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done to death to supply the roast beef of old England. Huge Leicesters and plump Southdowns elbow the tiny dainty Welsh sheep, while huge porkers look scornfully down on the meek little sucking-pigs ready for the spit, there to be roasted until their eyes drop out-the index of perfect cookery

and then to be devoured with plum-sauce, according to the dictum of the late Mr. Rush, the eminent murderer (hanged some

On Saturdays-when retail as well as wholesale business is done-the market presents a very animated spectacle; the spoils of slaughtered flocks and herds lic around in gigantic heaps, while busy, stalwart men hurry past, carrying barons of beef, whole sheep, and fat porkers in every direction. But the chief glory of the new meat market is in its admirable subterranean arrangements. Beneath the busy mart is an immense vault occupied by a vast cob-years since at Norwich), or to be absorbed web of railway tracks. Hither come the trucks laden with meat from metropolitan abattoirs, or more distant Scotland. By admirable mechanical contrivances, the ponderous masses of juicy beef and finegrained mutton are hoisted to the level of the floor above, at a notable saving of cartage, porterage, and human labour generally. The City has reason to be proud of its model market, and will probably find the two millions spent upon it turn out no unprofitable investment.

Within shot of Smithfield is the vegetable market of Farringdon, once aspiring to, and even now not despairing of a successful rivalry with Covent Garden. It is, however, although well stocked with vegetables of all sorts and sizes, from huge drumheads to doll's cabbages packed by hundreds in neat baskets, entirely devoid of the features which give to the oftendescribed Covent Garden its never-failing interest. Sanguine people, however, hope for better times, and there is talk of rebuilding Farringdon Market altogether, and giving it every chance of success against its more favoured rival.

by milder mannered men with soothing apple-sauce. But the poultry market is perhaps the chief glory of Leadenhall. What regiments of geese, not green light weights, but substantial stubble-fed magnates, await their final stuffing of sage and onions and a glorious tomb in an ap preciative stomach! Not regiments, but brigades, nay, whole armies of fowls, eclipse the geese in number if not in majesty, while turkeys are comparatively scarce, probably knowing their mission, and reserving their energies for Christmas. Plump pigeons, their cooing stayed for ever, vainly struggle for notice among their more majestic competitors, and are only kept in countenance by hecatombs of tiny but toothsome larks. Tenants of moor and marsh, copse and stubble, "birds of rare plume," with their once gorgeous tints now, alas! dimmed by death, hang around in rich luxuriance.

Cock-pheasants, glittering with metallic hues, are linked with their soberly clad mates. Little brown partridges, modest in their suit of humble brown, are not altogether put out of court by their meretricious French cousins, gay in their upper attire and red as to their extremities. From his heathery home on the breezy hillside comes the succulent grouse. Near him is his more stately cousin, the blackcock, boasting beneath his raven plumage three several kinds of meat, while further on hangs the great monarch of the race, the lordly capercailzie, auerhahn, or cock of the wood, saturated with the aroma of fragrant pine-buds culled in the gloomy forests of his native Norway. Plump hares, no scraggy rascals in fine training, but broadbacked fellows from Norfolk, ten and eleven pounders, doubtful as yet of their ultimate fate-the fragrant roast or the savoury jug

It is very doubtful to me whether any person not actually "located" within its precincts ever succeeded in finding his way about Leadenhall Market. Such a won derful labyrinth surely never existed since the days of ill-used Ariadne. It would have puzzled Theseus to have found his way in and out of the innumerable alleys, courts, and passages, making up this wonderful depôt of every imaginable comestible. All kinds of creatures, furred or feathered, biped or quadruped, dead or alive, are here for sale. A square covered space is assigned to the raiment that but recently clad the lordly steer. There they lay, hides, horns and all, in quaint layers, shadowing-tiny aristocratic wild rabbits, disdaining forth the grand proportions of their once mighty proprietors, who now fill the meat market inside, where meat enough to furnish a thousand lord mayor's feasts lies heaped. Short-horned Devon, and longhorned, ruddy, curly Hereford, have been

companionship with the bloated plebeians from Ostend, await a final asphyxia at the hands of the much-abused, indispensable, tear-compelling onion. Round-breasted, plump-thighed woodcock turn up their slender bills at the neighbourhood of their

poor relation the snipe, while curly-tailed mallard, prim little teal, and juicy widgeon await the lemon and cayenne which are their inevitable fate.

But live dogs distract attention from dead game. The friend of man demands his notice with exacting bark, or insinuating whine. Huge mastiffs tug impatiently at their chains, bull-dogs-fine old conservatives these-blink sleepily through halfclosed eyes at the scene, regarding the whole market, and indeed the world of these degenerate days, with ineffable scorn, as utterly gone and lost since the fine old English pastime of bull-baiting was abolished. More hopeful of the future are the sleek, wiry, graceful black-and-tan terriers; and they are in the right, for rats are not likely to become as rare as bustards for some time to come. Contemptuously sneering at the mixed society around them, supercilious pugs turn up their wrinkled noses in disdain, or lolling carelessly on their cushions look hopefully forward to the happy time when they shall exchange the atmosphere of Leadenhall for the more rarefied ether of Mayfair or Belgravia.

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With sharp joyous "yap" the jovial Scotch terriers invite notice; pushing fellows these, not easily put down nor snubbed, but used to petting, to having their own way, and working their own wicked will on tassels, fringes, and other attractive odds and ends; tough little doggies too, and able, on a pinch," to take their own part right well. It was once my privilege to number one of these dogs among my dearest friends. I have seen the little rogue run furiously up to a huge Newfoundland, seize the goodnatured monster by the neck, and while swinging in the air enjoy in his doggish imagination the idea that he was giving the giant a good shaking!

Long-eared King Charles' spaniels-who appear to think that their mission in life is confined to crossing their paws and looking pretty-recline with languid, high-bred ease in dainty baskets near a brace of milk-white bull-terrier pups. Now white bull-terriers have a fatal fascination for the present writer. I have ever cherished a warm admiration for these charming animals, uniting as they do pluck, strength, fidelity, and beauty. I am not particular as to their entire whiteness, as a beautyspot near the tail, and a brindled patch over one eye, only invest the lovely possessor with an additional charm, like a patch of court-plaister on the cheek of Belinda.

Walking one day in the market, enjoying the happy mental condition lyrically ascribed to the Jolly Young Waterman, who "rowed along thinking of nothing at all," I espied a lovely "purp " reclining in his little humble bed. He was asleep. Doubtless, in his doggish dreams visions of future greatness floated before him; whole hecatombs of rats, untimely slain, ministering to his glory, and stamping him as no unworthy scion of a noble race. He opened one eye-his left eye, adorned with a patch of brindle-and gave me a glance that went straight to my heart. We had divined each other. From that moment our interests were identical. The wary proprietor-doggiest of men-had not been unobservant of my affectionate looks. "Fine purp that, sir," he remarked in oily tones; "his father is the best bred dawg in Hingland. Maybe you've heard, sir, of Muggins's Boxer ?"

Much humbled, I confessed that I had not had the advantage of numbering that renowned animal among my acquaintance. "Best dawg livin'," said my doggy friend; "has killed rats afore the royal family, and 'arf the crowned 'eds in Europe."

It dawned upon me that the owner of this canine pearl was drawing slightly on his imagination, but I was too much enchained by admiration to contradict him. I was the captive of his bow-his very long bow-and of his spear. I became the owner of the celestial pup, parting, with a sigh, with my last sovereign, as one upon whose like I might not look again for some time to come. The dog grew apace, increasing daily in beauty, and already sweet visions of an impromptu rat-pit in the back kitchen flitted across my mind, when-but why revive an unspeakable grief?-he was stolen: lost to me for ever. No treasure I could offer, and "no questions asked," sufficed to restore Nipper to my longing arms; he was gone like a lovely flower torn from its stem.

Apparently unheeding the cries of their natural enemies, whole flocks of pigeons enjoy a happy, if crowded existence. They are here of all sorts, sizes, and varieties. Slender, wattled carriers wait impatiently for the time when they shall again spread their wings, bearing to anxious men tidings of joy or sorrow, of sudden wealth or dire disaster, of battle, victory, or of death. Graceful tumblers-aërial acrobats-pent in narrow space, meek little black-hooded nuns, frilled Jacobins, vain fantails, snowy

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[April 6, 1872.]

The

sober iron-clad does not

white in plumage, conceited pouters, puffed crawl in life of Chelonius, has many adblue-rocks, chosen victims of the gun, to peck at," not he; but when insulted, tender, softly cooing doves, and swift wear "his heart upon his sleeve for daws and swollen with a preposterous dignity, vantages. kicked, or trampled on by an unappreciative world, votes himself "incompris," draws in his horns, and retires into himself, there to wait till called for. I love the unobtrusive tortoise right well, mainly, I believe, on account of his family resemblance to the luscious diamond-backed terrapin, defined by the Transatlantic showman as “an amphibberous animile can't live on land, and dies in the water."

divide the honours of the live poultry with the stately Shanghai, the shops fashionable Brahmapootra, and the game little Bantam. Casting a wistful glance at a fine lop-eared rabbit-a choice variety -our old friend Reynard shows his cunning vizard. Poor fellow! I warrant he would rather be leading a field of wellmounted gentlemen, riding "on a lot o' money," a merry dance over the grass counties, than be sitting here, with dry pads and mangy-looking brush.

Parrots grey, parrots green, cunning parakeets, gorgeous lories, and swinging, crested cockatoos, split the air with their screams, shrieking the praises of Pretty Poll, and demanding, with such pertinacious repetition, to be informed of the time of day, that one cannot shake off the impression that they must have important appointments to keep, and, perhaps, heavy settlements to make with the monkeys grinning and chattering opposite them.

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Loquacious magpies add to the din, but do not interrupt the profound cogitations of the solemn, glossy-coated raven, who, unheeding the chatter of the thoughtless, volatile creatures around him, wraps himself in his meditations, and ponders on grave and solemn subjects far above the comprehension of the vulgar crowd. Longbilled curlews pine for a sniff of the briny," and look curiously at plump, happy little dormice, sleek, comfortable little beasts; funny little guinea pigs nibble at their greenmeat, making a mighty fuss over a humble cabbage-leaf, while beneath them crawls a creature of lower organism the humble tortoise- whom a timehonoured fable has immortalised as the type of the slow, steady, meritorious plodder-the winner of the most celebrated stern wager on record. What a source of comfort has that well-worn fable been to the dull mediocrities of all succeeding ages! It was well enough, no doubt, in its day, when sailors were afraid of losing sight of land; when the lumbering war-chariot was quoted as a type of fearful velocity, and the sounding javelin imagined to be a terrible weapon; but the "form" of Chelonius is hardly good enough for these latter days: it requires pace as well as bottom to bring folks into the front rank in the year of grace 1872. For all this, the modest walk, or rather

Many a time and oft have I met that interesting creature, and never have I experienced the slightest difficulty in "putting myself outside" of him. Admirable as my hard-shell friend is in soup, the highest and most apoplectic authorities agree in declaring that the terrapin "prefers be eaten stewed.

Like Sir Richard Strachan, "burning to be at 'em," blear-eyed ferrets blink viciously at noisy, conceited ducks; game-cocks trumpet their shrill note of defiance; hedgehogs suggest a few pointed remarks. But it is getting late, the shops are shutting up, the last haggler for a cheap ox-head is carrying off his prize in triumph, so we will emerge into the open street, turn our backs upon the "tall bully" of Fish-streethill, and wending our way homewards, look forward hopefully to the next marketday.

BRITISH AMAZONS.

AMAZONIAN dames, be it said rejoicingly, are not common products of British soil; still it has now and again given birth to women as ready with the sword as their sisters with the more natural weapons of the sex. Boadicea led the Iceni against the legions of Suetonius, with a courage deserving better fortune. Athelfleda, the warlike daughter of Alfred, directed the slaughter of the Danes in the streets of Derby. Our early English queens were familiar enough with the tented field and the clang of battle; but the Mauds, Eleanors, Isabellas, and Philippas, were alien born. Had the Armada succeeded in landing its armed freight, the Prince of Parma would have had to try conclusions with an antagɔnist more than worthy of his steel, in the greatest of the Tudor sovereigns. When Elizabeth, marshalling her enthusiastic troops at Tilbury, declared she would be

their general rather than dishonour should
befal her realm, telling them, "I am come
amongst you at this time, not for my own
recreation or sport, but being resolved, in
the midst and heat of battle, to live and
die amongst you all; to lay down for my
God, for my kingdom, and for my people,
my honour and blood even to the dust;"
depend upon it, not a man who heard her
spirit-kindling words, or saw her

Most bravely mounted on a stately steed,
With truncheon in her hand,

doubted, if the occasion came, that his
queen's actions would justify her proud
speech, and prove she had, as she boasted,
the heart of a king, and of a king of
England too!

For centuries after the Conquest, Englishmen were never happy unless they had some fighting on hand. If they were, for a wonder, at peace with France and Scotland, they contrived to find something to fight about among themselves-to-day the crown, to-morrow the charter. Bellicose barons were never at a loss for rebellion when every question was settled by force of arms, and the hardest hitter had the best of the argument; and while they marched to help their party or their king, their strongholds were left in charge of their wives. This necessitated the assumption, at least, of a martial spirit on the part of the lady of the castle, since, if her lord's friends got the worst of the bout, the victors were pretty sure to call upon her at their earliest convenience; and when put to the touch, many a lady of high degree showed herself proficient in the art of self-defence. The Northampton Dudleys owe their curious crest-a helmeted female, with bare bosom and dishevelled hair-to an Amazon pro tem., Agnes Hotot. The father of this plucky and stalwart girl, having a dispute with a neighbour as to the ownership of a certain piece of land, agreed to settle the matter by ordeal of battle. When the day came, Hotot lay ill and incapable, fretting and fuming in his bed at the thought of losing his land without striking a blow for it. Miss Agnes, determined that neither father nor foe should be disappointed, donned a suit of armour, mounted her sire's horse, appeared at the rendezvous, and acted her part so ably, that she unhorsed her adversary, and made him sue for mercy, whereupon she made herself known to the mortified gentleman, and rode home in triumph.

That women with no gentle blood in

their veins could play the soldier well,
chronicler Hall testifies. Recording the
battle near Naworth Castle, in 1570, be-
tween Lords Hunsdon and Dacres, he says,
"There were amongst the rebels many
desperate women that gave the adventure
of their lives, and fought right stoutly."
One such plebeian virago has a triple
chance of escaping oblivion, her name
being enshrined in the verse of Ben Jon-
son, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Butler,
to say nothing of her having a ballad all
to herself. English Moll, as Butler calls
her, distinguished herself in the attempt
to recover Ghent from the Prince of Parma,
in 1584:

When captains courageous, whom Death did not daunt,
Did march to the siege of the city of Gaunt,
They mustered their soldiers by two and by three,
And the foremost in battle was Mary Ambree.
Armed with sword and target, and encased
in mail, this Amazon is said to have placed
herself at the head of a thousand and
three men, and sustained an unequal com-
bat with three thousand Spaniards for
seven hours, displaying wonderful skill
and strength, and when forced to draw off
her men, retiring into a castle, from which
she defied the enemy, and challenged any
three Spaniards to try their prowess
Summoned to
against her single arm.
surrender, she spurned the offer with con-
tempt, telling the Spanish commander,

No knight, sir, of England, or captain you see,
But a poor simple lass called Mary Ambree.
She came out of the war unscathed, and
returned to England, but of her ultimate
fate the balladist, who sang so heartily of
her valour, is silent.

Our next specimen of the British Amazon is a modern one. Hannah Snell, the youngest daughter of a Worcester hosier, came of a martial-minded stock; each of her three brothers shouldered a musket in the king's service, and all her four sisters chose soldiers or sailors for their husbands. Hannah was born upon St. George's Day, 1723, and even as a child preferred playing at soldiers to any more feminine game. When seventeen, she lost father and mother, and by consequence, her home, finding a new one with a married sister in London. Three years later, she was married by a Fleet parson to a Dutch seaman, who, after illtreating her and half starving her for seven months, suddenly disappeared. One would have thought Hannah would have rejoiced at getting rid of her ill-conditioned mate; but she determined to go in

quest of the truant, borrowed a suit of her brother-in-law's clothes, and thus disguised, found her way to Coventry. Here she enlisted in Captain Miller's company of Guise's regiment, and began her campaigning with a twenty-two days' march to Carlisle. Unluckily for her prospects, our heroine made a mortal enemy of one of the sergeants, by thwarting him in some dishonourable scheme, and he soon contrived to revenge her interference by accusing her of neglect of duty, and getting her sentenced to receive six hundred lashes. These, or rather four hundred of them, were duly administered, if we may trust her biographer, although it is hard to understand how such a punishment could be inflicted without her sex being discovered. Disgusted with this harsh treatment, Hannah left the regiment without troubling the authorities for a formal discharge, and after wandering about for a month, found herself in Portsmouth, with empty pockets. In this predicament, she could think of nothing better than accepting his majesty's bounty again, and ere many hours elapsed, Hannah was transformed into a marine, and doing duty on board the sloop Swallow, attached to Boscawen's fleet, bound for the East Indies.

James Gray, as she called herself, became popular on board the sloop on account of her readiness to help her messmates in washing and mending their clothes. After a futile attempt on Mauritius, the fleet made for Fort St. David's, on the coast of Coromandel, and the marines disembarked to strengthen the army besieging Aracopong. Gray was engaged in several skirmishes, and witnessed the blowing up of the enemy's magazine, which brought the siege to an end. Marching on Pondicherry, the troops were obliged to ford a river running breast high, in the face of the French batteries, and our female warrior was the first "man" to cross. She took her share in picket duty, worked hard at trenchmaking, and when the trenches were made sat in them for seven successive nights mid-deep in water; she received six shots in one leg, and five in the other, and then was hit in the groin. Not caring to ask the aid of the regimental surgeon, Hannah secured the services and secrecy of a black woman, with whose help she extracted the ball and cured the wound. Sickness next struck her down, and obliged her to go into the hospital for three months. Upon

her recovery she was sent on board the Tartar, pink, and served as a common sailor, until turned over, in the same capacity, to the Eltham, man-of-war. The smoothness of her face and chin earned her the sobriquet of Miss Molly Gray, but when her new shipmates found her ready to join in any fun afoot, they rechristened her Hearty Jemmy. While on shore at Lisbon, she learned by the merest accident that her faithless husband had been executed for the murder of a gentleman at Genoa. The Eltham was paid off in 1750, and Hannah resumed her petticoats. Her story was talked about, and the manager of the Royalty Theatre, in Wellclose-square, induced her to appear there in several naval and military characters. The Duke of Cumberland obtained her a pension of twenty pounds, and changing her vocation once more, she took a public house at Wapping, attracting customers thereto by a sign representing a sailor and a marine, with the legend, The Widow in Masquerade, or the Female Warrior. The venture proved successful, and unmindful of her first failure, Hannah married a carpenter named Eyles, and had a son born to her, to whom a lady of fashion stood godmother, and carried out a godmother's duty by paying for his education. Brave Hannah's career came to a peaceful but sad end; in 1789 she became insane, and was removed to Bethlehem Hospital, where she died on the 8th of February, 1792, at the age of sixty-nine.

Christian Kavanagh was the daughter of an Irish maltster, who, soon after the battle of the Boyne, went to the bad in his business, and was glad to have her taken off his hands by an aunt, the hostess of a Dublin inn. In course of time Christian occupied her aunt's place, and married her waiter, Richard Welsh. Two children came, and for four years her life jogged on comfortably and quietly enough. One day Welsh went to pay the brewer, and never came back; for twelvemonths his wife heard nothing of him; then came a letter relating how he had been inveigled on board a vessel taking recruits to Flanders, how he had spent his money, and in desperation enlisted. Mrs. Welsh was not long deciding what to do. She placed her children with some relatives, donned male attire, and followed her husband's example.

Taking kindly to drill, Christian Welsh was quickly despatched to Holland, fought her first fight at Landen, received her

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