messes are made. Here is another kind of
mess; chaff scattered about. We soon see
why. On this sharp edge of the ridge, the
very narrowest, whence it seems as if we could
leap into Wales on the one hand, and England
on the other, is a man threshing his little
crop of wheat on the bare ground. No doubt,
he brings it up here to be winnowed by the
wind; for it is a strange threshing-floor
enough. If so, he is disappointed; for not
a speck of chaff rises in the air. It lies as
dead as the grain. In answer to our question,
he says he brings it from his field on the
hillside, below.

One more glance down upon Great Malvern,
before we turn towards the Wyche. The old
church looks well, though the square top, the
roof, of the tower is the most conspicuous
part of it to us: and how gay the white
houses look, with their gardens! The parterres,
one rose-colour with verbenas, another
scarlet with geraniums, are bright to the eye,
even here. That white road looks terribly
dusty. This is decidedly the best way to the
Wells to those who are not in a hurry.

We pass the chasm of the Wyche, turning
our heads away from the tobacco and snuff
shop, and the handbills which are stuck on
the rocky walls. We lose sight of Welsh
mountains and Herefordshire orchards for
to-day, and descend gradually, by broad, easy
paths, to the great ash, under whose hospitable
shade we rest. Then, down and down,
till we are under great oaks, loaded with
acorns, and beeches rich with mast, and
chestnuts with their prickly green fruit, and
mountain-ash with berries of brilliant scarlet,
bright beyond all precedent. We enter the
back-door of the Well's House, and find
ourselves on the third story. We go down to the
up-stairs drawing-room, where friends and
coffee are awaiting us. O! what a view it is
from that window! How the shadows are
spreading over that vast champaign, swallowing
up a pool here, a range of corn-ricks
there, and beyond, nook after nook of the
reaches of the Severn! We cannot stay
within. If a carriage is to be had, we must
be off, and see Eastnor-park and Ledbury
church—never mind how far it is! Don't
count the miles! It is full moon to-night, the
harvest moon, and we shall be on high ground,
far above the mists of the champaign.

Into that wide champaign we must not now
set foot, in description, or we shall lose sight
of all bounds. We have to do with the hills
alone.

The early morning is, after all we have said,
the time for the hills. Then the trees have
shaken down dew enough to lay the dust on
the lower paths; and on the uplands, the
grass is glistening with the tiny drops. Then
the sheep come running up the shaded side to
meet the sun, instead of crouching into dark
nooks. Then the lark springs up from some
grassy crevice, and the swallows are innumerable.
The hawks are not abroad yet, and
every other creature is. It is pleasant to see
the water-patients running about already,
with all the vigour of the healthy. We know
that they have had the balmy sleep which
creeps over them from the folds of the wet
sheet, and the animating stimulus of the cold
bath, and of the draught of water at St. Ann's
Well; and here they are,—a few of the bravest,
on the ridge. Those who remain below see
but little of the prospect; for on the east,
the mists still shroud the landscape; but
on the Herefordshire side all is clear and
bright, both within the shadow of the hills
and beyond it. What a vast shadow it is!
and how cool lie the farmsteads and orchards
and dark pools within it! Brilliant as the
sunshine is, to us all looks cool, while the pure
breeze searches out every pore of the skin, and
refreshes the whole frame. There is one,
however, who does not enjoy this like the rest.
That young lady is heated and panting, as if
she had raced all the way up the hill, instead
of being brought on a donkey. No wonder!
Look at her waist! Compare that pinched
waist with the unlaced human form, and say
if it can be true and good. Compare it with
the Venus de Medici, and say if it can be
beautiful. As for the beauty, can she not see,
by examples before her eyes, and by her own
looking-glass, that she has to pay in complexion
for any fancied gain in form by tight-lacing?
As for the rashness, we could take her to a
school where two or three of the girls cannot
write an exercise without palpitation of the
heart, and seem doomed to the fate of a
companion who lately died suddenly from
tight-lacing. This young lady can hardly be
a water patient; for no physician would
surely undertake the case. Any physician
would tell her that nothing can be done while
the trunk is compressed, the circulation
impeded; too much work thrown upon the
lungs, too little play allowed to the heart, and
no action to a considerable portion of the skin.
The tightness is not the only, though it is the
greatest, mischief. There should be free access
of air allowed to every part of the external
frame, and that cannot be while the trunk is
closely cased in double or treble jean. The
bath and the draught of water can be of little
use, if the skin is immediately after stopped
in its action. The bringing of the blood to
the surface by the water treatment, and the
impulse to the circulation by this morning
exercise, are of no use—of less than none—if
the heart and lungs are to labour as we see
them labouring in this panting girl, whose life
may, any day, go out under the effort. Is
there no one who will show her a few illustrations
of what she is about, in thus dressing
herself?—no one who will show her examples
(or plates, as more striking) of the bent spine,
the contracted heart, the congested liver and
lungs, the impure complexion, the starved or
gorged brain, which come of tight-lacing?

See how the shadow is drawing in! It is
well we are so hungry, or it would be too