the Shoemaker, and another of the Baker. Sir Paul Ricaut somewhere mentions, that the Grand Seignior, to whom he was ambassador, had been taught to make wooden spoons. There cannot be a greater mistake than to suppose that mental exertion is less wearing than the labour of the hands. Head work is the hardest work in the world. The artisan feels this if at any time he has to spend a whole day in calculation. All men of learning testify to the same truth, and their meager frames and sallow complexions tell a plainer tale than their words. Sir Edward Coke, the great English lawyer, speaks thus concerning his great work: "Whilst we were in hand with these four parts of the Institutes, we often having occasion to go into the country, did in some sort envy the state of the honest ploughman and other mechanics. For one, when he was at his work, would merrily sing, and the ploughman whistle some self-pleasing tune, and yet their work both proceeded and succeeded; but he that takes upon him to write, doth captivate all the faculties and powers, both of his mind and body, and must be only attentive to that which he collecteth, without any expression of joy or cheerfulness while he is at his work."

But if it is true of working-men everywhere that as such their lot is not to be deplored, it is eminently true of working-men in America, as compared with those of other countries. It is important that information on this subject should.

be diffused among the industrious classes, in order to show them how unreasonable are their murmurs. Take the case of the common labourer; he is better clothed, better lodged, and better fed, in America, than in any country on earth. Two-thirds of the French people, says M. Dupin, are at this. day wholly deprived of the nourishment of animal food, and they live on chestnuts, Indian corn, or potatoes. In parts of Normandy, the lace-makers take refuge in the cow-houses, where the breath of the cattle diffuses some warmth: here they do the whole of their work during the cold season. Even in England, many of the hand-loom workers receive but seven shillings a week, and live in damp hovels, almost without furniture. I need not say how different is the case of the poorest labourer among ourselves; while the condition of the thriving mechanic is, in comparison, almost princely. Mr. Grund, an intelligent foreigner, says, on this point, "On entering the house of a respectable mechanic in any of the large cities of the United States, one cannot but be astonished at the apparent neatness and comfort of the apartments, the large airy parlours, the nice carpets and mahogany furniture, and the tolerably good library, showing the inmates' acquaintance with the standard works of English literature. The labouring classes in America are really less removed from the wealthy merchants and professional men than they are in any part of Europe."

The American mechanic has the prospect of

wealth spread before him; and as he advances towards it, his leisure increases with his means. He has an opportunity to lay in stores of knowledge. If he has attended somewhat to learning in his younger days, he finds no obstacle now in the way of his advancement either in science or literature. With a moderate income, and a favourable situation, he can give his sons and daughters a far better education than he received himself. And if he is so happy as to be a member of any Christian church, he finds that there is no privilege, trust, or office from which he is excluded by his having been a labouring-man. Thus he mingles with the choicest portions of society; and if he live to old age, enjoys the grateful repose of that season as fully as the proudest descendant from nobles. Is there any country but our own, where all this can be said with truth?

Go into any of the American towns and large villages, and you will find mechanics occupying some of the most elegant mansions; you will see them filling the highest municipal stations. You will recognise them in large proportion among the officers of the militia, in the direction of moneyed corporations, and upon the most improved farms. You will find their names in every ecclesiastical record, and high in the list of benefactors in every charity. Such are the signs which should satisfy every American working-man, that by choosing a laborious calling, he has not excluded himself from comfort, usefulness, or honour.

XXIV.

THE VILLAGE TALKER.

"Talkers are no good doers."

King Richard III.

AFTER the lapse of twenty odd years, I have full in my mind's eye the person of Sandy Thorp. He was a grown man, while I was still a child, yet a large portion of his life passed within my knowledge; which will be the more credible when I say that the better portion of his days was passed in the street. Not that he did not sometimes, nay, often, drop into the door of a tavern; for he knew everybody; but this was only the brief exception, like the alighting of the swallow. It might be said that Sandy was always on the wing. Not even Socrates was less fond of the country than Sandy Thorp, who, like the same great sage, was almost perpetually engaged in discourse by the wayside. At whatever hour you might choose to go down town, you would be sure to see Sandy, whatever else you might miss. In the early summer morning he would be loitering around the stage-office to get a glimpse of the passengers who had lodged for the night; perhaps to snatch up a grain of news. When the tavern boarders

were picking their teeth on the porch after breakfast, Sandy picked his teeth under the same auspices. The opening of our little post-office usually gathered a group, of whom he was always one. As the sun came out hotter and hotter, he would retreat from the open ways, to some shed or awning, or saunter from shop to shop, always on his feet, and evidently preferring the outside to the inside of the door. At that still hour of the afternoon, when the Spaniard takes his siesta, when ladies are invisible, and when every thing seems to be dead, Sandy was as brisk as the bee that hummed over his head; for wherever a listener could be found he was haranguing, with rapid puffs from the short pipe which he employed to keep down his nervous agitation. The night did not close his activity, and I have often heard his voice, long before I could discern his form, among the worthies who make this the favourite season of their promenade.

Perhaps I am drawing a picture which will be recognised in more towns than one. Certain I am there can be no mistake in that in which I write. Though Sandy is long since dead, the race is not extinct. That which characterized him was his ubiquity and his news-mongering. It was his pride to be at the first of every rumour. You could not tell him any thing new, or make him, wonder at any thing unheard of: as he would not be instructed, the marvel was how he ever came to the knowledge of his facts. Only two