silken cradle, his little cries are hushed by the nurse, whose only duty is to watch the progress of that tiny frame. The least illness, and the physician bestows on the infant heir the knowledge of a life; for every single patient benefits by all his predecessors. The child becomes a boy: Eton or Westminster, Oxford or Cambridge, have garnered for his sake the wisdom of centuries: he is launched into public life, and there are friends and connexions on either hand, as stepping-stones in his way. He arrives at old age: the armchair is ready, and the old port has been long in the cellars of his country-house to share its strength with its master. He dies: his very coffin is comfortable; the very vault of his ancestors is sheltered; a funeral sermon is preached in his honour; and escutcheon and marble tablet do their best to preserve his memory.
Take the reverse of the picture. The infancy of the poor child is one of cries, too often of blows; natural affection has given way before the iron pressure of want. The
