Where is the record of the wrong that stung,
The charm that tempted, and the grief that wrung?
Let feeble hands, iniquitously just,

Rake up the relics of the sinful dust;

Let ignorance mock the pang it cannot feel,
And malice brand what mercy would conceal.
It matters not, he died as such should die;
Greece had his earliest song, his latest sigh;
And o'er the shrine in which that warm heart sleeps
Glory looks dim, and joyous Conquest weeps.
The Maid of Athens to the spot shall bring
The freshest roses of the new-born spring,

And Spartan boys their first won wreath shall bear
To bloom round Byron's urn, or droop in sadness there!"

Ellen turned her tearful eyes away, to fix them on Louis Seize, or the beautiful (perhaps treacherous) yet hapless Marie Antoinette, and the young Dauphin, over whose story we have all o wept in childhood, and might so weep still, but that now we need our tears for sorrows of our own. From this sad group she gazed upon Napoleon crowning Josephine-Josephine! the fond, the devoted, the confidante (and much as woman could be), the assisting architect of his great fortunes, repudiated, forsaken, and how avenged! Witness the lonely rock where the new Prometheus was enchained, while Remorse, the vulture, fed upon his vitals!

Saddened by this thought, Ellen turned to a fair and royal maiden in youth's first bloom; hope on her frank brow, and power in her "lion port."

"In the dust

The fair-haired daughter of the isles is laid,
The love of millions!"

She was gazing on the idol of the last generation-the Princess Charlotte of Wales. And by her side was that unhappy mother, severed from her in life, and who lived to envy her daughter's early death-for she herself died of a broken heart. Then came "George the Good," and with him the records of that protracted eclipse of reason, that long midnight of the mind, worst of human ills! There stood Elizabeth in pride and pomp; but Ellen's heart, while gazing on her, was full of the poet's exquisite picture of her "Last days"

"She thought that goal of glory won:

How slight a shade between,

The idiot moping in the sun,

And England's giant queen."

And there was Mary-and who could look

at Mary Stuart without a sinking of the

heart!

"The soft Medusa of a fated line,

Whose evil beauty looked to death the brave

Discrowned queen! around whose passionate shame,
Terror and grief the palest flowers entwine,

That ever veiled the ruins of a name

With the sweet parasites of song divine !"

Wherever Ellen turned, whether she gazed on Anna Boleyn or poor Malibran; on Napoleon, great wholesale destroyer; or Burke and Hare, vile retail miscreants, reckoning with each other the price of blood, the purchase money of the corpse of the Italian boy, murdered, as he had nothing else to tempt cupidity, for the poor body whose wants he had so struggled to supply-from monarchs who had perished on the scaffold, to wretches who had died on the gibbet, the fates of all seemed to her woven in one web of human misery and human guilt. In some few cases sorrow only spun the dark thread, and those demanded pity; but where guilt entwined the blood-stained woof, horror dried the tears of sympathy.

We have only alluded to the few figures

which caught Ellen's attention against her will as she hurried through the gallery in search of Babie. She was looking with patriotic interest at our young Queen and her handsome and youthful consort; and as she gazed upon the fair but firm hand which holds the balance of nations and the destinies of a world in its gentle grasp, a wish, that was almost a prayer, rose from her very heart that her young sovereign's fate might be happier than that of the crowned ones around her, that having nobly used her maiden right, to choose from the world the man she loved, she might know, even on a throne, the solace of sympathy, the protection of tenderness. What woman so exalted that she needs them not?-not even thou, Victoria!

"Queen of the Isles ! and empress of the ocean!
And prouder title still-Queen of the Free!"

A shriek and a commotion at the further end of the room suddenly called off Ellen's attention. She recognised Babie Douglas in angry dispute with two men, attendants of the

exhibition. She was pouring forth her anger in voluble Scotch, the men retorted in cockney English.

Ellen drew near to assist Babie, and saw that, somehow or other, the wax model of Dennis M'Carthy (the fellow who threw a stone at William IV.) had been knocked down.

“I canna and I wunna gie you the siller; I'm na clear at a' that I knocked it doun,” she said, "and if I did, the fault is in those who put it close to the Chamber of Horrors,' where naebody could stay ten minutes without rushing out frightened to death. Sae far from paying ye ony thing, ye saucy callants, I'm inclined to indict ye a' for a nuisance; ye deserve it for getting a' those terrible horrors thegither to turn lassies' heads-ye do !"

"Ah! come, ma'am, that won't do, I promise you; if you won't pay for the figure you've damaged, you'll please to come with us to the station 'ous; that's a most waluable figur', a great curiosity, with the hidentical stone as was pitched at his Majesty hat Has