them immediately, for which they enclose
postage stamps? Where are the gentlemen of
good education, who offer five hundred thanks
for government appointments, legally
transferable? Where are the other gentlemen who
have the government appointments, and do
transfer them legally, and accept the thanks,
and keep the inviolable secrecy which is
always to be observed, and where, WHERE, I
say, are the government appointments which
are "legally transferable"?

Where are the First-rate Men, the Rich
city Men, the Twenty Thousand Pound
Men, who are sure to "come into" every new
project the moment it is fairly launched?
Where are the buyers of all those eligible
investments—the partakers (for five hundred
pounds down) in fortune-making patents for
articles in universal demand? Whereabouts
in the daily, evening, or weekly papers, am I
to find the enthusiastically laudatory
criticisms of new novels (such as "A
delightful work."—Times. "The best novel of
the day."—Chronicle. "An admirable book."
—Examiner. "Worthy of Fielding."—Globe)
appended to the booksellers' advertisements?
Where are the purchasers of the cerulean
neck-ties with crimson and gold bars, the
death's-head shirts, the pea-green gloves that
we see displayed in certain hosiers' shops?
Where are the libraries which would be
incomplete without nearly all the new books
criticised in the weekly papers?—and which,
of course, have got them? Where are those
hereditary bondsmen, who to free themselves
must strike the blow; where is the blow to
be struck, and how are the bondsmen to
strike it?

One question more, and I have done.
Where are all the people whom we are to
know some of these days! Where is the
dear friend to whom, ten years hence, we
shall recount what an atrocious villain our
dear friend of to-day turned out to be?
Where are they all hidden—the new
connections we shall form, quite forgetting our
present ties of blood and friendship? Where
are the wives unknown, uncourted yet; the
children unborn, unthought of, who are to
delight or grieve us? Where are the after
years that may come, and where is all that
they may, and all that we already know they
must, bring?

RIGHTS AND WRONGS OF WOMEN.

No one denies the fact that women have
wrongs; we wrangle only over the alphabet
of amelioration. Some advocate her being
unsexed as the best means of doing her justice;
others propose her intellectual annihilation,
and the further suppression ot her
individuality, on the homoeopathic
principle of giving as a cure the cause of the
disease.

How few open the golden gates which lead
to the middle Sacred Way, whose stillness
offends the noisy, and whose retirement
disgusts the restless; the middle path of a
noble, unpretending, redeeming, domestic,
usefulness: stretching out from Home, like
the rays of a beautiful star, all over the
world! Yet here have walked the holy
women of all ages; a long line of saints and
heroines; whose virtues have influenced
countless generations, and who have done
more for the advancement of humanity than
all the Public Functionists together. Not
that the comparison bespeaks much, or is
worthy of the sacred Truth.

A word with ye, O Public Functionists—
ye damagers of a good cause by loading it
with ridicule—ye assassins of truth, by burying
it beneath exaggeration! A woman such
as ye would make her—teaching, preaching,
voting, judging, commanding a man-of-war,
and charging at the head of a battalion—would
be simply an amorphous monster, riot worth
the little finger of the wife we would all secure
if we could, the tacens et placens uxor, the
gentle helpmeet of our burdens, the soother
of our sorrows, and the enhancer of our joys!
Imagine a follower of a certain Miss Betsy
Millar, who for twelve years commanded the
Scotch brig, Cloetus—imagine such a one at
the head of one's table, with horny hands
covered with fiery red scars and blackened
with tar, her voice hoarse and cracked, her
skin tanned and hardened, her language
seasoned with nautical allusions and quarterdeck
imagery, and her gait and step the
rollicking roll of a bluff Jack-tar. She might
be very estimable as a human being, honourable,
brave, and generous, but she would not
be a woman: she would not fulfil one
condition of womanhood, and therefore she
would be unfit and imperfect, unsuited to her
place and unequal to her functions. What man
(moderately sane) would prefer a woman who
had been a sea captain ten or twelve years, to
the most ordinary of piano-playing and flower-
painting young ladies? Mindless as the one
might be, the rough practicality of the other
would be worse; and helpless as fashionable
education makes young ladies, Heaven defend
us from the virile energy of a race of Betsy
Millars! Yet one philosopher has actually
been found, who has had the moral courage
to quote this lady's career as a proof that
women are fitted by nature for offices which
men have always assumed to themselves, and
that it would be a wise, and healthful, and
a natural state of society which should man
brigs with boarding-school girls, and appoint
emancipated females as their commanders.
We wish Mr. Thomas Wentworth Higginson,
the heroic champion of Betsy Millar, no worse
fate than to marry one of his favourite sea
captainesses.

In the American Utopia that is to come,
women are to be voters, barristers, members
of congress, and judges. They are to rush to
the polling-booth, and mount the hustings,
defiant of brickbats and careless of eggs and