though much exposed to the weather, are hardy, temperate, healthy, and long-lived. Cart-drivers, if sufficiently fed and temperate, the same. Labourers in husbandry, &c. suffer from a deficiency of nourishment. Brickmakers, with full muscular exercise in the open air, though exposed to vicissitudes of cold and wet, avoid rheumatism and inflammatory diseases, and attain good old age. Paviers, subject to complaints in the loins, increasing with age, but they live long. Chaise-drivers, postillions, coachmen, guards, &c. from the position of the two former on the saddle, irregular living, &c., and from the want of muscular exercise in the two latter, are subject to gastric disorders, and, finally, apoplexy and palsy, which shortens their lives. Carpenters, coopers, wheelwrights, &c., healthy and long-lived. Smiths, often intemperate, and die comparatively young. Rope-makers and gardeners suffer from their stooping postures.

"IN-DOOR OCCUPATIONS.-Tailors, notwithstanding their confined atmosphere and bad posture, are not liable to acute diseases, but give way to stomach complaints and consumption. It is apparent, even from observing only the expression of countenance, the complexion, and the gait, that the functions of the stomach and the heart are greatly impaired, even in those who consider themselves well. We see no plump and rosy tailors; none in fine form and strong muscle. The spine is generally curved; the reduction in the circumference of the chest is not so much as we might expect; the average of our measurements presented 33 to 34 inches, while that of other artisans is about 36. The capacity of the lungs, as evinced by measuring the air thrown out at an expiration, is not less than common: the average of six individuals was 73 pints. The prejudicial influence of their employ is more insidious than urgent—it undermines rather than destroys life. Of twenty-two of the workmen employed in Leeds, not one had attained the age of sixty, two had passed fifty, and of the rest, not more than two had reached forty. We heard of an instance or two of great age, but the individuals had lived chiefly in the country. Staymakers have their health impaired, but live to a good average. Milliners, dress-makers, and strawbonnet-makers are unhealthy and shortlived. Spinners, cloth-dressers, weavers, &c. are more or less healthy, as they have exercise and air. Those exposed to inhale imperceptible particles of dressings, &c., such as frizers, suffer from disease, and are soonest cut off. Shoemakers are placed

in a bad posture. Digestion and circulation are so much impaired, that the countenance would mark a shoemaker almost as well as

a tailor. We suppose that, from the reduction of perspiration and other evacuations, in this and similar employments, the blood is impure, and consequently the complexion darkened. The secretion of bile is generally unhealthy, and bowel complaints are frequent. The capacity of the lungs, in the individuals examined, we found to average six and one third, and the circumference of the chest thirty-five inches. In the few shoemakers who live to old age, there is often a remarkable hollow at the base of the breast-bone, occasioned by the pressure of the last. Curriers and leather-dressers very healthy, and live to old age. Saddlers lean much forward, and suffer accordingly from headach and indigestion. Printers (our worthy co-operators) are kept in a confined atmosphere, and generally want exercise. Pressmen, however, have good and varied labour. Compositors are often subjected to injury from the types. These, a com. pound of lead and antimony, emit, when heated, a fume which affects respiration, and are said, also, to produce partial palsy in the hands. Among the printers, however, of whom we have inquired, care is generally taken to avoid composing till the types are cold, and thus no injury is sustained. The constant application of the eyes to minute objects gradually enfeebles these organs. The standing posture long maintained here, as well as in other occupations, tends to injure the digestive organs. Some printers complain of disorders of the stomach and head, and few appear to enjoy full health. Consumption is frequent. We can scarcely find or hear of any compositor above the age of fifty. In many towns printers are intemperate. Bookbinders—. a healthy employment. Carvers and gilders look pale and weakly, but their lives are not abbreviated in a marked degree. Clockmakers, generally healthy and long lived. Watchmakers, the reverse. House-servants, in large, smoky towns, unhealthy. Colliers and well-sinkers, a class by themselves, seldom reach the age of fifty.

"EMPLOYMENTS PRODUCING DUST, ODOURS, OR GASEOUS EXHALATIONS.—If from animal substances, not injurious; nor from the vapour of wine or spirits. Tobacco-manufacturers do not appear to suffer from the floating poison in their atmosphere. Snuff-making is more pernicious. Men in oil mills, generally healthy. Brushmakers live to a very great age. Grooms and hostlers inspire ammoniacal gas, and are

robust, healthy, and long-lived. Glue and size boilers, exposed to the most noxious stench, are fresh-looking and robust. Tallow chandlers, also exposed to offensive animal odour, attain considerable age. Tanners, remarkably strong, and exempt from consumption. Corn-millers, breathing an atmosphere loaded with flour, are pale and sickly: very rarely attain old age. Malsters cannot live long, and must leave the trade in middle life. Tea-men suffer from the dust, especially of green teas; but this injury is not permanent. Coffee-roasters become asthmatic, and subject to headach and indigestion. Paper-makers, when aged, cannot endure the effect of the dust from cutting the rags. The author suggests the use of machinery in this process. In the wet, and wear and tear of the mills, they are not seriously affected, but live long. Masons are short-lived, dying generally before forty. They inhale particles of sand and dust, lift heavy weights, and are too often intemperate. Miners die prematurely. Machine-makers seem to suffer only from the dust they inhale, and the consequent bronchial irritation. The filers (iron) are almost all unhealthy men, and remarkably short-lived. Founders (in brass) suffer from the inhalation of the volatilized metal. In the founding of yellow brass, in particular, the evolution of oxide of zinc is very great. They seldom reach forty years. Copper-smiths are considerably affected by the small scales which rise from the imperfectly volatilized metal, and by the fumes of the spelter,' or solder of brass. The men are generally unhealthy, suffering from disorders similar to those of the brassfounders. Tin-plate-workers are subjected to fumes from muriate of ammonia and sulphureous exhalations from the coke which they burn. These exhalations, however, appear to be annoying rather than injurious, as the men are tolerable healthy, and live to a considerable age. Tinners also are subject only to temporary inconvenience from the fumes of the soldering. Plumbers are exposed to the volatilized oxide of lead, which rises during the process of casting. They are sickly in appearance, and shortlived. House-painters are unhealthy, and do not generally attain full age. Chemists and druggists, in laboratories, are sickly and consumptive. Potters, affected through the pores of the skin, become paralytic, and are remarkably subject to constipation. Hatters, grocers, bakers, and chimneysweepers (a droll association) also suffer through the skin; but, though the irritation occasions diseases, they are not, except in the last class, fatal. Dyers are healthy and

365

long-lived. Brewers are, as a body, far from healthy. Under a robust and often florid appearance, they conceal chronic diseases of the abdomen, particularly a congested state of the venous system. When these men are accidentally hurt or wounded, they are more liable than other individuals to severe and dangerous effects. Cooks and confectioners are subjected to considerable heat. Our common cooks are more unhealthy than housemaids. Their digestive organs are frequently disordered: they are subject to headach, and their tempers rendered irritable. Glass-workers are healthy; glass-blowers often die suddenly.

66

THE Sweetly simple and pathetic narrative of "The Dairyman's Daughter," like the Pilgrim's Progress" of John Bunyan, will be read and remembered as long as morality and an English cottage are identifiable. Its delightful ebullitions of pious rapture, its exquisite paintings of land and ocean scenery, and its enviable portraiture of the heavenaspiring rustic, of whose life and death it is the subject, have rendered its humble pages immortal. Translated into the language of many a clime, it has gone forth to the world an ever-during record of the moral grandeur which may be said to generally distinguish the unsophisticated peasantry of our privileged land. It is a little tome, from which philosophy might learn something; it is a garland from which poetry might cull some flowers wherewith to adorn her; and it is a mirror, in which the self-sufficient pietist might perceive the pride and deceit of his own heart.

The Isle of Wight, celebrated no less for its picturesque and varied scenery, than for the healing and salubrious properties of its atmosphere, was the birth-place, residence, and scene of death and burial, of Elizabeth Wallbridge, the Dairyman's Daughter; and it was while on a rambling visit to the island, that I formed the resolution of visiting her cottage and grave; influenced as well by the reverential regard I cherished for her narrative, as by the fact, that the venerable author, the Rev. Legh Richmond, expired about two months after I landed on the island.

Up with the sun, I set out, after an early breakfast, on my way to Arreton. The delightful morn had overspread the landscape with its summer light, and, shooting through forest and brake, had awaked the grateful birds, whose united songs reverberated through the cultured valley. Leaving Newport behind me, I climbed St. George's Down, and, while pausing at the summit for breath, could not avoid being sublimely impressed by the gleaming scene around me. On a commanding eminence, mouldered the terrible towers of Carisbrooke Castle, the beams of the careering sun flouting its solemn decay, and gilding its ivyd battlements and rich gateway with noon-day lustre.

Below its site, the village of Carisbrooke, with its grotesquely Norman church, and the gable-end of the ruined priory, formed a pictorial group, which invited the skill of the artist to transfer it to the canvass. The whole landscape presented a fascinating medley of farms, hamlets, and villas, interspersed here and there by brooklets, and intersected by woodlands. Northward, the river Medina displayed its silvery waters, stretching as far as Newport, and dividing, to that point, the foremost part of the island; its surface studded by gliding boats and barges, and its banks adorned with superb mansions embosomed in clustering grovesWhippingham church, the castles of John Nash, Esq., and Lord Henry Seymour, the former, backed by fine plantations, and the latter seated on a height contiguous to the wave-washed beach. Around the defined edges of the island, at intervals uninterrupted by hills, blue glimpses of the ocean attracted the eye, and passing ships crossed the openings made by the different baysconstituting a scene of blended sublimity and beauty, not to be equalled in any other part of England.

I descended St. George's Down, and came in sight of Arreton, the burial-place of Elizabeth Wallbridge, which lay at my feet, a romantic, straggling village, possessing a peculiarly antique church. I was somewhat struck, while pacing the downward meadows adjacent to Arreton, with an incription written with chalk, on a stone protruding from a wild and brambly sandbank :

"Remember!

Those eyes that read, though starry bright,
Will shortly close in death's long night:
Those lips that cheerly move, they must
Be blended with inglorious dust!"

It had been traced by the hand of some moralist of the woods, some peripatetic sentimentalist or other; and its salutary injunction was not lost upon me. Doubtless

many another had been similarly impressed by it. Oh! in what temple of man's device has religion such overpowering eloquence of appeal, as when its precepts are presented to us in the boundless temple of all but immortal nature! Her sovereign beauty, her silent rhetoric, do they not confirm the facts of man's fall, his body's decay, and his soul's immortality?

Passing through Arreton, I took the road which led me to another, though trifling, eminence, which, after traversing for a mile or two, brought me to a point from which, glancing around, another enchanting view presented itself. Amongst its most prominent objects were, the barren and lofty height of St. Catherine's, the umbrageous and relieving acclivities of Bonchurch and Ventnor, and the spacious bay of Sandown. "The sun-lit sea beyond the valley gleam'd,

And 'neath the eagle's cliff supinely lay; The argent sky with mimic arrows teem'd, Which shot their semblance to the peerless bay." Immediately around me were corn-fields and meadows, their hedges overrun by wild lilies, hollyhocks, and the delicate harebell. At my feet ran a “plashy brook,” fed by crystal springs, its course bedecked by snowy lilies, which bowed their meek bells unto the placid surface, recalling to memory the exquisite image of quiet beauty in one of Coleridge's 's poems

"As water-lilies ripple a slow stream."

Another quarter of a mile, and I came to the cottage of "Elizabeth Wallbridge, the Dairyman's Daughter." It stands about the breadth of a narrow field from the road, and a dwelling more humble in appearance cannot possibly be conceived. It is a building of but one floor, with a low roof, its windows darkened by shrubs. The fancy of Legh Richmond has thrown around it poetical interest, for, abstractedly viewed, it is of comparatively no importance. The best engraved view of it, paltry as it is, is the little wood-cut vignette in the title-page of the "Dairyman's Daughter," published by the Tract Society.

I entered, sans ceremonie, this unpretending mansion, and encountered the brother of Elizabeth, now a man advanced in years. He is a person of slight information, simple and unintelligent. I in vain strove to excite him to converse on the subject of his sister's feelings, her unrecorded conversations, and views in the article of death: he answered evasively, evidently not through wishing to avoid discussing the theme because of feeling too deeply upon it; but from an apparent distrust of his conversational powers. He pointed out to me the chair in, and the window by, which she

used to sit, in the former of which I seated myself-and here I may remark, that were it not frivolous to carp at such slight misnomers, I might arraign the narrative of the transcendently pious author, for some slight mistakes committed in the graphic sketching of the Dairyman's dwelling.

Speaking of the chairs reminds me of such mistakes, as he describes them to be of oak, whereas they are of the coarsest elm, or walnut. The walls of the principal room were decorated with pictures and plaster busts, which were any thing but creditable to the fine arts. The cottage album, presented by the Rev. Legh Richmond, or some one of his family, was brought me for perusal. It contained nothing beyond a mere registration of names and dates, with here and there a quotation from Watts or Wesley. I subscribed my name to the unassuming record, in doing which I felt sincerely impressed with the necessity of following in her steps. If we wish a happy eternity to succeed a short and precarious time, to "such complexion must we come.' My exquisite recollections of the story of Elizabeth Wallbridge had been treasured up from the days of even my infantine admiration. Forbidden the rambler's enjoyment of a holiday, assigned to others of my own age, I used to look forward to such season with the same feeling of pleasurable anticipation with which a gourmand contemplates a feast-the viands, my books. Pre-eminently prized above the rest was the simple volume containing the Dairyman's Daughter," and its natural portraitures, and impressive diction, formed the links which bound the memory of those hours to that in which I walked the identical scene. Imagination easily supplied the annihilated adjuncts of the stilly spot-the white-haired old man, with broken voice and tottering step; the devout pastor ministering to the dying penitent; the audible 'amen' of the kneeling soldier, in the sacred silence of the death-room, and the touching sobs of irrepressible anguish from the agonized mother-all were vividly present to the eye and ear of my mind.

66

After some desultory conversation, I shook hands with the brother of the Dairyman's Daughter, and retraced my steps to Arreton, to enjoy the melancholy luxury of moralizing over her "last rest."

The village itself presents nothing remarkably attractive, if we except its beautifully secluded and scenic situation. A cold chill of consciousness that you are gazing on the retreats of poverty and unrequited labour, is felt on beholding its cottages, and a glance at the snugly en

367

sconced mansion of the rector, detracts not from the sensation. However, though wealth has refused her magic aid in the adornment of the bricks and mortar of Arreton, nature has amply supplied the deficiency; and the exuberance of roses, lilies, hollyhocks, woodbines, and Virginian creepers, which adorn the flower-beds, and run up the walls, of each little residence, and the falling springs which dash down the chalky hillocks, shew that creation has charms to soften the harshest features of repulsive penury.

The gate of the church-yard was opened to me by a couple of blushing urchins, whose suppliant voices and extended hands betokened the frequency of such visits as mine.

Guided by their direction, I wound round the ivy-enveloped chancel of the Norman church, on the north side of which is the grave of Elizabeth Wallbridge, the Dairyman's Daughter. It is headed by an unadorned tablet, the inscription on which was furnished by the Rev. L. Richmond, and which is remarkably pathetic and appropriate no common qualities, when we consider the unproductiveness of the beaten path of epitaph writing. The date of her death is May 30th, 1801, her age 31.

But the words of Richmond form not the sole epitaph of the Dairyman's Daughter. The stone is literally covered with inscriptions in pencil-the effusions of visitors from all parts of England: a fact which has aforetime so irritated the Rev.

as to

lead to the expunging of the fragile tracings of black-lead pencil with a wet cloth; the aforesaid potent and zealous personage avowing his detestation of scribbling Methodists, and rhyming ranters."

66

It was verging towards evening: the dew had wetted the consecrated turf; the sky was veiling its azure beauty in transparent clouds; the heathy and yellow hills skirting the north side of the burying-ground cast a sombre and thought-inspiring shade over the graves of the "rude forefathers" of Arreton; the nightingale was singing her exquisite and broken catches in the remote wood; and the flickering swallows were retiring to their nests beneath the cottage eaves. It was an hour and a scene to be coveted; and, touched by its influence, I knelt down, and with my pencil traced the humble modicum of verse, which, before leaving the tomb of the Dairyman's Daughter, I felt constrained to add to the numberless offerings to the moral muse, which already were recorded on her burial-stone :If earthly griefs have caused my feet to roam In search of Peace, to woo her with vain sighs, Thy meek example points me out a homeA path that leads to pardon and the skies. London, May 2, 1831. G. Y. H