n the
grave, I would hope, of a Magdalen; taken away, before injuries and
cruelty had blotted out and transfigured her ingenuous nature, or the
brutalities of ruffians had completed the ruin they had begun.

[The remainder of this very interesting article will be given in the next
number.--ED.]

PART II

From the London Magazine for October 1821.

So then, Oxford Street, stony-hearted step-mother! thou that listenest to
the sighs of orphans and drinkest the tears of children, at length I was
dismissed from thee; the time was come at last that I no more should pace
in anguish thy never-ending terraces, no more should dream and wake in
captivity to the pangs of hunger. Successors too many, to myself and
Ann, have doubtless since then trodden in our footsteps, inheritors of
our calamities; other orphans than Ann have sighed; tears have been shed
by other children; and thou, Oxford Street, hast since doubtless echoed
to the groans of innumerable hearts. For myself, however, the storm
which I had outlived seemed to have been the pledge of a long
fair-weather--the premature sufferings which I had paid down to have been
accepted as a ransom for many years to come, as a price of long immunity
from sorrow; and if again I walked in London a solitary and contemplative
man (as oftentimes I did), I walked for the most part in serenity and
peace of mind. And although it is true that the calamities of my
noviciate in London had struck root so deeply in my bodily constitution,
that afterwards they shot up and flourished afresh, and grew into a
noxious umbrage that has overshadowed and darkened my latter years, yet
these second assaults of suffering were met with a fortitude more
confirmed, with the resources of a maturer intellect, and with
alleviations from sympathising affection--how deep and tender!

Thus, however, with whatsoever alleviations, years that were far asunder
were bound together by subtle links of suffering derived from a common
root. And herein I notice an instance of the short-sightedness of human
desires, that oftentimes on moonlight nights, during my first mournful
abode in London, my consolation was (if such it could be thought) to gaze
from Oxford Street up every avenue in succession which pierces through
the heart of Marylebone to the fields and the woods; for _that_, said I,
travelling with my eyes up the long vistas which lay part in light and
part in shade, "_that_ is the road to the North, an