women so situated, and then let them say
what they think of the sacred principle of con-
fiscation. This is no sentimental grievance,
no suggested extension of woman's rights,
which can be condemned as fanciful, no
proposition to interfere, however remotely, with
the dignity or social privileges of any honest
man. It is an attempt at emancipating slaves
who are in our midst, and whose sufferings
and hardships are not the less severe
because they are not made a text for sermons
or a theme for platform oratory. Certain
well-informed newspapers tell us that the division
and the "tie" in the House of Commons upon
the second reading of Mr. Lefevre's bill, fairly
represent the divided opinion of the country
upon the propriety of amending the existing
law; and we are placidly congratulated upon
the matter having been referred to a committee,
and so practically shelved for twelve
months. Cannot the intervening time be
employed in such a way as to make the result
certain?

Mr. Lefevre has already done good service in
helping to prevent the wholesale spoliation of
our metropolitan commons; he took an active
part in the organisation of a Preservation Society
under whose auspices the battle of Hampstead
Heath is on the point of being fought,
with the public rights on one side, and Sir
Thomas Maryon Wilson on the other. The
author of the Married Woman's Property Bill
has experienced the value of extraneous support
to parliamentary action, when the strongholds
of cupidity, ignorance, and prejudice, are to be
assailed. But in his present crusade he can
be helped far more easily than in his former.
Neither antiquarian research, nor expensive
survey, nor professional study of court rolls,
nor a weary resuscitation of long-forgotten
battles against encroachment is necessary. The
first charwoman, or the nearest workshop, will
be found replete with evidence. Any day's
newspaper will have some sad case in point.
If a score of men with leisure were to devote
themselves to acquiring information on this one
subject, we venture to say their discoveries,
when published, would ensure an alteration in
the law. Metaphysical hair-splitting as to the
precise meaning to be attached to certain words,
seems but sorry trifling, in the face of such
misery and injustice as pervade the lower ranks
of married life; and the first step to improvement
is the recognition of those civil rights to
which the citizen of either sex is honestly
entitled. This is not a question of favour, but
of simple abstract justice. Grant all that can
be advanced as to the sanctity of the marriage
ceremony, and the indissolubility of the marriage
tie; grant that its permanence is enjoined
by our religion, and essential to the well being
of society; none the less, let us in common
honesty protect the weak and injured from the
effects of a legal and mercantile rendering of a
sacred ordinance. To make all that a woman
earns or owns, the property of another, is to
keep her on the footing of a beast of burden,
and that is this right of might almost uniersally
claimed by the Savage all the world

GROWTH OF A LONDON MYTH.

ONCE upon a time, "when I was a little tiny
boy," I was brought from the country to a
edging in Kirby-street, Hatton-garden. It
was before the railway era, and I travelled
by the mail coach, and had a seat with the
guard, and the privilege of admiring his red coat
and handling his bugle. At that period Kirby-
street was not wholly unfashionable. There
was then as now a very considerable population
of Italians in the neighbouring courts and
alleys, engaged in the manufacture of optical
instruments, and of plaster images and casts;
but Hatton-garden, Ely-place, and. Kirby-street,
still contained private dwelling houses where
native Londoners of a certain social position
resided. It was in one of these that I dwelt for
about two months, pet and favourite of the
kindly and garrulous old lady who was mistress
of the establishment. Of all the stories she
told me, that of Lady Hatton fixed itself most
firmly in my mind, partly because it was tragical
and supernatural, but in a great degree because
the very stones of the street seemed to prate
of it, and Bleeding-heart Yard, a place with a
ghastly name and a weird reputation, the scene
of the final catastrophe, was within a stone's
throw of the room where I sat listening to the
dreadful recital. The story was to this effect:

In the reign of Queen Elizabeth there stood
in what is now Cross-street, Hatton-garden,
the suburban mansion of Sir Christopher
Hatton, who by the favour of his sovereign
——some people say because he was the most
graceful dancer, and not because he was the
ablest lawyer of his time——had been advanced
to the position of lord high chancellor.

In this house, which was surrounded with
pleasant gardens, and appears to have stood in
about the centre of a space bounded by Holborn
on the south, by Saffron-hill and Baldwin's-gardens
on the east, by Leather-lane on the
west, and by Hatton-wall on the north, Sir
Christopher was accustomed at all proper seasons,
to hold high revel and entertain the principal
people of his day.

When this eminent person was in his sunny
youth, when he had neither acquired name nor
fame nor royal favour, he was a constant
attendant at the theatres of London. Oranges
had been in the first year of Elizabeth newly
introduced into Europe from China by the
Portuguese, and had but recently found their way
to' England. Then, as now, a trade in the
refreshing fruit was carried on both at the doors
and in the interior of the theatres. Among
the girls who plied this industry was one very
handsome person, very poor, but very proud,
with beautiful long dark hair, and dark eyes,
that could flash either with holy or unholy fire.
The gallant Sir Christopher bought some oranges