combative, and have her hand against all the world.
It seemed, too, always to have been so. In her
own country, where she had first announced her
intention of entering upon a medical course, she
had met with nothing but opposition from her
own country-people. The professors said that
they should feel a certain awkwardness in
delivering their anatomical and other medical
lectures in the presence of a lady; while, of the
students, some threatened to abandon the school
if she remained in it, and others asked, with
more bluntness than courtesy: "What business
ladies had in Lyceums?" (The doctor
mentioned this fact quite frankly to her audience, to
their great and unequivocal delight.)

Always fighting, always with the world against
her! When she adopted that peculiar dress, the
women were her opponents, as the men had
been in the Lyceum school. She had set the
men against her by her first exploit—a thing not
often done by a woman; and by her next, she
had awakened the animosity and disapproval of
her own sex, and had come to number its
members also among her heartiest opponents. A
miserable and unnatural life this lady's, surely!
For though we are most of us ready to admit
that it may fall to the lot of a man, through no
fault of his own, to go through the world always
with the harness on his back and the sword in
his hand, yet do we all feel that such a life
would be most terrible and unseemly for a
woman to lead.

This was a painful exhibition, then, from
beginning to end. Painful—whether one was
occupied in considering the position of the lady
who played "the part" of the evening, or in
studying the behaviour of the audience which
had been brought to visit St. James's Hall
on this occasion, by the rumour of something
new under the sun at last. It is so much the
custom in this country, just now, to be exceedingly
lenient in speaking of those forms of ill
behaviour which are common among us—even
the outrageous and intolerable class called
"roughs" being spoken of with a strange toleration
that one is scarcely surprised to find, in
some of the published accounts of the first
appearance of this American lady, the positive
ferocity of a certain portion of the audience,
described as "good humour." It was surely the
strangest good humour ever seen. If to hoot
and howl at a perfectly defenceless person,
condemning her unheard, according to her much
such a reception as we give to our more
atrocious criminals on their way to the police-
court—if this be looked upon as an
evidence of good humour, it becomes a curious
speculation what sort of thing the ill humour
of an audience may be.

The persons who filled the gallery at the end
of the room, had evidently come there, in vulgar
parlance, for a "lark." But they would have
done better to remember that it was a lark at a
woman's expense. As she stood alone in the
vast assembly, one could not help feeling that
there was a mute appeal in her weakness and
helplessness which made the determined opposition
with which she was met by her relentless
persecutors, and which resounded noisily through
the whole building before she appeared, emphatically
—a Shame!

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD.

THE MURDER OF MR. WILLIAM WEARE, OF
LYON'S INN.

ABOUT half-past one o'clock on Friday, the
24th of October, 1823, Mr. William Weare—a
not very reputable attorney, bill-discounter, and
gambler; in person, a little dressy, dark, flashy
man, with high cheek-bones, and whiskers growing
towards the corners of his mouth, who had
chambers at No. 2, Lyon's Inn, second floor—
took a hasty dinner preliminary to going down
on a little shooting-excursion for three days with
his notorious friend, Mr. John Thurtell, well
known at Epsom and in the betting ring, to a
lonely cottage about fourteen miles from London,
on the St. Alban's-road.

Having packed up in a carpet-bag five shirts,
six pair of socks, a shooting-jacket, with a
whistle at the button-hole, leggings, a pair
of breeches, a pair of laced-up boots, a
pair of Wellington boots, and a backgammon-
board to amuse himself with a quiet
game after the day's shooting, he put his
double-barrelled gun in its woollen case, and
got down his double-caped box coat from its
nail ready for a start. Then slipping easily on
a new olive-coloured coat and a buff waistcoat,
he re-tied his plaid handkerchief, threw
his long double-gold chain round his neck, put
on his diamond ring, and deposited his gold
hunter's watch in the pocket of his buff waistcoat,
with a steel chain to still further secure
it, placed his old companion, an ivory-handled
penknife, in his other pocket, slid a pad of
bank-notes, with an old gambler's cautiousness,
into a secret pocket in his flannel waistcoat,
shook out a clean yellow silk handkerchief,
then rang the bell for his laundress, Mary
Maloney, to fetch a hackney-coach for him
from the Strand, at the Spotted Dog. The
coach came about three o'clock to the end of
Holywell-street, Mr. Weare slamming the door
of No. 2 behind him, came out first, carrying the
gun. The laundress followed with the bag, and
off drove the coach to the corner of St. Martin's-
lane, where the fare alighted and paid a visit in
Spring-gardens. Finally he alighted at the
corner of Cumberland-street and the New-
road.

In the mean time, Mr. Joseph Hunt, a public
singer of bad reputation, had been about three
o'clock to the White Lion Inn, in the yard of
the Golden Cross, Charing-cross, and hired an
iron-grey horse, with a blaze on his face, and
white legs. A dark green gig was obtained from
Mr. Cross, in Whitcomb-street. About five
o'clock he drove to the Coach and Horses, 16,
Conduit-street, and Mr. Thurtell, who lodged
there, got in and drove off alone, Hunt having
first carefully put under the seat a large sack
which he had that morning bought in St. Giles's,
probably for putting game into. At Paddington-