WOMAN.

Oh that this fane so fair and delicate-
The incarnate home of the eternal state
Of Beauty, wherein Love most eloquent
Is idolized, where earth's enthusiasts press,
In the deep agony of loneliness

And thought's despair-should be the tenement
Of the foul fiend of utter worldliness!

This peerless flower, whose divine loveliness-
Even as the spirit o'er the wilderness
Of Evil brooding-kindleth pure intent,
With fragrant breath reviveth weariness,
And in its honied heart of kindliness

Holds perfect bliss-alas, that grossest sense

Should mar its bloom, and Life suck deadliest poison thence!

THE SLAVE.

The horror of a monstrous tragedy
Haunted my spirit ;-O'er a father's bier
A gentle girl hung weeping bitterly;
A creature beautiful and delicate,
Impassioned, yet with all the purity

Of girlhood's holy time:-I looked again:

Stretched on a couch, she writhed convulsively

'Neath the fierce grasp of one, whose horrible leer

Mocked her great agony, while he did sate

The fury of his lust, and violate

Her nature's sanctity; then brutally

Was she spurned forth, to toil, be scourged, and die.

Merciful God! Despair hath but one cry:

What by such means would Love Omnific gain?

THE MYSTERY.

How Good and Ill are blended! Oh, dear God!

Is no relief from this incestuous bond?

Must this foul intermingling be beyond

Death's strong divorce? Beneath the fragrant sod,
Revels the slimy worm in rottenness;
Disgust is paramour of loveliness;
And madness mateth with sublimity;
Untuned hate all-harshly doth respond

To joy's love-music-what! if Life should die;
The quickening soul waste in putridity;
And death's dark phases typify the dream
Of all existences-Death the supreme?
Then God were wedded to Deformity:-
It were a thought to make even Love despond.

:

"Next to governesses, the largest class of female patients in lunatic asylums is Maids of All Work."-Harriet Martineau. "Britons never will be slaves!"—National Song.

JANE STEPHENS was the daughter of a ploughman. The Legislature, in its benevolent wisdom, had decided that it was for the good of the community that Richard Stephens should be condemned to hard labour without hope of improvement, for the term of his natural life; and Sir Thomas Jenkins, who drew large rents from the produce of the fields on which Stephens and others laboured, was decidedly of the Legislature's opinion. Indeed, Sir Thomas was one of the "collective wisdom" or House of Commons, and as such had voted that it was just and necessary that one in ten of these condemned labourers should be shot or cut in pieces to preserve this beautiful constitution of society. Stephens only thought there was no beauty in slavery: but what mattered what a ploughman thought when the landlord and government, and of course the clergy, chose otherwise?-but my business is with the ploughman's daughter.

Jane was the eldest of a large family. She was soon useful: nursed the baby, took her father his dinner, kept the house in order, and was both the assistant and companion of her mother. She was a fine healthy girl-would have been called beautiful, had she been born "a lady"; good-tempered and loving; industrious and ever ready to help any who were in need. When she was about fifteen, her father not being allowed to support his family, it became necessary that she should go to service. It was a hard thing to part from home and all who were loved and loving, to go among strangers, to be alone for her mistress allowed no "followers", thinking servants had not the same affections as others, or, if they did wish to see their friends, there was no time-; and to work like a mill-horse-but that she did not think of: in fact, to sell herself for five pounds a year. But then, she would be helping her mother; and anything was to be endured for that :-so, with a cheerful countenance Jane engaged herself to a mistress; and exchanged the old cottage in the fields for a dirty house in a narrow street in London, nearly two hundred miles from her native place. Here for three years she laboured as under-housemaid to an arrogant woman who had "no idea of being spoken to by a servant;" one who wondered servants' instincts did not teach them how to adopt immediately the habits of every new place, how to humour the ever-varying caprices of possibly a fretful mistress:-but I must pass to her next situation, as maid of all work, procured solely on account of her excellent character from her last place.

And maid of all work she was. Her master was the owner of a manufactory and, consequently, from home the greater part of the day, coming home for his meals. His family consisted of himself, his wife, a son and daughter nearly grown up, a boy eleven years old, a girl rather younger, and an infant in arms. The house was let out to lodgers. An artist had the first floor; an actor had one room on the second floor; and three noisy and not very clean Germans shared the remainder of the second floor and an attic; the family occupied the other attic, the ground floor, and the kitchen. At this time I was acquainted with Jane's master. He was a worthy man, goodhearted, and very kind to Jane. His wife was, I think, as well-meaning a body, but rather warm, and a little bit hasty; and pour Jane seldom passed

day without some opportunity of understanding her mistress's disposition. The son worked at his father's business. The daughter assisted in the light work, but left the laborious part to her mother and the maid. To do Mrs. Simpson justice, she was never idle: always working, and muddling as she worked, so that Jane often wished her mistress wouldn't help her. The children were not much less troublesome.

Soon after Jane went to them, Mrs. Simpson was laid up with a bad bilious attack. The daughter had enough to do, nursing her mother, even with some assistance from Jane, on whom the work of the house entirely devolved. She had to scrub and sweep the house, to make the beds, to cook for the family, and the first-floor lodger (who sometimes had company), to wait upon all the lodgers, to answer the door (the knocker had just discovered the perpetual motion), to run of errands-marketing &c., to look after the children, and, in her leisure time, to wean the baby. Amid all this, for which she received eight pounds a year, Jane was assiduous and good tempered; and though not happy-for she had not forgotten her home, and pined for the green fields and old country friendliness-still she never neglected her work. At length, her health gave way she was obliged to leave her place; and a long illness was the result of the over-tasking of her strength. Slowly she recovered, to find herself in the desert of London without friends or money, almost without clothes-having been compelled to part with them during her illness.

From this time I lost sight of her. God knows what became, or will become of her. Perhaps she was reduced to beg her bread in our very christian streets; or perhaps for she was beautiful-destitution and despair may have conspired with villainy to force her into that lowest deep of degradation, the life-Oh, no! not the life, the horrible wretchedness of prostitution; or perhaps she may have been fortunate enough to procure another situation: fortunate enough! Is it good fortune to be worked to death, either without or with kindness? (The Simpsons were kind: the rigours of her servitude there arose more from ignorance, which renders people careless of others' sufferings, than from any wilful cruelty.) But, even if she were fortunate enough to get another place, what must be the result? Continual toil, unbefriended and without hope, till at length, too old for service, she is compelled to seek a precarious subsistence as sempstress or char-woman, hardly living in some miserable garret; and when that last fortune fails her, she may die of cold and starvation in the streets, "a natural death;" (How dare men so lie? Wellfed jurymen, reconsider your verdict !) or she may have the comforts of a workhouse hospital. Oh! there are but too many who bear this doom. What has become of girlhood's hope and gaiety; of the woman's beauty and lovingness? Did not they deserve a better destiny? Domestic service, indeed-domestic slavery! Respectable philanthropists! can you not prescribe any remedy?

Now I am well to do in the world: but I keep no servant. My wife and children wait upon me, and I help them. We know nothing of command and obedience: for we take a pleasure in serving those we love:-and I would recommend rich folk and gentlemen, if it be only on account of their own comfort, to discharge all their servants, and be served by those who love them, taking their turn in the work most fit for them. But, even if they are not wise enough to study their own good, let them be just to others, and not condemn their betters (perhaps) to slavery, merely because their laziness or pride -I don't care which: they may settle it between themselves—will not condescend to menial offices. Nothing is menial to Love.

"But what shall we do without servants?" says the fine lady. Do what honester folks do: wait upon yourself! Why should other people be sacrificed to your selfishness?-Poor Jane Stephens! there are many such as thou wert; as worthy of good, and as ill-used:-I can write no more. It is too

horrible to think of.

FROM THE DUCHESS OF MALFY

A TRAGEDY, BY JOHN WEBSTER.

The DUCHESS OF MALFY marries ANTONIO, her Steward.

Ant. That I should write somewhat.

Duch. Oh, I remember.

After these triumphs and this large expense
It's fit, like thrifty husbands, we enquire
What's laid up for to-morrow.

Ant. So please your beauteous excellence.

Duch. Beauteous indeed! I thank you; I look young
For your sake. You have ta'en my cares upon you.
Ant. I'll fetch your grace the particulars of your revenue
Duch. Oh, you're an upright treasurer: but you mistook,
For when I said I meant to make enquiry
What's laid up for to-morrow, I did mean
What's laid up yonder for me.

Ant. Where?

Duch. In heaven.

I'm making my will (as 'tis fit Princes should,)
In perfect memory; and I pray, Sir, tell me,
Were not one better make it smiling, thus,
Than in deep groans and terrible ghastly looks,
As if the gifts we parted with procur'd

That violent distraction?

Ant. Oh, much better.

Duch. If I had a husband now, this care were quit.

But I intend to make you overseer ;

What good deed shall we first remember, say?

Ant. Begin with that first good deed, began in the world

After man's creation, the sacrament of marriage.

I'd have you first provide for a good husband;

Give him all.

Duch. All?

To marry again.

Duch. What do you think of marriage?

Ant. I take it, as those that deny purgatory;

It locally contains or heaven or hell,

There's no third place in't.

Duch. How do you affect it?

Ant. My banishment, feeding my melancholy, Would often reason thus.

Duch. Pray, let us hear it.

Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have children,

What takes that from him? only the bare name

Of being a father, or the weak delight

To see the little wanton ride a cock-horse

and expense.

Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter

Like a taught starling.

Duch. Fie, fie, what's all this?

One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my Ring to't.
They say 'tis very sovran, 'twas my wedding ring,
And I did vow never to part with it

But to my second husband.

Ant. You have parted with it now.
Duch. Yes, to help your eye-sight.
Ant. You have made me stark blind.

Duch. How?

Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil,

is dancing in this circle.

Duch. Remove him.

Ant. How?

Duch. There needs small conjuration, when your finger

May do it; thus: is it fit?

Ant. What said you?

Duch. Sir!

(She puts the Ring on his finger.)

This goodly roof of yours is too low built;
I cannot stand upright in't nor discourse,
Without I raise it higher: raise yourself!
Or, if you please my hand to help you: so.

Ant. Ambition, Madam, is a great man's madness,
That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms,
But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt

With the wild noise of prattling visitants,
Which makes it lunatick beyond all cure.
Conceive not I'm so stupid, but I aim
Whereto your favours tend: but he's a fool

That, being a-cold, would thrust his hands in the fire
To warm them.

Duch. So, now the ground's broke,

You may discover what a wealthy mine
I make you Lord of.

Ant. Oh my unworthiness.

Duch. You were ill to sell yourself.

This dark'ning of your worth is not like that

Which tradesmen use in the city; their false lights
Are to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you,

If you will know where breathes a complete man,
(I speak it without flattery) turn your eyes,
And progress through yourself.

Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell,

I should be honest: I have long serv'd virtue,
And ne'er ta'en wages of her.-

Duch. Now she pays it.

The misery of us that are born great!

We are forced to woo, because none dare woo us:

And as a tyrant doubles with his words,

And fearfully equivocates; so we

Are forced to express our violent passions

In riddles, and in dreams, and leave the path

Of simple virtue, which was never made

To seem the thing it is not. Go, go, brag

You have left me heartless; mine is in your bosom;
I hope 'twill multiply love there: you tremble:

(He kneels)