appearance, except now and then the chambermaid. Her suspense became almost intolerable. The clock struck nine-no Lady Essex had arrived. Mrs. Brown returned grievously disappointed to her own room, where she found Mr. Brown fast asleep upon the sofa.

In vain did Mrs. Brown open upon him her entire battery of words, from the heavy metal of abuse down to the small arms of coaxing. She scolded, she remonstrated, she persuaded, she entreated—all was in vain. Mr. Brown passively endured; but nothing could rouse him to a reconsideration of the means how to accomplish Mrs. Brown's absurd desire. At last she sat down and cried, and then she ordered tea, and finally they closed the eventful day by peacefully retiring to bed.

Before they went to sleep, however, Mrs. Brown ventured upon this consolatory observation,

"Well, dear, it is something to say that we spent the evening in the very next room to the Dowager Lady Essex, Sam. Rogers, and Boz."

The following morning, as soon as breakfast was over, they strolled out to see the place; and, as they proceeded along the terrace, they were suddenly approached by a lady who emerged from the Library. As soon as Mrs. Brown saw her, she perceived it was her aristocratic friend; and, without communicating the fact to her husband, she commenced a series of bobbing courtseys, which the lady acknowledged by a nod as she passed.

That's the Dowager Lady Essex, my dear," said Mrs. Brown. "You perceive she knew me. Now who's right and who's wrong?" They walked a little farther, when a thought suddenly struck Mrs. Brown, and she said she wished to go into the Library. Luckily, just as she was about to enter the Library, who should encounter her but her friend.

Mrs. Brown, having drawn over her face a well-washed Buckingham lace veil, concluded that her friend did not recognise her; she threw it back, therefore, and immediately addressed herself to the supposed Lady Essex, in her usual strain of compliment.

"Oh! my good woman," said her friend, "I'm very much obliged to you; but don't call me my lady' here. You must call me by my right name,-Mademoiselle Romandin.”

"Ma'mselle Romandin!!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, turning very pale." Then, are you not the Dowager Lady Essex? "

"No; my name is Louisa Romandin."

"Then, pray what are you, Mam'selle Louisa Romandin?" asked Mrs. Brown, with great indignation.

"Why, Mrs. Stewardess, if you must know, I am the Dowager Lady Essex's own lady's-maid."

Lady Essex's-mai-mai-a-a-a—”

"Get a glass of water, will you, my good man?" said Mr. Brown, who now began to understand better the proceedings of his wife during the last twenty-four hours.

"Well, dear," observed Mrs. Brown to her husband, as they sat in their own parlour the next evening, "it was too bad of that nasty slut to spoil our tour, and pawn herself off for the Dowager Lady Essex-a baggage! However, we did talk to Boz in the omnibus, and we heard Rogers talk,-and I stared the real Dowager Lady Essex full in the face-that 's something to say.-Dick, are you asleep?"

LINES ON THE LORD ASHLEY'S MOTION. JUNE 7, 1842.

BY EDWARD KENEALY.

THERE was deep silence in the Senate's walls,—
A deep and breathless silence, such as reigns
In the lone greenwood when the gentle Night,
With constellations round her, like fair nymphs,
And in her train the Spirit of Repose,
Comes, with her spells, to lull the wearied world.—
There was deep silence, and the busy crowd
Grew still, like waters when the winds are gone.
When lo! amid the many, One stood forth,
Upon whose brow, and in whose soft, bright eyes,
Youth, like the morning-star, serenely shone.
I mark'd him as he rose-long while his name
Thy synonyme, divine Philanthropy!

Had fallen, like songs of sweetness, on mine ear.
For he, regardless of the gilded scenes
Which Fashion opens to the highly-born,
Regardless, too, of aught that could entice

His spirit from its own most god-like task,—

Had been where Rank and Wealth but seldom tread,
Had seen what Rank and Wealth but seldom see,

Or seeing, disregard-the poor man's woe,

The misery that clusters round his home,
And deadens all the feelings of his soul.
He had observ'd it, pitied, and reliev'd ;
He had been aye the generous friend of all
Who needed kindness in this icy world;

From earliest years the infant's advocate,

Who broke the bonds accurs'd which Av'rice bound

Round Childhood's frame,-And, therefore, much mine eyes

Desir'd to see, and ears to hear, him now.

With kindling eloquence his words came forth,
With eloquence born of the heart, not head;

Simple and unadorn'd, such as beseem'd

One on high mission sent. With words that wept,
Methought, at the sad tidings they convey'd,

He pleaded Childhood's, Girlhood's, Woman's cause;
The veil undrawn, what mis'ry was disclos'd!
What infant torture, what undream'd of wrongs,
What scenes to make the coldest bosom melt,
And paint the sternest cheek with blush of shame!
Childhood, that once in England's golden days,
When Peace and Plenty brighten'd all the land,
Gambol'd with fawn-like freedom o'er the sward,
Liv'd but for laughter, and for joyous sport,
Its hardest task to cull the summer-flowers,
Its only lesson prayers to its God,

Its happy smile, and rosy-beaming face,

And eyes that spoke the raptures of the heart;
How chang'd, alas! from what it once had been.
Condemn'd to work in mines in summer's heat
And winter's frigid days and dreary nights,
Inur'd to misery ere it well could crawl,

Indentur'd to draw chains, to creep through chinks
Delug'd almost with water, and to work
Naked for hours, amid a poison'd air;

To bear the savage blow when it grew weak,
To know not God, nor sunshine, nor a soul,

To live the life that never beast endur'd,
And curse the day that gave it to the world.
And Girlhood, gentle Girlhood, too, the slave
To Avarice, and victim of grey Guilt,
Work'd to deformity, crippl'd, debas'd,
Its finer functions, all its nobler gifts,
Given for great ends and loftiest purposes,
Thoroughly rooted out-not e'en a trace
Left to point out if they had ever been.
Those lips bestow'd by Heaven to charm, to soothe,
To chant His praises, made th' unholy fane

On which obscenity, the monster, sat.

Those gentle feelings (jewels of the sex)
Corrupted all, and turn'd to criminal deeds

That blush to see the light; their fairness gone,

And haggard wrinkles where smiles might have bloom'd;

Hearts harden'd, unredeemable; and souls

That scorn'd, if they knew, their priceless worth.

Womanhood also was crush'd down like weeds,
And knew not its own majesty; but toil'd
From day to day, in sickness and in health,
Even to the hour of travail woman toil'd,
Even to the hour most painful of all hours ;-
She wore an iron fetter round her waist,
She bore a ponderous weight upon her back,
And labour'd naked among naked men.

She too, shut out from Heaven and heavenly things,
Careless of human, reckless of divine
Considerations, liv'd most wretchedly,
Rivalling man in blasphemy and crime,
A wretched libel on the form she bore.

Such were the scenes by Ashley's aid reveal'd,

Such were the tidings that in horror burst

On England's crowded Senate, wakening all

To pity, and a burning wish to stay

Evils like this in mighty England's heart.

AND THEY SHALL BE ARRESTED IN THEIR COURSE!

So say the Senate-so with loud acclaim

Re-echoes England, so we soon shall find.
Will not our noble-hearted Queen assist,
By countenance and favour, to sweep off

This fatal stain which shames our annals thus?
Will she not aid to elevate her sex,
Hapless, degraded, and corrupted now,

From that most monstrous bondage of the mines?
My life upon her aid! The Queen, and all
Who bear the hearts of men within their breasts,
Who've ever dropp'd a tear at sorrow's tale,
Who've ever wip'd the dew from sorrow's eyes,
Will up, and gird them to throw off this foul
And national discredit of our age-

So shall their names be honour'd to all time!

So shall the deed be hallow'd to all time!

So shall our isle be blessed to all time!

So shall their children's children reap the fruit

Of prayers sent up to Heaven from thousand hearts,
Taught even now to look beyond this life,

To turn from vice, and enter virtue's paths,

And wend the way that leads to God and Heaven.

NOTES OF AN OVERLAND JOURNEY TO

KENNINGTON.

BY OLD SCRATCH.

It was at about eight o'clock on a dull November morning that our little party, consisting of myself and a friend, started forth upon our long-projected expedition to Kennington. After about a quarter of an hour's harassing hop-skip-and-jump over a hedgey and ditchy tract of country, we came into the main road, a little above the Fever Hospital in Gray's Inn Lane, and instantly struck out our course in a southwesterly direction towards King's Cross, where we hoped to arrive in time for the omnibus. The peculiarly uninteresting country that lies between the point at which we joined the grand route and the top of Gray's Inn Lane will hardly repay the trouble of describing it. The inhabitants are distinguished by their vigorous exertions to cultivate the barren tracts of soil that are fenced in before their humble dwellings; but their efforts seem to be ill-repaid, if we may judge by the dying daisies and blackened stems of would-be evergreens that contribute their gloominess to a scene, which nature and the trustees of the Small-pox and Fever Hospitals appear to have conspired to render desolate.

Having gained the New Road, now one of the oldest thoroughfares in that part of the world, we pushed boldly across, in spite of a partial interruption from a native, who carried a broom in one hand, and stretched out the other towards us, in an attitude denoting that he contemplated the exaction of tribute. We now found ourselves at King's Cross, standing close to that splendid pile of hieroglyphical architecture, which has baffled the skill of travellers to describe, and of which no one on earth, but least of all its numerous proprietors and lessees, could ever tell the utility. King's Cross stands in the centre of about six roads, and was originally intended to serve the purpose of an enormous pump; but the projector of this scheme dying before its completion, both pumps, the human and the material, were forgotten. It afterwards occurred to some bold and speculative individual that the structure was the very place for a clock, and one was immediately put up, which answered every purpose but that of telling the time; for, though the clock was a very good eight-day affair, it was necessarily placed so high up, that no one could distinguish the figures marked upon it. At the suggestion of a spirited inhabitant, it was resolved that the clock should be rendered transparent; and transparent it certainly became, for everybody could see right through the face, but the figures remained invisible. This idea being abandoned, the elegant building attracted the attention of the toll-collectors, who converted it into a tollhouse, for which purpose it answered admirably, as far as one out of the six roads was concerned; but, unfortunately, while money was being taken for the passing of a vehicle through one of the gates, carriages were being driven through the remaining five with impunity. Myself and friend now ascended the omnibus that was to bear us on our journey, and having taken our seats on each side of the driver,―a place I generally prefer, as it gives an opportunity of seeing the country, and conversing with one who knows it,-the whip was thrust into

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my hand, and the reins into those of my friend, while Jehu and the cad turned into one of the four public houses which stand within a stone's throw of each other at the spot alluded to.

During the first quarter of an hour we amused ourselves pretty well by conversing on the probable incidents of our contemplated trip, and we then whiled away a few minutes very agreeably in talking of the weather, my friend observing it was dusty, and I replying that this might perhaps be attributed to the length of time that had elapsed since there had been any rain, -a view of the question in which my friend at length concurred with complimentary readiness.

The peculiar yell which is common to the whole of the tribe of conductors, or cads, now broke upon our ears, and the well-known shout of "City, City,-Bank, Bank,"-which may be called the national melody of the omnibus men, just as much as the Ranz des Vaches is said to be the song of the Alpine milk-boys,-apprized us that it was nearly the time for starting. The driver having mounted the box, he seized the reins from my friend, jerked the whip from my hand, and ingeniously awoke his horses, who, like Homer, had been occasionally nodding, by sawing at their mouths for some minutes with the bits, and lashing the tips of their ears with a precision that called forth our admiration of his great ability. A loud slamming of the door set off the gallant steeds without any intimation from the coachman, and we were now fairly off, at a pace just sufficient to satisfy the provisions of the act, which requires that the omnibus should keep moving.

The first object of curiosity which we came to was St. Chad's Well, a celebrated mineral spring, or spa, to which a pump is attached; and there is, or was, a room for the accommodation of subscribers, fitted up with a wooden bench, and a half-pint mug of white earthenware. St. Chad is little known; and, upon my asking for information from the driver regarding the saint, he only looked in my face, and laughed,which I thought a confirmation of the truth, that no man is a prophet in his own country; for it is clear that Chad is not venerated as a saint ought to be among the inhabitants of his own immediate neighbourhood. The spa is seldom resorted to except by those who carry linen to be mangled on the premises; for, the mineral waters having long ceased to be attractive, the building has been let to a laundress, who keeps up the board which announces the terms of subscription, rather than incur the trouble and expense of removing it.

We now proceeded at a better pace, and had a fine view on our left of Coldbath-Fields prison, which stands on the brow of Mount Pleasant, and looks out upon the quiet little ville of Penton. The view from the corner of Calthorpe Street, is one of the finest things in this part of the country, for as far as the eye can reach it travels over a chequered landscape of hill and dale, while it rests at last, fatigued with its luxuriant repast, upon the chimney-pots of the Sir Hugh Myddleton's head, and catches a glimpse of the top of the neighbouring waterworks. We now pushed onwards, and passed the top of Liquorpond Street, so called from the bursting of a porter-vat at some remote period, of which there are no records, and when the liquor filled a pond of which there does not remain at present the smallest vestige.

We passed in rapid succession the celebrated outlets which run from Gray's-Inn Road on either side, and we noticed the pretty little street of Pash, in which there is nothing remarkable-though the pawnbroker's shop at the corner is an object of no ordinary interest.