MODERN ENGLAND.

Colonist, Volume II, Issue 161, 6 May 1859, Page 4

MODERN ENGLAND.

The changes that have come over our country within less than the half of the century are more than enough to^ provoke the wondering comparison which is always associated with grey hairs. We^ have heard our grandfathers talk about their acquaintance with Mr. Pennant, the eminent tourist '•in Chester," who himself remembered shooting on the north side of Oxford-street; and now the view from the top of St. Giles' steeple presents an unbroken field of houseroofs as far as the eye can reach. But it is within the shortest memory that exists—that of a " gentleman connected with the Press" —that we have seen the greatest changes brought into use,—telegraphy which can inform } rou of an event, some time, by the i clock, before it has happened; photography, which makes the looking-glass do the work of Titian; the railway system, which has made England one town; and a long list of other innovations that the reader can complete for himself as well as we can. In its externals, the whole machinery of daily life is an entirely different thing from what it was within the memory of most of us, and | upon the whole greatly improved. But this change in externals and materials has had its parallel in the change that has come over men. That is something surprising. It is not fair to turn to the Press, since the Press as it exists now was scarcely conceivable twenty years ago. Mr. Oobbett or the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge could hardly have conceived the amount of "Twopenny Thrash" which the British nation could swallow. Turn rather to the Representative Chambers of the two Houses of Parliament, and see the reversal, of almost every relation in Parliamentary life. In the one House you may hear a "Duke of Newcastle," not asking whether a man " may not do what he likes with his own ?' but eager to enthusiasm in the conscientious desire that one man should serve his fellow creature and do with his own what would be best for everybody else.^ You will see a * Lord Derby,' not an ornithologist out of his element in Senate and 3Wn, but a stirring and skilful player at Cabinets. You will see a «Lord Shaftesbnry,' not the supreme authority on Parliamentary matters, and not taking a view of religious polemics rather in the tone of France in the eighteenth century. You will see a Duke of Marlborough not a fast man; a ' Duke of Norfolk,' who is not a fat man; and a ' Stanhope' who is an exceedingly quiet, judicious, accomplished, and kindly but not impulsive gentleman. The very names conjure up ideas the opposite of those which once dwelt in the Chamber; and it is the same in the other Chamber, where you may find a " Major Sibthorp" not perpetually standing forward in a round hat to defend the constitution. You will see an exceedingly quiet gentleman passing along the lobby, perhaps venturing to say a single word, and learn that it is 'Daniel O'Connell.' You will observe a dashing young man, who confesses himself most at home in a ' free-and-easy,' and be told that he bears the name of ' Ashley,' so long associated with philanthropic and pietist proceedings in Parliament. There will arise ' Lord Stanley,' not the impulsive 'Rupert of debate,' but the utilitarian of South Kensington; and at the voice of ' Sir Robert Peel,' surveying mankind from China to Peru, with his hands in his pockets, the House is convulsed with roars of laughter, while statesmen on reflection admit, as if they wondered at it, that there is some practical sense in what the man is saying ! You almost need some type of immortal permanency^ a Brougham in one house, or a Roebuck in the other, to make you sure that it is the same chamber. But there is no mistaking these genii loci. The Chamber is the same, the spirit is entirely changed. We have got so .placid, so practical, so cultivated, that asperities have passed away, bigotries have expired, and the forum has become almost like the drawing-room, only a little more amusing. It is the same out of doors. The spirit of the people appears changed. We cannot say that the popular countenance looks more anxious than it did in days of the 'good old England' that we remember, for in point of fact upon the whole men are better off, —more comfortable, less anxious, and generally speaking less vicious. The streets are much more orderly. Indeed they have become so regular that there is no school for the rising generation in ' the noble art of self-defence;' and if, in the crowd collected round a couple of ambitious urchins in the street, there is any graduate of London streets in the watchman's day, he sees with regret- that the sucking pugilists ' hit round/do not stand up to their man, and possibly do something so lamentable as to strike their man when he is down. For cultivation has its drawbacks, at least |in the process of transition. The Represen- | tative-in-chief of the England of to day is | scandalised at one incident of our social quietism. On the 22nd of November, a beautiful bright moonlight evening with a light northeast wind, in the neighborhood of Andover, a respectable tradesman was murdered by two people, one of them being a woman. Five people heard the murder, —two women, who had been out washing, two men, one who had heard the blows as if somebody was beating a carpet at a distance off, a third man, who was alone, and also heard the hideous carpet beatingTour or five blows, rather quick and very heavy.' They heard the man say—' 0 don't 1 don't murder me !' But the murder was transacted in presence, and not one

of the five persons iriterf erred. The! women did not scream; the men did not go to the rescue; and the Times, with a proper English sense, is scandalized at the occurrence. Our contemporary says truly that the neglect to interfere does not prove indifference to life, like that in China. The women probably were timid; the two men—workmen from a foundry—perhaps failed to realise the portent of the sounds they heard. The other, who was in a better station of life, perhaps though* it prudent not to go too near a scuffle, which might not after all turn out to be a murder. — Spectator.