throws the screen of its protection round the scapegrace, by the generous, off-hand apology that, he is a very decent young fellow after all, and is quite excusable on the ground that he is engaged in the interesting agricultural pursuit of sowing his wild oats.

For my own part, I feel quite disposed to make due allowances for the peculiarities of temperament which lead youth to the commission of the various indiscretions which characterise their time of life. But to defend, or even to attempt to excuse the coarse and cruel sins which are too often implied in this "wild oat" process, is almost as reprehensible as to identify oneself with the actual commission of those very sins themselves. For it is very seldom that such a course of life stops short of the basest and most revolting heartlessness which the human mind can conceive. It is a mischievous mistake, into which we are apt to fall, when we associate a reckless debauchee with all that is free, and generous, and brave. And yet it is a mistake very often made. But when passion is pampered and indulged to the extreme to which these generous rakes do indulge it, it is not simply the judgment which is stultified by the process-if that were all, charity might indeed frame some excuse or palliation--but the commonest instincts of humanity and brotherly regard are set at naught and crushed; and every sympathy and affection which would make us tender of a fellow-creature's fame and happiness is yoked to the car of appetite, and dragged helpless and in chains along. It is the remorseless cruelty of vice that wakes the indignation of the honest heart, and not its thoughtlessness or folly. If young men only sowed their wild oats at their own expense it would not signify so much; but it is because they dig graves by thousands, in which to cast the seed; it is because they are sown upon the graves of virtue, of purity, and of happiness; it is because they are sown among the flowers which ought to grow fair and fragrant around innocent and untainted homes, and find their soil in

the wilderness of broken-hearts and crushed affections; it is because they spring upon the ruined walls of cottages which ought never to have been laid in ruins, and are matured by the tears of eyes that ought never to have been dimmed with grief; this is the reason why we ought to have no mercy on the man who seeks to hide his vices by the soft excuse that he is only sowing his wild oats.

So long as the sowing of these wild oats merely consists in the wearing of peg-top trousers-in the cultivation of a harmless clump of bristles on the upper lip-in squeezing the corns and chilblains with tight boots-in joining a rifle corps for the sake of the uniform, and not for the sake of the country-in forgetting how to talk like an Englishman, and speaking like a Spaniard with a cold in his head, or a German who has taken too much gin and water-so long as it is confined to these little eccentricities of noodledom, we may be content to let it alone, and leave time and experience to winnow away the chaff. But, alas! folly and vice too often go together. There are more oaths drawled out from underneath a moustache, than from between decently shaven lips; and the hardest and the blackest hearts are usually covered with the softest and the whitest linen, and "the last new thing in vests." When a man is an excessively heavy swell, the presumption is that he is an equally heavy scoundrel. There are some people, however, who sow their wild oats in the matter of dress alone, and who abstain from the coarser and more vicious forms of performing the process in question. But certainly the modern excesses of fashion may be regarded as a mild form of sowing wild oats; and, if I mention the ladies as not being entirely exempt from this amiable foible, I hope it will not be construed into any desire to direct towards them an unbecoming publicity, or, at least, to draw towards them any more general observation than they themselves seem disposed to invite. There is no one, I am sure, more averse than I am to the practice, too common on platforms, of making merry, and perpetrating bad

jokes at the expense of the ladies; much less can I sympathise with the solemn censure which some ministers of the gospel have not deemed it inappropriate to pour upon the millinery fashions of the present day. Matters of taste may safely be left in the hands of ladies themselves; and to identify them with morals is perhaps stepping a little too far; and it is certainly far better that the few weaknesses which our sisters have inherited should expand in the shape of skirt, than in the form of direct vice or evil. But there is one thing about this fashion-mania amongst the other sex which really assumes a somewhat serious aspect. I do not allude to the difficulties which it throws in the way of passing along church aisles, of getting into pews, of passing between narrow posts, of entering a carriage, or of making room for more than half the proper complement of passengers in omnibuses. These inconveniences could easily be endured-and, for one, I am sure I would willingly ride on the knife-board outside in a deluge of rain, rather than in the faintest degree incommode a fair client of Messrs. Standring or Greenwood. But, if ladies will indulge in fashionable caprice, let them not allow the tendency to get the better of their common sense, much less of their common humanity. And this is not an inappropriate season for such a hint. Christmas, with its festivities, is approaching. Parties, and meetings, and balls, and all kinds of flare-ups are coming on. It is a sort of full-dress period; and every body (ladies especially), I presume, intends to come out strong. Now what I want to say is this, and as it is a hint addressed to ladies, I assure you I do it with profound respect, and with great fear and trembling, but I would beg leave to suggest that the momentous question as to the kind of head-dress you will wear, as to the number of flounces you will have, and the colour of the trimmings you will choose, should be decided as soon as possible, so that the dressmaker may have some reasonable notice of your expectations, and may not be expected to create a dress, a bonnet, and all the rest of the

articles of your voluminous wardrobe in a quarter of an hour. Do not write on the Christmas Eve and say you want a miracle of millinery performing before the next morning; but try if you could not so arrange your purchases as that the poor seamstress, whose needle is so busy morning, noon, and night, may have a chance of tasting the freedom of a Christmas holiday as well as you, and feel the arm of her affectionate John Thomas pressing her as she dances the mazurka in her long-left home. I dare say there are hundreds of poor girls in this city-fair as the ladies for whose adornment they are toiling-as welleducated and as well brought up as half the grandees round about us who are just beginning to hug the dawning hope that they shall get a day's release this Christmas time, and hear a father's blessing, and meet a mother's smile, for the first time for years. There may be some to whose pale cheek the blush of fond expectancy may mantle, as they hang the miseltoe above their heads in fancy, and feel the lip of love pressed once more agatnst their own. We know not how many girlish hopes are rising in bosoms, from which hope has long been banished, as the needle-girl sits in the work-room counting the days it wants to Christmas-time, with the stitches that she puts into her work.. Home pictures, fond and happy, are being painted in full many a fancy, as the festal time draws near, and the footsteps of the jovial king, with his holly-crown, is heard approaching nearer. I don't believe there is a lady in all Manchester, who would not in her tender heart be glad that every toiling sister should spend a merry Christmas, and revive such scenes and sympa thies, as should make the new year happier than the old. But then ladies are sometimes thoughtless, and their thoughtlessness falls heavily upon those they would not wish to injure. Excuse me ladies, but if you postpone your orders until close to Christmas, and expect them all executed at once, you will be doing a cruel injustice to the hard-worked sisters who have to perform the work. You will throw a cloud upon the hopes of many a heart, from which a storm of grief shall pour, that shall

almost break it with its fury. There is a young girl in yonder work-room, sitting up late, and rising early to complete a task, so that she may not be confined in the dull shop, when other folks are free, and so that she may see the faces that she loves, and hear the voices that are the tenderest music of her life. She labours hard, and as the task draws towards its close, the light grows brighter in her eye, and the hopeful crimson mounts into her cheek, her bosom leaps with hope, and she almost feels the close caress of relative and lover flung already round her. And now the work is done, and rising from the pent-up posture of her toil, she struggles to keep down the signs of inward joy. At length a carriage dashes to the door, and the mistress of the place comes in to say, that Lady Flounce has called to say that she shall expect four dresses for herself and daughters, to be ready for the county ball, on that day week. That day week! It will take a fortnight to perform the task. No matter, she must sit up all night, and so squeeze a fortnight's labour into a week's time. But how about the Christmas holiday? How about the hopes of home, the looked-for meetings, and the glad re-union? How about the homely dance, the game at blind man's buff, and the innocent flirtation of the miseltoe? It was a vision—a mere dream. What right had she to think about it? What business has a poor dressmaker with a home and friends, and Christmas parties? Vision or no vision, it has vanished now. 'Tis true the poor girl did see it just now, and believed it real, but the streaming tears have shut out the sight of home, and the greetings of those she loves, and who love her, are drowned in her own sobs. O, Lady Flounce, could not you and your blooming daughters manage to shine brightly enough at the ball, in the finery of last year, even though the fashions may have changed from long to short-waisted dresses, and from loose to close-fitting sleeves? Is it so important that Flora and Augusta, and Beatrice Belinda Clementina should appear in pink instead of blue, and have bugles instead of flowers in