Hadst thou expression, thou could'st easy tell The pains and all that I have known too well. 'Twould be but sorrow's tale, yet still 'twould be A tale of truth, and passing sweet to me. How oft upon my hand I've laid my head, And thought how poverty deform'd our shed: Look'd on each parent's face I fain had cheer'd, Where sorrows triumph'd, and pale want appear'd; And sigh'd, and hop'd, and wish'd some day would come When I might bring a blessing to their home, That toil and merit comforts had in store, To bid the tear defile their cheeks no more. Who that has feelings would not wish to be A friend to parents, such as mine to me, Who in distress broke their last crust in twain, And, though want pinch'd, the remnant broke again; And still, if craving of their scanty bread, Gave their last mouthful that I might be fed ! Nor for their own wants tear-drops follow'd free, Worse anguish stung-they had no more for me. And now hope's sun is looking brighter out, And spreading thin the clouds of fear and doubt, That long in gloomy sad suspense to me Hid the long-waited smiles I wish'd to see. And now, my parents, helping you is sweet,— The rudest havoc fortune could complete; A piteous couple, little blest with friends, Where pain and poverty have had their ends. I'll be thy crutch, my father, lean on me; Weakness knits stubbon whilst it's bearing thee; And hard shall fall the shock of fortune's frown, To eke thy sorrows, ere it breaks me down. My mother, too, thy kindness shall be met, And ere I'm able will I pay the debt;

And when

For what thou'st done, and what gone through for me, My last earn'd sixpence will I break with thee: my dwindled sum wont more divide, Then take it all-to fate I'll leave the rest; In helping thee I'll always feel a pride, Nor think I'm happy till ye both are blest.

POVERTY IN BRITTANNY.

There is a tribe of snarling, cynical fellows among us, who, although they breathe English air, and eat English roast beef whenever they can procure it, are continually abusing their country. Judging from their conduct, one would be half inclined to think, that when trade is dead, and things wear a gloomy aspect, they had entered into some new employment, had been offered a reward for discovering blemishes in our national constitution, and that they were making their fortunes by collecting together all the imperfections which ingenuity could invent, or misfortunes afford.

It is the delight of such men, to make invidious comparisons between our country and other nations, and to draw inferences from the estimate, which are always to our disadvantage. The consequence of this mode of proceeding is, that it creates uneasiness in the minds of those who are represented as sufferers, unnerves the hand of industry, and actually gives magnitude and severity to the evils which caricature alone had rendered formidable.

To charge such characters with propagating falsehoods would, perhaps, savour too much of severity, and be in itself a deviation from the letter of truth. The plain fact is, that the selections are unfairly made; the worst that our country can produce being dressed up in the garb of disgust, and placed by the side of circumstances, drawn from other countries, which have little or no similitude in point of local situation, while real objects of fair comparison are carefully kept out of sight.

It is folly to talk of the cheapness of provisions, if people have no money to purchase them; and it is equally unfair to expatiate on the advantages of high wages, where men can rarely procure any employment. When comparisons are made, all facts and circumstances should be taken into the account, for without this we never can form a fair relative estimate of our own condition.

The fertility of France, and the ease and plenty which its inhabitants enjoy, are subjects of almost constant declamation; and were we to credit the persons who are thus lavish in their praises, we should be half ready to conclude, that the people of that highly-favoured country had formed either the

Eden of the bible, the Paradise of Mahomet, or the Elysian Fields of the heathen mythology.

To correct an error so replete with mischief, we need only give a description of Brittany from the pen of Mrs. Charles Stothard, who made a tour of part of France in 1818. It will at least furnish a presumptive evidence that poverty, misery, and rudeness, are yet abundant among our Gallic neighbours.

Proceeding from Rennes to Ploermel, Mrs. Stothard says: -We continued our journey in this highly picturesque country, passing through thick forests of chesnut trees, with which Brittanny abounds. By the road's side, or in the fields, many wretchedly dirty-looking women were loitering with the distaff in their hands, watching their cows and goats. The Bretons dwell in huts, generally built of mud; men, pigs, and children, live altogether, without distinction, in these cabins of accumulated filth and misery. The people are, indeed, dirty to a loathed excess; and to this may be attributed their unhealthy, and even cadaverous aspect. Their manners are as wild and savage as their appearance: the only indication they exhibit of mingling at all with civilized creatures is, that whenever they meet you, they bow their heads, or take off their hats, in token of respect. I could not have supposed it possible that human nature endured an existence so buried in dirt, till I came into this province. The common people are apparently in the very lowest state of poverty. In some parts of Brittanny the men wear a goat-skin dress, and look not unlike De Foe's description of Robinson Crusoe. The furry part of this dress is worn outside: it is made with long sleeves, and falls nearly below the knees. Their long shaggy hair hangs dishevelled about their shoulders, the head being covered by a broad-flapped straw or beaver hat. Some few of the Bretons go without shoes or stockings; but the generality wear sabots, and thrust straw into them, to prevent the feet being rubbed by the pressure of the wood. You frequently see the women, old and young, sauntering along the fields with the distaff, employed in spinning off the flax. The girls carry milk upon their heads, in a vessel of rather an elegant form, somewhat resembling the common Roman household vessels.

We continued travelling, in the hope of coming into some G. 28.

T

town or village, where we might obtain some refreshments; for, in consequence of leaving Rennes so early, we had not breakfasted, and, unfortunately, my little basket, from neglect, was unsupplied, You may imagine, therefore, that the postillion's annunciation of a town being in sight was most agreeable intelligence to persons numbed with cold, and sick for want of food. Accordingly, at noon we arrived at Pleilan, to us the land of promise, but, like many such lands, it afforded only disappointments, augmented by the comfortable hopes we had indulged. The horses, which, from custom, knew their resting-place, jogged on at a full trot, that was soon abated by the mud, through which they had to wade in passing down the village street. Pleilan consists of a few miserable houses, inhabited by the pallid and dirty natives of Bretagne. Before their doors several children, covered only by a few tattered garments, were paddling for very sport, in the pool of slush that flooded the street; their savage manners and wretched looks, begrimed as they were with dirt, gave them the appearance of little imps appertaining to some lower world.

We stopped at the entry of what is termed an inn, distinguished by the bush suspended over the door. At most of the inns in this country, they hang out such a signal to denote that wine is sold within. This custom, now almost obsolete in England, reminds us of the old proverb, "Good wine needs no bush ;" but, if in the inns they sell only cider, it is expressed in Brittany by hanging a few apples to the side of the bush. Here the horses were to rest two hours, during which time we proposed regaling ourselves with something like a dinner. Upon entering the inn, the first view of the interior made me start back; for I had never seen anything at all similar to it before. Some faggots were blazing in a ruined chimney, by the side of which stood a miserable bed, where an old man, sick of the gout, was sitting up; the tortures of his disorder (for the fit was upon him,) gave to a naturally fierce and savage countenance, a malignant and dreadful expression: his complaints burst forth in accents of impatient execration, unchecked by the presence of strangers. The curtains of his bed hung in tattered rags, festooned by spiders, that crawled about, and made their intricate web upon the pendant shreds of the decayed hangings. A slush-pool,