Dismounting from his bridled mule, Afoot Sir Self pursued his way, Where cries of mingled mirth and dule Marked sottish rout or maddened fray; Where on each lintel sat and croned Old beldams, and the sluttish brood Of girl-folk gossiped, laughed, and droned, As drone the idle, laugh the lewd. The city hath no solemn night Like that which shades the dewy lawn, But with a lurid, ghastly light, Beshames the gloom, and mocks the dawn. Still as the restless watches wore Sir Self the stony footway paced, Till morning waved the city o’er Her filmy wings gold-interlaced. But still through all the midnight blind, And through the blinking of the morn, On every side rose womankind To move his pity—raise his scorn: One mocked her shame, one pressed along On some untimely taskwork bound; One charmed the night with siren song; One woke the day with plaintive sound. Here fragile forms Sir Self passed by At toils which lordly man disdains; There rose some patient, piteous cry, Where petty trade sought petty gains. And in the morning’s mist there sate With love that would not wince nor fail, Poor womankind beside the gate Of hospital and grated jail. Sir Self forsook his stubborn mule, And, sadly, homeward paced the ground; Quoth he: “If womankind doth rule, May be nor slave nor fool is bound. ’Tis not her beauty nor her wiles, Nor all her looks dressed up for show, But something more than craft or smiles Has won a heart from me, I trow.” WILLIAM DUTHIE. The Poor Man’s Kitchen. Not long ago, it was discovered that our prisons are palaces, that the treadmill is as pleasant as waltzing, that picking oakum is not more difficult than potichomanie, and that if any one desires to fare luxuriously every day, without expense to himself, he has only to turn thief, and be sentenced to two years’ confinement. Unfortunately, the life of a prison is attended with a few disadvantages. We are not all fitted for a life of monastic seclusion; silence is not always agreeable; restraint very soon becomes irksome. In spite of these drawbacks, however—which those who have long battled with the world, and whose spirits are drooping under the fell influence of adversity, might well be content to endure for the sake of peace and plenty—the condemned cell seemed a blessed refuge for the distressed, a pretty little chamber in the Castle of Indolence and Many Delights. In one point, especially, the House of Correction, it was supposed, might inspire all prisoners to sing with Dr. Watts— “I have been there, and still would go; ’Tis like a little heaven below.” for the larder seemed worthy of an abbey in the rare old time in which