ce to tyranny, and selfsacrifice on the altar of the
Rights of Man. Into the merits of these idealizations it is not here
necessary to inquire: suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they
have convinced both Americans and English that the most high minded
course for them to pursue is to kill as many of one another as
possible, and that military operations to that end are in full swing,
morally supported by confident requests from the clergy of both sides
for the blessing of God on their arms.

Under such circumstances many other women besides this disagreeable
Mrs. Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night waiting for news.
Like her, too, they fall asleep towards morning at the risk of nodding
themselves into the kitchen fire. Mrs. Dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over
her head, and her feet on a broad fender of iron laths, the step of the
domestic altar of the fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its
hinged arm above the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. The plain kitchen
table is opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a candle on it in a tin
sconce. Her chair, like all the others in the room, is uncushioned and
unpainted; but as it has a round railed back and a seat conventionally
moulded to the sitter's curves, it is comparatively a chair of state.
The room has three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace, near
the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, at the opposite end of
the opposite wall, leading to the scullery and washhouse; and the house
door, with its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy wooden bar, in the front
wall, between the window in its middle and the corner next the bedroom
door. Between the door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to the
deductive observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are
no hats or coats on them. On the other side of the window the clock
hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, black iron weights, and
brass pendulum. Between the clock and the corner, a big cupboard,
locked, stands on a dwarf dresser full of common crockery.

On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the corner, a
shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against the wall. An
inspection of its stridulous surface shows that Mrs. Dudgeon is not
alone. A girl of sixteen or seventeen has fallen asleep on it. She is a
wild, timid looking creature with black hair and tanned skin. Her
frock, a scanty garment, is rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by
no means sc