The Sun.
London, England, 1852-04-30 00:00:00

and 700 acres in extent, and an exhaling' surface of
that extent, of which, mark this, the bulk remains
constant, are sent weekly to the Thames upwards of
8,000 loads of poisonous filth. After this statement,
can any one wonder that noxious odours pervade the
best squares and streets, and that no one can stand
without the annoyance and the risk of illness at a mo-
derate distance from any gullet' shoot?" Alluding
to the miserable children who are " dragged
up," according to poor CHARLES LAMB, and not
" brought up," in the lanes and alleys of the
metropolis, he described them, in the words of a com-
petent witness, as in appearance as pale, sickly, squa-
lid, irritable, diminutive, stunted in growth, branded
by the effects of disease, cadaverous. He depicted
the aspect among other localities of the place called
Jacob's Island, that foul and dilapidated suburb,
painted in such vivid colours by the master-hand
of " Boz," and regarded as little better than a
region as mythic as Cipango or Atalantis by
the intelligent and sagacious Sir PETER Liku-
RIB. During the course of his remarkable
speech of yesterday, the Earl of Sam-Tenuity
entered more minutely, if possible, than ever into
those statistical statements which show the extent of
the wretchedness demanding alleviation. He pour-
trayed all the horrors of the garret-life and the
cellar-life of London, the dirt and privations to
which hundreds and thousands of our fellow-crea-
tures are unhappily habituated. He recounted many
of the more frightful consequences of that loathsome
kind of existence—the disease and deprivity to
which the poor are driven by desperation.
Throughout the whole of these most lamentable
explanations, moreover, there was apparent the
humanity of the speaker's heart prompting bis
voice to plead thus passionately for the very
lowly and degraded portions of the com
munity. No marvel was it that, on the close
of the Earl of SHAFTESBURY'S address, the
Archbishop of CANTERBURY spoke in such fervent
terms of eulogium of his magnanimous and self-
denying philanthropy ! No wonder that the Earl of
DERBY bore equally ready testimony to the benevo-
lence which had originated the resolution then
before the upper branch of the Legisla-
ture ! If there is one man in the United
Kingdom whose labours in behalf of his fellow-
citizens are appreciated, if there is one man in
England whose humanity is this respect is de-
serving of appreciation—that man is the Earl of
SHAFTESBURY. Let us hope that the response to bis
toils for the benefit of the poor may not be
restricted to panegyrics, which in that case will prove
to him only bitterly unacceptable. Let us hope that
the warning illustration of Dr. PRlCE—that sup-
posing for the sake a argument we sur-
rounded the metropolis with walls of brass,
so that no individual from the country could
enter within them, the whole population of London
would be extinct in half a century, may not be for-
gotten. Let us hope the writings of such men as Dr.
SOUTHWOOD SMITH, that the enterprise of such men as
Mr. G. A. WALKER, and that the persevering toils of
such men as the Earl of SHAFTESBURY may ultimately
rouse the constituted authorities to activity, eliciting
some large and comprehensive measure of sanitary
improvements from the hands of her MAJESTY'S Go•
vernment.

MUSICAL MURMURS FROM A SHATTERED
STRING.

We extract the following eminently beautiful, yet truly
agonising verses from Eliza Cook's Jounial. Pity, indeed)
that one so rarely gifted should, in her own person, be
doomed to such sad vicissitude—such unutterable endurance;
but so it is. May we live in hope!—
" Dearly bought the hidden treasure,
Finer feelings can bestow :
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe."

ED. Sun.]

Lone, enduring, still, and thinking,
Gazing out upon the main;
Now the Bygone cometh, linking
Bliss intense with speechless pain.
Far, far off my Fancy wanders
To my first fresh Eden bowers,
And my doting Memory squanders
Spirit dew on withered flowers.
Now the Real, then the Seeming,
Come before my earnest gaze;
And I yet can mark the dreaming
By its halo mid the haze.
Fools we are while fondly holding
Parley with a phantom guest,—
Fools we are while closely folding
Poisoned mantles to our breast.
It is hard to see our glasses
Shiver ere they touch our lip;
But the dream-draught oft surpasses
All the Actual gives to sip.
True it is, my whale existence
Will be mix'd with rainbow thread,
And that I shall track the distance
By the leaves Romance has shed,
Yet my soul ofttimea is sighing
over much it seeks to learn,
When stern Wisdom, in replying,
blokes me shiver while I burn.
I have bought and sold while dwelling
In the world's wide market-place,
But I care not to be telling
All the items I can trace.
Somehow, when we stand and beckon
Shadows from our bygone days,
More of skeletons we reckon,—
Than of dancing spirit-rap.
Self-control, and quickened Feeling,
Truth, and Knowledge are my gain,
But I've bartered in the dealing
All my rest of heart and brain.
I have gathered some few bay-leaves
That entwine about my brow,
But my violets and May-leaves
Blow not as they used to blow.
Once upon a time they covered
All Life's grassy hedgerow slope,
While around the wild boo hovered
In the shape of busy Hope.
I can look on record treasures
Of Experience and years,
But I see my rarest pleasures
Bear an after-blot of tears.
Time's broad tide of unplumbed waters
Rolls upon my mortal strand,
With its tribe of mermaid daughters
Singing on their hidden sand;
But that tide full oft is bringing
Broken spar and shattered mast,
And the fairest waves are flinging
Shipwrecka of a fairy Past,.
Be it so,—but still I gather
Pearls no shipwreck can destroy;
And, though sighing, I would rather
Bear the woe than lose the joy.
Still the day dons golden glory,
Still the night wears silver studs,
Still the skylark sings his story,
Still the myrtle puts forth buds.
And, forsooth, the world can never
Hold delight for bird and tree,
Yet in gloom shut out for ever
All its rays'of love from me.
No, sill no; bright hours are coming,
Health and Lite will rise again,
With an echo of the humming
That once formed Hope's wild-bee strain.
Yet, let Fate be stern or smiling,
I can brook the grave or glad;
And, though charmed by the beguiling,
Still I can defy the sad:
For I've stemmed the darkest billow
That can meet the human breast,—
I have found the hardest pillow
That Despair has ever pressed;
And I know that mortal trouble,
Offer all it can or may,
Will but seem a surface bubble
After what has choked my way.
" God is great!" He only knoweth
What I've borne, and still must bear;
God is great!" my spirit boweth,
But there's pain too deep for prayer.
If I kneel not—if I feel not
All that holy pastors preach,
Wait till ye have wounds that heal not
Ere ye breathe condemning speech.
Hush proud heart! my brow is sinking,
eyes are dim;
Leave the judgment-seat to Him.
Cynice‘Gopdriiessgt,rbeetw!a"; mhyard thinking,—
auk CooK.

MANSION HOUSE.—Yesterday the Lord Mayor
and the Lady Mayoress entertained her Majesty's Judges
of the House of Commons. The Hon.
Geritlernan w
John
andwa their
Teirulesaddiaeys, with a number of distinguished members of
the bar and several private friends. Covers were laid in the
Egyptian Hall for 200.
THE
EAST INDIA COMMITTEE.--Mr. T. Baring
Lord -li as
usser7Pointed chairman of the East India Com-
mittee of Incluiup.roposed by Mr. Henries and seconded by

Bsou i VESSELS.—It is shown by a return:to the
House of Commons just printed that 79 vessels (59 sailing
and 20 steam-vessels) belonging to the United Kingdom_
war® broken up last year. The tonnage Inirai 6,426. '