an unfavourable view of human nature, to make one suspicious and scornful. On the whole, though you had been amused and interested as you went on, you were left uncomfortable, and wished you could forget what you had read."

A wit about town! What town? Certainly not London. Not, it may be taken for Granted, the Great Metropolis. The country knows better. We are hardly reckoned a wit, even at Whitsuntide, about Ponder's End-a mere village. About town, as unknown for jeux d'esprit as the Townley marbles. Had the phrase referred, indeed, to Horace or James Smith, it might have had some consonance; or likelier still, if it had been applied to our all-but namesake, the author of "Sayings and Doings," who was notoriously a wit