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the schedule for the annual value of land in this parish (including the houses built upon it, the railways, &c.) gave the sum at 3,798,5211. But, in truth, wherever we turn our eyes upon this vast panorama of human life, we perceive, similar evidences of rapid and prodigious growth.

Although the records of this country have no equal in the civilised world, as Sir Francis Palgrave remarks, we have no accurate accounts of the population of London previously to the census of 1801. Observa. tions, however, were made at various periods which enable us to form a tolerably correct idea of the advance in population, both of London and the country at large. At the Conquest, the whole population of England was calculated at only 2,000,000, or thereabouts. In 1377, the last year of the great monarch Edward III., the population, as ascertained by the Capitation tax, had only advanced to 2,290,000-an increase of not more than 300,000 people in the course of three centuries. With Wales, the population only reached 2,500,000. London at this period only boasted of 35,000 inhabitants ! In 1575, the population of these realms was about 5,000,000, and the metropolis did not number more than 150,000 souls. Yet England was then at her zenith as a naval power, and it was the age, moreover, of Spenser and Shakspeare. A map of London and Westminster

in the early part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth shows on the east the Tower, standing separated from London, and Finsbury and Spitalfields with their trees and hedgerows; while on the west of Temple Bar the villages of Charing, St. Giles's, and other scattered hamlets are aggregated, Westminster being a distinct city. In 1662 and 1665, the population of England and Wales was calculated by the hearth tax at 6,500,000. In 1670, Sir Matthew Hale calculated it at 7,000,000; but Haydn's Dictionary of Dates" states that in the year 1700 it was found by official returns to be only 5,475,000. London and its suburbs, in 1687, had, according to Sir William Petty, a population of 696,000 ; but Gregory, ten years later, made it only 530,000 by the hearth tax. Sir William Petty, writing in 1683, maintained (after deep study of the matter) that the growth of the metropolis must stop of its own accord before the year of grace 1800 ; at which period the population would, by his computation, have arrive at 5,359,000. But for this halt, he further maintained that by the year 1840 the population would have risen to upwards of ten millions! It is not a little strange that in 1801, after the first actual census had been taken, the population of London was discovered to be no more than 864,845—including Westminster, Southwark, and the adjacent districts. In 1841, however, the number had gone up to 1,873,000, thus showing upwards of a million increase in forty years. In 1851, the population had further grown to 2,361,640; while in 1861 it had risen to 2,803,034. Of this number 2,030,814 were in the county of Middlesex. According to the Registrar-General's Tables of Mortality, the population of London in 1871 was 3,251,804. The total extent of London was 75,362 acres; the number of houses inhabited, 417,767; uninhabited, 32,320; and houses building, 5,104.

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Taking the Metropolitan and City of London Police Districts, the population of London in 1861 was 3,222,720 ; and in 1871 it had gone up to 3,883,092. The whole population of Lancashire at the latter period, including Liverpool, Manchester, Bolton, Salford, &c., was only 2,818,904; and the whole population of Scotland was little more than this, being but 3,358,613. A conception of the vast extent of London may be gained from the following figures :-In 1871, the East Riding of Yorkshire had a population of 269,505 ; York city, 43,796 ; the North Riding, 291,589; the West Riding, 1,831,223 ; Lincolnshire, 436,133 ; Staffordshire, 857,233—giving as the aggregate for the whole of these populous districts 3,729, 479 souls-a number below the population of London alone. Or take another calculation. In 1871, the population of Bedfordshire stood at 146,256 ; that of Berks at 196,445 ; Bucks, 175,870 ; Cambridgeshire, 186,363 ; Cheshire, 561,131 ; Cornwall, 362,098; Cumberland, 220,245; Derbyshire, 380,538; Devonshire, 600,814; Dorsetshire, 195,544 ; Durham, 685,045; Hereford, 125,364 ; and Rutland, 22,070. Here we have a list of thirteen counties, yielding an aggregate population of 3,857,785; or, 25,307 persons below the population of the metropolis. An estimate, based upon the Metropolitan and City of London Police Districts, gives the population of London in 1878 as four millions and a quarter.

Cornhill Magazine.

A FARMHOUSE DIRGE.

I.
WILL you walk with me to the brow of the hill, to visit the farmer's wife,
Whose daughter lies in the churchyard now, eased of the ache of life?
Half a mile by the winding lane, another half to the top:
There you may lean o'er the gate and rest; she will want me awhile to stop,
Stop and talk of her girl that is gone, and no more will wake or weep,
Or to listen rather, for sorrow loves to babble its pain to sleep.

II.
How thick with acorns the ground is strewn, rent from their cups and brown!
How the golden leaves of the windless elms come singly fluttering down!
The briony hangs in the thinning hedge, as russet as harvest corn,
The straggling blackberries glisten jet, the haws are red on the thorn ;
The clematis smells no more but lifts its gossamer weight on high ;-
If you only gazed on the year, you would

think how beautiful 'tis to die,

III.

The stream scarce flows underneath the bridge; they have dropped the sluice of the

mill; The roach bask deep in the pool above, and the water-wheel is still. The meal lies quiet on bin and floor; and here where the deep banks wind, The water-mosses nor sway nor bend, so nothing seems left behind. If the wheels of life would but sometimes stop, and the grinding awhile would

coase, "Twepo BO sweet to. have, without dying quite, just a spell of autumn peace.

IV.

Cottages four, two new, two old, each with its clambering rose :
Lath and plaster and weather-tile these, brick faced with stone are those.
Two crouch low from the wind and the rain, and tell of the humbler days,
Whilst the other pair stand up and stare with a self-asserting, gaze;
But I warrant you'd find the old as snug as the new did you lift the latch,
For the human heart keeps no whit more warm under slate than beneath the thatch

V. Tenants of two of them work for me, punctual, sober, true; I often wish that I did as well the work I have got to do. Think not to pity their lowly lot, nor wished that their thoughts soared higher ; The canker comes on the garden rose, and not on the wilding brier. Doubt and gloom are not theirs, and so they but work and love; they live Rich in the only valid boons that life can withhold or give.

VI.
Here is the railway bridge, and see how straight do the bright lines keep,
With pleasant copses on either side, or pastures of quiet sheep.
The big loud city lies far away, far too is the cliff-bound shore,
But the trains that travel betwixt them seem as if burdened with their roar.
Yet, quickly they pass, and leave no trace, not the echo e'en of their noisc:
Don't you think that silence and stillness are the sweetest of all our joys ?

VII.

Lo! yonder the Farm, and these the ruts that the broad-wheeled wains have worn,
As they bore up the hill the faggots sere, or the mellow shocks of corn,
The hops are gathered, the twisted bines now brown on the brown clods lie,
And nothing of all man sowed to reap is seen 'twixt the earth and sky.
Year after year doth the harvest come, though at summer's and beauty's cost:
One can only hope, when our lives grow bare, some reap what our hearts have lost.

VIII. And this is the orchard,-small and rude, and uncared-for, but oh! in spring, How white is the slope with cherry bloom, and the nightingales sit and sing ! You would think that the world had grown young once more, had forgotten death

and fear, That the nearest thing unto woe, on earth, was the smile of an April tear; That goodness and gladness were twin, were one:-The robin is chorister now: The russet fruit on the ground is piled, and the lichen cleaves to the bough.

Will you lean o'er the gate, while I go on? You can watch the farmyard life,
The beeves, the farmer's hope, and the poults, that gladden his thrifty wife;
Or, turning, gaze on the hazy weald,-you will not be seen from here, -
Till your thoughts, like it, grow blurred and vague, and mingle the far and near.
Grief is a flood, and not a spring, whatever in grief we say;
And perhaps her woe, should she see me alone, will run more quickly away.

1. “I thought you would come this morning, ma'am. Yes, Edith at last has gone; To-morrow's a week, ay, just as the sun right into her window shone ; Went with the night, the vicar says, where endeth never the day; But she's left a darkness behind her here I wish she had taken away. She is no longer with us, but we seem to be always with her, In the lonely bed where we laid her last, and can't get her to speak or stir.

2.

“Yes, I'm at work ; 'tis time I was. I should have begun before ;
But this is the room where she lay so still, ere they carried her past the door,
I thought I never could let her go where it seems so lonely of nights;
But now I am scrubbing and dusting down, and setting the place to rights.
All I have kept are the Rowers there, the last that stood by her bed.
I suppose I must throw them away. She looked much fairer when she was dead.

3.

“Thank you, for thinking of her so much. Kind thought is the truest friend,
I wish you had seen how pleased she was with the peaches you used to send.
She tired of them too ere the end, so she did with all we tried ;
But she liked to look at them all the same, so we set them down by her side.
Their bloom and the flush upon her cheek were alike, I used to say ;
Both were so smooth, and soft, and round, and both have faded away.

4.

"I never could tell you how kind too were the ladies up at the hall; Every noon, or fair or wet, one of them used to call. Worry and work seems ours, but yours pleasant and easy days, And when all goes smooth, the rich and poor have different lives and ways. Sorrow and death bring men more close, 'tis joy that puts us apart ; 'Tis a comfort to think, though we 're severed so, we're all of us one at heart.

5.

“She never wished to be smart and rich, as so many in these days do,
Nor cared to go in on market days to stare at the gay and new.
She liked to remain at home and pluck the white violets down in the wood;
She said to her sisters before she died, 'Tis so easy to be good.'
She must have found it so, I think, and that was the reason why
God deemed it needless to leave her here, so took her up to the sky.

6.

“ The vicar says that he knows she is there, and surely she ought to be;
Bat though I repeat the words, 'tis hard to believe what one does not see.
They did not want me to go to the grave, but I could not have kept away,
And whatever I do I can only see a coffin and churchyard clay.
Yes, I know it's wrong to keep lingering there, and wicked and weak to fret;
And that's why I'm hard at work again, for it helps one to forget.

7. "The young ones don't seem to take to work as their mothers and fathers did. We never were asked if we liked or no, but had to obey when bid. There's Bessie won't swill the dairy now, nor Richard call home the cows, And all of them cry, How can you, mother?' when I carry the wash to the sows. Edith would drudge, for always Death the hearth of the helpfullest rohs. But she was so pretty I could not bear to set her on dirty jobs!

8. "I don't know how it'll be with them when sorrow and loss are theirs, For it isn't likely that they'll escape their pack of worrits and cares. They say it's an age of progress this, and a sight of things improves, But sickness, and age, and bereavement seem to work in the same old grooves. Fine they may grow, and that, but Death as lief tokea the moth as the grub. Wasp their dear ones die, I suspect they 17 wish thay 'd a foor of their own to scrub

9. “Some day they'll have a home of their own, much grander than this, no doubt, But polish the porch as you will you can't keep doctors and coffins out. I've done very well with my fowls this year, but what are pullets and eggs, When the heart in vain at the door of the grave the return of the lost one begs ? The rich have leisure to wail and weep, the poor haven't time to be sad : If the cream hadn't been so contrairy this week, I think grief would have driven me mad.

10. “How does my husband bear up, you ask? Well, thank you, ma'am, fairly well; For he too is busy just now, you see, with the wheat and the hops to sell : It's when the work of the day is done, and he comes indoors at nights, While the twilight hangs round the window panes before I bring in the lights, And takes down his pipe, and says not a word, but watches the faggots roarAnd then I know he is thinking of her who will sit on his knee no more.

11. "Must you be going? It seems so short. But thank you for thinking to come; It does me good to talk of it all, and grief feels doubled when dumb. An' the butter 's not quite so good this week, if you please, ma'am, you must not

mind,
And I'll not forget to send the ducks and all the eggs we can find;
I've scarcely had time to look round me yet, work gets into such arrears,
With only one pair of hands, and those fast wiping

away one's tears.

12. “You've got some flowers yet, haven't you, ma'am ? though they now must be going

fast.
We never have any to speak of here, and I placed on her coffin the last :
Could you spare me a few for Sunday next? I should like to go all alone,
And lay them down on the little mound where there isn't as yet a stone.
Thank you kindly, I'm sure they'll do, and I promise to heed what you say;
I'll only just go and lay them there, and then I will come away.”

X.

Come, let us go. Yes, down the hill, and home by the winding lane.
The low-lying fields are suffused with haze, as life is suffused with pain.
The noon mists gain on the morning sun, so despondency gains on youth;
We grope, and wrangle, and boast, but Death is the only certain truth.
O love of life! what a foolish love! we should weary of life did it last.
While it lingers, it is but a little thing ; 'tis nothing at all when past,

XI.

rose.

The acorns thicker and thicker lie, the briony limper grows,
There are mildewing heads on the leafless brier where once smiled the sweet dog-
You may see the leaves of the primrose push through the litter of sodden ground;
Their pale stars dream in the wintry womb, and the pimpernel sleepeth sound.
They will awake; shall we awake? Are we more than imprisoned breath ?
When the heart grows weak, then hope grows strong, but stronger than hope is
Death.

ALFRED AUSTIN, in Contemporary Review,

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