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and Ireland, say £10,000,000. Total, £60,000,000, or $288,000,000! For the same purposes the United States raise annually not more, probably, than about $20,000,000, or £4,106,666. The following is rather a lugubrious wail over the taxes imposed in England :! "Taxes on every thing that enters the mouth, covers the back, or is placed under the feet ;-taxes upon every thing that is pleasant to see, hear, feel, taste, or smell ;-ta:res upon warmth, light, and locomotion ; -taxes upon every thing on the earth, in the waters under the earth -upon every thing that comes from abroad or is grown at home ;taxes upon the raw material, and upon every value that is added to it by the ingenuity and industry of man ;-taxes upon the sauce that pampers man's appetite, and on the drug that restores him to healthon the ermine that decorates the judge, and on the rope that hangs the criminal-on the brass nails of the coffin, and on the ribands of the bride-at bed or at board-couchant ou levantwe must pay. The schoolboy whips his taxed top; the beardless youth manages his tared horse, by a tažed bridle, on a taxed road; and the dying Englishman, pouring his medicine, which has paid seven per cent., into a spoon which has paid 30 per cent., throws himself back upon his chints bed, which has paid 22 per cent., and having made his will, the seals of which are also tazed, he espites in the arms of his apothecary, who has paid £100 for the privilege of hastening his death. His whole property is then tazed from 2 to 10 per cent. And besides the expenses of probate, he pays large fees for being buried in the chancel, and his virtues are handed down to posterity on taxed marble. After all which he may be gathered to his fathers to be taxed no more."


While walking in Queen-street, Cheapside, I suddenly bethought myself-I will turn and propose to my friend, Mr. E- , a surgeon, to go with me to witness the scene of carnage which had occurred in Southampton-street, Pentonville, the night before. I understood that persons belonging to the medical and surgical profession would be admitted, and concluded I might go in under the wing of my friend. But who could wish to see such a sight? My own first thoughts were, that I would never do it, except called by duty; but my second wasmit might be instructive, although revolting and horrible to every feeling that is worthy of respect. I called, and in five or ten minutes Mr. E.'s horse and cabriolet were at the door, and we drove off.

“This is a remarkable horse," said Mr. E. “Whenever I have called once at a house, he will not go past it without inclining to stop. One would think, that in such a city as London, he would forget even a street that he may have passed through once, much more a house among so many, where I may have called with him weeks or months before. But he is infallibly certain to recognise every place where he has ever been. There is a street we are about to pass, leading to Solley Terrace, the former residence of our friend, Mr. M It is now eighteen months-is it not? since Mr.

M r emoved, and I have not been there from that time; but I will engage, when we come to that street, if I will give the horse the reins, he will turn down, and stop at the very door."

“Do you see,” said Mr. E., as we approached the street, the horse being left to himself,“how he begins to prick up his ears, and look that way? There, he turns, he is in the street, as you see, and would stop at No. 14 Solley Terrace; but this is enough.” And we turned about to go on our way.

The brute is faithful to his instinct-he never violates nature. He often appears amiable to us, and we feel for him the affection of attachment. But man, alas! who can trust him ?-He may turn monster; he may enact the fiend.

As we came to Southampton-street, the crowds of the populace were immense. It seemed impossible to get near the house, the way was so thoroughly choked. We gave our horse to the keeping of a boy, tried to obtain a passage to the door, but in vain. What motive could draw and keep the people there? They could not get in ; they had no hope of it. They could only stand and gape, and talk ; yet there they would be from morning to night, and I suppose, in great numbers, from night to morning. The truth was, they were constantly changing, one taking the place of another.

The newspapers had announced to the whole world of the metropolis the dreadful deed; and thousands, or tens of thousands, were constantly coming and going to see—what? Southampton-street and a crowd. They could see nothing more. But man loves tragical scenes—at least he loves to sympathize with them. He is curious—he wishes to know all about it: he pries into the history of the author of the tragedy, and endeavours to find the motives; he wishes to know when and how it was done-at what dread hour of the night-by what instrument? Where did he get it? How did he use it? Did he surprise the innocent victims in their sleep? Had they any warning ? Did they resist? What is the appearance of things within? In what position do the dead lie? Are they on the bed or on the floor ?--in their night-clothes, or how ? For they were not yet removed, but all remained exactly in the same condition in which the murderer's hand had left them,—and the coroner's jury were then in session collecting evidence.

Not succeeding in our attempts to gain access, my friend went to the jury's room, and obtained an order for admittance. Armed with this power, it became the duty of the policemen to clear our way, which they endeavoured to do. After much difficulty, we succeeded in gaining the door, and finally to get in, though at the hazard of rending our garments, and of injuring our persons by the immense physical force of the mass that tried to get in by virtue of our privilege. A few succeeded, and pushed in with us.

We were conducted first to a rear chamber in the second floor (in London called the first), where the mother-a woman apparently about thirty years of age-lay on the floor, with her head nearly dissevered from her body by sonie sharp instrument. By the marks of blood on the bed, it was evidently done in that place, and her struggles with death had thrown herself out. At her feet lay the body of an infant, a few months old, with its head also dissevered, so as scarcely to hang on its shoulders. Such was the horrible scene of that apartment!

We then ascended to the room directly above-and there lay the ghastly bodies of two little girls, one about twelve years old, on the floor, and the other 4 or 5, in the bed both murdered in the same manner as the mother and infant below. It was horrible to behold!

We then ascended another flight of stairs, and entered a front chamber, where lay the body of a little boy, about ten years old, with his head also nearly dissevered. He had been sleeping in the same apartment with his two sisters, but had fled from his monster-father while executing his fiendly purpose on his infant daughters. But he was pursued-he was overtaken, and in his struggles of self-defence in warding off the knife, lost one of his fingers, which was entirely cut from the hand and lay on the floor, besides exhibiting other corresponding marks of violence.

We descended to the basement story, and there lay the monster, the author of this scene of death, stretched on his back, with arms extended, and the knife in hand, by which, in the end, he had nearly severed his own head from his body. He was himself in his night-clothes, and so were all the victims. Not a human being remained to breathe in that house!-All-all were butchered—the mother and four children and the murderer by his own hand! What a scene!

Was he deranged ? No. The evidence was abundant that it was a cool, deliberate plan, devised and executed without any alienation of mind.

He had become embarrassed-he was an atheist-he had lived a vicious life--had many years before separated from his wife, and lived long enough with this woman, unmarried, to have these children, and, to free himself and all from trouble, believing not in a future being, he had in this manner ushered himself and them into eternity! And this is the fruit of that faith which says—“There is no God.”

TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. THERE is one great vice in English society, not indeed pe. culiar to them, but yet strongly marked. It exists under a specious name, and at first sight would seem to be an axiom in morals, or in the social relations. They express it as follows:-“Let every one know and keep his own place.” But when interpreted by its exemplifications, it may generally be taken as meaning, in the mouth of him who uses it, something like this:-“Let every one who is below, or under me, stay there. Let him not presume to aspire.” Thus every class conspires to keep down those who are below them.

I have frequently talked very frankly with our English friends on this subject, some of whom have seemed to yield to my reasonings, while others have strongly opposed me. My manner of treating the argument has been something as follows:

" Your theory of society is false; and on your principles it must for ever remain stationary, or nearly so. You know very well that God has made every thing for progress-that nothing in his creation stands still. Above all, has he constituted mind in itself, and society in its relations, for advancement. Mind at rest is mind paralyzed; it is an abuse of God's work, and it must suffer for it. It is the nature of mind to aspire ; if you interpose obstacles to its ascendency, or circumscribe the scope of its action by vexatious barriers, you disappoint the end of its being. It is creating a prison for a spirit by an unnatural and forced arrangement of circumstances. Doubtless there are grades of intellectual and moral being; but to assume that a given grade is ordained for the same mind to stand in for ever, is deciding the question in debate, and not very reasonable.

"And here is the fault of you English-a fault of principle as well as of practice. You do not give a chance for all minds to advance-to rise; but you study and take great pains to hold them in check; you rebuke and vex them, if they show a disposition to answer the proper end of their existence, and of human society; and you say, they are getting out of place, and trying to move beyond their sphere.

" But the fault is your own; you are inconsistent. You have lately made a great mistake in attempting to promote general education; in setting up Sunday and other schools for children of the poor; in economizing the modes of instruction; in multiplying the means of knowledge, and bringing theni within the reach of all minds. Do you expect, if you give them knowledge, that they will be contented to be degraded? Will you show them what is most desirable, and what man may possibly attain to, and then cross their path to say-No, you shall not have it; it was not intended for you?

* You must undo what you have been doing; you must debar the poor and the common people from the sources of knowledge, if you would have them remain where they are. If they are cultivated and informed, they will never be contented or easy till the way is open to all for advancement You have indeed done one excellent thing you have begun to educate the poor; but you do not seem to be prepared for the consequences. You are vexed at the natural result of the work of your hands—a work undertaken from the best of motives. The difficulty is-your theory of society is not sufficiently enlarged. You have begun well, but you have not looked to the limits of the field upon which you have entered.

“If you will allow me to say so—that is doubtless the best state of society where every mind, as it is expanded by culture, and looking abroad on the circumstances by which it is surrounded, and forward on the prospects open before it, sees no insuperable obstacle, placed by unfairness, in the way of its advancement in an honourable career, and to any station that may lawfully be desired. Will mankind ever be contented till such a state of things is brought about? I would not, I could not respect them if they would ; it is unreasonable to expect that they will.

“You will pardon me for saying that I think it is a general fault in England-which may easily be accounted for by the history of society here-for every class to keep its inferiors in check, in a manner and by means which are not the best treatment of human nature. It is an hereditary vice of this community, and belongs to nearly all, from the highest ranks to the lowest. · Even the lower classes are equally jealous of their rights, in relation to those who are below them.

“ This is, unfortunately, a method of treatment maintained in principle; and I humbly think it is in principle wrong. But it will find its own cure in that course which society is now taking, by the instrumentality of your own hands, though it will often be inconvenient and vexatious, and cause many of you to say-Would that we had kept the people ignorant. You ought, however, to be patient under all this, and remember that it is an incidental evil in the way of the greatest good-to the best state of human society. It is one of the sins of fathers visited upon their children; but a meek and quiet bearing of it will be an atonement."

ANOTHER. The English are remarkable for loving the brute creation, especially horses and dogs. And there is something very

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