was a deep hole, to be entered only on one side by a path of narrow dimensions. In this was a small hut, of wretched aspect, one of millions in France where glitter and glory hides misery worse than that of Ireland in her worst days, where sound and show conceal from us sixteen millions of paupers.

This hut had no window. It was curved in shape, and closely resembled a wigwam of the poorest class. It consisted of three poles stuck in the ground, meeting at the top, these tied together, and then, of course, thatch and mud. A hole was left in the top for the smoke to pass through. The floor was of mud. In one corner was a pile of straw, which, with two chairs and a table, formed the whole of the furniture. It was occupied by two women and a large dog. At the moment when our narrative commences, one only was at home. She was about fifty, poorly but not meanly clad. She was clean, neat, and tidy, and she plied her needle with unceasing energy. She was sewing for a livelihood.

A short distance off, on the edge of the wood, another woman, or rather a young girl, dressed in the same manner, was picking up wood and laying it in an outspread cloth on the ground. She, too, plied her work industriously, for until sufficient fuel had been collected, she could not cook their humble dinner. Presently she seemed satisfied with what she had done, and was about to proceed when two horsemen issued from the wood, and came along, walking their horses slowly by them. One was a young man, about five-and-twenty, rosy-cheeked, handsome, and full of health; the other was ten years older, and evidently an habitué of the Boulevards and the Café de Paris. His pale face, made paler by a thin black moustache and jet black hair, his hollow, sunken eyes, spoke of the man of late hours and pleasure. His face was cold and repulsive, while that of the other was open and frank.

"What a wretched occupation for so pretty a girl," said the young man, riding quickly on, so as to speak first, "surely, ma chere, you might put your taper fingers to a better use. Here's will buy you firewood

for months."

And he cast a double napoleon at her feet.

The girl raised her angelic face to his, sadly and reproachfully. She was about eighteen. Her white skin, her blue eyes, her curly golden hair, her simple, child-like manner was something he had never seen before. Her expression was timid and yet proud, and looking into her eyes, the young man was not surprised at the reply he received.

Monsieur, I have done nothing to give you a right to insult me. What you have done may have been meant kindly, but I ask alms of no one."

"Pardon, mademoiselle," exclaimed the other, confused and stammering, "I meant no insult. Pardon me mademoiselle, I pray you. I thought you poor, and my impulse was to aid you."

"Thank you, monsieur, for the first kind word I have heard these fifteen years, except from my own mother," said the young girl. "But go your way, or else the whole country will shun you too."

"Begone wretch!" exclaimed the other, riding up and raising his whip menacingly; "begone viper, and dare not speak to an honest man."

The young man listened in amazement.

"I did not speak to monsieur, monsieur spoke to me," said the girl, gently, with, however, a smile of pity and contempt.

66 Raise your accursed lips to me again," cried the other, furiously, "and I will scourge you with my whip."

"Monsieur is perhaps a coward," said the gentle girl, stung to anger for once, turning at the same time to face his insults.

"What! you dare answer me," and he raised his hand again.

"Nay, Edward, you would not hit a woman." "A woman! Do you call Madeleine de Pierrepont, the child of the assassin of my uncle Dubois, a woman; say rather a fiend," screamed the usually calm dandy.

"Madeleine de Pierrepont!" replied the other, staggering so that his friend had to turn his attention to him. "Madeleine de Pierrepont! And this is Madeleine de Pierrepont! Truly," he muttered as he remounted his horse, "she is not a woman."

The other imitated him, and they rode off, leaving the young girl to weep alone. In a few minutes, however, she wiped her eyes, and then, fearful she might be suspected of appropriating the gold piece, she took it up, wrapped it in a piece of paper, with the intention of returning it to its owner. She then lifted up her bundle and walked slowly towards the hut.

"Tell me the story of this girl," said the young man, gravely.

The other told it :-"Fifteen years before, the father of Madeleine de Pierrepont and a Monsieur Dubois, a rich proprietor, had been intimate friends. De Pierrepont was comfortably off, from the fact of his having several occupations. He was collector of the rents of a rich member of his noble family; he was tax-gatherer, and adjoint to the maire. The maire was M. Dubois, a rich man, but somewhat of a miser. It appeared that one afternoon Dubois asked Pierrepont to walk over to a small town at some distance to receive with him a large remittance, with which he had to pay a body of workmen employed on public works, and other expenses incurred in the building a church and schoolroom. Dubois felt safer with a companion. It was afterwards proved that they received the money, dined together at the Soleil d'Or, drank rather more than they were used to, and then, despite every representation, set out to walk home, though De Pierrepont wished to hire a gig. Next morning the body of Dubois was found about a hundred yards beyond the house of De Pierrepont, which was at the foot of a hill that led up to the village. All his money was gone, as well as his watch and rings.

"A search took place instantly; and De Pierrepont, as his companion, was visited by the police agent. De Pierrepont deposed that Dubois on his reaching his house bade him go in, for that he could go up the hill safely alone; but still he requested him to keep a bag of 1,000 francs in silver, because it was so heavy, until the morning. This 1,000 francs he gave up to the police. Of 16,000 francs in notes, he solemnly declared he knew nothing. On this he was arrested as the assassin, tried, found guilty, and sent to the galleys for life. His wife solemnly

declared that she heard Dubois wish her husband good night, and say, laughingly, 'I'll send a cart for the silver in the morning.' But instead of benefiting him, in the eyes of the world she became his accomplice. To avoid being hooted at in the streets, she left the village, and every penny being spent ere her husband's trial was over, she obtained reluctant permission to dwell in the charcoal-burner's deserted hut. But all shunned her and her child as they would lepers, and to live she was obliged to walk miles in search of work of the coarsest description. Leave the country she would not, because she was born there, and she felt convinced that her husband would be ultimately pardoned."

"And you join, Edward, in the infamous persecution. Supposing the father guilty (which to me is not clearly proved-and you know I am a lawyer), why should this poor child suffer for the sins of her

father? Why, the savages of North America, where I have just come from, are more civilized than you. I see in this heroic couple subject of wonder and admiration, but not of hate. Poor creatures! Fifteen years of misery have not satisfied you all, but you must still treat them as outcasts."

"My dear Arthur, you have just come from America, where it appears to me you pick up very singular notions. For my part, the wife and daughter of an assassin, and the assassin of my uncle, are detestable wretches whom I must hate," said the other, in his usual cool way. His fit of anger was past. "Injustice, infamous injustice. Poor, girl! I think I see her meek face now, looking at me so proudly and yet so sweetly. I never saw anything so lovely in my life."

"Why, the man's in love!" exclaimed Edward Dubois, the heir to the murdered man's property.

"Half; and what's more, Edward, do you know I'd marry that girl to-morrow, if she'd have me; but I know she wouldn't."

"By my faith," said Edward, "you amaze me; and I am not easily amazed. Of course you are joking."

"Time will show. But now my dear fellow, adieu; you follow that path in search of pleasure, İ this on business."

"Adieu, à demain."

"Yes. You breakfast with me at the little inn, you know."

Agreed, my philosopher. Adieu."

And Edward Dubois galloped down a narrow path leading to the chateau of a certain Count de Jesson, who that day gave a grand dinner and evening party. As soon as Arthur saw that he was out of sight, he turned his horse's steps and galloped hard towards the charcoal-burner's hut.

When Madeleine returned to the hut and began making a fire, she told her mother what had passed, and showed her the gold piece. They were used to this kind of treatment, and the mother did not feel it much now. The scorn of fifteen years had made her despise the world. But Madeleine seemed hurt.

"I do not care," she exclaimed aloud at last, "for what young Monsieur Dubois said; but I am vexed that the good-looking stranger should have said that I was not a woman!"

"You are not a woman but an angel!" exclaimed Arthur solemnly; he had approached on foot and had heard a portion of their conversation.

The mother and daughter stood still in dumb amazement.

"You seem surprised, madam," said the young man, addressing the mother; "you will be still more so when I add that I have returned with the deliberate intention of imploring you to give me your daughter's hand in marriage; not now-instantly, but when you know me better."

my motives in coming here. I scarcely expected to find you at Solenthal; but at last determined to try. I came yesterday night, and I soon heard of your heroic resignation and courage. Be seated, dear girl, and listen to tidings that will be joyful indeed to your filial heart."

Madeleine blushing, her colour going and coming, obeyed, and seated herself on a log near the young stranger.

"I am a young Frenchman, and about seven years ago I emigrated to Peru in search of fortune. I started as a lawyer, and found business plentiful enough. I knew many Frenchmen in the place, but a merchant of the name of Gaillard was my most intimate friend. He was twice my age, grave, even sullen and saturnine; but he had quaint ways, was very charitable, and I liked him. Besides, the others were married, had families, and he was alone. We used to meet of an evening at a café, play piquet, drink sherbet, and then walk home together. He was rich, and lived in great style, but not in any way up to his income. People wondered he never married; but he said he had been married, and was not inclined to try the experiment again. He looked with alarm at the prospect of my settling in life, and did all he could to preserve unto himself one bachelor friend.

"About a year ago he fell ill, and the doctor at once intimated to him that he would not recover. Apart from disease, it was a general break up of

nature.

"When he found there was no hope, he sent for

me.

"Versan,' said he, 'listen to a dying man, and interrupt me not. You see on this bed an assassin, a thief, a murderer. Fourteen years ago, sitting in an hotel, I saw two men dining, one of whom had just received sixteen or seventeen thousand francs. A dreadful thought came into my head. I was not poor, but I was wicked. I followed these two men. They walked on their way to Solenthal together. I dared not attack both, and once or twice I thought of giving up my fearful design. But at the house of one De Pierrepont they parted, and my victim Dubois advanced alone.

"I was monster enough to think that Heaven gave him up to me. I bounded after him; I gave myself no time for thought; I stabbed him in the neck; killed him; took his money, and fled. I spare you my thoughts, and my fifteen years of suffering. I fled my country; I became a merchant, -rich, respected; but I have never had one happy moment. Not only had I murdered him, but Pierrepont was suspected, and sentenced for my crime, only not to death, because the jury hesitated. I thus ruined an honest man, and sent his family to beg their bread.'

“He paused. I spoke not; too absorbed in my horror.

"De Versan, listen to me, my friend. Do not turn against me. I have left you my sole heir.' 666 Never will I.'

Take my

"Hark! you must and you will. property, and think when you enjoy it with pity on its guilty present owner, and I will make a public confession, pay the heirs of Dubois their 16,000 francs, and by proving my own guilt, obtain the pardon of the innocent De Pierrepont. Refuse and I will die impenitent, for my only friend will have deserted

men, two priests and the alcalde-Gaillard, or rather Mesnard, made his solemn confession, which was signed by all present, sealed, and one of two copies given to me. That copy is now in the hand of the minister of justice, and here," drawing forth a letter, "is a copy of your father's free pardon."

A wild shriek from both women was his reply. "And now Madeleine," said he, taking the girl's hand, "before I have the chance of rivals, may I renew my request for your hand and heart?"

"Monsieur, no man on earth can ever do for me what you have done. In an hour I have lived years of joy; that joy I owe to you. Give me my father, and the love of my whole life, if you value it, shall be your poor reward."

This sudden resolution of the young girl, so natural under the circumstances, was approved of heartily by the mother.

Next morning there sat in a small inn in Solenthal, waiting for breakfast, a man, not old but bowed by years of woe, grey-haired and pale. On each side of him sat a woman, one his wife the other his daughter. They had been talking for hours, and were not wearied yet. A young man sat opposite, his face beaming with delight. Several times the waiter had announced breakfast; but the young man had always bade him be quiet and wait still a while.

At length a hurried step was heard, and the young Edward Dubois entered. He started as if bit by a snake, and would have left the room.

Stop," said Arthur, sternly, as he caught him by the wrist. "Rather kneel and ask for pardon than fly. Read this, man," and he put in his hand the printed bill proclaiming the injustice of Pierrepont's sentence, his free pardon, and containing the certified confession of Mesnard.

Edward Dubois read it in silence. When he had finished, he turned and grasped the ex-convict's hand.

"No apology can make up for my conduct," he said, "but what I can do, I will. This bill will satisfy the whole country."

"Monsieur," replied De Pierrepont, in husky tones, 'you did but as the world did. Appearances were against me, and all condemned me.'

"Edward, my friend," said Arthur, "you see the danger of judging from appearances. Had De Pierrepont been truly guilty, his wife and child should have been pitied, not scorned. As it is, a vile prejudice has made these two women, for fifteen years, outcasts and pariahs."

Edward made no reply, as the breakfast came in. He, like all the country round, was horrified, now they found how unjust they had been; and never was wedding more tumultuously hailed and fêted than that of Arthur de Versan and Madeleine de Pierrepont. Still I have not heard that one man, woman, or child, in the forest of Ardennes, has been cured of the evil habit of judging always from appearances, and visiting on the innocent the sins of the guilty.

THE WALHALLA AT TAMWORTH. THE late Sir Robert Peel seldom admitted any one beyond the circle of his private friends to see his fine mansion, and his picture-gallery especially was guarded with unusual care. That gallery he attached by his will to the estate, so that whatever may, at any future time, become of the one, the other goes with it. The very fact of such a testamentary provision shows the peculiar light in which he regarded this portion of his property. When the matter is a little further inquired into, one begins to see many reasons

why this remarkable man should be so jealous of his paintings so watchful to preserve them from the vulgar eye-so solicitous that they should share the fortunes of the soil to which he has attached them. In that gallery he had collected likenesses of his most eminent contemporaries, and entering therein was like lifting the veil from his most private thoughts, and catching his measure of the other great performers on the stage of life by whom he was surrounded. He was not a man to brook that scrutiny, or to let the world even guess at his emotions, as in retirement at Drayton he quietly communed with himself on the faces looking down upon him from the walls of his favourite gallery. Public curiosity may now, however, be safely and fairly indulged, nor have the family of the deceased any reason to fear that any uses can be made of that gallery other than creditable to his memory and consistent with his established fame. It contains one picture only dedicated to the drama, and the selection of that is in itself significant. The subject is John Kemble as Rolla, the painter Lawrence, and this noble work of art, so full of power, occupies the most conspicuous position in the gallery. So much for the drama. In the world of poetry a stronger predilection is shown. There is Southey, his delicate ethereal features sublimed with thought, sitting under the shadow of a moss-grown rock, with his notebook and pencil by his side, and a dreamy landscape in the distance, towards which his eyes wander. This is also by Lawrence. Then we have Wordsworth, and Rogers, and Byron; the first by Pickersgill, the second by Lucas, and the last by Phillips-and all good likenesses. These are the contemporary poets whom Sir Robert admitted to his gallery. Further back in point of time, but brought down for close inspection as a special favourite, there is Pope's sharp, inquisitive face, painted by Richardson; and we also observed a painting of Cowley when he was a child. Of men eminent in science two moderns attract special attention the one is Professor Owen, the other Cuvier splendid portraits, and both painted by Pickersgill. Nothing can well be more interesting than to compare the faces of these two men, like in their researches, and equally endowed by nature with features through which intellectual power shines with unmistakeable lustre. In that contrast alone there is food for hours of delightful speculation. The only other portrait of a savans that we noticed was Dr. Buckland. Of contemporary divines there is but one in the gallery-a great man-finely painted, Dr. Chalmers, by Watson Gordon; the bar and the bench are represented by Sir William Follett, Curran, Lords Eldon, Stowell, and Lyndhurst, Mr. Justice Blackstone, and one or two more. The likeness of Follett is not very good, and that of Lyndhurst is also rather flat and heavy; but most of the rest are Lawrences, and the Curran especially is a triumph of portraitpainting. Never were Milesian features more perfectly rendered, and, as you gaze, the piercing eyes and arched eyebrows seem about to start from the canvas, to transfix you with sarcasm or shake your sides with a joke. Of men of war the gallery contains a collection moderate enough to satisfy the scruples of the greatest peacemonger. The duke, of course, is one, painted by Lawrence; Lord Hardinge, another; and Sir G. Cockburne, the third. Henry Halford's likeness is the only one in the medical profession; and Hallam is the historian honoured by a place upon the wall. We now come to contemporary statesmen; and among them we find Brougham, Ellenborough, Goulburn, Buccleugh, Stanley, Graham, Canning, Gladstone, Lincoln, Aberdeen, Horner, Lord Erskine, Liverpool, Huskisson, Wellesley, and the late Earl Grey. The

Sir

likeness of Lord Brougham is by Morton, and is a marvellous production. He is represented sitting in a sort of brown study, in a sombre-looking library, with the light falling fantastically upon his shoe, and giving to the whole portrait, in the finest manner, the restless, impetuous, wayward character of the

man.

Lord Ellenborough is also a fine picture, but with the exception of Lord Aberdeen's, the members of Sir Robert's administration represented have not been painted with more than good average ability. The picture of Canning is a very fine work of art, and, indeed, inferior to nothing in the gallery. He is given in the act of addressing the House, and all the fire of debate is concentrated in his expressive, handsome countenance. The portraits of Lord Wellesley, Lord Liverpool, and Lord Grey, are also excellent; and those of Horner, Huskisson, and Lord Erskine, though on a small scale, bring out well the characters of the men. Of statesmen belonging to past times there figures a head of Burke, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, the colours of which are deteriorating fast; a full length of Pitt, by Gainsborough ; and portaits of Sir Robert Walpole and Lord Grenville. One other feature of this famous gallery remains to be noticed, and it completes one's idea of those faces with which the late Sir Robert Peel delighted to decorate his walls. We refer to the family portraits, which are just three in number. There is the first Sir Robert, a hale, shrewdeyed old man, on one side; on the other his distinguished son, younger than most of us remember him, and with his head and countenance somewhat idealized by Lawrence; between them Lady Peel, a delicate, highly-feminine face, and the only specimen of the fair sex admitted to consort with an assemblage so illustrious. "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin;" and so Peel, in the midst of his political friendships, did not forget to find room for a record of his father and his wife. Such is the gallery which he attached to the possession of Drayton manor, that no accident might dissipate its contents, and that the human interests with which, in his eyes, it was invested, might as long as possible be preserved. The billiard-room also contains some choice specimens from the Dutch school; some fine paintings by Danby, Linton, and Collins, one by Wilkie, another by Landseer; several busts by Chantrey, and a glorious picture of the "Israelites leaving Egypt," by David Roberts. The chef d'œuvre of poor Haydon "Napoleon at St. Helena," is now placed in the dining-room, where it is seen to great advantage, and where the only other picture introduced is (appropriately enough) a likeness of Louis le Grand.-Times.

THE "GLORY" OF WAR!

Mr. Esmond beheld another part of military duty; our troops entering the enemy's territory, and putting all around them to fire and sword,-burning farms, wasted fields, shrieking women, slaughtered sons and fathers, and drunken soldiery, cursing and carousing in the midst of tears, terrors, and murder. Why does the stately muse of history, that delights in describing the valour of heroes and the grandeur of conquests, leave out these scenes, so brutal, mean, and degrading, that yet form by far the greater part of the drama of war? You gentlemen of England who live at home at ease, and compliment yourselves in the songs of triumph with which our chieftains are bepraised ;— you pretty maidens, that come tumbling down the stairs when the drum and fife call you, and huzza for the British Grenadiers, do you take account. that these items go to make up the amount of the triumph you admire, and form part of the duties of the heroes you fondle Thackeray's "Esmond."

THE SUMMER EVENING.

OH, glorious sunset! I have stood till rapture thrilled my breast,

To watch the last bright rays of Sol that streaked the glowing west,

As leisurely the god of day withdrew his golden head,

And hid it in the crimson folds of that broad gorgeous bed.

Tall shadows fell across the sward, the sparkling waters danced,

And with its own pure loveliness all nature looked entranced;

My ears drank in delicious sounds, as from each gilded

spray

Trolled forth the feathered choristers their farewell to the day.

Then meek-eyed Eve came slowly on, and with a gentle power

She folded up the waxen cup of many a fragrant flower;

Then round the landscape, erst so bright, a robe of grey she threw,

And over Nature's beauteous face she spread a veil of dew.

Chink, chink, with merry chirping sound the grasshopper was heard;

The gauze-winged bat flew swiftly by, the droning May-fly whirred;

The loaded waggon grated harsh, the village dogs did bay,

All mingling with the distant hum of children still at play.

Forth came the little fairy-folk, uncertain of the hour,

But finding Luna was not there, they crept beneath a flower;

They could not dance, capricious things, unlighted by the moon,

And murmured at the gentle Eve that drew them forth so soon.

As rose the soft complaining song of Night's melodious bird,

The soul of Poesy awoke, Devotion's depths were stirred;

My bosom swelled with thankfulness as low I bent the knee,

And offered up a wordless prayer, Creation's God, to Thee.

Thou who made Earth thus beautiful, thou God of love and might!

Who gives this brilliancy to Day-this softened grace to Night,

Oh, Thou! to whom the cherubim and seraphim do pray,

I bow before Thee, and adore, as privileged as they.

SARAH BURNETT.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

DOING TOO LITTLE AND DOING TOO

MUCH.

ONE of the most remarkable movements of the present day is that taking place among the American women. There are not a few ladies there who claim an equal right with the traditional "lords of the creation" to legislate for the weal of the state,-to propound the promises of the Gospel,-to assume, like Portia, the gown of the advocate, and to minister, as physicians, to all the ills which flesh is heir to. It is not our intention here to enter into the question of the propriety or impropriety of this movement. Perhaps in its varied aspects it embraces a good deal both of the right and the wrong; possibly it heralds the approach of a new era, illustrating, as nearly as the possible will allow, the old Amazonian fable; probably it marks conventional abuses and societarian injustice;-but whatever its causes or its immediate results, we may be sure that it is "a great fact" working for ultimate good. Into whatsoever sphere woman may be admitted, or force her way, she will bring with her keen perception, fresh talents, and new objects. We shall get from her mind a glimpse of the other side of the pillar of life, such as men could never have gained for themselves.

Most of our readers are very likely aware that several of the American ladies have passed through a course of medical studies and become "doctors of medicine." Those who are somewhat startled at this might remember that it is only a resumption of an old office of the sex. In ancient times, next to the monks, the ladies were the leeches who attended upon our forefathers. But whatever may be said to the propriety of women becoming "general practitioners," there can be no objection to their being mistresses of their own diseases. Both morality and health might be served by their attention being turned in that direction, and that that is partially the case is proved by a book upon The Laws of Life, by Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, which we have just been reading.

This little volume consists of a series of lectures addressed by Dr. Black well to an audience of American women; and they turn chiefly upon the physical

The Laws of Life, with special reference to the Physical Education of Girls. By Elizabeth Blackwell, M.D. New York: G. P. Putnam.

[PRICE 1d.

education of girls. For the information of the mothers of England we will try to give a glimpse of its purport. Though in English society there does not appear to be so much abuse of the female frame as in America, yet there is quite enough to render such a work valuable. American ladies grow matronly at twenty, oldish at twenty-five, and almost grandmother-like at thirty. If this hard fate does not attend their English contemporaries, yet there is a fearful waste of vitality and of premature old age arising from every-day practises, which makes this work a valuable addition to female literature. Miss Blackwell, however, takes a higher view of her mission than this. She thinks it concerns the men as well as the women, and fully as much. To prove this she dives into ancient literature, and points to the possibility of our having the parallels of the ancient heroes, as resting upon our having strong, healthy, vigorous-minded women, with sound minds in sound bodies, fit to become the mothers of heroes. Those who, glancing through the records of the past, see how much great men have owed to great and good mothers, will hardly dispute the justice of the conclusion.

The authoress's inquiry, then, to put it in a few words, resolves itself into this-What are we doing to build up for women healthy bodies, and to put into them healthy minds? Her object, to be equally brief, after answering that question, is to lay down the principles upon which health depends, and to give them a practical application. In doing this, if she does not evolve anything which is absolutely new, she at all events puts old things in a new light. She considers life in its two aspects-of organic life and what she calls "related life." The former term is so well known that we need not explain it ; the latter requires to be made a little plainer. By "related life" Miss Blackwell seems to mean the compound action of body and mind; and to this state she assigns education.

Organic life is the existence of the earliest years of childhood, say up to the age of seven; at that period involuntary action greatly predominates. This goes on often without any relation to consciousness. The great law of existence is action-exercise. This Nature insures much better than we could. The various functions of the body only ask for freedom to act and materials to act upon, and then