your thoughts of those who were once as chaste and innocent as you, but who have, perhaps unguarded by a mother's care, been overthrown and pilfered by a cruel hand. I ask not that there should be any confraternity between the chaste and the unchaste;—but in the name of justice and humanity, we do ask that if scorn and shuddering aversion are exhibited, they be shewn in the right quarter. Let ladies hold in abhorrence the sin by which their sisters fall, but let them shew that abhorrence by the hatred and repudiation with which they turn away from the man who lays the foundation of the misery and vice. Let every decent mother's drawing-room door be slammed in the face of the voluptuary, lordling though he be, and let men learn from the treatment they encounter in pure society, that they cannot distribute their social favours thus among the untainted and the outcasts—but must make their choice between decent and abandoned companionship. When such a test as this is thrust upon our young men-and not till then-shall we find a practical check put upon the great social evil-and then, and not till then, will justice be done between the libertine and his victim.

"O ladies, listen, and I'll tell you brief,

A touching tale, and true as history.

The wind and leaf held dalliance-" Gentle leaf,"
Began the wind, "awake, and fly with me.
For thee I passed the beds where roses are;

And though their whispers fragrant wooed my stay,
And every little bud shone like a star,

I thought on thee-arise and come away!
Thy sisters dark, are sleeping in the dew,

I would not rouse their coldness with a sigh,
But thou the beautiful and I the true,
Were meant for common passion-let us fly."
The leaf complied, and ere a day was done,
Was flung aside-a thing to tread upon."

There's some meaning in those few lines, if kind-hearted people would but think about it. How many things, like this leaf, are flung away to be trodden on, by hands which belong to men professing gallantry, which ought to protect, rather than

destroy. O, that society would deal more equally between those who commit outrage, and those who are outraged! That was a noble speech of Dr. Guthrie's, the other day in Glasgow, when he classed the robber of a woman's purity, along with the thief who breaks the lock and plunders property; and when other people shall begin to see by the same light, and through the same eyes, then the remedy will begin to be effectually applied.

Now, just a closing word. If you would fain avoid the snares which lurk around you, walk circumspectly, pick your road jealously, and look for the light-the guiding light, from the right quarter. It shines from heaven, not merely through the rising and the setting orb which smiles the day through upon the earth, and then coyly vanishes through the night; but it comes from a brighter though a sunless realm—a region where they need no candle, neither light of the sun; and though you may not look right into its source just yet, its rays are gathered into a fair reflected focus in the written and revealed Word of Him who gives the light. Take that Word as your torch-walk by its lustre. It will guide you rightly, keep you clear of danger, and finally land you where there is fulness of joy and pleasures evermore. May you and I be ever walking thus; and then, though we separate now, we may make sure we shall meet again, and remember with some gratitude the day when we talked about "Orange peel on the pavement."

Blondin, and other Heroes of the Rope.

THERE are certain buildings and institutions in this country which seem to assert the appropriateness of the names by which they are called, very much more than others. Now, there is a public institution in this city, the outside of which has often been frequently seen by every one present-but the inside of which, I trust, is familiar to none-called the New Bailey. I confess I have been inside it myself-and have perspired on the tread-wheel, and spent a short term of confinement in the blackhole; but my hair has grown since I came out, so I trust you will not tell anyone what a jail-bird I have been. But there seems to be an inaptness in the name of this place. You cannot pass by its blackened and smoke-begrimed, walls without seeing the indications of its having stood for many years-and yet it is called the New Bailey;-if you go into it, and thread your way amongst its corridors and stair-cases, you will see that the brick and stone are worn by the footsteps of captives and of turnkeys, showing for how long a time they have gone in and out within these walls: yet still it is the New Bailey notwithstanding. And probably, if our children's children should pass by that way a century hence, and ask the question, what that building is called, they will be informed that the name remains the same, and that it is the New Bailey still. This seems like christening a child by the name of Baby, and leaving him to

carry the reminder of his swaddling-clothes about with him for three-score years and ten-and putting it beyond his power, even in manhood, to "put away childish things." A post-boy, as everybody knows, is not necessarily a boy in fact. There are grey-headed post-boys whom nothing could affront more deeply than to call them men. There is a place of public amusement in Leicester Square, London, called the Alhambra. Now, one would expect from this name to find that this place was an ornamental palace, after the Spanish model, and dedicated to the orgies of hidalgo revellers. But instead of this we discover that the London Alhambra is a flimsy-looking erection, a little like a coach-builder's show-rooms, and surmounted with two elevated turrets, lighted up as lanterns at night, like beacons by the seaside; and that the entertainments within consist of presentations of fighters' belts, and the evolutions of Mons. Léotard upon the "double trapeze." Many places might be mentioned which similarly disappoint us in their realization of the names by which they are called. If a person hears about a hospital, he generally associates the word with a kind of infirmary, where invalids are nursed, and people who have met with accidents are attended to. Yet we find that one of the most famous hospitals in the country is nothing more nor less than a public school; and that Christ's Hospital and the Bluecoat School are one and the same thing. In days gone by, they used to thrash the yellow-stockinged, youth of that establishment so severely that a hospital of the ordinary kind was almost needful; and it would not have been very wonderful if one of the pupils had had to be removed from Christ's Hospital to St. Bartholomew's, in consequence of the energetic castigation he had received for making a false quantity, or blundering about the subjunctive mood.

But if there is one building in this, country more than another, which does most thoroughly and completely vindicate its Own name, it is the noble hall in