amusement whenever they met, but when fiery little Adrien attempted to annoy and provoke him in his turn, the colossal Jean evidently considered the joke rich beyond description. He now gave him a good humoured nod and smile, for he liked the lad in his heart, and greeted him with, "and how are we getting on this fine morning Adrien ?" "Very well," replied Adrien, in a sharp tone, and with a peculiarly defiant jerk of his head; "please to allow me to pass," he imperatively added, for the burly form of Jean obstructed the narrow staircase. "Of course," said Jean; and, without standing on one side, he raised his arm horizontally, apparently intimating that Adrien was welcome to pass underneath it. Truth compels us to declare that he could have done so without the greatest inconvenience. "Sir!" said Adrien, colouring to the very temples. "So we are getting in a pet as usual," benignantly remarked Grand Jean, making room for him, and gently patting him on the head as he spoke. "Sir!" cried Adrien, in a shriller tone, and pulling his cap over his eyebrows, for he was perfectly exasperated; but Jean, with provoking indifference and good humour, continued to ascend the staircase, merely turning round to give Adrien a last friendly nod as he vanished from his sight. "It is better to bear it quietly, for the sake of grandmother," heroically observed Adrien to himself; but he swallowed the affront very unwillingly, and considered himself an extremely ill-used individual. And indeed was he quite fairly treated? Left on his own resources whilst still a boy, he had to support himself and his old relative; nay, even to control her conduct, and assume all the duties and responsibilities of a man; but he was expected to do this without taking any of the state and dignity of the character he had to sustain. Fortunately for Adrien, he did not behold the matter in this light. His self-delusion with regard to his own importance was without the alloy of a doubt, and he ascribed to individual perverseness the occasional mortifications he endured. But as these mortifications were highly unpleasant, and as the best of us must occasionally indulge in some trifling weakness, Adrien, in order to soothe his wounded pride, now thought fit to pause before the misanthropical portress's lodge that dark hole where the lamp, like the sacred fire on the altar of Vesta was kept ever burning; and, thrusting in his head, to observe with a condescending nod and gracious smile. "And how are we getting on to day, Mère Moreau ?" The old portress who was skimming her soup near the fire, looked up with mute surprise, and for one moment the ladle paused in its office; but before she could recover from the amazement into which this audacious intrusion had thrown her, Adrien vanished. This little ebullition of vanity restored him at once to his usual equanimity of temper. He left the dingy old house, singing like a lark, and went down the winding street in the best possible humour with himself and the whole world. At two exactly, the gay little Adrien re-appeared under the cellar-like arch, and he was hastening up the gloomy staircase with his light and buoyant step, when the cracked voice of Madame Moreau called him back. He turned round and beheld that lady's thin visage scowling at him from the entrance of the dark hole where she spent her life. "Here is the key of your room," she sharply said. "Is grandmother out?" he falteringly asked, as he took the key. around him, sat down, and bowing his face between his hands, fairly wept. Of what use did it seem for him to work so hard, to be frugal and thrifty beyond his years, to save and stint in order to live on the six francs a week, to come home with his light cheerful bearing. His grandmother was gone, disgracing herself-disgracing him. When or how would she come back? This last thought was indeed a thought of terror; the young are keenly alive to disgrace. Adrien believed that his grandmother's indiscretions had until now escaped notice; every one in the house knew of them, but with the native delicacy of French politeness, all feigned perfect unconsciousness; even cross old Mère Moreau spared the lad's sensitive pride. "How cleverly I must have managed to smuggle her in," he often thought, with secret exultation; and when he gave a sigh to his old relative's errors, he reflected, like Francis I. after the battle of Pavia, that honour at least was safe. But if an exposure should take place now. Oh! then he must leave the house instantlynay, the neighbourhood itself, and dim visions of quitting Paris altogether even floated across his brain. Adrien was too sad to prepare onion soup, so he dined on bread and dripping. Madame Moreau noticed his altered bearing and inflamed eyes, though he turned his head away, as he handed her the key on going down; she took, or rather snatched it from him with her usual surliness, but her heart was touched at the lad's evident sorrow. Amongst the habits of this lady (who had many) was that of emerging from her lodge towards twilight, like a night bird, in order to spend the fine summer evenings on the step of the street-door. From this tribunal of her misanthropy she philosophically surveyed the world, her arms defiantly folded on her breast, her head inclined towards her right shoulder, in mournful contemplation of human follies,—her whole attitude expressive of supreme disdain. A scornful sneer lit up her solemn features on these occasions, and bitterly sarcastic remarks fell from her lips. These remarks were not narrowly confined to peculiar subjects, or directed to certain individuals. Attacks on government, with Madame Moreau's own suggestions, sneers at rival portresses over the way, lamb-like complaints of her own private wrongs, hints to ungrateful lodgers, who might regret her when she was dead and gone, mingled with sudden and fierce apostrophes directed towards unconscious and inoffensive passengers, formed the staple of discourses addressed to the world in general, but of which the lodgers, who constantly came in and out at this hour, derived the full benefit. And much did they dread these evening objurgations in which, with her broken, half-abstracted manner, Madame Moreau contrived to disclose to the public their most private concerns. If M. B. ill-used his wife, the portress railed at the men straightway, and with singular generosity she only became the more explicit in her narrative if there happened to exist any little difference between herself and Madame B. His knowledge of this touching peculiarity increased Adrien's apprehensions as he came home in the evening. What, if the old woman had returned, and Madame Moreau, mindful of the morning, should pity him aloud for having a drunken grandmother! Oh, that there were only a back door! But there was none; and standing in awful majesty on the threshold of the arch, with a group of lodgers listening to her, he beheld Madame Moreau. He took courage, however, and assuming a disengaged air, addressed the portress with a remark concerning the fineness of the weather. She gave him a sour look that implied, "Do not imagine you can cheat or deceive me;" but she merely said, "Sir, your key is hanging on a nail in the lodge." Adrien sighed to learn that his grandmother had not "Yes, she is, and with Madame Mitron too?" and giving Adrien a look of resentful defiance, the portress vanished in her den. Adrien slowly ascended the stair-yet returned; but with all that, he felt grateful for the case. How changed now looked the empty room. No neatly laid table with the hot smoking soup awaited him after his hard morning's work. The poor lad looked old portress's forbearance. It was a sad evening for the lad, as he sat in the dark, stepping out on the landing every five minutes, peeping down the well-like staircase, listening anxiously when a knock was heard below, and feeling his heart leap up to his mouth every time the street door opened and closed again. Deceived by the step of other lodgers, he thought two or three times the truant was returned; a solemn moral reproof rose to his lips; nay, he would feign sleep, and perfect indifference. But none of the steps ascended the seventh story, and every time his illusion vanished Adrien's sorrow came back. The house had long been silent, when, towards eleven, he heard a weak and tottering footstep. "It is only the lodger below," thought he, anxious not to deceive himself. But the staircase creaked, the step continued to ascend, it stopped on the landing, and a light gleamed through the chink of his door. Adrien opened it, and saw Madame Mitron; she was alone. "Where is grandmother?" he hastily exclaimed. "Don't know;" she thickly replied, endeavouring to open her door. "You shall not go in; where is she?" cried Adrien, placing himself before her. "I tell you I do not know," testily replied the old woman. "We went to the barrier for a walk, had a salad, a glass of wine, and were coming home, when a crowd divided us at the end of the Pont-Neuf. A child had been run over; people said it was not hurt; but I had got such a turn that I was obliged to take five or six glasses of brandy at a grocer's before I could get over it." "So," indignantly said Adrien, you lured away my weak, innocent grandmother-the poor thing would never go to the barrier-and then abandoned her, when she does not know one street from another, and may get into any mischief. God forgive you!" he mournfully added, as he turned away, with heart too full for more bitter reproach. "God forgive me! you good for nothing little scamp," screamed Madame Mitron with sudden rage, her eyes well nigh starting out of her head, as she shook her candlestick at Adrien. "God forgive me! How dare you hint at such a thing, you mite, you The rest was lost upon Adrien, who hastily descended the staircase, heedless of her drunken railings. "Monsieur Adrien, if you think I am going to sit up for you," wrathfully observed the old portress, as he swiftly passed by her lodge; but the door being half open, he had reached the street before the end of her sentence. He went straight to the Pont-Neuf; the accident had occurred at noon; no one had seen his grandmother; a few shops were still open; he went in, made inquiries, and got laughed at for his pains. After wandering up and down until one, he went home, convinced that, in the agony of her 1emorse, his grandmother had made away with herself. She need not have been afraid, I would have forgiven her," sadly thought Adrien. He had at first doubted whether his knock at the door would procure him admittance, but when, in reply to a shrill inquiry, he had given his name, it quickly opened. On seeing that he was alone, Madame Moreau gave a peculiar look and growl from beneath the shadow of her peaked nightcap, and handing him a light, an act of singular courtesy, said, "take that," almost gently. Notwithstanding his sorrow, Adrien slept that nightyouth will sleep, but with a sad, troubled slumber. Though the sun shone brightly in the little room, when he woke up, he felt miserable. The unswept floor, the fragment of his last hurried meal on the table, the dusty mantel-shelf, the pot of réséda drooping for want of water, everything, even an old gown of his grandmother's thrown on a chair, made him feel dispirited and low. He rose and dressed hurriedly; for breakfast he cared not; bread and dripping would do very well. Scarcely was he attired when a knock was heard at the door. Tidings from her," thought Adrien, and he rushed to open. Alas! no; it was only misanthropic Madame Moreau, with an immense soup-plate full of good beef-tea in her hand. "Come, take it," said she, abruptly; "you want it, wandering all night; those who did the mischief were safe in bed; may be they have good reasons to stay there," she added, talking and nodding with deep sarcasm at the door of Madame Mitron. "But next Monday is rent day; we shall see whether those that drink and do not pay are to remain. Will you take this hot plate out of my hand, or am I to stay here all day?" she sharply added, turning round on Adrien. He was profuse in his acknowledgments, but without heeding them, she hobbled down stairs, muttering her wonder that she had ever come up, and looking very surly, as though to apologize to herself for having committed this little act of kindness. As he drank his soup, Adrien thought how much his grandmother would have relished it, and then he wondered where she was that morning, and whether she had got any breakfast. This latter thought made him feel that he must resume his search without loss of an instant. In a few minutes he was ready, and proceeding hastily down stairs. He had reached the third floor when a hand, laid heavily on his shoulder, made him turn round; he looked up, and saw Grand Jean. "Adrien," said the tall Auvergnat, in a bashful, hesitating sort of manner, "I am not busy this morning; I-I can go with you, and help to look." "You are very kind," replied Adrien; and as he shook Jean's hand, he turned his head away; very, especially after the insulting manner in which I spoke to you yesterday." "Nonsense," said Jean, squeezing the lad's hand so hard, that other tears besides those of emotion rushed to his eyes; "you never insulted me, child." 'Yes, indeed I did," remorsefully answered Adrien. "It was the tone, you know!" "Well, never mind; I forgive you." "Impossible!" resumed Adrien, somewhat nettled; "you do not know the badness there was in my heart against you. If it had not been for grandmother's sake, I would have knocked you down." "Would you, indeed," said Jean, with a grave, goodhumoured smile, and giving the lad a slap on the shoulder that made him stagger. 66 "Yes, I would," stoutly said Adrien, as soon as he had recovered his breath; so pray," he mournfully added, "do not be kind; I cannot bear it." "I tell you I bear no malice; and you are such an insignificant-looking little fellow, that people will never mind you if you go alone; so let us be off." Adrien bridled up, and wondered whether he could in honour accept of assistance thus offered. But Jean settled the matter by taking it for granted; and the lad, moreover, secretly felt the force of his reasoning; so, without further resistance on his part, they sallied out. It was a hot sultry day, and a long and weary walk they had. They visited barriers, and innumerable corps de gardes, or station-houses, but no grandmother could be. found. "It is my fault," said Adrien, desperately; "I should have locked her up." Jean, with difficulty persuaded him he was not to blame. After a search of several hours, Jean began to lose all hope, but Adrien seemed unwearied. They at length lit on a clue to the object of their search in a remote corps de garde. An old, half-witted peasant-woman, unable to give a proper account of herself, had been apprehended the preceding evening. "Where is she?" cried Adrien, eagerly looking round. "Oh! she was gone before the magistrate, and was probably tried for vagabondage by this." "Oh! Jean!" exclaimed Adrien, "let us go before ' they send her to prison." He started off, and sped along the street at a rate with which Jean could scarcely keep up, and which made sober passengers stare. At length the police court was reached; it was crowded; Adrien pushed right and left desperately, but in vain, until Grand Jean with two or three vigorous elbowings, had cleared the way for his friend. Adrien paused not to utter thanks; he sprang forward to the front of the court; a rapid glance showed him that the bewildered old woman who sat at the bar wringing her hands, and answering, with perplexed look, the questions of the magistrate, was indeed his grandmother. Forgetting everything in his joy, he hastily exclaimed with his own cheerful, confident voice, "Do not be afraid, grandmother; I am here; they wont hurt you." The old woman uttered a low exclamation, whilst every look went round the court in search of her protector, and lit at length on the diminutive form of Adrien with mingled amusement and surprise. "Who is that child? What does he want?" asked the magistrate. "I am not a child, Sir," said Adrien, colouring, and raising himself on tiptoe, "I am a working man. I earn six francs a week. I am come for my grandmother, whom Madame Mitron lured away." "Is this old woman your grandmother?" said the magistrate, smiling. "Yes, Sir," answered Adrien, sighing. "If she only took my advice, and not Madame Mitron's, she would not be here. I am sure," he continued, somewhat huskily, "I do not ill-use her; I would scorn to ill-use a woman, much less my own grandmother. But then she does not like dripping nor onion soup, and we cannot afford butter or fricot (stew)." "Do not be hard upon me, Adrien," sobbed the old woman. "No, grandmother, I will not, and I am sure Monsieur le President looks too kind to be hard upon you either. Monsieur will reflect that you are old, weak-minded, and that Madame Mitron, who is very cunning, takes you out to drink at your expense. You do not drink, grandmother," he added, anxious to save her from the reproach of drunkenness, that most unwomanly vice, so rare in France. "And Monsieur le President," here interposed Jean, laying his heavy hand on Adrien's shoulder! "spare the old woman for the sake of the lad, as honest a one as ever breathed. If," he continued, heedless of Adrien's indignant looks, "if he does talk too much like a man, for one with such a beardless chin, why I say it is because he has the heart of a man." The magistrate smiled. You are discharged," said he to the old woman. "Believe me, abide by your grandson's advice, and shun Madame Mitron." He rose, for this was the last case, the assembly dispersed, and in a few minutes the place was empty. and looking defiantly at Madame Mitron's door, for they had reached their own landing, "if certain nameless individuals, be they men, or be they women," he loved the plural number for its dignity, "should attempt to mislead you again, let them understand that they have been mentioned to the magistrate, and that there are such things as commissaries of police." Here Adrien paused, in order to give Madame Mitron time to come forth and answer his challenge, but she remained within, fairly owning herself conquered. When they entered their own little room, Adrien stopped short, and uttered an exclamation of surprise: the floor was swept, the place had been carefully dusted and set to rights, the réséda was itself again, the table was laid out, and the charcoal fire only needed the application of a lighted match. "This is all Madame Moreau's doing," said Adrien, "and I," he remorsefully added, "I, who said so often she was a sour old thing! Grandmother," he continued in his habitual and cheerful tone, "just light the fire if you please. I will peel the onions." In a few minutes the fire was kindled, the dripping was hot in the pan, and the onions on being cast in, filled the room with their merry, hissing sound. "Grandmother," exclaimed Adrien with glee, "it will be, though made with dripping, the best soup you ever had. Not, mind you," he prudently added, "that butter may not be preferable for some tastes, but if one cannot afford it, what is the use of not making the best of what one has?" A knock at the door interrupted Adrien's discourse. "Come in," cried he, thinking it was Jean. It was not Jean; it was a waiter from a neighbouring cook-shop, who deposited a tray of covered dishes on the table. "Monsieur Adrien; paid for," said he, sententiously, and he left the room; whilst Adrien and his grandmother looked at one another in mute surprise. "Ah!" suddenly cried Adrien, "I see now why Jean left us. Grandmother, look! here is a splendid stew of mutton and haricots; you wished for one. And see this magnificent piece of veal! Why, there is enough for a week! Oh, where is Jean?" He flew down stairs, and searched on every one of the seven floors, but neither Jean nor Madame Moreau were to be found; like the genii of an eastern tale, they vanished when their favours were conferred. Grandmother," said Adrien, as returning from his fruitless search he sat down with his old relative to their luxurious meal, "I hope you will never go out again with Madame Mitron; but if you had not gone, we should never have Adrien's grandmother looked very much humbled and Had this good dinner," put in the old lady, whose cast down as they went home. This distressed him gourmandise was not quite subdued." infinitely; he did his best to cheer her, invented num- "No, grandmother," said he, gravely; "we should berless excuses for her, and threw all the blame on luck-never have known how much kindness towards us there less Madame Mitron. lay hidden in the hearts of Madame Moreau and Grand Jean." * "But where is Jean," said he, suddenly breaking off, and looking round as they turned the corner of their own street. Jean had vanished, and though Adrien knew it not, it was some time since they had parted company. Although evening was drawing on, Madame Moreau did not occupy that post on the door-step from which she surveyed and attacked the world. Adrien peeped into the lodge as he took his key; the lamp was as usual dimly burning, but she who kept alive that sacred flame was invisible. * * * Three years have passed away: Adrien, cheerful, honest, industrious as ever, inhabits the sunny old garret; but he has taken for his grandmother the room formerly occupied by Madame Mitron, who was disgracefully expelled shortly after the events we have narrated. Since this fortunate occurrence, his old relative has given Adrien no further trouble; and, as his earnings have greatly increased, they live, as he says, "in luxurious style." Grand Jean still dwells in the gloomy old house. He and Adrien are great friends; he occasionally banters the youth, who has not grown much, on his diminutive appearance; but Adrien, mindful of former kindness, || and proud of his dawning moustache, takes it all very "Anything, Adrien," sobbed the old woman; drip-good-temperedly. Madame Moreau is as misanthropic ping itself is too good for me." as ever; but, as Adrien says, "she is found out, and no "No, that it is not," said he, resolutely; "and if." he one believes her now." This, however, excites great added, raising his voice, "if any one should look side-wrath in the old portress, who takes as much pride in her ways at you for what has passed, let that person expect fancied scorn and hatred of mankind, as others are apt to settle it with me. And if," he continued louder still, to take in their imaginary philanthropy and benevolence. "Grandmother," said Adrien, as they went up the staircase, "you are hungry of course; but," added he, looking at her wistfully, "I can only give you onion soup." DIAMOND DUST. WE must have a feeling, a faith in whatever is selfsacrificing and divine, whether in religion or in art, in glory or in law, or common-sense will reason us out of the sacrifice, and a syllogism will debase the divine to an article in the market. He who can implant courage in the human soul, is its best physician. THERE are moments when the soul expands, as if it wanted elbow-room in the little house it inhabits; and it is then that a man feels surprised-amazed at his ever having committed a mean or cruel action. FASHION A TYRANT.-She makes people sit up at night, when they ought to be in bed, and keeps them in bed in the morning when they ought to be up and doing. She makes her votaries visit when they would rather stay at home, eat when they are not hungry, and drink when they are not thirsty. She invades their pleasures, and interrupts their business, she compels them to dress gaily, either upon their own property, or that of others ; she makes them through life seek rest on a couch of anxiety, and leaves them in the hour of desolation on a bed of thorns. IT has been remarked that "the climax of human indifference has arrived when a woman don't care how she looks." TRUE poetry announces itself thus, that, as a worldly gospel, it can by internal cheerfulness and external comfort, free us from the earthly burdens which press upon us. Like an air-balloon, it lifts us, together with the ballast which is attached to us, into higher regions, and lets the confined labyrinths of the earth lie developed before us in a bird's-eye view. EXCEPT the parsimonious, we are all extravagant in little follies, the sum spent on an inkstand, a tulip-root, a bird-cage, a dog-collar, an amber-headed riding-whip, would new thatch the triple cottage at our garden gate, and fortify three large families against the rheumatism. PRAISE is a rebuke to the man whose conscience alloweth it not. If we knew all we desire to know, man would be no no longer man. IDEAS generate ideas; like a potatoe, which, cut in pieces, re-produces itself in a multiplied form. Ir is merit, and not title, which gives importance. It is usefulness, and not grandeur, which makes the world happy. THE value of three things are justly appreciated by three classes of persons. The value of youth by the old, the value of health by the diseased, the value of wealth by the needy. HISTORY is a romance which is believed; romance, a history which is not believed. THE unfeeling eye is never moistened by a tear. How frequently does the human heart struggle with its better feelings, and laugh in public at that which has made it bleed in private. IT has often been remarked, that the rich have as many cares and sorrows as the poor, and are often as deserving of pity. Still we should remember, before agreeing to that remark, that though the rich are not exempt from misfortunes, that the poor have not only all the same causes of sorrow but they have the misery of poverty added to them. Printed and Published for the Proprietor, by Jons OWEN CLARKE, (of No. 9, Hemingford Terrace, East, in the Parish of St. Mary, Islington, in the County of Middlesex) at his Printing Office, No. 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, in the City of London. Saturday, August 18, 1849. No. 17.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1849. THE MAGIC OF GENTLENESS. NATIONS are very slow to give up their faith in the Even civilized nations have been very slow to abandon their faith in force. Till a very recent date, men of honour, who chanced to fall out, settled their quarrels by the duel; and governments are not yet disposed to give up an appeal to arms, in event of a difference occurring between them respecting territory or international arrangements. The proposal to settle quarrels by peaceful and rational methods is still held to be "Utopian." Yet we all profess to be believers in the power of love; for, in this country, we are a professedly Christian nation, and the very essence of Christianity is love. But the idea of force, in the education of children as well as in the government of men, in the treatment of criminals, in the settlement of private and of national quarrels, has been so engrafted in our natures; we have been so trained and educated into the belief in its efficacy; it has become so identified, in history, with national honour, glory, and all sorts of high-sounding names,that we can scarcely imagine it possible that the framework of society could be kept together were the principle of force discarded, and that of love, benevolence, and charity substituted in its place. And yet, doubts have begun to arise in the minds of the most enlightened and far-seeing men, as to the efficacy of the mere force policy; and many gradual inroads have been made on it of late years, both in our It begins to be suspected domestic and public practice. that force begets more resistance than it is worth, and that if you put down children, women, or grown men, by violent methods, you will only beget a spirit of rebellion, which breaks out from time to time in violent deeds, in hatred, in vice, and in crime. Such, indeed, appears to have been the invariable issue of this policy in all countries and in all times. The history of the world is a history of the failure of physical force. [PRICE 14d. Love worse; but, in all cases, have made them better. But let us see what results have followed another system-that which has been directed to the improving and civilizing of the criminal, rather than merely punishing him. The United States Americans, amongst many other good lessons which they have taught to the Old World, have taught us this, that the great object of legislation ought to be, to prevent crime by removing the inducements to commit it, and that the main object of prison discipline should be, to reform the moral condition of the criminal, and lead him back to the bosom of the society against which he has sinned. This, as a matter of justice as well as policy, is due to the criminal, who is too often made so by the imperfect training society has given him, and the unequal laws which society has enacted, and compels him to obey. The governors of the Sing Sing Penitentiary, in the State of New York, have nobly led the way in the reformatory treatment of criminals. Their attention was powerfully directed to the subject by the reports of Mr. Edmonds. He said, "he had no faith whatever in the system of violence which had so long prevailed in the world,-the system of tormenting criminals into what was called good order, and of never appealing to anything better than the base sentiment of fear. He had seen enough in his own experience, to convince him that, degraded as they were, they had still hearts that could be touched by kindness, consciences that might be aroused by appeals to reason, and aspirations for a better course of life, which needed only the cheering voice of sympathy and hope, to be strengthened into permanent reformation." A new system of criminal treatment was, accordingly, in conformity with Mr. Edmonds' recommendations, commenced at Sing Sing prison, and was soon attended by the happiest effects. The rule now was, to punish as sparingly as possible, and to encourage where there was any desire for improvement. Many criminals, formerly regarded as irreclaimable, were thus restored to society as useful and profitable citizens, and but a very small proportion of these were found to relapse into their former habits. We are gradually growing wiser. We begin to see that it is necessary, if we would make men better and happier, that we should employ a greater and more beneficent force the power of gentleness; and it is remarkable, if The same kind treatment is adopted with the female we cast our eyes about us, and observe the instances in which this power has been fairly tried, how magical have criminals, and its effects are instantaneous. On the been the effects which it has produced. Gentle methods occasion of a recent celebration of the anniversary of of treating human beings have never in any case pro- | American Independence, seventy-three nosegays were duced resistance or rebellion-have never made them presented to as many young women, as a recognition of |