The pale cold eye of day Surveys the rough damp floor; Oh ye! the rich man's children, Have not ye all one Father Their lone and toilsome path Upon the waters cast Thy bread, and thou shalt find The act, seen far behind, A. G. WHAT a pleasing sight is an English cottage with a happy family! We would rather walk by, and see its mud walls covered with woodbines and roses, and its garden before the door full of flowers-or walk in, and look at its clean floor, and hearth, and walls, and furniture; and talk with the tidy mother, and play with her rosyfaced, chubby children,-than visit the halls of the noble, or the palaces of princes. Especially if the father and mother fear God, and teach their children to fear him,-if, under that humble roof, the Word of God is read, and the voice of prayer is heard,-if hearty thanks are offered for every humble repast, and joy and gratitude for the higher blessings of salvation abound in every heart. But alas! how few are the poor families in our land of whose condition this is a faithful picture. How many are pining, and starving, and dying, in garrets, or cellars, or wretched lodging houses; how many are suffering through their own folly, or the hard-heartedness of others. Little do those who are well off, know of, and less we fear do some of them care for, the hungry and destitute poor. The father without work, the mother sinking, the children pining— crying for bread, and there is none! What condition can be worse? Can any? any more painful or heart-breaking? Here is a sketch of family suffering, drawn by the father, a Scotch weaver. We fear there have been, and now are, many such cases that will never be made known. Imagine a cold spring forenoon. It is eleven o'clock, but our little dwelling shows none of the signs of that time of day. The four children are still asleep. There is a bed-cover hung before the window, to keep all within as much like night as possible; and the mother sits beside the beds of her children, to lull them back to sleep whenever any shows an inclination to awake. For this there is a cause, for our weekly five shillings have not come as expected, and the only food in the house consists of a handful of oatmeal saved from the supper of last night. Our fuel is also exhausted. My wife and I were conversing in sunken whispers about making an attempt to cook the handful of meal, when the youngest child awoke beyond its mother's power to hush it again to sleep, and then fell a whimpering, and finally broke out in a steady scream, which of course rendered it impossible any longer to keep the rest in a state of unconsciousness. Face after face sprung up, each with one consent exclaiming, "Oh, mother, mother, gie me a piece!" How weak a word is sorrow to apply to the feelings of myself and wife during the remainder of that dreary fore noon. We thus lingered on during the spring, still hoping that things would come a little round, or that at least warmer weather would enable us, with more safety, to venture on a change of residence. At length, seeing that our strength was rapidly declining, I resolved to wait no longer. On a Thursday morning we forsook our melancholy habitation, leaving in it my two looms and some furniture (for we thought of returning to it), and the key with the landlord. On the third day, Saturday, we passed through the village of Inchsture in the Carse of Gowrie, and proceeded towards Kinnaird. Sunset was followed by cold sour east winds and rain. The children becoming weary and fretful, we made frequent inquiries of other forlorn-looking beings whom we met, to ascertain which farm-town in the vicinity was most likely to afford us quarters. Jean, my wife, was sorely exhausted, bearing an infant constantly at the breast, and often carrying the youngest boy also, who had fairly broken down in the course of the day. It was nine o'clock when we approached the large and comfortable-looking steading of B- standing about a quarter of a mile off the road. Leaving my poor flock on the wayside, I pushed down the path to the farm house with considerable confidence, for I had been informed that B(meaning, by this local appellation, the farmer) was a humane man, who never turned the wanderer from his door. Unfortunately for us, the worthy farmer was from home, and not expected to return that night. His housekeeper had admitted several poor people already, and could admit no more. I pleaded with her the infancy of my family, the lateness of the night, and their utter unfitness to proceed-that we sought nothing but shelter-that the meanest shed would be a blessing. Heaven's mercy was never more earnestly pleaded for than was a night's lodging by me on this occasion. But "No, no, no," was the unvarying answer to all my entreaties. I returned to my family. They had crept closer together, and, except the mother, were fast asleep.. Oh, Willie, Willie, what keepit 66 |