Here, perhaps, we have an exemplification of Hamlet's philosophy: "Better to bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of." This sable contemner of the fine arts (for, highly as he appreciated his own, we can hardly admit it to be one of the number) had possibly heard of the proverbial poverty of poets, and may have taken upon him rashly to conclude that artists were birds of a plumage congenially bare. Yet, even on this ground, there was no occasion for so much proud vaunting. "Time and chance happen to all men." Even sweeps may live to bewail the curse of poetic pockets: indeed, we can produce proof of the humiliating fact. Two credible witnesses (also in the roll of our acquaintance) were recently walking along Southampton Row, when they passed two young Sweeps in earnest conference: the question propounded by one of the interlocutors our informants did not catch, but this awful replication struck full upon their startled ears:- "No, I can't do that, Jem, 'cause I have n't no l'argent; the foreign term being pronounced with a laudable effort to achieve the genuine French accent. -A sweep with no l'argent !-"Think of that, Master Brook," and blush hereafter to lament thy own petty modicum of life's annoyances.

It is gratifying to record light anecdotes connected with this unpromising theme; yet must they not be permitted to estrange us from a steady consideration of its general bearing. That Sweeps' apprentices are still liable to dreadful ill-treatment, appears from a case that lately came before the magistrates of one of the metropolitan police-offices. A man named Devow was brought up for brutally using a boy, eight years of age, who had been bound to him. The little sufferer had taken refuge with a female relative. He stated, that shortly after he had been consigned to the prisoner by his mother, he became so severely crippled with chilblains, that he could with difficulty crawl about: his feet, indeed, were in so terrible a state at the time of his escape, that a surgeon declared that a little further delay would have been productive of mortification. The child added, that, in consequence of his inability to go up chimneys, his master had frequently beaten him with a wirebrush; and he bore marks of this cruel treatment in various parts of his thin and delicate person. It is due to truth to state, that seldom indeed does a series of barbarous treatment to dependents, or a case of ferocious assault, whatever its nature, meet with anything like adequate punishment: (see the newspapers, passim). There is an extreme lenity among magistrates generally, in matters of this nature, that is altogether grievous and unaccountable. The offender, however, in the present instance, did not escape so easily

as might have been expected: he was fined five pounds for the assault, and in default of payment, committed to prison for two months. It was also ordered that he should be proceeded against for having infringed the act of parliament which forbids the taking of Sweeps' apprentices under ten years of age. The chivalrous Devow is thus performing inadequate penance in durance vile: had he, however, been a respectable member of the class-i. e., able to throw down five sovereigns, accompanied with some remark of vulgar insolence-it is greatly to be feared that he might at this moment be smoking a consoling pipe in the sanctuary hallowed by his household gods.

The statute just alluded to was passed in 1834; it was consequent on the proceedings of a parliamentary committee, and contains many humane and judicious provisions. The boys must all, as before stated, be above ten years of age at the time of being apprenticed; and the masters must be householders. Forcing or persuading a boy to ascend a flue when on fire is forbidden, under penalty of indictment for a misdemeanor. The binding is to take place before two justices, after two months' trial of the business by the boy; the justices, of course, to withhold their consent, if he express reluctance to be apprenticed. The act also prescribes the mode in which chimnies are in future to be built or altered.

So far well; but why not provide at once, that in all chimneys so constructed as to admit the free use of the machine, no boy shall be allowed to operate? The custom may be reformed indifferent well; but why not reform it altogether? Let us hope that it will speedily retreat before the advancing footsteps of moral and physical science. The avocation of a Chimney-Sweep is well known to generate peculiar maladies of a terrible description; and it is accompanied with circumstances of inevitable suffering and degradation, from which, even where the victims are insensible to them, we should endeavour to protect all human beings (especially the tender juveniles), for the honour of our common nature. Let us be per

mitted, then, unblamed, to take leave of the subject, with the expression of a hope that it will not much longer continue to furnish a subject for either writer, artist, or legislator. Great and little monstrosities are alike gradually departing. The present generation has smiled indulgently on "the last of the Pigtails;" and we would fain anticipate for our successors a vision far more joyous to the quickening eye of glad humanity-"THE LAST OF THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPS!"

THE UNDERTAKER.

BY DOUGLAS JERROLD.

No man (that is, no tradesman) has a more exquisite notion of the outward proprieties of life—of all its external decencies, luxuries, and holiday show-making, than your Undertaker. With him, death is not death, but, on the contrary, a something to be handsomely appointed and provided for; to be approached with the deference paid by the trader to the buyer, and treated with an attention, a courtesy, commensurate with the probability of profit. To the Undertaker, death is not a ghastly, noisome thing; a hideous object to be thrust into the earth; the companion of corruption; the fellow of the worm: not it! Death comes to the Undertaker, especially if he bury in high life, a melancholy coxcomb, curious in the web of his winding-sheet, in the softness of his last pillow, in the crimson or purple velvet that shall cover his oaken couch, and in more than all, particular in the silver-gilt nails, the plates, and handles, that shall decorate it. A sense of profit in the Undertaker wholly neutralises the terrible properties of death; for, to him, what is another corpse but another customer?

"Of course, sir," says Mandrake, taking orders for a funeral,— “Of course, sir, you'll have feathers?"

"Indeed, I—I see no use in feathers," replies the bereaved party, whose means are scarcely sufficient for the daily necessities of the living; no use at all."

"No feathers, sir!" says Mandrake, with a look of pitying wonder. "Why, excuse me, sir, but-really-you would bury a servant without feathers."

"Well, if think them necessary,"

you

"Necessary! No respectable person can be buried without feathers," says Mandrake; and (wise dealer!) he touches the chord of worldly pride, and feathers make part of the solemnity. "Then, sir, for mutes; you have mutes, doubtless?"

"I never could understand what service they were," is the answer. “Oh, dear sir!" cries Mandrake; "not understand! Consider the look of the thing! You would bury a pauper, sir, without mutes."

H H