LITTELLS LIVING AGELNo. 216.i JULY, 1848. From the Spectator. are somewhat overdone. We might have spared LIFE IN THE HUDSON S BAY SERYICEA~ the details of that last journey from Lake Winne MR. BALLANTYNE is a young man, who in 1841 peg to Tadousac; and the adventures afterwards was appointed an apprentice-clerk of the Hud- are only redeemed from tedium by their hardships and dan son s Bay Company; and, after voyaging to York gers. One of the most valuable parts of the book is Factory through ice in summer, remained in the that devoted to an exposition of the character, territories of the great fur-traders till 1847, when lie returned to England. During this interval he economy, and management of the service; for it presents in a brief compass a good deal of useful became acquainted with the routine of the Hind- information. The standard and m& ney of the corn son s Bay business; made various journeys, from pany seem to be a beaver represented by a counter factory to factory, in the territory of the company of wood. It is to be observed, however, that the lying between the 50th and 60th degrees of lati- Hudsons Bay issues are immediately returned tude; and passed his leisure hours in sporting upon them; the whole trade with the Indians be excursions, in observing the habits of the Indians, ing a barter, and the tokens a mere substitute for- or partaking of the rough, rollicking pleasures of accounts. the companys servants. As the term of his ser- vice approached its close, he made a long journey TIlE MEDIUM OF EXCHANGE. from Lake Winnipeg along the frontiers of Canada Trade is carried on with the natives by means of to Quebec, and thence down the St. Lawrence to a standard valuation, called in some parts of the the stations of Tadousac and Seven Islandsas country a castor. This is to obviate the necessity comfortless places as one would wish an enemy to of circulating money, of which there is little or none be in, especially the latter. excepting in the colony of Red River. Thus an Hudsons Bay, or Every-day LWe in the Wilds Indian arrives at a fort with a bundle of furs, with which he proceeds to the Indian trading-room. of North America, contains an account of Mr. Bal- There the trader separates the furs into different lantynes journeys and adventures during his six lots, and, valuing each at the standard valuation, years absence, some of the most remarkable mci- adds the amount together, and tells the Indian (whc~ dents that occurred, sketches of the Indians and has been gazing all the tinie at the procedure with their customs, together with descriptions of his great interest and anxiety) that he has got fifty or own hunting adventures or those of his friends, and sixty castors; at the same time he hands the Indian fifty or sixty little bits of wood in lieu of cash, so the general results of his observation on the country that the latter may know, by returning these in pay- and the service. From the novelty of the subject meut of the goods for which he really exchanges his very few but Arctic explorers entering the Hud- skins, how fast his funds are decreasing. The In si)n s Bay territories, and then only bestowing a dian then proceeds to look round upon the bales of passing glance upon the peoplethe matter is cloth, powder-horns, guns, blankets, knives, & c., mostly new as well as informing. Mr. Ballantyne with which the shop is filled; and after a good has some literary skill, and he appropriately varies while makes up his mind to have a small blanket.. This being given him, the trader tells him that the his composition with his subject; the boyish ex- price is six castors; the purchaser hands back six: citement, the troubles of his voyage, the flat land- of his little bits of wood, and proceeds to select scapes and level life of Hudsons Bay, are told in something else. In this way he goes on till all his a manner very different from that which describes wooden cash is expended; and then, packing up the Indians night visit to his trapsthe journeys his goods, departs to show his treasures to his wife,, by land and xvaterthe bivouackthe Christmas and another Indian takes his place. The value of festivities with the thermometer below zero, and the a castor is from one to two shillings. The natives Indian stories with which the author varies his other generally visit the estabhsliments of the company twice a yearonce in October, when they bring in matter. Still, the attraction of the book is greatly the produce of their autumn hunts, and again in owing to the novelty of its subject. Mr. Ballan- March, when they come in with that of the great~ tynes style is somewhat literal; and the repetition winter hunt. of journeys, which, though they have an end, have The nuniber of castors that an Indian makesin no object for the reader after he becomes acquainted a winter hunt varies from fifty to two hundred, ac- with the first descriptions of the manner of travel, cording to his perseverance and activity, and the infuse into the Hudsons Bay book a little of part of the country in which he hunts. The largest that aniount I ever heard of was made by a man called: monotony which seems very greatly to prevail in Piaquata-Kiscum, who brought in furs on one occa- Hudsons Bay life. Perhaps, too, the narratives sion to the value of two hundred and sixty castors. * Hudsons or Life in the Wilds of North The poor fellow was soon afterwards poisoned by America, Bay, Every-day his relatives, who were jealous of his superior abihi during six years residence in the territories of the Honurahie Hudsons Bay Company; with Jilustra- ties as a hunter, and envied him for the favor shown tions. By Robert M. Ballantyne. him by the white men. CCXVI. LIVING ACE. VOL. xviii. 1 BYRNES WANDERINGS IN THE BRITISH COLONIES. ASCENDING RAPIDS. Rapid after rapid was surmounted; yet still, as we rounded every point and curve, rapids and falls rose, in apparently endless succession, before our wearied eyes. My Indians, however, knew exactly the number they had to ascend; so they set them- selves manfully to the task. I could not help ad- miring the dexterous way in which they guided the canoe among the rapids. Upon arriving at one, the old Indian, who always sat in the how, (this being the principal seat in canoe travelling,) rose up on his knees, and stretched out his neck to take a look before commencing the attempt; and then, sinking down again, seized his paddle, and pointing signifi- cantly to the chaos of boiling waters that rushed swiftly past us, (thus indicating the route he in- tended to pursue to his partner in the stern,) dashed into the stream. At first we were borne down with the speed of lightning, while the water hissed and boiled to within an inch of the gunwale, and a per- son unaccustomed to such navigation would have thought it folly our attempting to ascend; but a second glance would prove that our Indians had not acted rashly. In the centre of the impetuous cur- rent a large rock rose above the surface, and from its lower end a long eddy ran like the tail of a comet for about twenty yards down the river. It was just opposite this rock that we entered the rapid and paddled for it with all our might. The current, however, as I said before, swept us down; and when we got to the middle of the stream, we just reached the extreme point of the eddy, and after a few vigorous strokes of the paddles were floating quietly in the lee of the rock. We did not stay long, howeverjust long enough to look for another stone; and the old Indian soon pitched upon one a few yards higher up, but a good deal to one side; so, dipping our paddles once more, we pushed out into the stream again, and soon reached the second rock. In this way, yard by yard, did we ascend for miles; sometimes scarcely gaining a foot in a minute, and at others, as a favoring bay or curve presented a long piece of smooth water, advancing more rapidly. In fact, our progress could not be likened to anything more aptly than to the ascent of a salmon as he darts rapidly from eddy to eddy, taking advantage of cvery stone and hollow that he finds; and the simile may be still further carried out; for as the salmon is sometimes driven back tail foremost in attempting to leap a fall, so were we in a similar attempt driven back by the over- powering force of the water. It happened thus. We had surmounted a good many rapids, and made a few portages, when we arrived at a perpendicular fall of about two feet in height, but from the rapidity of the current it formed only a very steep shoot. Here the Indians paused to breathe, and seemed to doubt whether it was possible to ascend; however, after a little conversation en the subject, they deter- mined to try it, and got out their poles for the pur- pose, poles being always used when the current is too strong for the paddles. We now made a dash, and turning the bow to the current, the Indians fixed their poles firmly in the ground, while the water rushed like a mill-race past us. They then pushed forward, one keeping his pole fixed while the other refixed his a little more ahead. In this way we advanced inch by inch, and had almost got up; the water rushed past us in a thick black body, hissing sharply in passing the side of our canoe, which trembled like a reed before the powerful current; when suddenly the pole of the Indian in the stern slipped, and almost before I knew what had happened, we were floating down the stream about a hundred yards below the fall. Fortunately the canoe xvent stern foremost, so that we got down in safety. Had it turned round even a little in its descent, it would have been rolled over and over like a cask. Our second attempt proven more suc- cessful ; and, after a good deal of straining and puffing, we arrived at the top; where the sight of a longer stretch than usual of calm and placid water rewarded us for our exertions during the day. From the Spectator. BYRNES TWELVE YEARS~ WANDERINGS IN THE BRITISH COLONIES. Ma. BYRNE has been wandering for the last twelve years through the British colonies of the southern hemisphere, and has turned his experience to account in the form of two goodly octavos. The reasons he gives for publication are, that most other books on colonies and emigration are devoted to some single settlement; or are written by per- sons with insufficient information, or who have some ulterior objects that prevent them from truly advising upon the questionwhich is the best colony to go to? Mr. Byrne, on the other hand, brings together in one work New Zealand, New South Wales, Van Diemens Land, Port Phillip, South Australia, and Swan River. He also vouches for his own practical knowledge, the extent of his experience, and the soundness of his advice. The value of Twelve Years Wanderings in the British Colonies is scarcely equal to the time it has cost and the space it occupies. If not brought together in one book, probably the substance of Mr. Byrnes facts and information has been already published on various occasions; as regards form, he pursues the usual routine of books on the colo- niesa history of the settlement, done in encyclo- pmedic style; its statistics, exhibited pretty much after the same fashion; and then, a general account of the capabilities and customs of the country, with the character of its people for morality, honesty, manners, and other social characteristics; winding up with the pros and cons in favor of emigration or against it. And we may here state, that Southern or Western Australia (Swan River) are the only two colonies that Mr. Byrnes description would induce one to settle at. New Zealand he represents as unfavorable to the reception of mem- bers, from the mountainous nature of the country and the cost of clearing. New South Wales and Van Diemens Land are objectionable on moral grounds; Mr. Byrne repeating, with additions, the pictures of Mudies Felonry of New South Wales ; but sometimes, perhaps, in each case, crimes, peculiar to individuals, and such as may be matched at home, are attributed to the country although honesty and morals are no doubt as bad as well can be. The advantages of Australia Felix in point of climate and society are superior to either of its neighbors; but its close vicinity to the old penal settlements favors an influx of the felonry leaven. South and Western Australia 2 THE BOAT HORN. form the respectability of Australasia; and proba- bly the west has the advantage in society, if not in riches. It has more of an old county cast Cheshire or Shropshire against Lancashire. The compilation of matter almost as common as the materials of an almanac, or general views by a mind not very competent to form them, although the principal part of this book, are not the whole. Mr. Byrne undertook an overland journey from New South Wales to South Australia, on a cattle speculation, in the early days of that trade, and gives an account of the expedition. He has ex- perienced several colonial adventures, which he narrates; and he occasonally exhibits particular observations in the form of an anecdote to support a general conclusion. Here is one. TIJEATRICALS AT syDNEY. General society cannot be said to exist there, particularly in the shape of public balls, r& inions, and concerts, when you may expect to find the per- son on your right hand a murdererhim on the left, a burglar. The theatre is even avoided by respectable families for this reason; as in all proba- bility the box next that which you occupy may be tenanted by a family whose seniors have borne chains, or have graduated in the Paramatta convict factories. The writer was once present on a command night, that iswhen the governor has specially intimated his intention of being present, and patronizing a par- ticular piece: this was an exJting occasion, as his excellency but seldom indeed extended his counte- nance to the theatre. The governors box was fitted up specially for the occasion; the box next was occupied by the commander-in-chief and his family; whilst the adjoining one was tenanted by a wealthy linen-draper, his wife, and two marriage- able daughters. The father of this family had, some ten years before, been convicted of a mail- coach robbery, and transported for life; his wife had followed him to the colony, with the large lirodnee of the robbery, set up the drapery business on her own account, and gut her husband assigned to her as her convict servant! A few years passed on; the convict obtained a ticket of leave, then a conditional pardon, allowing his freedom in the colony, but not permitting him to leave it. By degrees, the produce of the mail adventure was developed, and the convict draper became a wealthy man, making his appearance wherever money was the introducer. Except on such occasions as a command night, the Sydney theatre is almost aban- doned by the families of respectability, and surren- dered to the occupation of young men and the families of Emancipists. The proprietor of the Sydney theatre is a person of this class, as is also its manager; both of whom drive about in their gaudily decorated carriages. When the neighboring houses are on fire, the proprietors of those which have no.t caught have little tune or disposition to attend to sugges- tions for improvements on their properties. Some- thing like this is the present state of the ~ublic mind; otherwise, we might have raised several points in connection with Mr. Byrnes volumes, especially as regards his objections to the upset price of land in New South Wales, and the mis- 3 management and incapacity so conspicuous in all our colonial matters, but in few more so than in the regulation of emigration, by which the colony is starved at one time for want of hands, and at another overwhelmed with unsuitable labor. THE BOAT HORN. BY GEN. wM. 0. BUTLER. 0, BOATMAN! wind that born again., For never did the listning air Upon its joyous bosom bear So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain! What though thy notes are sad and few, By every simple boatman blown, Yet is each pulse to nature true, And melody in every tone. How oft in boyhoods joyous day, Unmindful of the lapsing hours, I ye loitered on my homeward way By wiid Ohios brink of flowers, While some lone boatman from the deck Poured his soft numbers to that tide, As if to charm from storm and wreck The boat where all his fortunes ride! Delighted Nature drank the sound, Enchanted Echo bore it round In whispers soft and softer still, From hill to plain and plain to hill, Till een the thoughtless, frolic boy, Elate with hope and wild with joy, Who gambolled by the rivers side, And sported with the fretting tide, Felt something new pervade his breast, Change his light step, repress his jest, Bent oer the flood his eager ear To catch the sounds far off, yet dear Drank the sweet draught, but knew not ~hy The tear of rapture filled his eye. And can he now, to manhood grown, Tell why those notes, simple and lone As on the ravished ear they fell, Bound every sense in magic spelil There is a tide of feeling given To all on earth, its fountain heaven, Beginning with the dewy flower, Just oped in Floras vernal bower Rising creations orders through With louder murmur, brighter hue That tide is sympathy! its ebb and flow Gives life its hues, its joy and woe. Music, the master-spirit that can move Its waves to war, or lull them into love Can cheer the sinking sailor mid the Wave, And bid the soldier on! nor fear the grave Inspire the fainting pilgrim on his road, And elevate his soul to claim his God. Then, boatmtin! wind that horn again! Though much of sorrow mark its strain, Yet are its notes to sorrow dear; What though they wake fond memorys tear I Tears are sad memorys sacred feast, And rapture oft her chosen guest. RECENT FRENCH SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY. From the North British Review. 1. Etudes sur les R6formateurs Contemporains. Par Louis REYBAUD. Paris, 1840. 2. Organization du Travail. Par Louis BLANC. Paris, 1839. Cinqui~me edition, Augment6e, 1848. 3. Lettres au Peuple. Par GEORGE SAND. Paris, 1848. 4. The NATIONALFrench Newspaper. March, 1848. 5. Louis Blanc on the Working Classes, with a Refutation of his destructive Plan. By JAMES WARD. London, 1848. THAT the set of opinions brought forth into ac- tion by the recent revolution in France is something totally different from the now common-place repub- licanism with which the revolution of 1789 deluged Europe, must already be sufficiently clear to all who have paid any attention to the accounts that have been reaching us from Paris for the last two months. This, indeed, is what any well-instructed person will have been prepared to expect. It has never yet been seen that any great social crisis was a mere repetition of that which preceded it. Al- ways, in every crisis, there are involved new prin- ciples, new germs, accumulated in the mind of society since the last epoch of a similar nature, and which, seizing the current opportunityif in- deed they have not created itspring forth into expanded activity, dominate over the crisis, and give it its special significance and character. If, then, this new revolution in France be, as the fears of some, the hopes of others, and the anxieties of all bcspeak itnay, as its train of already achieved consequences proves it to bea real crisis for all Europe; it follows, according to all analogy, that it contains new seeds, and that the condition of society which it will ultimately evolve, will be un- like any yet known. What, then, are the new seeds contained in this third, or as it is now customary, in contempt of the transactions of July, 1830, to say, this second French revolution l A mighty question, which the future alone can fully answer, hut in connec- tion with which one or two things may even now be said! It is always possible to infer something regarding the direction which a political movement will assume, by observing what are the speculations abroad in society at the time, and which, possessing the leading niinds, are likely, to some extent at least, to be embodied in the new system of things. What, then, are the ideas at present most power- ful in the mind of the French nation the ideas, that is, which engage in a special manner its most active intellects, and are by them most sedulously diffused among the people To this question a partial answer has already been furnished in the frequent, but somewhat blind, allusions in our newspapers to communism, communist doc- trines, & c., as being now very prevalent in French society, and as having disciples among the very men Who have acted the most prominent part in the revolution. On examining more closely, it is found that in these newspaper allusions the word communism is used as a vague designation for a variety of p*litical and social theories now abroad in France, all of them characterized, it would ap- pear, by a vehement repugnance, in some cases intellectual, in others sentimental, to the doctrines of Adam Smith and Malthus, and all of them aim- ing at a grand result, which they term the redr- ganization of labor, and sometimes also, more generally, the redrganization of society. To expound the more remarkable of these theories, and to collect such facts as may tend to show how far they are likely to affect the course of events in France, are the objects of the present article. It is now upwards of thirty years since Claude- Henri, Comte de Saint-Simon, began to promulgate in France those views which have since become so famous under the name of Saint-& monianism. Born at Paris, the 17th October, 1700, of a family one of the most distinguished of the old French noblesse, and which traced its descent to Charle- magne, through the Counts de Vermandois, Saint- Simon inherited, as much as any man of his generation, those qualities, which high pedigree confers. His grandfather, the Duc de Saint-Simon, was one of the most noted of those aristocratic figures that moved so gracefully in the court of Louis XIV. His father, however, having lost the ducal title and property, Saint-Simon began life from a somewhat lower elevation than that to which his name entitled him. Aft.er having re- ceived a general education under, IDAlembert, and other masters, he followed the course usual at that time for young Frenchmen of family, and in the year 1777 joined the army which was sent by Louis XVI. to assist the American insurgents against the British crown. Inheriting in large degree a certain restlessness and eccentricity which was characteristic of his family, Saint-Simon, even in early youth, was buoyed up by a persuasion that he was to play a great part in the world. When he was in his 17th year his servant was instructed to awake him every morning ~vith these words Levez-vous, Mon- sieur le Comte, vous avez de grandes choses it faire. For a young Frenchman bent on grandes choses, America was scarcely the field; and af- ter having served under Washington and Bouill6, as well as travelled in a private capacity in various parts of the continent, especially in Mexico, where he attempted to interest the viceroy in a scheme for uniting the two oceans by rendering navigable the river Partido, he was glad to return to France. Here, in the enjoyment of the rank of colonel, which was at that time conferred on young noblemen as an honorary sinecure, he continued to live at court without seeking any opportunity of active service. My vocation, he says, was not to be a sol- dier; I was inclined to a mode of activity quite different, and, I may say, opposite. To study the march of the hunsan spirit, in order, eventually, to labor for the advancement of civilization; such was the end which I proposed to myself. In 1785, having been left his own master by his fathers death two years before, he visited Hol 4 ST. SIMONFOURIERTHE LATE REVOLUTION. 5 land; and in the following year he went to Spain. Availing himself there of the influence which his position afforded, he pressed on public notice various projects of a practical character. One of these, concerted between him and Cabarrus, then director of the Bank of St. Charles, afterwards minister of finance, was a project for uniting Madrid with the sea, by means of a canal. This scheme failed for want of encouragement from the Spanish government; in another scheme, however, for es- tablishing a system of stage-coaches in Andalusia the first experiment of the kind in Spainhe was more successful, in these attempts at im- provement in a foreign country, one sees that pas- sion for rectification at all times and places which is the genuine characteristic of those whom the world call reformers. What Saint-Simon at- tempted on a small scale in Spain, the celebrated Count Ruiriford accomplished on a much larger, in Bavaria. Both were men of the same stamp. In Saint-Simon, however, as was proved by his subsequent career, the passion for rectification was infinitely deeper and more frantic than in Count Rumford. Beginning with proposals for construct- ing canals, and establishing systems of diligences for the benefit of provincial traffic, it was to go on increasing by exercise, and becoming more and more conscious of itself, until at length it was to grapple expressly, daringly, and even ostentatious- ly, with the wrongs of humanity itself. Saint-Simon returned to his native country in 1789, immediately before the outbreak of the great revolution. He took no part, he says, in the stirring events which followed, hut stood by as a mere spectator. Nobleman as he was, his sympathies were probably more with the republicans than with the royalists in the struggle. At all events, bent on schemes of his own, his interest in which ~vas stronger than any aristocratic regrets of the hour, he did not hesitate, in partnership with a Prussian nobleman, Count de Redern, whose acquaintance he had made in Spain, to purchase a large quan- tity of the confiscated national lands from the revo- lutionary government. The funds were to be employed on his part in founding a great scien- tific school, and a great industrial establishment ; but when, after the fall of Robespierre, the prop- erty was at length realized, this project was frus- trated by a quarrel between him and his partner, which ended in his accepting from the latter the net sum of 144,000 livres (6800) in lieu of all his claims. This took place in 1797. Pecu- niarily, said Saint-Simon, commenting on the transaction afterwards, I was the dupe of Re- dern. Upon his little fortune of 6800 as a basis, Saint-Simon, now in his thirty-eighth year, was to build a vast life! His passion for a career had be- gun to assume a more definite shape. To lead mankind into a new path of activity, the nature of which, however, he could as yet only faintly indi- cate to himself by the descriptive adjective of physico-political, applied to it by anticipation this seemed an enterprise worthy of his toil But, first, he must qualify himself for his great task by a course of universal education. Of this education the first part must be technical and theo- retical; that is, he must first thoroughly acquire and master all those contemporary scientific gener- alities in which the entire knowledge of the race was condensed and formulized. True, he is no longer young ; his brain has lost its inalleabil- fry ; still, as being rich and resolute, he possesses advantages on the other side; nor in the mind of an old pupil of DAlembert could the necessary elementary notions be entirely wanting. Accord- ingly, taking up his residence near the Ecole Poly- technique, and cultivating, on purpose, the intimate personal acquaintance of the professors, he devoted his whole attention for three years, according to his own methods and convenience, and with all the appliances that money could purchase, to the study of the physical sciencesmathematics, astronomy, general physics, and chemistry. Satisfied with his progress in these, he removed in 1801 to the neighborhood of the Ecole de iVI~decine, in order, in a similar manner, to add to his stock of ideas regarding inorganic nature, all the general no- tions that were attainable regarding organized bodies. Here, accordingly, in the company of eminent intellects, he traversed the whole field of physiological science. Having thus imbibed and made his own all the contemporary scientific thought of France, it wa~ necessary for him, according to his plan, to visit England and Germany, lest, in either country, any ideas should be lurking, of decided European value, although France had not recognized them. He was disappointed. From England, he says, I brought back the certainty, that its inhabitants were not directing their scientific labors to any general end, and had at that time no new capital idea on hand. The Germans, on the other hand, he surprised in the midst of their mystical philos- ophythe true infant-stage of all general science. Thus, seeing that the two great Teutonic countries could furnish him with no idea out of the circle of fundamental scientifi~~ principles, which had been accessible to him in France, he considered himself justified in concluding that, in having made those principles fully his own, he had taken in the entire essence of all the contemporary thought of the world. To the mass of formal or theoretical knowledge which Saint-Simon had acquired by his method of systematic contact with all those of his contempo- raries who made thinking or generalization their profession, it behoved him, according to his pro- scribed plan, to add something else before he could regard his training as complete. This was ex- perience, properly so called; that is, the actual realization in his own person of the whole range of human idiosyncrasies and emotions. Now as the former portion of his education had been com- passed by study, so this could only be compassed by experimentation; that is, by the voluntary assumption for scientific purposes of all those situations in which any new set of feelings could RECENT FRENCH SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY. be obtained. He resolved, therefore, to lead for several years a life of systematic experimentation, in order that, as by his previous course of universal study he had digested the whole mass of known scientific truths, and as it were placed himself at the point of highest theoretic generality attained by the race, so now, by this other method, he might break down the limitations which circled him in as a nobleman and a Frenchman, fraternize emotionally with all sorts of men, and be able at last to come forth a genuine epitome of all human sensation. His first experimentconfessed by himself to have been such, was that of marriage. The lady he chose for his wife was Mademoiselle de Champ- grand, the daughter of one of his companions in arms during the American war. I wished to use marriage, he says, as a means for studying the savants; a thing which appeared to me necessary for Ehe execution of my enterprise; for, in order to improve the organization of the scientific system, it is not sufficient merely to know well the situation of human knowledge; it is necessary, also, to seize the effect which the cultivation of science produces on those who devote themselves to it; it is neces- sary to appreciate the influence which this occupa- tion exercises over their passions, over their spirit, over the ensemble of their moral constitution, and ever its separate parts. The matrimonial relation seems, in the case of Saint-Simon, to have resented the indignity thus put upon it. After a few years he and his wife were separated by a divorce pro- cured by mutual consent. Childless by the first marriage, Madame de Saint-Simon soon afterwards contracted a second. Both during and after his marriage, Saint-Simon continued to pursue, in the most indefatigable man- ner, his prescribed career of ezperimentation. Balls, dinners, and experimental evening-parties followed each other, says his biographer, in rapid succession; every new situation that money could create was devised and prepared; good and evil were confounded; play, discussion, debauch, were alike gone into; the expemience of years was crushed into a short space; even old age was artificially realized by medicaments; and, that the loathsome might not be wanting, this enthusiast for the universal, would inoculate himself with prevalent contagious diseases. It was probably when theorizing retrospectively on this period of his life that Saint-Simon afterwards drew up the following scheme of what he conceived to be a model human existence : First, To spend ones vigorous youth in a manner the most original and active possible; 2dly, To gain a kiiowledge of all human theories and practices; 3dly, To mingle ~vith all classes of society, placing ones self in all possible situations, and even creating situations that do not exist; and, 4tbly, To spend ones old age in resuming ones observations and in establishing principles. With regard to the violation of estab- lished rules of morality necessarily involved in the reckless experimentation prescribed by this scheme, he observes characteristically, If I see a man who is not launched on the career of general science frequenting houses of play and debauch, and not shunning with the most scrupulous care the society of persons of notorious immorality, I say, Behold a man going to perdition; he is born under an evil star; the habits which he is contracting will debase him in his own eyes, and will, consequently, render him supremely despicable. But if this man is under the direction of theoretical philosophy; if the object of his researches is to lay down the true line of demarcation which ought to separate actions, and class theni into good and bad; if he is compell- ing himself to discover the means for curing those maladies of the human intelligence which cause us to follow paths that lead us away from happiness; then I say, This man runs the career of vice in a direction which will conduct him necessarily to the highest virtue. If comment were necessary on this sweeping doctrine, one might point out the vicious confusion, characteristic of the LTtilitarian Philosophy whidi it involves, of the two distinct categories of t~h~ Quid est and the Quid oportet: the latter, through the transitionary equivalent of the Quid prodes4 being ~educed to a mere department of the former, and so mitue amenable to the ordinary method of scientific induction; a method, according to which, the universal moral law would be a mere generaliza- tion from the mass of the accumulated past expe- rience of our raceEuropean, Asiatic, African, and American. Do the law, and thou shalt know the doctrine, is the maxim directly antag- onistic. Besides, what becomes of the so-called poetic faculty, if thus, in order to know a thing, we must actually go into the midst of it, with hands, eyes, and feet l If this poetic faculty is not a hallucination, what is it but that Shakespearian something implanted iii a man, by which, living strongly his own simple course, chalked out for him by his native impulses and his felt duties, he can yet keep company with kings, knaves, heroes, and dead men, and walk wind-like all-licensed over the whole earth l The prescribed course of experimentation ended about the year 1807, when, having spent all his money, Saint-Simon found himself, at the age of forty-seven, in a condition of abject poverty. This, too, however, was experience; and, in order to earn his bread, the grandson of the proudest cour- tier of Louis XIV. did not refuse the post of clerk in a Mont de Pi~t~, or government pawubroking establishment, which, with a salary of 1000 francs (& 40) a year, was offered him in 1808 by the Comte de S~gur, to whom he had applied for some situation. In this post he continued for about six months, after which he was indebted for lodging and subsistence to the charity of a former acqnaint- ance named Diard. On Diards death, in 1812, he was again thrown adrift upon Paris. Living in the most miserable manner, often without fire, and with bread and water for his only fare, he ~vas yet upheld, he says, by his passion for science, and his desire peaceably to terminate the terrible crisis in which European society is involved. 6 ST. SIMONFOIJEIEItTHE LATE REVOLUTION. Strange spectacle in modern times, a man living on, solitary and poor, in a wretched metropolitan lodgingnot maturing a specific scientific discov- ery, perfecting a mechanical invention, or complet- ing a literary work, for any of which there were not wanting precedents; but nourishing within him, under the form of a French egotism, an almost oriental belief that some how or other he was about to accomplish a direct social mission! A belief similar to this is, indeed, usually generated in eminent men by the heat and fever of incessant action among their fellows; but rarely, as in Saint- Simon, has it been seen existing as a purely in- tuitive egotism, antecedent to all activity, and de- manding explicitly its own verification. Meanwhile, if Saint-Simon was to accomplish a mission, it was certainly time that he should he setting about it. Already in his fifty-second year, he had surely entered on that stage of life in which, according to his own scheme, he should he resum- ing his observations. Accordingly, in 1812, pre- cisely at the period when his circumstances were most wretched, he gave to the world his first pub- lication, under the title of Letters from an Inhab- itant of Geneva to his Contemporaries. The theme of the first of these letters was the social condition of men who, like himself, belonged to the intelligential, as distinguished from the industrial, class. Open, he said, a subscription before the tomb of Newton; subscribe all indiscriminately, each whatever sutn he pleases. Let each subscriber name three mathematicians, three mechanical phi- losophers, three chemists, three physiologists, three literary men, three painters, three musicians, & c. Renew the subscription every year, and divide the sum raised among the three mathematicians, the three mechanical philosophers, the three chemists, the three physiologists, the three literary men, the three painters, the three musicians, & c., who have obtained most votes; and, by tiijs means, men of genius will enjoy a recompense worthy of them- selves, and of you. In these letters, more valu- able, it will be perceived, for the general modes of conception which they threw abroad than for any practical recommendations which they contained, Saint-Simon first announced that peculiar distine- thin between the spiritual and temporal orders which pervades his whole social philosophy. The spiritual power in the hands of the savans; the temporal power in the hands of the men of property; the power of naming the individuals called to perform the functions of leaders, in the hands of the masses; for salary to the governing class, the consideration which they receive. Such was the compendium of the Saint-Simonian politics. After the Letters from Geneva, the next work of Saint-Simon was his Introduction to the Scientific Labors of the 19th Century, written in the form of an answer to Napoleons famous question addressed to the Institute Give me an account of the progress of science since 1789; tell me its present state, and what are the means to be employed for its advancement. In this work Saint-Simon criticises the existing state of science, denounces the intellectual anarchy prevalent, and indicates the course by which he thinks clearness and order may be evolved. The Restoration, favorable as it was cm the whole to Frenchmen of old families, brought no increase of prosperity to a dreamer like Saint-Simon. About this time, however, it was, that there began to gather round him as pupils, those men of gen- eral views and ardent temperament, most of them then mere youths, in whom his spirit and influence were to survive. His first, and, as it has proved, his most constant disciple, was M. Olinde Ro- drigues, a young student of Jewish extraction. To him succeeded two men destined to a still greater celebrity, M. Augustin Thierry, and M. Auguste Comte. The interchange of his ideas with these pupils in private discourse, seems to have assisted Saint-Simon greatly in the task of digesting his system and shaping it for practical purposes. The pupils, too, were no ordinary men, and coiitributed their labors, each according to his taste and faculty. It was in conjunction with Thierry that Saint-Simon prepared his third work of any consequence, which appeared under the following title: The Re6rganization of European Society; or on the necessity and the means of uniting the Peoples of Europe into one body-politic, preserving to each its own nationality; by Henri Saint-Simon, and Augustin Thierry, his pupil. Paris, 1814. It was, however, in the year 1819, that Saint- Simon first gave forth, in the form of a small pamphlet, or rather squib, entitled, Parabole, those conceptions regarding the place of the indus- trial classes in society on which his title to intel- lectual originality principally rests. Of this striking brochure the following is an abstract Let us suppose that France suddenly loses her fifty best mechanical philosophers, her fifty best chemists, her fifty best physiologists, her fifty best mathematicians, her fifty best poets, her fifty best painters, her fifty best sculptors, her fifty best mu- sicians, her fifty first literary men, her fifty best mechanicians, her fifty best civil and military en- gineers, her fifty best artillerymen, her fifty best architects, her fifty best physicians, her fifty best surgeons, her fifty best druggists, her fifty best sea- men, her fifty best watchmakers, her fifty first bankers, her two hundred first merchants, her six hundred first agriculturists, her fifty best smiths, & c., & c., & c., in all the 3000 first savants, artists, and artisans of France. As these men are really the most productive Frenchmen, they are the flower of French society; they are, of all Frenchmen, the most useful to their country, those who gain it most glory, and who most advance its civilization and prosperity. The nation would become an inanimate body the instant it lost theni; it would instantly fall beneath the na- tions that are its rivals, and it would remain subal- tern to them until it had repaired its loss, regained its brain. It would take France at least a genera- tion to make good such a misfortune; for men who distinguish themselves in labors of positive utility are real anomalies, and nature is not prodigal of anomalies, especially those of this kind. Let us pass to another supposition. Let us 7 RECENT FRENCH SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY. imagine that France retains all the above, but has the misfortune to lose, on one day, Monsieur, the kings brother, Monseigneur the Duke dAngou- l~me, Monseigneur the Duke de Berry, Monseig- neur the Duke dOrl6ans, Monseigneur the Duke de Bourbon, Madame the Duchess dAngoul~me, Madame the Duchess de Berry, Madame the Duch- ess dOrldans, Madame the Duchess de Bourbon, and Mademoiselle de Condd; at the same time also, all the great officers of the crown, all the ministers of state, all the counsellors of state, all the mas- ters of requests, all the marshals, all the cardinals, archbishops, bishops, grand-vicars and canons, all the prefects and sub-prefects, all the employ6s in the govcrnment-offices, all the judges, and, with them, the 10,000 richest proprietors of those who live sumptuously. This accident would certainly grieve the French, because they are a good people, and because they could not see with indifference the sudden disap- pearance of so great a number of their fellow-coun- trymen. But this loss of 30,000 individuals, reputed the most important in the state, would cause cha- grin only in a point of view purely sentimental; for there would not result therefrom any political evil. It would be easy to replace the persons missing. In the first place, there are a great number of Frenchmen iii a condition to execute the functions of the kings brother; many capable of filling the rank of princes as suitably as Monseigneur the Duke dAngoul~me, Monseigneur the Duke de Berry, & c. Then the ante-chambers of the chateau are full of courtiers ready to occupy the places of the great crown-officers; the army possesses hundreds of military men, as good captains as our present marshals. How many clerks there are worth our ministers of state! men of business fitter to man- age the affairs of the departments than the prefects and sub-prefects now in office! advocates as good jurisconsults as our judges! cur~s as capable as our cardinals, archbishops, bishops, grand-vicars, and canons! As for the 10,000 proprietors, living sumptuously, their heirs would not require much apprenticeship to enable them to perform the honors of their salons as well as themselves. Paragraphs so pungent as the above, with the conclusion appended to them, that society was in a state of utter confusion and required redrganization, naturally gave offence in high quarters; and a prosecution was instituted against the author, which, however, terminated in an acquittal. The peculiar value of a pamphlet so slight as the Parabole, as connected with the history of Saint-Simon is, that in it he first asserted in language level to the pci- ular apprehension, the superiority of the industrial classes in society, and his idea that their interests should be the peculiar care of the political system. The doctrines of the Parabole were more fully developed and more methodically cxpounded in subsequent works; particularly in one entitled Cat~chisme des Industriels. In this work, he takes a retrospective view of the course of French history, dividing it into several epochs, and show- ing what interests were predominant in each. Then, having established these two propositions 1st, That the industrial classes (including in that designation all who live by labor of any kind) are the most useful to society; and, 2d, That the proportion of these classes to the rest of socicty has been continually increasing with the advance of civilization; he proceeds to predict the downfall of the existing military and feudal r~gime, and the establishment in its stead of a new or industrial ri~gime; that is, of a political system in which not only shall the predominant interests be those of industry, but the administration itself shall be in the hands of the industrial class. It was also an- nounced by Saint-Simon in this Cat6chisme, that there was in preparation a work in which its views were to be fortified arid completedan exposition, namely, of the scientific system and the system of education, that were to correspond with the new or industrial era. This work,~~ he says, of which we have laid down the basis, and of which we have entrusted the execution to our pupil Auguste Comte, will expound the indus- trial system a priori, while here we expound it a posteriori. The fulfilment of the promise came out at length in M. Comtes Syst~me de Politique Positive, a work with which Saint-Simon, how- ever, was only partially satisfied. It expounded the generalities of his system, he said, only as they appeared from the Aristotelian point of view; the religious and sentimental aspect being overlooked. Nevertheless, such as it was, the work, he said, was the best that had yet been written on general politics. How thoroughly, at all events, M. Cointe had imbibed his masters notion regarding the avenir of the industrial classes, may be per- ceived from the large space which this notion oc- cupies in that part of his great independent work, the Cours de Philosophie Positive, which it devoted to sociology. Saint-Simons success with the public, mean- while, was very disproportionate to the earnest- ness with which he preached his views. Some new pupils had, indeed, been added to his little college, of whom the most distinguished were MM. Bazard and Enfantin; but beyond this inti- mate circle of sanguine young men, all society was sluggish and indifferent. Poor, obscure, and neglected, usually, he says, he bore up well; his esteem for himself always increasing in proportion to the injury he did to his reputation. Once, however, on the 9th of March, 1823, his resolu- tion gave way, and he fired. a pistol at his own head. The wound was not fatal; and, with the loss of an eye, Saint-Simon returned to the world, to live yet a little longer in it. And now came the closing stage of his extraor- dinary career. Resuming all his general ideas in science and in politics, and impregnating the whole mass with a higher and warmer element than he had yet been master of, he, the one-eyed and disfigured valetudinarian, was to bequeath to the world as the total result of his life and labors, a New Religion! This he did in his Nouveau Christianisme, which may be regarded as the summary of Saint-Simonianism by Saint-Simon himself. In this work the ruling idea is that Christianity is a great progressive system, rolling, as it were, over the ages, acting at all times on the thoughts and actions of men, but continually 8 ST. SIMONFOURIERTHE LATE REVOLUTION. 9 imbibing in return fresh power out of the mind of numerous and poor ; and thus on these two prin-. the race, and retaining only as its eternal and im- ciples the world is to revolve, moving forward, mutable germ this one adage, Love one anoth- in majestic harmony, towards its unseen consum- er. Of this great progress of Christianity, the mation. first stage, according to Saint-Simon, had been Reconstructed according to the two fundamental the Catholic system, which had rendered. great Saint-Simonian principles, society would assume services to humanity, especially by its recognition the form of a church-universal. Men of industry, of the distinction between the spiritual and tempo- employed in material occupations; sevens employed ral powers, but which had also failed in essential in scientific speculation; and priests, uniting both respects. After it, caine the Protestantism of Lu- capacitiesthis would be all society; chiefs of ther, which, doing less for humanity, had failed industry, chiefs of savans, chiefs of prieststhis still more grossly. Luther, Saint-Simon said, would be all government. And thus from the was a heretic, against whom this charge might be supreme pope or pontiff of the race as the apex, allegedthat having Europe as a tabula rasa be- down through an infinite number of sections to- fore him, he did not make a good use of his splen- wards the base, each generation of mankind would did opportunity, but threw down among the hun- constitute an independent self-formed triangular gry nations a mass of low and prosaic sentiments, solid, of which priests, thinkers, and laborers Lastly, he himself, Saint-Simon, was the har- would be the atoms. binger of a new and triumphant stagethe Saint- Thus, in the year 1825, did this singular and Simonian phase of Christianity. Of this Saint- egotistic Frenchman compile the generalizations Simonianism the fundamental peculiarity was to of his life, and give them to the world as a New consist in an expansion or modification of the per- Christianity. The divinity of the former Chris- manent maxim of Christianity into the following tianity he admitted, but he also, he was convinced, formula : Religion ought to direct society to- had a divine mission to supersede it. He had wards the great end of the most rapid possible even had French supernatural intimations to that amelioration, physical and moral, of the condition effect. In the prison of the Luxembourg, he of the class the most numerous and poor. No said, I saw a vision. My ancestor Charlemagne longer was there any necessity for keeping up the appeared to me and said, Since the world was, distinction between the religious and the social, no family has had the honor to produce a hero the spiritual and the material, the welfare of the and a philosopher both of the first rank. This individual soul and the interests of the mass; the honor is reserved for my house. My son, thy two were to be united; and religion was to con- successes as a philosopher will equal mine as a sist, expressly and definitively, in the re& ganization warrior and a statesman. of society, according to the foregoing formula. To promulgate his views now completed, What, then, more closely considered, was the Saint-Simon, in conjunction with his pupils, Saint-Simonian religion practically to consist in founded a journal, to be called Le Producteur. Plainly in thisthe raising of the sunken indus- The project of this paper may be said to have trial classes, and their thorough and equable diffu- been formed on his death-bed. Having already sion through the entire mass of society, so that suffered much from pain and ill health, he breathed the whole might move freely within itself. Were his last on the 19th of May, 1825, in the presence this all, however, the result would be mere chaos of his favorite disciples, Comte, Thierry, Ro- and bewilderment. A principle of order, of gov- drigues, Bazard, and Enfantin. To them his last eminent, must be introduced. This, accordingly, words were addressed : It has been imagined, was supplied in the principle of the Saint-Simonian he said, speaking in an especial manner to Ro- hierarchy, asserted by Saint-Simon himself, and drigues, although with a prophetic reference, one thus expressed by his followers : To each man might think, to Cointe, that all religion what- a vocation according to his capacity; to each ca- ever ought to disappear, because we have sue- pacity a recompense according to its works. In ceeded in proving the decrepitude of that which this, the second fundamental principle of the exists. But religion cannot disappear from the Saint-Simonian system, there is, it will be per- world; it can only change its form. Do not for- ceived, a direct denial of the theory of absolute get this, Rodrigues, and remember that, in order equality. It asserts the radical, inexplicable fact to do great things, one must be enthusiastic, of the difference of capacities and dispositions be- (pour faire de grandes choses il faut etre pas- tween man and man; and even deifies this fact so sionn6.) My whole life sums itself up in a single as to make it furnish the supreme principle of so- thought : To assure to all mankind the freest cial order. All privileges of birth being abolished, possible development of their faculties. * * * and each generation being thus left an independent The future is ours, he said, after a pause; aggregation of freely moving social atoms, there and haying his hand to his head, died. is to result in each a spontaneous government by On M. Ohinde Rodrigues, as the earliest disciple a hierarchy of functionaries designated by nature and special legatee of his master, it devolved to herself. These functionaries again are to be ani- conduct the Product eur, and generally to superintend mated by the fundamental Saint-Simonian principle the diffusion of that mass of miscellaneous notions, of administration, that of the most rapid possible for the most part merely critical and destructive, amelioration of the condition of the class the most but in part also organic and positive, which he had 10 RECENT FRENCH SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY. bequeathed to the world. His associates were MM. Bazard, Enfantin, Cerciet, Bnchez, and one or two others, who had recently joined the little college. 1\I. Comte seems already to have schemed for him- self that path which was to carry him, like a soli- tary luminary, out of the Saint-Simonian cluster. The position of public affairs in the year 1825, was such that it was deemed advisable by the As- sociates not to attempt a wholesale promulgation of the Saint-Simonian faith, but to confine them- selves to an exposition of the Saint-Simonian doc- trines regarding the re6rganization of industry, the coming industrial r6girne, & c. This restriction had its advantages; for it secured the co6peration of many men of liberal tendencies, who, at that pe- riod of reaction towards absolutism, were willing to use such an organ as the Producteur, although they had no affection for the more esoteric Saint- Simonian theories. Accordingly, the Producteur reckoned among its contributors Armand Carrel, and other young chiefs of the growing republi- canism. For pecuniary reasons, however, the publication was ultimately abandoned. It was now imagined by some that Saint-Simo- nianism was defunct. This, however, was a mis- take. Ardent spirits throughout France had been seized with the enthusiasm; correspondences had been carried on; and individual disciples, debarred the utterance of their special opinions in the Pro- ducteur, had found a voice for them in occasional independent publications. Suddenly a new out- burst took place under the auspices of M. Bazard. Advertising a course of lectures which were to be delivered in the Rue Taranne, and were to con- tain a complete exposition of the Saint-Simonian faith, he rallied round him the scattered Saint- Simonians. Associated with him as colleagues, were MM. Rodrigues and Enfantin; and to this triumvirate many new men of ability and educa- tion attached themselves, among whom may be mentioned MM. Ilyppolite Carnot, Michel Cheva- lier, Fournel, Barrault, IJugied, Charles Duvey- rier, and Talabot. As in the Producteur the Associates had been obliged by considerations of prudence to restrict themselves to the exposition of certain doctrines of immediate consequence, so now they revelled at pleasure in all the higher speculations of Saint- Simonianism. Now for the first time was the Saint-Simonian creed filled out and formulized. God, said the Associates, is all that is; all is in Him; all communicate through Him. He manifests Himself in two sets of aspects; on the one hand, as spirit, intelligence, wisdom; on the other, as matter, force, beauty. The true action of this Pan or Deity upon the human race has been through gifted human spirits born at inter- vals. Moses, Numa, Orpheus, these men, repre- senting as it were that aspect of the divinity whose type is matter, force, beauty, had organized the material efforts of the race, they were chiefs of Worship; the founders of Christianity, represent- ing the Divine spirit, intelligence, wisdom, had organized the spiritual efforts of the race, and were chiefs of Doctrine; for Saint-Simon it had been reserved to unite the flesh and the spirit, and organize the religious efforts of the racehe was the Head of the Church. The systems of Moses, Orpheus, and Numa had been systems of national ceremonial; Christianity seized on the individual soul; the system of Saint-Simon pointed to a theocratic association of all under the highest sa- vans and the highest chiefs of industry; whose administration was to be regulated by the two fundamental principles LAmdlioration, & c., and A chacun, & c. Hitherto all societies had been presided over by merely dead laws; that is, by the letter of laws established at some point of the past time by the legislator whose name they boreas the Mosaic law by Moses, the laws of Numa by Numa, and so on. The law of the Saint-Simonian constitution of society, however, was to be a living law; that is, it was to consist in a perpetual succession of commands issued on occasion by a perpetual series of living men. Or, in the words employed by M. Bazard himself, In the future all the law that shall exist will consist in the declaration by which he who pre- sides over an office shall make known his will to his inferiors, sanctioning his prescriptions with punishments and rewards.* Cohering in virtue of this law, society will move on under one im- pulse towards one goal ; there will be a million of arms, but only one head; arranged in a de- scending hierarchy, and paid according to a tariff of salaries, all the men of each generation will depend upon him who for the time shall occupy the place of supreme king or pontiff of the globe, the strongest, the most sympathetic, the most gen- eralizing (le plus g6n6ralisateur) of living beings. Such, in gamboge and vermilion, is the Saint- Simonian millennium. While revelling for their own private gratifica- tion in these apocalyptic anticipations, the Asso- ciates were not neglecting the humbler task of disseminating ideas critical of the existing state of things. An immediate corollary of the Saint- Simonian system which they occupied themselves with asserting to the public, was the necessity of the abolition of the law of inheritance. Maintain- ing, as we have seen, the natural inequality of men in point of capacity, the Saint-Simonians nevertheless were adherents of the political equality proclaimed in 1789, and the full development of which, according to M. Chevalier, will consist in the obliteration of all the political inequalities founded on the right of birth. That a man should * As little as possible have we interrupted our exposi- tion avith comments of our own; at this point however, we would hid our readers again observe that implied an- nihilation, in the Saint-Simonian system, of the moral sense as an ultimate thing in man, which we formerly remarked in the language of Saint-Simon himself. Right and wrong, according to the Saint-Simonians, are but generalizations like the laws of astronomy ; and as it belon~,s to the sarans of one class to decree what the more ignorant of the race are to believe concerning the moon and the stars, so it belongs to the savans of another class to decree the duty of man. If we mistake not, M. Comte, in his Cours de Philosophie Positive, ex- pressly affirms this. ST. SIMON.FOURIERTHE LATE REVOLUTION. 11 inherit property from his father they considered one of these inequalities. Therefore, in the Saint- Simonian constitution of society, the property of deceased persons should return immediately to the state. All children would be taken care of and educated by a supreme college in a congenial pro- fessional direction ; furnished with whatever was necessary, and then launched on life to fare accord- ing to their own merits. As an orcran for the promulgation of this and other Saint-Simonian doctrines, the Associates, in 1830, founded a weekly journal, called LOrgan- isateur. About the same time, also, in order to furnish a nucleus, as it were, round which the Saint-Simonian crystallization of society might commence, they formed themselves into a family living in common in a house in the Rue Monsigny. Of this establishment MM. Bazard and Enfantin assumed the codrdinate supremacy. Of these two men M. Louis Reyhaud presents an elaborate con- trast. Bazard, he says, who before his adhesion to Saint-Simonianism had taken an active interest in revolutionary politics, was still apt to assume the profane point of view, and accommodate his expositions to circumstances; he was a man of logic, and delighted in details; Enfantin, on the other hand, was an enthusiast, continually forging ideas in the laboratory of his own thoughts, and seeking points of contact with the world only in the Saint-Simonian future. Together, they com- plemented each otherEnfantin urging on his colleague, whose disposition it was to look round at every step, so as to ascertain his environment. Left to himself, the chances were that Enfantin would bring on a crash by his too hardy experi- mentation; in similar circumstances Bazard would probably hesitate, abdicate his dictatorship, and sink into an ordinary philosoplme. Scarcely had the establishment of the Rue Mon- signy been formed, when Paris was shaken, and the prospects of the country changed by the revo- lution of July. The Associates seized the oppor- tunity to make a demonstration; and for several days all Paris was laughing at a strange placard signed Bazard-Enfantin, which was seen posted on the walls beside the proclamations of Lafayette. After the restoration of order, and the accession of Louis Philippe, it was deemed proper to take some notice of the Saint-Simonian demonstration and in the chamber of deputies MM. iDupin and Mauguin denounced the Associates as a sect preach- ing doctrines subversive of order, viz., the com- munity of property and the community of women. This drew forth a reply from Bazard and Enfantin, dated the 1st of October, 1330, in which both imputations were denied. As for the doctrine of the community of property, they declared that it was directly contrary to the fundamental maxim of their systemthat every man should be placed according to his capacity, and recompensed accord- ing to his works. Nevertheless, they admitted that they desired the abolition of the law of inher- itance. On the subject of the rights of women, they professed that what they aimed at was the complete emancipation of the sex, so that woman might reveal her powers, whatever they are, to the utmost, and perform her full part in the social evolution. The law of marriage, however, by which one man was conjoined with one woman, so as to form a social unit, they regarded as holy; and all the modification they would make of it would be for the facilitation, in certain cases, of divorce. Never was Saint-Simonianism more prosperous than in 1830 and 1831. At the beginning of the latter year especially, the confederates were able to congratulate themselves on a special piece of good fortunethe accession, namely, of M. Pierre Leroux, a man of the highest character, who had raised himself from the situation of a common printer to the reputation of being one of the most profound of French thinkers and writers. M. Le- roux brought with him into the service of Saint- Simonianism the Globe daily newspaper, of which at that time he was editor. On the 18th of Jan., 1831, this paper appeared, for the first time, as a professed journal of Saint-Simonian opinions. The proselytism which followed was past belief. Dream- ers, thinkers, artists, poets, all caught the conta- gion. Among the more prominent converts were MM. Raynaud Hoart, Emile Pereire, Mesdames Bazard and St. Hilaire, MM. Lambert, Saint Ch& ~ron, GuCroult, Charton, Cazeaux, Dugneit, and Flachat-Mony. 1he establishment in the Rue Monsigny was enlarged, and to prevent the too rapid influx of new members, two probationary schools were instituted, from which it was to be recruited. Meanwhile, all the Associates were active, each according to his peculiar tastes; some, as Carnot and Dagied, in popularizing the Saint-Simonian doctrines by means of lectures; others, as Leroux, in methodizing the metaphysics of their creed; and others, as Chevalier and Barrault, in more immediate literary and social applications. En- fantin, too, striking hard blows at the existing economy of society, came forth with a modification adapted for temporary use, of the general Saint- Simonian demand for the abolition of the privileges of birtha proposal, namely, for the abolition, in the first place, of the law of collateral succession. Abolish collateral succession, he said, and thus not only will the novelist he deprived of his standing device of rich uncles dying in the Indies, but the state will gain possession of an annual income for useful purposes. Preaching such doctrines over the length and breadth of France, the Globe produced powerful effects. At Tou- louse, Montpelier, Lyons, Metz, and Dijon, there arose branch establishments, connected with the Saint-Simonian Church of the metropolis. Soon, however, the Saint-Simonian Church was torn by a schism. The seeds of disunion had already long existed in the different tendencies of the two leadersBazard and Enfantin. Bazard, the man of logic, who wished to convince his hearers; Enfantin, who would always appeal to the heart, holding that the most prompt, the most decisive, the most triumphant way of acting 12 RECENT FRENCH SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY. on the human organization is infatuation. The two questions on which they had Come to differ were those of the emancipation of the working classes arid the emancipation of women; with regard to each Enfantin went far beyond Bazard. On the second question especially his opinions were extreme. Christianity, said Enfantin, had declared the emancipation of women; but still, in European society, she occupied a subal- tern position, and it was the part of Saint-Simoni- anism to raise her to complete equality, in all social respects, with men. Every man, he said, who pretends to impose a law on woman, is not a Saint- Simonian. The only position of the true Saint- Simonian with regard to woman, is to declare his incompetence to judge her. The woman must reveal to us for herself all that she thinks, all that she desires, all that she wishes for the future. These differences, which I3azard did not long survive, led to a disruption of the Saint-Simonian camp; and at a general meeting on the 19th of November, 1841, Leroux, Raynaud, Cazeaux, Pereire, and others seceded, leaving Enfantin to organize the remainder, with Rodrigues as his subordinate. Enfantin continued to carry on the society. As mi~ht be expected, his favorite topics now were those on which the schism had taken place. Acting on his own maximthat it was incompetent for the man to legislate for the woman and yet at the same time maintaining, that until the new feminine code should he given, the work of social regeneration could be considered as only attempted in half, he occupied himself chiefly with speculations as to the advent of some woman of genius, whose business it would be to supply what was wanted. To this coming woman alone it belonged to indicate the avenir of her sex. Might she not even then be on the earth What if she were in Paris! In that case possibly she might be discovered, and even illuminated as to the fact of her own mission! In a perpetual succession of balls, f& es and r6unions, therefore, let her be sought for! Let all Paris be invited; the giddy pretty ones will slip through the meshes, the goklen fish will remain in the net. Hundreds of fair Parisiennes, says M. Louis Reybaud, attended the brilliant Saint-Simonian r6unions of the winter of 1832. They danced, laughed and enjoyed themselvesstill the ex- pected woman came not. Money began to fail the Associates; and at length their establishment was brought to a sudden close by a prosecution in- stituted against them by the legal authorities. En- fantin and Rodrigues had also begun to quarrel on the old question; Rodrigues demurring from cer- tain opinions of Enfantin of an extreme nature regarding the law of Saint-Simonian marriage. Accordingly the family of the Rue Monsigny was dissolved, and the publication of the Globe aban- doned. On the dissolution of the general association, Enfantin, who possessed a house with large grounds at Menilmontant, near Paris, removed thither with about forty of his adherents, of whom the chief were MM. Barrault, Michel Chevalier, Lambert Eichtall, Fournel, Charles Duveyrier, and Tala- hot. Here they constituted a sort of Saint-Simo- nian monastery on communist principles; dividing their time between manual labor and intellectual speculations. They all wore a dress of the same fashion: a blue close coat with short flaps, a belt of varnished leather, a red cap, white trou- sers, a handkerchief round the neck, hair thrown back and glossy behind, mustachios and heard i lorientale. All acknowledged Enfantin as their father and superior. The lucubrations of the Associates at 1\Ienilmon- tant assumed a higher and more mystic form than the Saint-Simonians had yet pretended to. Le Livre Nouveau, as they called the manuscript in which they entered their meditations, is described as having contained a sort of rhythmical meta- physics, or, as M. Reybaud terms it, an algebra of religion, expressed in biblical language. In August, 1832, however, this new phase of Saint- Simonianism was also brought to a close. To defend a second action which had been brought against them, the Associates appeared, on the 27th of that month, before the Cours dAssises. Enfan- tin, Duveyrier, and Chevalier were condemned; and the first subjected to a term of imprisonment. This was the signal for a general dispersion; the more en- thusiastic disciples exiled themselves from France; the remainder, laying aside the special badge of their sect, and only retaining, inure or less diluted, the general ideas of the school, diffused themselves through society. Precisely at the time when Saint-Simonianism, as an established faith, was thus suppressed in France, another system, resembling it in certain respects, and upon the whole still more curious, if not so powerful, began to attract public atten- tion. This was the system of Fourierisns, as it was called, after the founder, Fourier. Fran~ois-Charles-Marie Fourier was born at Besan~on, the 7th April, 1708, seven years and a half after Saint-Simon. His father was a small woollen-draper; and Fourier, whose earliest years were spent in the shop, was destined for a similar mercantile employment. A dreamy, singular, awk- ward youth, with an insatiable appetite for all kinds of information, and a great difficulty of expressing himselfhe seems all the while that he was earning his bread by labors in the shop and the counting-house, to have lived intellectually in a world of his own. That he must have been an assiduous student in private of the mathemati- cal and physical sciences, and indeed of all descrip- tions of knowledge whatever, is clear from the enormous mass of miscellaneous notions which he has left heaped up in his writings. The direction of his labors, however, came from within ; fo~ some singular superfetation or mal-organization of spirit, which made him different from other men, rendered him independent of their opinions or soci- ety, and placed him out of rapport as it were with surrounding things, so that between what he s~avr existing, and what he schemed within himself, ST. SIMONFOURIERTHE LATE REVOLUTION. 13 there was perpetual discord. In short, he was a man of one idea, as the phrase is; one of those men, the exact opposite of the poet in their consti- tution, who, instead of holding the mirror up to nature, explore her with a lamp. How strong and intense in Fourier was this innate conception of things which he had brought into the world with him, is illustrated by an account he gives of two circumstances which, he says, made an inef- faceable impression on him in his early years. The one was, that when a boy of five he had been reprimanded in his fathers shop for contradicting some one who had told a lie in his presence; the other that, when nineteen years of age, he had as- sisted, in his capacity as a merchants clerk, at a submersion of corn with a view to keep up high prices. In the one he received his first experi- ence of the fact that falsehood is tolerated; in the other he was present at one of the results of mo- nopoly. Possibly, from the very fact that his discord with the world about him was so thorough and radical, Fourier, up to a comparatively late period, lived a life of calm observation, amounting, in appearance, to acquiescence. That society, as it existed, was one complex system of fallacy and suffering seems to have become in his mind a settled fact, which one must just accept as such, and endure. All that one could do was to exhibit to the world a model, constructed out of ones own thoughts, of a new and perfect system of society; if such a model were duly set forth, the world would doubtless strive towards conformity with it, and in the pro- cess of years would attain to it. One need he in no hurry, however; it was more essential to build up the scheme completely in ones mind so as ulti- mately to place a finished and perfect model on the table, than to come forth immediately as a mere critic. Indeed, the evil of the existing system was so great, that to strike a blow or indicate a change here and there would not do; the entire edifice must be pulled down and rebuilt, and ones best occupation, therefore, were leisurely, and, apart from all ephemeral politics, to prepare the new plan. Full of such strange thoughts regarding the world about him, the eccentric and taciturn merchants clerk was slowly building up in his own head a mass of uncouth forms of language, descriptive to himself of his ideal system of society. He was one of those minds, apparently, who accept the mere conceptions that arise arbitrarily in the understand- ing itself, as of equal value, as regards truth, with those revelations concerning the external world, which come through experience. That he was by no means destitute of the power of observation is clear, from the allusions in his writings to existing wrongs and defects; and that he did not undervalue those general ideas in which thinkers have summed up, as it were, in literary forms, the past experi- ence of the race, is proved by his fondness for study. But the views and ideas thus derived from contact with the world, and with other intellects, he seemed to flood and drench with others that welled up in his mind from some internal source. Half the mes- meric-seer, and half the scientific analyst in his con- stitution, he seemed, if we may so express it, to live intellectually in an apartment of ~vhich one window fronted the actual world, while the other looked back into the region of supernatural condi- tions, out of which all things have sprung. Seated at this back window, he would woo out of the d.ark- ness all sorts of conceptions regarding God, the creation, and other transcendental matters, about which no man can possibly know anything by his own strength; then, removing to the other win- dow, he would derive from the bustle without, accurate conceptions regarding the actual world; and finally mingling the two heaps of notions to- gether, he would proceed to organize the mass as if it were homogeneous. That this is a correct representation of Fouriers mind and habits, will appear when we describe the nature of his system, as developed in his Th6orie des Quatre Mouvements, et des IDestin& s G~n~r- ales, published anonymously at Lyons in 1808, and which, with the exception of an article on the state of European politics published five years I)efore in a newspaper of the same town, was, it is believed, his first attempt to communicate with the world through the press. In this bizarre and sin- gular workall the more singular as being the pro- duction of an obscure clerk who had atlained his thirty.eighth year without doing anything to reveal himself out of the counting-houseare contained the germs of all that Fourier ever wrote. Here, therefore, it may be as well to present a general outline of his entire system, as first promulgated in 1808, and afterwards, only filled out and expounded. in religion Fourier was a Pantheist; in other words, God, the world, and man, were all blended and confused in his idea of existence as a whole. Using formal language, however, he viewed the world as an evolution of three eternal coexisting principlesGod, matter, and justice, or mathemat- ical truth. God or will is the cause of the desti- nies of things; justice is the reason of them. The universal will manifests itself in the firm of a law of universal attraction, by which all that exists is regulated. This universal attraction distinguishes itself into five species, or, as Fourier called them, movernentslst, material attraction, which was dis- covered by Newton; 2d, organic attraction, per- vading the inner constitution of bodies; 3d, aro- mal attraction, or the attraction of imponderables; 4th, instinctual attraction, or the attraction of instincts and passions; 5th, social attraction, or the attraction of man to his future destinies. Of these five movements only four were announced, as appears from the title in Fouriers first work; the aromal attraction was afterwards added. Pervaded by this universal law of attraction, all nature was full of analogies, and in every part one might dis- cern the rhythm of the whole. Friendshi.p, for instance, was symbolically represented in the cir- cle; love in the ellipse. The entire duration of the world, as it now is, will be 80,000 years; half will be a period of as- 14 cendence, and half of descendence. The world, as yet, is only in its 7000th year; consequently young and foolish, and far from being what it will be. God peopled the world originally with sixteen dis- tinct races of men, nine of which were placed in the old, and seven in the American hemisphere. All these, however, were made with the same fun- damental dispositions; and hence, their mingled progeny forms but one species. God has also re- served for himself the power of eighteen supple- mentary creations of men. In the act of creation there is a conjunction of Austral and Boreal fluids; hence, as the supplementary creations come to take place, the earth will gradually become a beautiful garden; the masses of polar ice will be melted away, the whole sea will become navigable, and, the salt having been disengaged, will at length consist of excellent fresh water, which sailors may drink. The soul of man is immortal; and is subject to reproduction in new formsnot, however, as the Hindoos say, in forms either nobler or viler, ac- cording to circumstances, but always in forms no- bler than those already passed through. For each soul there will be one hundred and ten transmi- grations in all. The various planets, also, will, at the periods when respectively they have at- tained their full developments, exchange their spiritual burdenseach plant, as it were, empty- ing itself into the one immediately above it in the scale of importance. Human nature is a compound of twelve distinct passions five sensitive, which together make up the desire of individual enjoyment; four affective, (love, friendship, ambition, and family-feeling,) which lead to the formation of groups; and three governing or distributive, (the cabaliste, or love of intrigue, the a1terna~te, or craving for variety, and the composite, or inspiration of art,) which produce series. As group is the association of individuals, so series is the association of groups. The ulti- mate tendency of series, again, is towards unity; and thus the passion for unity expresses the aim and longing of the whole human being, and is the result of the free play of all the twelve component passions, as light is the result of all the prismatic tints. Conformity, therefore, to this passion for unity, or in other words, submission to the law of passional attraction, (attraction passionn6e,) is the true theory of conduct. Duty is entirely a human idea; attraction onlyi. e. physical tendency, comes from God. The distinction between cer- tain passious as good, and others as bad, is a fal- lacious mode of speaking; all are good; it is im- pious to resist any of them; and true wisdom con- sists in entire abandonment to their impulses. What we call evil or wrong, has mo real exist- ence; all misery has its origin in misconception. The passions are not to be denounced or struggled a~ainst; they are to be utilized. If the medium in which the passions act, offers resistance to their free play, then that medium must be modified. The present medium, that is, society as it now exists, does offer resistance to the free play of the RECENT FRENCH SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY. passions. All is confusion, irregularity, compul- sion, misconception. Between the Creator and the creature there have been five thousand years of misunderstanding. How shall this condition of things be remedied l How shall the present confused medium, in which the passions are re- strained, be made to evolve a new medium in which they shall be able to act freely? By what means shall riches be made to succeed to poverty, truth to deceit, mutual respect to oppression and revolt, happiness to misery? Philanthropists had announced and attempted various schemes having this object in view. All had failed. The scheme which he proposed, however, could not fail, being accordant with the eternal mechanism of nature. This was a system for the association of mankind in industrial bodies, on the principle that each in- dividual, while forming part of a whole, should yet be at liberty to follow his own tendencies and in- clinations. The disease which devours industry is industrial anarchy or incoherence. The cure, therefore, must consist in organization, association, harmonious co6peration. But this can only be secured by allowing, in the first place, perfect in- dividual freedom. Labor is not of itself naturally repugnant to man; nay, man is so constituted as to find his only true happiness in labor; but the happiness to be found must actually lie in the la- bor in which it is sought; in other words, the la- bor in which a man is called to engage ought to be of the kind which is of itself agreeable to him. This idea of labor, pleasurable for its own sake, (travail attrayant,) was one on which Fourier laid immense stress. As the English squire toils hard in a fox-chase, and yet likes the labor; so, if the world were as it should be, all human beings would do as they felt inclined, and in so doing, would enjoy the toil. In order to realize this picture of a world busy and at the same time happy, the present distribu- tion of mankind over the globe, in cities, towns, villages, hordes, and hamlets, must he entirely abandoned ; and mankind must associate themselves anew in little masses called phalanxes. A group, that is, the little association formed by the opera- tion of the sensitive and affective passions, would number usually from seven to nine persons; from twenty-four to thirty-two groups, associated by the play of the distributive passions, would constitute a series; and, lastly, an association of several such series, representing in itself the supreme tendency to unity, would form a phalanx. A phalanx, therefore, would consist of about 1800 persons of both sexes, associated together for all the purposes of life, and forming in effect a complete little com- munity. Each phalanx would occupy a vast bar- racks or system of buildings called a Phclcn~ stt~rc, which would include within itself a church, a the- atre, dining-rooms, picture galleries, an observa- tory, a library, work-rooms, sleeping apartments, and, in short, every possible accommodation that comfort would require or taste suggest. Every plzalangste~re would stand in the midst of its own gardens and grounds. How cheaply even splendor ST. SIMONFOURIERTHE LATE REVOLUTION. 15 might be attained in all the arrangements of the phalangst~rein the architecture, in the style of furnishing, and also in t.he cuisine, the success of the modern system of clubs might showof th~ principle of which the Phalanx-system would in some respects be but an extension. In the life of the phalangst~re all would be at liberty to follow their own bentto work, or be idle; to work at one trade or at several; to be sociable or retiring in their habits. The women would naturally, ac- cording to the affective instincts of their sex, dom- inate in the relations of family, & c., while the men would pursue the career of ambition; never- theless, rio restraint would be put upon the liberty of the women exceptional in their tastes and in- clined to follow a professionthat of medicine, for instance. As for the children; for them, too, the system would be one of attraction. They would be allowed to sing, romp, read, or even gormandize; only all these manifestations would be carefully watched, and the passions, which they indicated, utilized. From all this life of freedom, some might say, nothing but confusion would re- sult. The contrary, however, would be the case. Labor, ceasing to be repugnant, would organize itself beautifully; there would be the most admir- able classification and subdivision of employments; all sorts of machines for abridging labor would be introduced, and their invention encouraged; and among the inhabitants of the phalangstiire there would operate the most wholesome emulation. Every member would be secured a minimum of income, sufficient to supply his ordinary wants; and over and above this there would be a distribu- tion of the surplus profits among the efficient mem- bers, according to the three categories of Labor, Capital, and Talent. Of these Labor would have the preference, its share being as five, while the shares of Capital and Talent would be respectively as four and threethat of Talent, therefore, being lowest. The Phalanx-system would naturally first be introduced into the field of agricultural labor. There, gradually and simply, without disturbing a single established relation, it would succeed by its own merits. Radiating thence into all trades and professions, it would ultimately prevail over the whole globe. Then would arise a new set of re- lations, associating the separate phalanxes one with another, according to the most beautiful series. In all there would probably be about 500,000 l)halanxes on the earth. The governor of a single phalanx would be called a Unarch; the governor of four phalanxes a Duarch; the governor of twelve phalanxes a Tetrarch; the governor of forty-eight phalanxes a IDouzarch; and so on, up to the gov- ernor of the whole world or Omniarch. This as- sociation of the phalanxes by series would super- sede the present arrangements into provinces, na- tions, & c., performing all that is good in the fune- tious of such arrangements. Certain phalanxes would stand related to one designated as the capi- tal of their common district; and the associated districts again would recognize in one established spot the central phalanx of the nation. Finally, there would be one golden-domed phalangst~re, towards which, as the metropolis of the world, all the railways and all the telegraphic wires would converge; and here, receiving the letters of all na- tions, and issuing his despatcheseast, north, south, and west, would sit the Omniarch with his clerks. This phalangst~re should be somewhere on the Bosphorus. All general planetary business would be transacted in the office of the Omniareb. Thus, in the case of a great discovery in t.he arts, such as that of the steam-engine by Watt, or of the publication of a book deserving a place among the worlds classics, the Omniarch would decree a tax for the benefit of the author upon all the phalangst~res. A tax of five francs each o~t all the phalangst~res would have secured to James Watt 100,000 for his steam-engine. Again, in the case of a sudden physical calamity in any part of the world, as, for example, an earthquake or inundation, the Omniarch would instantly de- spatch an industrial army to the spot to repair the damage. Such, described as literally as we have been able from our authorities, was the extraordinary system which Fourier gave to the world. Ex- pounded first in his Th~orie des Quatre Mouve- rnents, published in 1808, it was enlarged and completed in his Trait6 de lAssociation Domes- tique-Agricole, published at Paris in 1822; in his Nouveau Monde Industriel et Soci6taire, published in 1829; and in a work which he pub- lished in 1835, entitled False Industry, Frag- mentary, Repugnant, Deceitful; and the Antidote, Natural Industry, Combined, Attractive, Truthful, giving Quadruple Profit. All these works are in form the reverse of methodical or artistic; and they abound in uncouth words and phrases, in- vented by the author to express his meaning. Fourier was incapable himself of the task of popu- lar exposition: this he left to his followers. In another respect he was peculiar. Most men of his class have been contented with giving to the world a few pregnant aphorisms containing the gist of their system; in his writings there is a perfect deluge of the most rigidly reasoned and ingenious details. The sincerity of Fourier has never been ques- tioned. He always talked of his own theory, says M. Reybaud, as of a fact dominant in the world. Living in a state of isolation, and dealing only with the symbols which in his mind had come to stand for things themselves, he had solved, as he fancied, a gigantic equation; and the solution must ultimately be accepted. In short, as ~ve have al- ready said, his mind was, in some respect or oth- er, abnormal in its structure, so as to be out of connection with everything about it. Such dog- mas, for instance, as those which we have de- scribed, relating to the creation and duration of the world, indicate a total breaking down, in the mind which produced them, of all separation be- tween the organs of conception and belief. Ac- cording to the same method one has only to think 16 RECENT FRENCH SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY. anything whatever, like a Hindoo poet; and then assert it to be true. One might assert, for in- stance, that there was a ball of fresh butter at the centre of the earth; and in such a case, if the as- sertion were gravely made, there would be little probability that it would be contradicted. Now, there are many minds, Scotch and English, into which such an odd fancy might enter; but the difference between them and Fourier is, that when- ever he conceived such a thing, he ran a great risk of believing it. Hence the gravity with which he could talk of the analogy between love and the ellipse, of the eighteen supplementary creatures, of the austral and borcal fluids, of the future om- niarch of the globe, & c.cout~eptions which in other minds only serve as a sort of intellectual snuff, to tickle the faculties and keep them awake. He himself seemed to be aware of some such dif- ference between himself and other men. My three systems, cosmology, psychology, and analo- gy, he said, are one thing; another thing is my fourth, that of passional attraction. While you examine it, leave the others alone. If in them I have been extravagant, Newton also has written a commentary on the Apocalyse. It will have been observed, that between the publication of Fouriers first work and that of his second, there was an interval of fourteen years. During this interval, or from 1808 to 1822, the author remained in the same obscure position that he had previously held. His Theory of the Four Movements fell dead upon the public; probably not twenty persons read it. It was ex- actly at this time, as we have seen, that Saint- Simon, with considerably greater success, was maturing his vie~vs. In every country, however, there are minds magnetically responsive to each other through their very singularities ; and as Saint- Simon found converts in ardent young men such as Comte, Rodrigues, and Thierry; so in 1814, Fourier, narrower and more repulsive as his sys- tem was, found an adherent in a person named M. Just Muiron. It was only, however, after the ad- hesion to Fourier of M. Victor Consid6rant, a young man of energy and high scientific acquire- ments, who had been educated at the Ecole Poly- technique, that his system began decidedly to make way. Seizing on the social philosophy of Fourier, to the neglect of his cabalistic science, M. Considdrant devoted himself, with far happier talents for exposition than his master possessed, to the task of diffnsing the Fourierist ideas of Pleas- urable Labor, Industrial Codperation, & c. Between 1820 and 1830, Fouriers own works also his Trait~ de lAssociation, & c., and his Nouveau Monde were making his system bet- ter known. Before this time Fourier had come to live in Paris, in the capacity of a clerk in an Amer- ican mercantile house; and here, accordingly, about the year 182~1, he might be seen, a little thin man of sixty, with a profound, severe, and sad old face, plodding along the streets, nobody speaking to him. It was after the revolution of 1830, and pre cisely when Saint-Simonianism was on the decline, that Fourierism burst on public notice. Some members of the Saint-Simonian school attached Vhemselves t~o Fourier, among whom were MM. Jules Lechevalier and Abel Transon; he likewise gained a very efficient advocate in a lady, Madame Clarisse Vigoureux. By the instrumentality of this lady, assisted by M. Consid6rant and others, an attempt was made to exemplify the system in a model Phalangst~re and agricultural colony, to be founded at Cond6-snr-Vesgres. The attempt, how- ever, failed; and the confederates were obliged to content themselves with the propagation of their views through the press. In 1836, they founded a journal called La Phalange, the success of which was such that Fourier, before his death, in October, 1837, was able to count a number of dis- ciples in whom he could be sure that his views would survive. Since that period, chiefly by the exertions of M. Consid6rant, who succeeded to the vacant chieftainship of the sect, Fourierism, or at least the social philosophy of Fourier, has continued to make progress. The promulgation in France almost contempo- raneously of two such social systems as those of Saint-Simon and Fourier could not fail to produce immense effects. These effects began, as we have seen, to manifest themselves most decidedly be- tween the years 1830 and 1840. The Saint-Si- monians, indeed, cohering chiefly in virtue of a common enthusiasm for progress, and a common attachment to a few very large general ideas, had been destroyed as a sect ; but only to be dispersed through society as separate missionaries, each in his own way, of doctrines in which they had been too well trained ever to forget them. Among the highest names in French literature between 1830 and 1840, were men who had been educated in the Saint-Simonian school. M. Comte, early as his separation from the Saint-Simonians had been, even yet, in his self-selected position as the cham- pion of a powerful atheistic philosophy, retained many of the specific ideas of his old master. Unit- ing more of piety and sentiment with the Saint-Si- monian creed, M. Pierre Leroux founded the sect of the Humanitarians. From him as her specu- lative master, the celebrated authoress, George Sand, derived the propositions which constitute the didactic ingredient in her novels. Duveyrier, Car- not, and Chevalier, entered the lists as political and economical writers. Lastly, gathering around him the relics of the party, M. Olinde Rodrigues con- tinued, in an humble way, to defend the memory and publish the opinions of his master. Thus of the Saint-Simonian school it may be said that it was disintegrated, only to be dissolved the better through society. Fourierism, on the other hand, more precise in its scheme, and demanding in its disciples a more narrow conformation of mind, has maintained its nominal existence and organization. With M. Consid4rant as its head, it now commands the services of a number of inferior expositors who acknowledge themselves to be Phalangsterians; it also possesses various periodical organs of greater ST. SIMONFOURIERTHE LATE REVOLUTION. 17 or less note. Meanwhile, its doctrines, thus dif- fused, and mingling with those which were more purely Saint-Simonian, have descended into all classes of society, have seized all descriptions of minds, and have been varied, modified, and ex- panded into all conceivable forms, from the most rank and thorough-going communism, to the mild- est advocacy of the extension of the co6perative principle. Upon the whole, the result of the labors of Saint- Simon and Fourier may be summed up in this, that their systems deposited in the mind of the French nation two great ideas, which were not there beforethe first, that European society was approaching a crisis the peculiarity of which as compared with former ones would consist in this, that it would be an industrial revolutionin other words, a revolution by which not only would in- dustrial interests come to predominate in politics, but the industrial mind itself would be admitted to the mastery in the administration ; the second, that the instrcmment in this change, or at least its ac- companinment, would be an organization of the laboring classes into compact bodies on the princi- ple of codperation and common responsibility. The first of these ideas is more. peculiarly Saint-Si- monian; it is the summary expression of Saint-Si- mon s two fundamental principles, LAm6liora- tion, & c., and A Chacun, & c. The other is more peculiarly Fourierist, involving as it does all that is general, and possibly all that is valuable, in Fouriers bewildering system of phalanxes. In neither idea, simply expressed and divested of the rubbish attached to it, is there anything absolutely repugnant to good sense, or irreconcilable with Christian belief. Indeed, by some influential men in our own country both ideas have already been acceptedso far, at least, as to form subjects of incessant meditation. In Mr. Cobden, for instance, we see the first idea, or at least a fraction of it, de- veloped almost to the pitch of bigotry; hence his laughter at the Dukes Letter, and his denuncia- tions of the ships in the Tagus. Both ideas, however, must rest for credence upon their own proofs and merits. Whether it be true that society is approaching a crisis in which the industrial classes shall assume a higher position than they have yet held, and if so, by what means the transition is to be the most easily and peaceful- ly effectedare questions, to answer which one must diligently observe the current of the times. Whether, again, the codperative principle be safe, practicable, or advantageous in the management of business; and if so, what form or modification of it is the bestare questions to yield an answer to which experiment must assist reflection. Mean- while, it is to France that we must look for our ar- guments and illustrations. There first have the ques- tions been formally asked; and there first have they been put to the rough issue of events. It is our part to watch and profit by what we see. Let us attempt accordingly to present here in a condensed and collected form such facts as may tend to show on what precise footing the questions of the enfran CCXVI. LIVING AGE. VOL. XVIII. 2 chisement of the industrial classes, and the organ- ization of labor through the codperative principle, now stand, in France. And first we shall allude to a very interesting experiment made some years ago by a private individual, and which, although undertaken for purely private ends, and on a very small scale, has already acquired historical impor- tance. There is in Paris, now or lately occupying the house, 11, Rue Saint Georges, a master house- painter, named Leclaire. On an average, M. Le- claire employs two hundred workmen. For some time after commencing business, he proceeded on the same system with regard to his workmen which he saw others practising a system which con- sists, to use his own language, in paying the workman as little as possible, and in dismissing hini frequently for the smallest fault. Finding this system unsatisfactory, he altered it; adopted a more liberal scale of wages; and endeavored, by retaining good and tried workmen permanently it his service, to produce some stability in the ar- rangements of his establishment. The result was encouraging; but still, from causes which were inevitableamong which he specifies the listless- ness of even the best workmen, and the waste of material occasioned by their carelessnesshis~ profits by no means answered his expectations;. while his position as a master was one of continua anxiety and discomfort. He resolved, therefore,. on a total change of system. A reading and in- telligent manhe had heard of the speculations re~- garding the applicability of the co~iperative principle to business; a firm and enterprising manhe was willing to try the experiment at his own risk. Ac- cordingly, having made certain necessary prepar- ations, he announced to his workmen, in the beginning of the year 1842, that during that year he was to conduct his establishment on the prin. ciple in question; in other words, he was to assume them all, for that year, into partnership with him- self, and form of his establishment a little industrial association, of which he should be chief. The details of his scheme were as follows All the employ~s of the establishmentM. Leclaire himself includedwere to be allowed regular wages as in other establishments, each according to his rank and positionM. Leclaire a salary for the year of 6000 francs, (C240,) which was about the sum to which he considered himself entitled by his services; his journeymen the ordinary wages. of about four francs a day (a pound a week) in summer, and three francs a day (fifteen shillings a week) in winter; the foremen and clerks propor- tionably more; the apprentices proportionably less.. These fixed allowances were to he totally inde- pendent of the success of the experiment; as re- garded his men, M. Leclaire guaranteed their pay- ment. But if the experiment should succeed, then,. after the sum-total thus expended in wages ha{ been deducted, and after all the other expenses of the establishment had been paidsuch as rent,, taxes, material, as well as the interest of the cap- hal invested, there would still remain some surplus RECENT FRENCH SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY. of Clear profit. Now this surplus, whatever it was, M. Leclaire undertook to distribute faithfully among all the members of the establishment, each sharing in the ratio of his fixed allowancethat is, receiving exactly that proportion of the profits that he received of the total wages-expenses. Thus, supposing the business of the year to yield in all 4200; supposing the total ~vages-expenses to he 2000, and the outlay in rent, taxes, material, interest, bad debts, & c., to be 2000 more; then there would remain 200 of surplus profits, to be divided among a11 concerned. Of this sum each would receive that proportion which he received of the wages-expenses; consequently, M. Leclaires own share (2000 200 240 24) would be 24. In the same way the share of a journeyman, whose total amount of wages during the year had been 40, would be 4; of a clerk or foreman, whose wages had been 60, the share would be 6 ; of an apprentice, whose wages had been 4, the share would be 8s. Even those workmen who should have been but a few weeks in the establishment were to receive in the same equitable proportion ; the value of every mans services, and consequently his title to a share in the profits, being always measured by the amount he had earned in wages. These arrangements having been agreed to, and some other stipulations having been made, the chief of which was that M. Leclaire was still to retain the usual rights which belong to a masterwas, for instance, to have th.e sole charge of the pur- ~chase of materials, the undertaking of commissions, & c., the experiment was fairly and faithfully tried. The result was most satisfactory. Not one of his journeymen, we are told, that had worked as much as 300 days obtained less than 1500 francs (60) and some considerably more. According to a table now before us, the average wages per day of a journeyman house-painter in Paris is 3~ francs for 300 days at this rate the return would be 1050 francs (42;) therefore it would appear that a steady journeyman in M. Leclaires establishment ~~tarned that year about 450 francs, or 18, more than his brethren in other establishments. On the suppo- sition, which also seems the correct one, that M. Leclaire paid his workmen, in respect of their fixed wages, at the usual rate, this sum of 18 would represent exactly what \he workmen gained by the change of system. For M. Leclaire, himself, the gain was of course proportionate. To the 240 which he had allowed himself as his personal sal- ary, he would add about 100 as his proportion of the profits; besides which, it is to be remem- bered, he drew the interest of his invested capital. Even as a private speculation, therefore, the ex- periment was successfula success which is to be accounted for by the superior zeal and carefulness produced among the workmen by the sense of common interest and responsibility, or, as the French express it, solidarit~. Every boy, for in- stance, who emptied a pot of paint into the kennel, injured himself and his comrades; and although he might not care for his own loss, his comrades would take him to task for theirs; hence an ad- vantage in the system not possessed by that of piece-work. Morally, also, the effects of the ex- periment were admirable; and, upon the whole, so decided was the success, that M. Leclaire con- tinued the system on trial during the following year, and, so far as we are aware, has kept it up ever since. While private individuals were thus putting in practice in their own affairs, ideas derived from the mass of Utopian opinions that had been set forth by Saint-Simon ~and Fourier, it was inipos- sible but that some of these opinions should begin also to find acceptance with those public men whose position as leaders of what was called the liberal party rendered them open to all new ideas of a political tenor. Precisely as the whig and radical parties in this country have derived many of their working propositions from Bentham, with- out accepting his views in the mass, so the repub- lican party, which has now attained to power in France, has derived much of its vital sap from the speculations of Saint-Simon .and Fourier. Even so early as 1833, there was a section of the re- publican party which bad expressly embraced many of the ideas of the Saint-Simonians; as if the sup- pression of the Saint-Simonian sect in 1832 had not really destroyed its vitality, but only occasioned its metempsychosis into the world of politics. At the head of this body of extreme republicans was M. Cavaignacthe brother of the M. Cavaignac whom the present provisional government appoint- ed governor-general of Algeria. Forming them- selves into an association, and entering into corre- spondence with the discontented among the laboring classes, they became objects of fear and suspicion to the government of Louis Philippe. One of their overt acts was the publication of a manifesto, in which, indicating rather than declaring their opinions, they reprinted a Declaration of the Rights of Man, which had been written by Robespierre, and proposed by him to the national convention, but rejected by that body as subversive of admitted principles. In this document of liobespierre, per- haps the most reniarkable clause was a definition of property which it contained. Property, said Robespierre, is that portion of goods which is secured to a man by the laws. To this defini- tion of property, all the more startling from Its clearness and Demosthenic precision, the Associates expressed their adhesion. It tallied exactly with a certain portion of their creed as Saint-Simonians that, namely, which proposed the abolition of the rights of inheritance. According to Robes- pierres definition, property varied as the law; that is, as the general sense of the community investi- gating its own wants; and if the law chose to decree, for instance, that no man should be entitled to bequeath upwards of 10,000, or even that no man should be entitled to dispose of his possessions at all after his death, then society would conform to those conditions, and new ideas of property would arise. In these views, audacious and de- structive as they are, one sees only an immense 18 ST. SIMONFOURIERTHE LATE REVOLUTION. 19 extension of the principle of the Roman Agrarian Saint-Simonians and of Fourier, undertakes to law. cast these into a form which shall take effect in The promulgation of such views by Cavaignac the world in spite of Adam Smith. and his associates produced a schismif a friendly Wherever, says M. Louis Blanc, the cer- private controversy can be called suchbetween tainty of being able to live by labor does not rcsult them and the more moderate and practical repub- from the very essence of the established social in- licans, of ~vhom Armand Carrel was the chief arid stitutions, there iniquity reigns. This is his representative. Carrel, who, although specula- fundamental maxim as a revolutionist; the end tively he believed much that the Associates had at which he aims as a reformer is expressed in set forth in their manifesto, was yet led by his in- language partly Saint-Simonian and partly Four- stincts as a man of action, to select the immediate ierist, as follows : The moral and material and practicable in preference to the remote and amelioration of the condition of all, by means of Utopian, had a difficult part to act. On the one the free concurrence of all, and their fraternal as- hand, he had to avoid an open breach with men sociation. More specially, that which he attacks whom he respected; on the other, he had to clear in the existing constitution of society, is the sys- himself in the eyes of the public. He effected tem of competition, or, as he sometimes names it, both with great skill; and, after the attempt of of individualismthat atrocious mercantile spir- Fiesehi, in 1835, had brought down on the repub- it, as he considers it, by which, remorselessly lican party the crushing hand of the government, and selfishly using his own means and opportuni- in the shape of individual prosecutions for treason, ties, every man in business tries to grow richer aod the famous September laws against the press, than his neighbor. For the mass of the people, he was able to retain his position as editor of the he says, this system of competition is a system of National, while Cavaignac and his associates were extermination; for the middle classes it is an in- either silenced in prison, or driven into exile.* cessant cause of bankruptcy and ruin; in England, It was now thought that republicanism was at which is its hotbed and peculiar seat, it has pro- an end in France. Even Carrel, still clinging with duced disaster and apoplexy; if it is persisted in, a sort of chivalrous sorrow to his republican opin- war between England and France is inevitable ; ions, believed the cause to be hopeless; for to him, therefore, at once and forever, for the good of says his biographer, M. Nisard, a cause deferred man and the peace of Europe, let it be done away. was a cause lost. In this belief he continued till The means by which this great end is to be his death, in a duel, by the pistol-shot of M. Gi- achieved he thus expounds rardin. He died without hopehis party ruined, France abject, and Louis Philippe still on the Let government be considered as the supreme throne. regulator of production, and as such invested with Carrel, however, was mistaken. Republicanism the necessary powers. Its task will then consist in was to revive in France; and this not in that making use of the weapon of competition, in order to destroy comlietition. moderate form in which he had advocated it, but Let government raise a loan of which the product rather in the extreme and Utopian form from which shall be employed in the creation of social workshops, lie had dissented. Precisely at the period when in the most important branches of the national in- its prospects were gloomiest, it received an adher- dustry. This creation requiring a considerable ex- ent in a young man of literary talentMb Louis periditure, the number of such workshops shall at Blanc. Born in Spain, of a Corsican mother, and first be hmited; in virtue of their very nature they will possess an expansive power. Government be- described as being of extremely small stature, and ing considered as the sole founder of the social very juvenile appearance, he threw himself, with w6rkshops, will have the right to draw up the roles precocious ardor, into the element of revolutionary and regulations, which shall, accordingly, possess pilitics. The result was his History of the the force of law. Into the social workshops shall Fan Years,a work which had made him toler- be admitted, as far as the capital collected for the ably well known in this country, even before the purchase of materials and tools will go, all work- to so men who shall offer certificates of good conduct. thirty hours of February had elevated him Notwithstanding that the false and anti-social educa- conspicuous a place as that which he now occupies tion given to the present generation renders in difficult to the eyes of the French nation and of Europe. to find any other motive of emulation than an increase It is only now, however, that another work of his of pay, the salaries will be equal; as a totally new a little volume on The Organization of Labor education will necessarily change ideas and mean heo~ins to attract attention among us insular ners. For the first year government will regolaie folks. In this volume, published originally in 1839, the hierarchy of functions. After the first year it lie expounds a scheme of his own for Industrial shall no longer be so. The workmen having had time to appreciate one another, and all being equally Reform, in which, hasty and crude as it is, one interested in the success of the association, the hie- sees the amiable enthusiasm of a youth who, hay- rarchy shall be arranged on the principle of election. in g mastered the prevailing generalities of the Every year there shall be rendered an account of the net profit, of which a partition shall be made * As some of the facts here given are even yet not gen- into three parts ;the first to be divided in equal crally known, it is right to state that we are indebted for portions amnono the m them to the author of the article on Arniand Carrel ~ the second to ~ embers of the association; No. XL. of the London and Westminster Review-~vho be employed, 1st, in the maintenance chanced at the time to be at Paris, and so circumstanced of the old, the sick, and the infirm; 2dly, in the as to become intimately acquainted with the affair. mitigation of such distresses as may fall on other 20 RECENT FRENCH SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY. trades; all trades owing such help to each other; and the third, to furnish tools to such new members as choose to join the association. Jnt.o each asso- ciation formed for trades carried on hy large num- bers together, may he admitted also persons belong- ing to trades which by their very nature must he scattered and confined to separate spots; so that, in this way, each social workshop may consist of different professions, grouped around one great trade, as so many parts of one whole, obeying the sante laws, and partaking of the sante advantages. Every member of the social workshop should have the right to dispose of his income at his own pleas- ure, but the evident economy and incontestable ex- cellence of the system of life in common, would not fail to produce out of the association of labors, the voluntary association also of wants and pleas- ures. Capitalists could be invited to join the asso- ciation, and would draw the interest of the capital they had embarked in it, which interest would be guaranteed to them on the budget; but they should not partake of the profits except in the quality of workmen. The social workshop once set a-going on these principles, one may see what would be the result. In every important branch of trade, that of machine- making for example, or that of silk-manufacture, or cotton manufacture, or that of printing, there would be a social workshop competing with the private trade. Would the struggle be long I No, because the social workshop would have over ev- cry private workshop the advantage that results from the superior economy of the system of life in common, and from a mode of organization in which the laborers without exception are interested in producing fast and well. Would the struggle be subversive! No, b~cause the government would always have it in its power to deaden its effects by hindering the produce of its own workshops from reaching too low a level. Now, although these views were the private peculations of M. Louis Blanc, and were even contravened by some of the most liberal politicians and economists of Franceas, for instance, by lxi. Lamartine, and most powerfully of all, by the former Saint-Simonian, M. Michel Chevalier, yet, upon the whole, it may be said, that from the year 1840, such views of an indefinite industrial reform to be achieved through the codperative principle have, in one shape or other, tinged all the thinking, and all the writing, of the high French republicans. It was the knowledge of this fact, doubtless, and the knowledge also how deeply communist ideas had taken root among the indus- trial classes, in all the large towns of France, that enabled Louis Blanc, when re-publishing his Or- ganization dii Travail, a few months ago, to make a most striking prediction. We are called LTtopians, he said, by practical men, because, in the midst of a r~girne so corrupt as the present, we indulge in such dreams of industrial reform. Bet what would have been said of a man who, during the last years of Louis XV., had enumer- ate] the changes that were actually to take place within a few years! Well, the partisans of the new social order are this day precisely in the po- sition of such a man. And, assuredly, between the existing regime, and the application of our ideas, the distance is infinitely less than was that between the condition of society that subsisted on the eve of 1789, and that ~vhich subsisted on the morrow. In all respects, the revolution of February last was an industrial revolutiona revolution in the name of the industrial classes, and in behalf of their interests as understood or misunderstood by themselves. This is its peculiarity. This also is what it professes and asserts itself to be. Not only has it conferred on every living Frenchman a vote, and on every Frenchman above twenty-five a right to be elected into the legislature ; but it has proclaimed its determination that a large pro- portion of the future legislators of France shall be workmen. Elect workmen largely, said the National, the education of the college is not fa- vorable, nor that of the workshop unfavorable, for the produce of the eminent function of a deputy to the national assmbly. To use a figure, the ad- mitted ideas obtained by the common course of education are a paper money which has no longer any value on the political bourse. Old political knowledge consists of mere prejudices acquired under former r6gimes. They err greatly who consider these official declarations of the wishes of the provisional government as originating in mere vulgar contempt for knowledge. To tIns the fact that while demanding the return of work- men as deputies they have also largely encouraged the election of artists and men of philosophic rep- utation, above all social philosophers, is a sufficient contradiction. Daring as the language of the provisional government with regard to the elections has been, and mischievous as may be its effects, it is deliberate and proceeds on a deep principle. The new rn~gime, they say, is to be an industrial one; it is necessary, above all, then, that the in- dustrial classes he allowed to reveal themselves and all that is in them, even though for mouths the revelation should consist in mere clamor and vociferation. ihe transition must be made, they say, some time or other; as well have it now. Again, with regard to that modified communism which builds itself on the codperative principle, the revolution has in a manner adopted it. Scarcely were the three days of February over, when two important companies, viz., the proprietors of the Presse newspaper, and the directors of the Northern Railway, announced their intention to conduct the businesses over which they respectively presided on the Leclaire system. Various other private companies, we believe, have followed their exam- pie; in one casethat of art establishment at Havre, the operatives are said to have demanded the privilege of partnership. Nor has government been idle. Under the auspices of the samm~nine Louis Blanc, four great social workshops have been set on foot in Paris, to which barracks are to be attached when the scheme is complete for the accommodation of the operatives and their families. And, lastly, in order as it. were to sow the whole soil of France with so many commu- nist centres, from which the change may spread A GERMAN EMPIRE. 21 over society, the intention is to empower govern- its vehement and susceptible inhabitants are pre- merit to undertake, or as it were buy up, by the paring, almost of design, for their country, any device of a sinking-fund, bankrupt concerns, which idea good and practical, with proofs and corrobora- it shall stock with workmen associated on the co- tions attached to it, shall emerge, let us give it operative principle. By the competition of these at once due welcome, nor quarrel with it because state workshops with the private ones, Louis Blanc of the quarter whence it conies. And surely expects that the system will extend itself. Mean- even already, there is one lesson clearly enough while, fortunately, the other side is not nnrepre- written out in the light of this great outbreak. sented. M. Michel Chevalier, in particular, has Let us try now all the more earnestly, through again come forward as an opponent of the schemes the neglected multitudes of the lower class among of M. Louis Blanc, and a defender of the interests ourselves, to spread the spirit of an intelligent and which he attacks. The services of such a man, healthful Christianity; for had such a spirit per- an ardent devotee as he is of social amelioration, vaded, to any extent, the population of Paris, it and yet competent as he is by his long and inti- had been saved all the horrors of the past and of mate acquaintance with political economy, to cx- the future. The hope of the neglected children pose what is Utopian in these speculations of the of toil had found better and more satisfying oh- communists, cannot fail to be valuable. On the jects to rest upon, and their sense of injury bad other hand, however, M. Louis Blanc himself, and made other and more legitimate manifestations. his associates in the more violent section of the ___________________________ provisional government, MM. Ledrn Rollin, Al- bert, and Flocon, occupy an almost conservative From the Examiner, 6 May. position, as compared with certain popular leaders A GERMAN EMPIRE. not in the government. At the head of the com- GERMANY seems too late in its attempts at union munists, specially so called, who carry the ideas and centralization. There was a period when all of life in common and equality of conditions, to European countries tended this way; and when their utmost lengths, are two men of great info- sovereigns did but fulfil the mission of their age ence with the working classes, MMt Cabet and when they destroyed local independence, and forced Blanqui; and even as we write, these leaders are the heterogenous elements of a great empire into attempting to overthrow the provisional govern- something like harmony and compactness. But ment, and force on the revolution a stage further. the epoch for this great operation seems to have To what crashes these experiments may lead no completely passed by. Disseverance and disseln- one can tell. Dreamy enthusiasm is destined, we tion, or, at least, decentralization, forms the order fear, to be cruelly disappointed. Capital will hasten and tendency of the time. There seems to reign away out of a country where the natural laws by a centrifugal force in every province; arid instead which it seems to expand itself are violated. In of each wishing to be master over others, each the vain endeavor to share equally out among the seems desirous to be master at home. producers the profits of their labor, the stimulus to Perhaps all this arises from the chief impulse in production will everywhere be lessenedin some past times coming from kings, and statesmen, and quarters will altogether be destroyed. ~ ridding privileged classes, all fraught with ambition, and himself of the tyranny of his employer, the poor more eager to grasp than to keep. Whereas now laborer will rid himself also of the means of his the people form the great wheels of opinion and employment. Nor can any state step in to supply policy. A.nd the masses want the heroic amid mdi- the place of that grand body of capitalists by vidualized virtue of ambition, whilst they feel very whom the industry of the country has been hith- strongly the more domestic one of local indepen- erto sustained. It does so at extremest peril. We deuce. should care comparatively little if all that these At all events, there are half-a-dozen centres in experiments were to end in was a simple disap- Germany each struggling to remain so. There is poiniment; if, after having tried and failed, indus- Prussia, whose king hoisted the imperial colors the try cheerfully returned to its old channels; but other day, and who has played the emperor by what if the failure shall come amid the cries of a marching to enforce German-imperial rights over famishing populationwhat if crime should follow Schleswig. There is Austria, which declares quick in the wake of wantand what if the vexed most decidedly that, since Rhenish Germany will chagrin of the needy shall cry for vengeance on not obey Austrian rule, Austria will not stoop to the heads of their rulers who may not make good Rhenish Germany. Frankfort rises between them; what they have promisedand what if their rulers and a kind of improvised constituent assembly in shall try to turn off from themselves the vengeance its old Roerner has fabricated a very pretty and by opening up for it the vent of war What if comprehensive constitution, which puts a Frankfurt disorganization at honie, and bloodshed abroad, emperor over the head of all German princes, and shall be the fruit of their Utopian and unchristian which distributes privileges and poniderates powers ~ittempts to re5rganize We wait to see the is- in a style that looks imposing upon paper. suesin fear, we acknowledge, more than in But German democracy, so irresistible in its first hope; but, meanwhile, let us look on, and be awakening and impulses, has cooled considerably. ready to appropriate the lessons which Paris shall Jts extreme republicans have taken the field in the be teaching us. If, out of the social chaos which Black Forest, and been severely beaten. Its com 22 THE VOICE ~F THE PEOPLEPOLITICS FOR THE PEOPLE. munists have been repressed in Berlin, and at Vienna the bourgeoisie is quite victorious. Democ- racy, therefore, is no longer at that incandescent heat, which melts ever so large a mass of hetero- genons matter into one, as was done by the great French Revolution. It has stopped short of that great smelting; and the old elements of separation subsist. The strongest symptoms of repudiation are shoWn by the Sclavonic element. Every mo- tive of interest, every bond of prudence, at the present moment, should have prompted the Pole to have made common cause with the German. It is his only chance of regeneration. But no the Pole will not amalgamate, the Sclavon must separate from the Teuton. And he does this even before he has refounded or reconquered a country; for country the Sciavon has none. The behavior of the Poles in Posen has been little short of mad- ness. As Celts never have got, and never will get, the civilizing and liberalizing leaven of polity and social life except from the Saxon, so the Pole can never receive freedom or any of its concomi- tants but from the German. Yet on the very eve of the Germans doing this for him, the Pole turns round to cut the Germans throat, precisely as Young Celtic Land has striven to strangle Old England. It is a serious weakening of Germany that Po- sen and Bohemia, and even the half-Sclavonized Austria, should reject the old Fatherland. In fact, Germany can never be one without Bohemia. For Bohemia, independent, advances westward so far as to cut Germany in two. It makes a South Germany and a North Germany, and forbids their perfect blending. The possession of Prague is thus a sine qua non of German unity and empire, just as the possession of Dnblin is indispensable to the existence of such a thing as a British empire. Yet there is one chance for German unity, and that consists in German and Sclavonian, and their common freedom, being attacked by a powerful enemy like Russia. France is indebted for much of her unity to foreign attacks. But for that, her moderate school of republicans might have federated their land. The German aristocracy will infallibly keep Germany federative, unless the nation is attacked, and thereby called to exert its united strength. Russia, however, appears too cunning and too wary to give the Germans and Poles any such ad- vantage. Nicholas seems to guard a strictly de- fensive and inoffensive attitude, biding his time, and allowing full opportunity for all the dissolveuts at work in Germany, and Bohemia, and Hungary, and Italy, to do their work. Russia will be well able to manage a divided Germany or a divided Europe. If liberalism does not unite foes against the Colossus of the North, the Colossus stands safe; nay, may one day take a gigantic and a fear- ful stride westward. The Voice of the People. A Supplement to all Newspapers. Published Weekly. Price 3d. Politics for the People. Weekly. Price id. Nos. I. II. THE spirit of change that is abroad has produced various addresses to the Peoille, with a view to influence them either on one side or the other. The two periodicals before us challenge attention as much for intrinsic merit as for the quarters whence they emanate. The Voice of the People appears under the auspices of Mr. Charles Knight; and really represents the spirit of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, of which Mr. Knight himself was one of the animating souls. Politics for the People is published by Mr. Parker; who was the medium of communication between the world and the conductors of the Saturday Mag- azine, as he still is between the public and many persons connected with the learned professions, especially divinity. The plan of both publications is somewhat simi- lar. Each deals with current events and the prin- ciples of present politics, but less as matter of nar- rative than of discussionrather as supplements, and in some cases it may be as correctives to news- papers, thaft as a newspaper or a substitute for a newspaper. The object of both is progress with order, and a firm opposition to schemes which may lead to social disorganization and political an- archy. In spirit they are not opposite but different; and we think there is most geniality in the Politics for the People. It shows, perhaps, a little awk- wardness; but it has warmth, unction, and a real human sympathy; the politics are not those of party, but catholic in spirit, and liberal, if not at present very definite beyond an extension of the suffrage. The Voice has a touch of the old tone; it is a voice of wisdom. It does not, like old whig- gery, look down upon the people, as people very well in their way; nor does it advocate gov- ernment for the people not by the people. But the people are looked upon as persons to be taught, especially political economy; and the Voice is their teacher. Sound, well informed, full of matter, and not unacquainted with the facts of actual life espe- cially among the working classesbut rather dog- matic in tone, somewhat eneyclopndie in manner, and perhaps with a shade too much of the political economist engrafted upon the commissioner of in- quiry. Both, however, are able and informing works, at a price that, we imagine, can only pay for material expenses; and both great and refresh- ing contrasts to the twaddle of excellent Mrs. Hannah More, the foolish though often malicious humbug of the Tracts for Distribution, or the impudent semi-official misrepresentation and cajol- ery of the anti-Cobbett class, by which a wish for progress was formerly met. Both, however, might be better for a little more variety in subjects, and a more popular mode of treatment. T~AflSTON OF DUNORAN. 23 From the Dublin University Magazine. influence, at first sight, upon the fancy of every SOME ACCOUNT OF TIlE LATTER DAYS OF THE man of taste who beheld her. HON. RICHARD MARSTON~ OF DUNORAN. Mr. Marstons fortune, never very large, had been shattered by early dissipation. Naturally of PART I. a proud and somewhat exacting temper, he acutely When Lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth Sin; and felt the mortifying consequences of his poverty. Sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth Death. The want of what he felt ought to have been his ABOUT sixty years ago, and somewhat more position and influence in the county in which he than twenty miles from the capital of Ireland, in a resided, fretted and galled him; and he cherished southward direction, there stood a large, and, even a resentful and bitter sense of every slight, imagin- then, an old-fashioned mansion-house. It lay in ary or real, to which the same fruitful source of the midst of a demesne of considerable extent, and annoyance and humiliation had exposed him. He richly wooded with venerable timber; but, apart held, therefore, but little intercourse with the sur- from the sombre majesty of these giant groups, rounding gentry, and that little not of the pleasant- and the varieties of the undulating ground on which est possible kind; for, not being himself in a con- they stood, there xvas little that could be deemed dition to entertain, in that style which his own attractive in the place. A certain air of neglect ideas of his station had led him to conceive to be aiid decay, and an indescribable gloom and melan- but suitable, he declined, as far as was compatible choly, hung over it. In darkness, it seemed darker with good breeding, all the proffered hospitalities than any tract beside; when the moonlight fell up- of the neighborhood; and, from his wild and neg- on its glades and hollows, they looked spectral and lected park, looked out upon the surrounding awful, with a sort of churchyard loneliness; and world in a spirit of moroseness and defiance, very even when the blush of morning kissed its broad unlike, indeed, to that of neighborly good-will. woodlands, there was a melancholy in the salute In the midst, however, of many of the annoy- which saddened rather than cheered the heart of ances attendant upon crippled means, he enjoyed the beholder. a few of those shadowy indications of hereditary This antique, melancholy, and neglected place, importance, which are more dearly prized, in pro- we shall call, for distinctness sake, Dunoran. It portion as the substantial accessories of wealth have was then the property of the younger son of a no- disappeared. The mansion in which he dwelt was, bleman, once celebrated for his ability and his dar- though old-fashioned, imposing in its aspect, and ing, bnt who had long since passed to that land upon a scale unequivocally aristocratic ; its walls where human wisdom and courage avail nought. were hung with ancestral portraits, and he man- The representative of this noble house resided at aged to maintain about him a large and tolerably the family mansion in England, and the cadet, respectable staff of servants. In addition to these, whose fortunes ~ve mean to sketch in these pages, he had his extensive demesne, his deer-park, and lived upon the narrow surplus of an encumbered his unrivalled timber, wherewith to console him- income, in a reserved and unsocial discontent, deep self; and, in the consciousness of these posses- among the solemn shadows of the old woods of sions, he found some imperfect assuagement of iDunoran. those bitter feelings of suppressed scorn and re- The Hon. Richard Marston was now somewhere seutment, which a sense of lost station and slighted between forty and fifty years of ageperhaps importance engendered. nearer the latter; he still, however, preserved, in Mr. Marstons early habits had, unhappily, been an eminent degree, the traits of manly beauty, not of a kind to aggravate, rather than alleviate, the the less remarkable for its unquestionably haughty annoyances incidental to reduced means. lie had and passionate character. He had married a beau- been a gay man, a voluptuary, and a gambler. tiful girl, of good family, but without munch money, His vicious tastes had survived the means of their somewhere about sixteen years before; and two gratification. His love for his wife had been children, a son and a daughter, had been the fruit nothing more than one of those vehement and head- of this union. The boy, Harry Marston, was at strong fancies, which, in self-indulgent men, some- this time at Cambridge; and his sister, scarcely times result in marriage, and which seldom outlive fifteen, was at home with her parents, and under the first few months of that life-long connection. the training of an accomplished governess, who had Mrs. Marston was a gentle, noble-minded woman. been recommended to them by a noble relative of After agonies of disappointment, which none ever Mrs. Marston. She was a native of France, but suspected, she had at length learned to submit, in thorouahly mistress of the English language, and, sad and gentle acquiescence, to her fate. Those except for a foreign accent, which gave a certain feelings, which had been the charm of her young prettiness to all she said, she spoke it as perfectly days, were gone, and, as she bitterly felt, forever. as any native Englishwoman. This young French- For them there was no recallthey could not re- woman was eminently handsome and attractive, turn; and, without complaint or reproach, she Expressive dark eyes, a clear olive complexion, yielded to what she felt was inevitable. It was small even teeth, and a beautifully-dimpling smile, impossible to look at Mrs. Marston, and not to more perhaps than a strictly classic regularity of discern, at a glance, the ruin of a surpassingly features, were the secrets of her unquestionable beautiful womana good deal wasted, pale, and MARSTON OF DLJNORAN. chastened with a deep, untold sorrowbut still possessing the outlines, both in face and form, of that noble beaut.y and matchless grace, which had made her, in happier days, the admired of all ob- servers. But equally impossible was it to converse with her, for even a minute, without hearing, in the gentle and melancholy music of her voice, the sad echoes of those griefs to which her early beauty had been sacrificedan undying sense of lost love, and happiness departed, never to come again. One morning, Mr. Marston had walked, as was his custom when lie expected the messenger who brought from the neighboring post-office the Dub- lin letters, some way down the broad, straight avenue, with its double rows of lofty trees at each side, when he encountered the nimble emissary on his return. He took the letter-bag in silence. It contained but two lettersone addressed to Mademoiselle de Barras, chez M. Marston, and the other to himself. He took them both, dismissed the messenger, and opening that addressed to bun- self, read as follows, while he slowly retraced his steps towards the house DEAR RicHARDI am a whimsical fellow, as you doubtless remember, and have lately grown they tell me rather hippish besides. I do not know to which infirmity I am to attribute a sudden fancy which urges me to pay you a visit, if you will ad- mit me. To say truth, my dear Dick, I wish to see a little of Ireland, and, I will confess it, en pas- sent, to see a little of you too. I really wish to make acqoaintance with your family; and though they tell me my health is very much shaken, I must say, in self-defence, I am not a troublesome inmate. I can perfectly take care of myself, and need no nursing or caudling whatever. Will you present this, my petition, to Mrs. Marston, and report her decision thereon to me. Seriously, I know that your house may be full, or some other contre-temps may make it impracticable for me just now to in- vade you. If it be so, tell me, my dear Richard, frankly, as my movements are perfectly free, and my time all my own, so that I can arrange my visit to suit your convenience. Yours, & c., WYNSTON E. BERRLEY. P. SDirect to me at hotel, in Dublin, as I shall probably be there by the time this reaches you. Ill-bred and pushing as ever, quoth Mr. Marston, angrily, as he thrust the unwelcome let- ter into his pocket. This fellow, wallowing in wealth, without one nearer relative on earth than I, and associated more nearly still with me by the psha! not affectionthe recollections of early and intimate companionship, leaves me unaided, for years of desertion and suffering, to the buffet- ings of the world, and the troubles of all but over- whelming pecuniary difficulties, and now, with the ~cool confidence of one entitled to respect and wel- ,eome, invites himself to my house. Coming here, he continued, after a gloomy pause, and still pacing slowly toward the house, to collect amusing ma- terials for next seasons s gossipstories about the itiatried Benedictthe bankrupt beauthe outcast tenant of an Irish wilderness ; and, as he said this, he looked at the neglected prospect before him with an eye almost of hatred. Ay, ay, to see the nakedness of the land is he coming, but he shall be disappointed. His money may buy him a cordial welcome at an inn, but curse me if it shall purchase him a reception here ! He again opened and glanced through the letter. Ay, purposely put in such a way that I cant decline it without affronting him, he continued doggedly. Well, then, he has no one to blame but himselfaffronted he shall be; I shall effect- ually put an end to this humorous excursion. Egad, it is rather hard if a man cannot keep his poverty to himself. Sir Wynston Berkley was a baronet of large fortunea selfish, fashionable man, and an invet- erate bachelor. He and Marston had been school- fellows, and the violent and implacable temper of the former had as little impressed his companion with feelings of regard, as the frivolity and selfish- ness of the baronet had won the esteem of his rel- ative. As boys, they had little in common upon which to rest the basis of a friendship, or even a mutual liking. Berkley was gay, cold, and satiri- cal ; his cousinfor cousins they werewas jeal- ous, haughty and relentless. Their negative dis- inclination to one anothers society, not unnaturally engendered by uncongenial and unamiable disposi- tions, had for a time given place to actual hostility, while the two young men were at Oxford. In some intrigue, Marston discovered in his cousin a too-successful rival ; the consequence was, a bitter and furious quarrel, which, but for the prompt and peremptory interference of friends, Marston would undoubtedly have pushed to a bloody issue. Time had, however, healed this rupture, and the young men came to regard one another with the same feeling, and eventually to re~stablish the same sort of cold and indifferent intimacy which had subsisted between them before their angry col- lision. Under these circumstances, whatever suspicion Marstoo might have felt on the receipt of the un- expected, and indeed unaccountable proposal, which had just reached him, he certainly had little rea- son to complain of any violation of early friend- ship in the neglect with which Sir Wynston had hitherto treated him. In deciding to decline his proposed visit, however, Marston had not consulted the impulses of spite or anger. He knew the baronet well; he knew that he cherished no good- will towards him, and that in the project which he had thus unexpectedly broached, whatever in- direct or selfish motives might possibly be at the bottom of it, no friendly feeling had ever mingled. He was therefore resolved to avoid the trouble and the expense of a visit in all respects distaste- ful to him, and in a gentlernanlike way, but, at the same time, as the reader may suppose, ~vith very little anxiety as to whether or not his gay correspondent should take offence at his reply, to decline, once for all, the proposed distinction. 24 MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 25 With this resolution, he entered the spacious ceeded its resources, the perplexing cares of house- and somewhat dilapidated mansion which called keeping devolved. him master; and entering a sitting-room, appro- Why, as soon as he pleases, replied he. priated to his daughters use, he found her there, I suppose you can easily have his room pre- in company with her beautiful French governess, pared by to-morrow or next day. I shall rite He kissed his child, and saluted her young pre- by this mail, and tell him to come down at once. ceptress with formal courtesy. Having said this in a cold, decisive way, he Mademoiselle, said he, I have got a letter turned and left her, as it seemed, riot caring to be for you ; and, Rhoda, he continued, addressing teased with further questions. lie took his suli- his pretty daughter, bring this to your mother, tary way to a distant part of his wild park, where, and say I request her to read it. far from the likelihood of disturbance or intrusion, He gave her the letter he himself had just re- he was often wont to amuse himself for the liv~- ceived, and the girl tripped lightly away upon her long day, in the sedentary sport of shooting rabbits. mission. And there we leave him for the present, signify- Had he narrowly scrutinized the countenance ing to the distant inmates of his house the inidus- of the fair Frenchwoman, as she glanced at the trious pursuit of his unsocial occupation, by the direction of that which he had just placed in her dropping fire which sullenly, from hour to hour, hand, he might have seen certain transient, but echoed from the remote woods. very unmistakable, evidences of excitement and Mrs. Marston issued her orders; and having aGitation. She quickly concealed the letter, how- set on foot all the necessary preparations for so ever, and with a sigh, the momentary flush which unwonted an event as a visit of sonic duration to it had called to her cheek subsided, and she was Dunoran, she betook herself to her little boudoir tranquil as usual. the scene of many an hour of patient but bitter Mr. Marston remained for some minutesfive, suffering, unseen by human eye, and unknown, eight, or ten, we cannot say preciselypretty except to the just Searcher of hearts, to whom be- mooch where he had stood on first entering the longs mercy and VENGEANCE. chamber, doubtless awaiting the return of his mes- Mrs. Marston had but two friends to whom she senger, or the appearance of his wife. At length, had ever spoken upon the subject nearest her however, he left the room himself to seek her; heartthe estrangement of her husband, a sorrow but, during his brief stay, his previous resolution to which even time had failed to reconcile her. had been removed. By what influence we cannot From her children this grief was carefully con- say; but removed completely it unquestionably cealed. To them she never uttered the semblance was, and a final determination that Sir Wynston of a complaint. Anything that could by possi- Berkley should become his guest had fixedly taken bility have reflected blame or dishonor upon their its place. father, she would have perished rather than have As Marston walked along the passages which allowed them so much as to suspect. The two led from this room, he encountered Mrs. Marston friends who did understand her feelings, though and his daughter. in different degrees, were, one, a good and vener- Well, said he you have read Wynstons able clergyman, the Rev. Doctor Danvers, a fre- letter ~ quent visitor and occasional guest at Dunoran, Yes, she replied, returning it to him; and where his simple mann~.rs and unaffected benignity what answer, Richard, do you purpose giving and tenderness of heart, had won the love of all, bun l with the exception of its master, and commanded She was about to hazard a conjecture, but even his respect. The second was no other than checked herself, remembering that even so faint the young French governess, Mademoiselle d.c an evidence of a disposition to advise might possi- Barras, in whose ready sympathy and consolatory bly be resented by her cold and imperious lord, counsels she found no small happiness. The so- I have considered it, and decided to receive ciety of this young lady had indeed become, next him, he replied. to that of her daughter, her greatest comfort and Ah! I am afraidthat is, I hopehe may pleasure. find our housekeeping such as he can enjoy, she Mademoiselle de Barras was of a noble though said, with an involuntary expression of surprise; ruined French family, and a certain nameless dc- for she had scarcely had a doubt that her husband gance and dignity attested, spite of her fallen con- would have preferred evading the visit of his fine dition, the purity of her descent. She was accom- friend, under his gloomy circumstances. plishedpossessed of that fine perception and If our modest fare does not suit him, said sensitiveness, and that ready power of self-adapta- Marston, with sullen bitterness, he can depart tion to the peculiarities and moods of others, which as easily as he came. We, poor gentlemen, can we term tactand was, moreover, gifted with a but do our best. I have thought it over, and made certain natural grace, and manners the most win- up my mind. ning imaginable. In short, she was a fascinating And how soon, my dear Richard, do you in- companion ; and when the melancholy circumstan- tend fixing his arrival 1~ she inquired, with the ces of h.er own situation, an.d the sad histomy of natural uneasiness of one upon whom, in an es- her once rich and noble family, were taken into tablishment whose pretensions considerably cx- account, with her striking attractions of person 26 MARSTON OF DTJNORAN. and air, the combination of all these associations and impressions rendered her one of the most inter- esting persons that could well be imagined. The circumstances of Mademoiselle de Barras history and descent seemed to warrant, on Mrs. Marstons part, a closer intimacy and confidence than usually subsists between parties mutually occupying such a relation. Mrs. Marston had hardly established herself in this little apartment, when a light foot approached, a gentle tap was given at the door, and Mademoi- selle de Barras entered. Ah, mademoiselle, so kindsuch pretty flow- ers. Pray sit down, said the lady, with a sweet and grateful smile, as she took from the taper fingers of the foreigner the little bouquet which she had been at the pains to gather. Mademoiselle sat down, and gently took the ladys hand and kissed it. A small matter will overflow a heart charged with sorrowa chance word, a look, some little office of kindnessand so it was with mademoiselles bouquet and gentle kiss. Mrs. Marstons heart was touched ; her eyes filled with bright tears ; she smiled gratefully upon her fair and humble companion, and as she smiled, her tears overflowed, and she wept in si- lence for some minutes. My poor mademoiselle, she said, at last, you are so very, very kind. Mademoiselle said nothing; she lowered her eyes, and pressed the poor ladys hand. Apparently to interrupt an embarrassing silence, and to give a more cheerful tone to their little in- terview, the governess, in a gay tone, on a sudden said And so, madame, we are to have a visitor, Miss Rhoda tells mea baronet, is he not ? Yes, indeed, mademoiselleSir Wynston Berkley, a gay London gentleman, and a cousin of Mr. Marstons, she replied. Haa cousin ! exclaimed the young lady, with a little more surprise in her tone than seemed altogether called for a cousinoh, then, that is the reason of his visit. Do, pray, madame, tell me all about himI am so much afraid of strangers, and what you call men of the world. Oh, dear Mrs. Marston, I am not worthy to be here, and he will see all that in a momentindeed, indeed, I am afraid. Pray tell me all about him. She said this with a simplicity which made the elder lady smile, and while mademoiselle reiidjust- ed the tiny flowers which formed the bouquet she had just presented to her, Mrs. Marston good- naturedly recounted to her all she knew of Sir Wynston Berkley, which, in substance, amounted to no more than we have already stated. When she concluded, the young French woman continued for some time silent, still busy with her flowers. But, suddenly, she heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head. You seem disquieted, mademoiselle, said Mrs. Marston, in a tone of kindness. I am thinking, madame, she said, still look- ing upon the flowers which she was adjusting, and again sighing profoundly I am thinking of what you said to me a week agoalas ! I do not remember what it was, my good mademoisellenothing, I am sure, that ought to grieve youat least nothing that was intended to have that effect, replied the lady, in a tone of gentle encouragement. No, not intended, madame, said the young Frencbwoman, sorrowfully. Well, what is it l Perhaps you misunder- stood; perhaps I can explain what I said, replied Mrs. Marston, affectionately. Ah, madame, you thinkyou think I am un- lucky, answered the young lady, slowly and faintly. Unlucky! Dear mademoiselle, you surprise me, rejoined her companion. I meanwhat I mean is this, madameyou date unhappinessif not its beginning, at least its great aggravation and iucrease, she answered de- jectedly, from the time of my coming here, mad- ame; and though I know you are too good to dislike me on that account, yet I must, in your eyes, be ever connected with calamity, and look like some ominous thing. Dear mademoiselle, allow no such thought to enter your mind. You do me great wrong, indeed you do, said Mrs. Marston, laying her hand upon the young ladys, kindly. There was silence for a little time, and the elder lady resumed I remember now what you allude to, dear mademoisellethe increased estrangement, the widening separation which severs me from one un- utterably dear to methe first and bitter disap- pointment of my life, which seems to grow more hopelessly incurable day by day. Mrs. Marston paused, and, after a brief silence, the governess said I am very superstitious myself, dear madame, and I thought I must have seemed to you an in- auspicious inmatein short, unluckyas I have said ; and the thought made me very unhappy so unhappy, that I was going to leave you, ma- dameI may now tell you franklygoing away; but you have set my doubts at rest, and I am quite happy again. Dear mademoiselle ! cried the lady tenderly, and rising, as she spake, to kiss the cheek o~ her humble friend; nevernever speak of this again. God knows I have too few friends on earth, to spare the kindest and tenderest among them all. No, no. You little think what comfort I have found in your warm-hearted and ready sympathy, and how dearly I prize your affection, my poor mademoa- selle. The young Frenchwoman rose, with downcast eyes, a#.l a dimpling, happy smile; and, as Mrs. Marston drew her affectionately toward her, and kissed her, she timidly returned the embrace of her kind patroness. For a moment her graceful arms encircled her, and she whispered, Dear madame, how happyhow very happy you make me. MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 27 Had Ithuriel touched with his spear the beauti- were but three at home just now, and I was right. ful young woman, thus for a moment, as it seemed, Your son is at Cambridge; I heard so from an lost in a trance of gratitude and love, would that old friend, Jack Manbury. Jack has his boy, angelic form have stood the test unscathed 1 A there, too. Dn me, Dick, it seems but last spectator, marking the scene, might have observed week that you and I xvere there together. a strange gleam in her eyesa strange expression Yes, said Marston, looking gloomily into the in her facean influence for a moment not angelic, fire, as if he saw, in its smoke and flicker, thc like a shadow of some passing spirit, cross her phantoms of murdered time and opportunity; but visibly, as she leaned over the gentle ladys neck, I hate looking back, Wynston. The past is to and murmured, Dear madame, how happyhow me but a medley of ill-luck and worse manage- very happy you make me ! Such a spectator, as ment. he looked at that gentle lady, might have seen, for Why, what an ungrateful dog you are ! re- one dreamy moment, a lithe and painted serpent, turned Sir Wynston, gayly, turning his back upon coiled round and round, and hissing in her ear. the fire, and glancing round the spacious and hand- A few minutes more, and mademoiselle was in some, though somewhat faded, apartment. I the solitude of her own apartment. She shut and was on the point of congratulating you on the bolted the door, and taking from her desk the letter possession of the finest park and noblest demesne which she had that morning received, threw her- in Ireland, when you begin to grumble. Egad, self into an arm-chair, and studied the document Dick, all I can say to your complaint is, that I profoundly. Her actual revision and scrutiny of dont pity you, and there are dozens who may the letter itself was interrupted by long intervals honestly envy youthat is all. of profound abstraction ; and, after a full hour thus In spite of this cheering assurance, Marston spent, she locked it carefully up again, and with a remained sullenly silent. Supper, however, had clear brow, and a gay smile, rejoined her pretty now been served, and the little party assumed their pupil for a walk. places at the table. We must now pass over an interval of a few I am sorry, Wynston, I have no sport of any days, and come at once to the arrival of Sir Wyn- kind to offer you here, said Marston, except, ston Berkley, which duly occurred upon the evew- indeed, some good trout-fishing, if you like it. I ing of the day appointed. The baronet descended have three miles of excellent fishing at your com- from his chaise but a little time before the hour at mand. which the little party which formed the family at My dear fellow, I am a mere cockney, Dunoran were wont to assemble for the social meal rejoined Sir Wynston; I am not a sportsman of supper. A few minutes devoted to the myste- I never tried it, and should not like to begin now. ries of the toilet, with the aid of an accomplished No, Dickwhat I much prefer is, abundance of valet, enabled him to appear, as he conceived, your fresh air, and the enjoyment of your scenery. without disadvantage at this domestic reunion. When I was at Rouen three years ago Sir Wynston Berklcy was a particularly gentle- Ha !Rouen 1 Mademoiselle will feel an manlike person. He was rather tall, and elegantly interest in thatit is her birth-place, interrupted made, with gay, easy manners, and something Marston, glancing at the Frenchwoman. indefinably aristocratic in his face, which, however, YesRouenahyes! said Mademoiselle, was a little more worn than his years would with very evident embarrassment. have strictly accounted for. But Sir Wynston had Sir Wynston appeared for a moment a little been a rou?, and, spite of the cleverest possible disconcerted, too, but rallied speedily, and pursued making up, the ravages of excess were very trace- his detail of his doings at that fair town of Nor- able in the lively beau of fifty. Perfectly well mandy. dressed, and with a manner that was ease and gayety Marston knew Sir Wynston well; and lie rightly itself, he was at home from the moment he en- calculated that whatever effect his experience of tered the room. Of course, anything like genuine the world might have had in intensifying his sel- cordiality was out of the question; but Mr. Mars- fishness or hardening his heart, it certainly could ton embraced his relative with perfect good breed- have had none in improving a character originally ing, and the baronet appeared determined to like worthless and unfeeling. He knew, moreover, everybody, and be pleased with everything, that his wealthy cousin was gifted with a great He had not been five minutes in th.e parlor, deal of that small cunning which is available for chatting gayly with Mr. and Mrs. Marston and masking the little scheming of frivolous and worldly their pretty daughter, when Mademoiselle de Bar- men ; and that Sir Wynston never took trouble of ras entered the room. As she moved towards any kind without a sufficient purpose, having its Mrs Marston, Sir Wynston rose, and, observing centre in his own personal gratification. her with evident admiration, said in an under-tone, This visit greatly puzzled Marston; it gave him inquiringly, to Marston, who was beside him even a vague sense of uneasiness. Could there And this? exist any flaw in his own title to the estate of That is Mademoiselle de Barras, my daughters Dunoran I He had an unpleasant, doubtful sort governess, and Mrs. Marstons companion, said of remembrance of some apprehensions of this kind, Marston, drily. when he was hut a child, having been whispered Ha! said Sir Wynston I thought you in the family. Could this really be so, and could 28 MARSTON OF DUNORAN. the baronet have been led to make this unexpected visit merely for the purpose of personally examining into the condition of a property of which he was about to become the legal invader The nature of this suspicion afibrds, at all events, a fair gauge of Marstons estimate of his cousins character. And as he revolved these doubts from time to time, and as the thought of Mademoiselle de Barras transient, but unaccountable, embarrassment at the mention of Ronen by Sir Wynstonan embarrass- ment which the baronet himself appeared for a moment to reciprocateflashed occasionally upon his remembrance, undefined, glimmering suspicions of another kind flickered through the darkness of his mind. He was effectually puzzledhis sur- mises and conjectures baffled ; and he more than half repented that he had acceded to his cousin~ s proposal, and admitted him as an inmate in his house. Although Sir Wynston comported himself as if he were conscious of being the very most-welcome visitor who could possibly have established himself at Dunoran, he was, doubtless, fully aware of the real feelings with which he ~vas regarded by his host. If he had in reality an object in prolonging his stay, and wished to make the postponement of his departure the direct interest of his entertainer, he unquestionably took effectual measures for that purpose. The little party broke up every evening at about ten oclock, and Sir Wynston retired to his cham- ber at the same hour. He found little difficulty in inducing Marston to amuse him there with a quiet game of picquet. In his own room, there- fore, in the luxurious ease of dressing-gown and slippers he sat at cards with his host, often until an hour or two past midnight. Sir Wynston was exorbitantly wealthy, and very reckless in expen- diture. The stakes for which they played, although they gradually became in reality pretty heavy, were in his eyes a very unimportant consideration. Marston, on the other hand, was poor, and played with the eye of a lynx and the appetite of a shark. The ease and perfect good-humor with which Sir Wynston lost were not unimproved by his enter- tainer, who, as may readily be supposed, was not. sorry to reap this golden harvest, provided without the slightest sacrifice, on his part, of pride or mdc- ~endence. If, indeed, he sometimes suspected that his guest was a little more anxious to lose than to win, he was also quite resolved not to perceive it, but calmly persisted in, night after night, giving Sir Wynston, as he termed it, his revenge; or, in other words, treating him to a repetition of his losses. All this was very agree- able to Marston, who began to treat his visitor with, at all events, more external cordiality and distinction thami at first. An incident, however, occurred, which disturbed these amicable relations in an unexpected way. It becomes necessary here to mention that Mademoi- selle do Barras sleeping apartment opened from a long corridor. It was en suite with two dressing- rooms, each opening also upon the corridor, but wholly unused and unfurnished. Some five or six other apartments also opened at either side, upon the same passage. These little local details being premised, it so happened that one day Marston, who had gone out with the intention of angling in the trout-stream which flowed through his park, though at a considerable distance from the house, having unexpectedly returned to procure some tackle which he had forgotten, was walking briskly through the corridor in question to his own apart- mont, ~vhen, to his surprise, the door of one of the deserted dressing-rooms, of which we have spoken, was cautiously pushed open, and Sir Wyoston Berklcy issued from it. Marston was almest be- side him as he did so, and Sir Wynston ma(le a motion as if about instinctively to draw back again, and at the same time the keen ear of his host dis- tinctly caught the sound of rustling silks and a tip-toe tread hastily withdrawing from the deserted I chamber. Sir Wynston looked nearly as much confused as a man of the world can look. Mars- ton stopjed short, and scanned his visitor for a moment with a very peculiar expression. You have caught me peeping, Dick. I am an inveterate explorer, said the baronet, with an ineffectual effort to shake off his embarrassment. An open door in a fine old house is a temptation which That door is usually closed, and ought to be kept so, interrupted Marston, drily ; there is nothing whatever to be seen in the room but dust and cobwebs. Pardon roe, said Sir Wynston, more easily, you forget the view from the window. Ay, the view, to be sure; there is a good view from it, said Marston, with as muc.h of his usual manner as he could resume so soon; and, at the same time, carelessly opening the doer again, he walked in, accompanied by Sir Wyn- ston, and both stood at the window together, look- ing out in silence upon a prospect which neither of them saw. Yes, I do think it is a good view, said Mars- ton; and as he turned carelessly away, he darted a swift glance round the chamber. The door open- ing toward the French ladys apartment was closed, but not actually shut. This was enough; and as they left the room, Marston repeated his invitation to his guest to accompany him; but in a tone which showed that he scarcely followed the meaning of what be himself was saying. He walked undecidedly toward his own room, then turned and went down stairs. In the hall he met his pretty child Ha! Rhoda, said he, you have not been out to~day? No, papa; but it is so very fine, I think I shall go now. Yes; go, and mademoiselle can accompany you. Do you hear, Rhoda, mademoiselle ,,ocs with you, and you had better go at once. A few minutes more, and Marston, from the par- lor-window, beheld Rhoda and the elegant French girl walking together towards the woodlands. He MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 29 watched them gloomily, himself unseen, until the crowding underwood concealed their receding fig- ures. Then, with a sigh, he turned and reiiscended the great staircase. I shall sift this mystery to the bottom, thought he. I shall foil the conspirators, if so they be, with their own weaponsart with artchicane with chicaneduplicity with duplicity. He was now in the lon~ passage which we have just spoken of, and glancing hack and before him, to ascertain that no chance eye discerned him, he boldly entered mademoiselles chamber. her writ- in -desk lay upon the table. It was locked and coolly taking it in his hands, Marston carried it into his own room, bolted his chamber-door, and taking two or three bunches of keys, he carefully tried nearly a dozen in succession, and when almost despairing of success, at last found one which fitted the lock, turned it, and opened the desk. Sustained throughout his dishonorable task by some strong and angry passion, the sight of the open escrutoire checked and startled him for a mo- ment. Violated privilege, invaded secrecy, base, perfidious espionage, upbraided and stigmatized him, as the intricacies of the outraged sanctuary opened upon his intrusive gaze. -lie felt for a mo- ment shocked and humbled. He was impelled to lock and replace the desk where he had originally found it, without having effected his meditated treason; hut this hesitation was transient; the fiery and reckless impulse which had urged him to the act, returned to enforce its consummation. With a guilty eye and eager hands, he searched the contents of this tiny repository of the fair Nor- mans written secrets. Ha! the very thing, he muttered, as he de- tected the identical letter which he himself had handed to Mademoiselle de Barras but a few days before. The handwriting struck meill-dis- guisedJ thought I knew it; we shall see. He had opened the letter; it contained but a few lines; he held his breath while he read it. First he grew pale, then a shadow came over his face, and then another, and anotherdarker and darker shade upon shadeas if an exhalation from the pit was momentarily blackening the air about hint. He said nothing; there was but one long, gentle sigh, and in his face a mortal sternness, as he folded the letter again, replaced it, and locked the desk. Of course, when Mademoiselle de Barras re- turned from her accustomed walk, she found every- thing in her room, to all appearance, undisturbed, and just as when she left it. While this young lady was making her toilet for the evening, and while Sir Wynston B~rkley was worrying himself with conjectures as to whether Marstons evil looks, when he encountered him that morning in the pas- sage, existed only in his own fancy, or were, in good truth, very grim and significant realities, Marston himself was striding alone through the wildest and darkest solitudes of his park, haunted by his own unholy thoughts, and, it may be, by those other evil and unearthly influences, which wander, as we know, in desert places. Dark- ness overtook him, and the chill of night, in these lonely tracts. In his solitary walk, what fearful company had he been keeping! As the shades of night deepened round him, the sense of the neigh- borhood of illthe consciousness of the foul thoughts of which, where he was now treading, he had been for hours the sportoppressed him with a vague and unknown terror; a certain horror of the thoughts which had been his comrades through the day, which he could not now shake off, and which clung to him with a ghastly and defiant tenacity, scared, while they half-enraged, him. He stalked swiftly home- wards, like a guilty man pursued. Marston was not perfectly satisfied, though very nearly~ with the evidence now in his possession. The letter, the stolen perusal of which had so agi- tated him that day, bore no signature; hut, in(le- pendently of the handwriting, which seemed, spite of the constraint of an attempted disguise, to be familiar to his eye, there existed in the matter of the letter, short as it was, certain internal evi- dences, which, although not actually conclusive, raised certainly, in conjunction with all the other circumstances, a powerful presumption in aid of his suspicions. He resolved, however, to sift the matter fitrther, and to bide his time. Meanwhile, his mariner must indicate no trace of his dark sur- mises and bitter thoughts. Deception, in its two great branches, simulation and dissimulation, was easy to him. His habitual reserve and gloom would divest any accidental and momentary dis- closures of his inward trouble, showing itself in dark looks or sullen silence, of everything suspi- cious or unaccotmtable, which would have charac- terized such displays and eccentricities in another man. His rapid and reckless ramblea kind of physi- cal vent for the paroxysm which had so agitated him through out the greater part of the dayhad soiled and disordered his dress, and thus had hehpe~ to give to his whole appearance a certain air of haggard wildness, which, in the privacy of his chamber, lie hastened carefully and entirely to reniove. At supper, Marston was apparently in unusu- ally good spirits. Sir Wyriston and he chatted gayly arid fluently upon many subjects, grave and gay. Amoiig them the inexhaustible topic of pop- ular superstition happened to turn up, and espe- cially thte subject of strange prophecies of the fates and fortunes of individuals, singularly fulfilled in the events of their after-life. By-the-bye, Dick, this is rather a nervous topic for me to discuss, said Sir Wynston. How so~ asked his host. Why, dont you remember? urged the bar- onet. No, I dont recollect what you allude to, re- plied Marston, in all sincerity. Why, dont you remember Eton? pursued Sir Wynston. Yesto be sure, said Marston. 30 MARSTON OF DIJNORAN. Well? continued his visitor. Well, I really dont recollect the prophecy, replied Marston. What! do you forget the gypsy who predicted that you were to murder me, Dickeh B Ahha, ha! laughed Marston, with a start. Dont you remember it now I urged his com- panion. AhwhyyesI believe I do, said Mars- ton; but another prophecy was running in my minda gypsy prediction, too. At Ascot, do you recollect the girl told me I was to be the lord chan- cellor of England, and a duke besides. Well, Dick, rejoined Sir Wynston, merrily, if both are to be fulfilled, or neither, I trust you may never sit upon the woolsack of England. The party soon after broke upSir Wynston and his host, as usual, to pass some hours at pic- quetand Mrs. Marston, as was her wont, to spend some time in her own boudoir, over notes and ac- counts, and the worrying details of housekeeping. While thus engaged, she was disturbed by a re- spectful tap at her door, and an elderly servant, an Englishman, who had been for many years in the employment of Mr. Marston, presented himself. Well, Merton, do you want anything? asked the lady. Yes, maam, please, I want to give warning I wish to leave the service, maam, replied he, respectfully, but doggedly. To leave us, Merton ! echoed his mistress, both surprised and sorry, for the man had been long her servant, and had been much liked and trusted. Yes, maam, he repeated. And why (10 you wish to do so, Merton? Has anything occurred to make the place unpleasant to you B urged the lady. No, maamno, indeed, said he, earnestly, 1 have nothing to complain ofnothing, indeed, ma am. Perhaps, you think you can do better, if you leave us B suggested his mistress. No, indeed, maam, I have no such thought, he said, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears; butbut, somehowmaam, there is sumething come over me, lately, and I cant help, but think, if I stay here, mnaamsomesome misfortune will happen us alland that is the truth, mnaam. This is very foolish, Mertona mere childish fancy, replied Mrs. Marston; you like your place, and have no better prospect before you and now, for a mere superstitious fancy, you pro- pose givin~ it up, and leaving us. No, no, Mer- ten, you had better think the matter overand if you still, upon reflection, prefer going away, you can then speak to your master. Thank you, maamGod bless you, said the man, withdrawing. Mrs. Marston rang the bell for her maid, and retired to her room. Has anything occurred lately, she asked, to annoy Merton? No, maamI dont know of anythingbut, he is very changed, indeed, of late, replied the maid. He has not been quarrelling? inquired she. Ah, no, maam, he never quarrelshe is very quiet, and keeps to himself alwayshe thinks a wonderful deal of himself, replied the ser- vant. But you said that he is much changeddid you not? continued the lady. For there was something strangely excited and unpleasant, at times, in the mans manner, which struck Mrs. Marston, and alarmed her curiosity. He had seemed like one charged with some horrible secret intolerable, and yet which he dared not reveal. What, proceeded Mrs. Marston, is the na- ture of the change of which you speak? Why, maam, he is like one frightened, and in sorrow, she replied ; he will sit silent, and now and then shaking his head, as if he wanted to get rid of something that is teasing him, for an hour together. Poor man ! said she. And then, when we are at meals, he will, all on a sudden, get up, and leave the tableand Jem Carney, that sleeps in the next room to him, says, that, almost as often as he looks through the little window between the two rooms, no matter what hour in the night, he sees Mr. Merton on his knees by the bedside, praying or crying, lie dont know whichbut, any way, he is not happypoor man! and that is plain enough. It is very strange, said the lady, after a pause; but, I do think, and hope, after all, it will prove to have been no moore than a transient nervous depression. Well, maamn, I do hope it is not his con- science that is coming against him, now, said the maid. We have no reason to suspect anything of the kind, said Mrs. Marston, gravely; quite the re- versehe has been always a particularly proper man. Oh, indeed, responded the attendant, good- ness forbid I should say or think anything against him; but I could not help telling you my mi~d. maam, meaning no harm. And how long is it sinee you observed this sad change in poor Merton ? persisted the lady. Not, indeed, to say very long, maam, re- plied the girl; somewhere about a week, or very little moreat least, as we remarked, maam. Mrs. Marston pursued her inquiries no further that ni~ ht. But, although she affected to treat the matter thus lightly, it had, somehow, taken a painful hold upon her imagination, and left in her mmd those undefinable and ominous sensations, which, in certain mental dispositions, seem to fore- shadow the approaclm of unknown misfortune. For two or three days, everything went on smoothly, and pretty much as usual. At the end of this brief interval, however, the attention of Mrs. Marston was recalled to the subject of her servants mysterious anxiety to leave, and give up MARSTON OF DIJNORAN. his situation. Merton again stood before her, and repeated the intimation he had already given. Really, Merton, this is very odd, said the lady. You like your situation, and yet you persist in desiring to leave it. What am I to think ? Oh, maam, said he, I am unhappy; I am tormented, maam. I cant tell you, maamI cant, indeed, maam! If anything weighs upon your mind, Merton, I would advise your consulting our good clergyman, Dr. Danvers, urged the lady. The servant hung his head, and mused for a time gloomily; and then said, decisively No, maamno use. And pray, Merton, how long is it since you first entertained this desire? asked Mrs. Marston Since Sir Wynston Berkley came, maam, answered he. Has Sir Wynston annoyed you in any way? continued she. Far from it, maam, he replied; he is a very kind gentleman. Well, his man, thenis he a respectable, in- offensive person ? she inquired. I never met a more so, said the man, prompt- ly, and raising his head. What I wish to know is, whether your desire LO go is connected with Sir Wynston and his ser- vant? said Mrs. Marston. The man hesitated, and shifted his position un- easily. You need not answer, Merton, if you dont wish it, she said, kindly. Why, maam, yes, it has something to say to them both, he replied, with some agitation. I really cannot understand this, said she. Merton hesitated for some time, and appeared much troubled. It was something, maamsomething that Sir Wynstons man said to me; and there it is out, he said at last, with an effort. Well, Merton, said she, I wont press you further; but I must say, that as this communica- tion, whatever it may be, has caused you, unques- tionably, very great uneasiness, it seems to me but probable that it affects the safety or the interests of some personI cannot say of whom; and, if so, there can be no doubt that it is your duty to acquaint the person or persons so involved in the disclosure, with its.purport. Ah, maam, there is nothing in what I heard that could touch anybody but myself. It was nothing but what others heard, without remarking it, or thinking about it. I cant tell you any more, ma~ambut I am very unhappy, and uneasy in my mind. As the man said this, he began to weep bitter- The idea that his mind was affected, now seri- ously occurred to Mrs. Marston, and she resolved to convey her suspicions to her husband, and to leave him to deal with the case as to him should seem good. 31 Dont agitate yourself so, Merton; I shall speak to your master upon what you have said; and you may rely upon it, that no surmise to the prejudice of your character has entered my mind, sa]d Mrs. Marston, very kindly. Ah, maam, you are too good, sobbed the poor man vehemently. You dont know me, maam; I never knew myself till lately. I am a miserable man. I am frightened at myself; maam frightened terribly. Christ knows, it would be well for me I was dead this minute. I am very sorry for your unhappiness, Mer- ton, said Mrs. Marston ; and, especially, that I can do nothing to alleviate it; I can but speak, as I have said, to your master, and he will give you your discharge, and manage whatever else re- mains to be done. God bless you, maam, said the servant, still much agitated, and left her. Mr. Marston usually passed the early part of the day in active exercise, and she, supposing that he was, in all probability, at that moment far from the house, went to mademoiselles chamber, which was at the other end of the spacious house, to confer with her in the interval upon the strange application just urged by poor Merton. Just as she reached the door of Mademoiselle de I3arras chamber, she heard voices within ex- erted in evident excitement. She stopped in amazement. They were those of her husband and mademoiselle. Startled, confounded, and amazed, she pushed open the door, and entered. Her hus- band was sittingone hand clutched upon the arm of the chair he occupied, and the other extended, and clenched, as it seemed, with the emphasis of rage, upon the desk which stood upon the table. His face was darkened with the stormiest passions, and his gaze was fixed upon the Frenchwoman, who was standing with a look half-guilty, half-im- ploring, at a little distance. There was something, to Mrs. Marston, so ut~. terly unexpected, and even so shocking, in this tableau, that she stood for some seconds pale and breathless, and gazing with a vacant stare of fear and horror from her husband to the French girl, and from her to her husband again. The three figures in this strange group remained fixed, silent, and aghast, for several seconds. Mrs. Marston endeavored to speak; but, though her lips moved, no sound escaped her; and, from very weakness, she sank half-fainting into a chair. Marston rose, throwing, as he did so, a guilty and a furious glance at the young Frenchwoman, and walked a step or two toward the door; lie hesitated, however, arid turned, just as mademoi- selle, bursting into tears, threw her arms round Mrs. Marstons neck, and passionately exclaimed Protect me, madame, I implore, from the in- sults and suspicions of your husbaiid. Marston stood a little behind his wife, and he and the governess exchanged a glance of keen significance, as the latter sank, sobbing, like an injured child into its mothers embrace, upon the poor ladys tortured bosom. MARSTON OF DIJNORAN. Madame, madamehe saysMr. Marston Barras, interrupted Marston; I will have rio says, I have presumed to give you advice, and to altercation, if you please. I think, Mrs. Marston, meddle, and to interferethat I am endeavoring we have had enough of this; may I accompany ~ make you despise his authority. Madame, you hence ~ speak for me. Say, madame, have I ever So saying, he took the poor ladys passive hand, done sosay, madame, am I the cause of hitter- and led her from the room. Mademoiselle stood ness and coritumacy~ Ah, mon dieu! cest trop in the centre of the apartment, alone, erect, with it is too much, madameI shall goI must heaving breast and burning cheekbeautiful, go, madame. Why, ah, why did I stay for thisP thoughtful, guiltythe very type of the fallen As she thus spoke, mademoiselle again burst angelic. We must leave her there for a time, into a paroxysm of weeping, and again the same her heart all confusion, her mind darkness; van- significant glance was interchanged. ous courses before her, and as yet without reso- Goyes, you shall go, said Marston, striding lution to choose among thema lost spirit, borne toward the window. I will have no whispering on the eddies of the storm, fearless and self-reliant, or conspiring in my house; I have heard of your but with no star to guide her on her dark, malign, confidences and consultations. Mrs. Marston, I and forlorn way. meant to have done this quietly, he continued, Mrs. Marston, in her own room, reviewed the addressing his wife; I meant,to have given Mad- agitating scene through which she had just been so emoiselle de I3arras my opinion and her dismissal I unexpectedly carried. The tremendous suspicion without your assistance; but it seems you. wish to which, at the first disclosure of the tcbleau we interpose. You are sworn friends, and never fail have described, smote the heart and brain of the one another, of course, at a pinch. I take it for poor lady with the stun of a thunderbolt, had been, granted that I owe your presence at an interview indeed, subsequently disturbed, and afterwards which I am resolved shall be, as respects madem- contradicted; but the shock of her first impression oiselle, a final one, to a message from that in- remained still upon her mind and heart. She felt triguing young ladyehB still through every nerve the vibrations of that I have had no message, Richard, said Mrs. maddening terror and despair which had overcome Marston; I dont knowdo tell me, for Gods her senses for a moment. The surprise, the shock, sake, what is all this about l and as the poor the horror, outlived the obliterating influence of lady thus spoke, her overwrought feelings found what followed. She was in this agitation when a vent in a violent flood of tears. Mademoiselle de Barras entered her chamber, re- Yes, madame, that is the question. I have solved with all her art to second and support the asked him frequently what is all this anger, all success of her prompt measures in the recent criti- these reproaches aboutwhat have I done ? in- cal emergency. She had come, she said, to bid terposed mademoiselle, with indignant vehemence, lien dear madame farewell, for she was resolved standing erect, and viewing Marston with a flash- to go. Her own room had been invaded, that ing eye and a flushed cheek. Yes, I am called insult and reproach might be heaped upon her. conspirator, meddler, iutriguanteah, madame, it how utterly unmenited, Mrs. Marston knew. She is intolerable! had been called by every foul name which applied But what have I done, Richard? urged the to the spy and the maligner; she could not bear poor lady, stunned and bewildered how have it. Some one had evidently been endeavoring to I offended you ? procure her removal, and had but too effectually Yes, yes, continued the Frenchwoman, with succeeded. Mademoiselle ~vas determined to go angry volubility, what has she done, that you early the next morning; nothing should prevent call contumacy and disrespect? Yes, dear mad- on retard her departure ; her resolution ~vas taken. ame, there is the question; and if he cannot an- In this strain did mademoiselle run on, but in a swer, is it not most cruel to call me conspirator, subdued arid melanchely tone, and weeping pro- and spy, and intriguante, because I talk to my fusely. dear madame, who is my only friend in this place B The wild and ghastly suspicions, which had for Mademoiselle de Barras, I need no declama- a moment flashed terribly upon the mind of Mrs. tiou from you; and pardon me, Mrs. Marston, Marston, had faded away under the influences of nor from you either, retorted he; I have my reason and reflection, although, indeed, much pain- information from oi~ on whom I can relylet ful excitement still remained, before Mademoiselle that suffice. Of course you are both agreed in a de Barras had visited her room. Marstons tem- story. I dare say you are ready to swear you per she knew but too well; it was violent, bitter, never so much as canvassed my conduct, and my and impetuous; and though he cared little, if at coldness and estraugementeh? these are the all, for hen, she had ever perceived that he was words, are not they ? angrily jealous of the slightest intimacy or confi- I have done you no wrong, sirmadame can deuce by which any other than himself might es- tell you. Je me le jamcisfaiteI am no mischief- tablish an influence oven hen mind. That he had maker; no, I never was such a thingwas I leanned the subject of some of her most interesting madame? persisted the governess bear wit- I conversations with mademoiselle, she could not ness for me. doubt; for lie had violently upbraided that young I have told you my mind, Mademoiselle de lady in her presence with having discussed it) MARSTON OF DIJNORAN. 33 and here now was mademoiselle herself taking refuge with her from galling affront and unjust reproach, incensed, wounded, and weeping. The whule thing was consistent; all the circumstances hore plainly in the same direction ; the evidence was conclusive; and Mrs. Marstons thoughts and feelings respecting her fair young confidante, quickly found their old level, and flowed on tran- cinilly and sadly in their accustomed channel. While Mademoiselle de Barras was thus, with the persevering industry of the spider, repairing the meshes which a chance breath had shattered, she would, perhaps, have been in her turn shocked and startled, could she have glanced into Mars- ton s mind, and seen, in what was passing there, Iho real extent of her danger. Marston was walking, as usual, alone, and in the most solitary region of his lonely park. One hand grasped his walking-stick, not to lean upon it, but as if it were the handle of a battle axe the other was buried in his bosom ; his dark face looked upon the ground, and he strode onward with a slow but energetic step, which had the air of deep resolution. He found himself at last in a little churchyard, lying far among the wild forest of his demesne, and in the midst of which, covered with ivy and tufted plants, now ruddy with au- tumnal tints, stood the ruined walls of a little chapel. In the dilapidated vault close by lay buried many of his ancestors, and under the little wavy hillocks of fern and nettles slept many an humble villager. He sat down upon a worn tomb- stone in this lowly ruin, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he surrendered his spirit to the stormy and evil thoughts which he had invited. Long and motionless he sat there, while his foul fancies and schemes began to assume shape and order. The wind rushing throueh the ivy roused him for a moment, and as he raised his gloomy eye, it alighted accidentally upon a skull, which some wanton hand had fixed in a crevice of the wall; he averted his glance quickly, but almost as quickly refixed his gaze upon the impassive symbol of death,. with an expression lowering and contemptuous, and with an angry gesture struck it down among the weeds with h~s stick. He left the place, and wandered on chrough the woods. Men cant control the thoughts that flit across their minds, he muttered, as he went along, any more than they can direct the shadows of the clouds that sail above them. They come and pass, and leave no stain behind. What, then, of omens, and that wretched effigy of death I Stuff psha! Afitrder, indeed! I m incapable of mur- der. I have drawn my sword upon a man in fair duel; but murder! Out upon the thoughtout, out upon it. He stamped upon the ground with a pang at once of fury and horror. He walked on a little, stopped again, and folding his arms, leaned against an ancient tree. Mademoiselle de Barras, vous & es une trai- tresse, and you shall go. Yes, go you shall; you have deceived me, and we must part. ccxvi. LIVING AGE. VOL. xviii. 3 He said this with melancholy bitterness; and, after a pause, continued I will have no other revenge. No; though, I dare say, she will care but little for thisvery little, if at all. And then, as to the other person, he re. sumed, after a pause. It is not the first time he has acted like a trickster. He has crossed me before, and I will choose an opportunity to tell him my mind. I wont mince matters with him either, and will not spare him one insulting syllable that he deserves. He wears a sword, and so do I; if he pleases, he may draw it; he shall have the ol)portunity ; but, at all events, I will make it impossible for him to prolong his disgraceful visit at my house. On reaching home and his own study, the ser- vant, Merton, presented himself, and his master, too deeply excited to hear him then, appointed the next day for the purpose. There was no con- tending against Marstons peremptory will, and the man reluctantly withdrew. Here was apparently a matter of no imaginable momentwhether this menial should be discharged on that day, or on the morrow; and yet mighty things were involved in the alternative. rhere was a deeper gloom than usual over the house. The servants seemed to know that some- thing had gone wrong, and looked grave and mys- terious. Marston was more than ever dark and moody. Mrs. Marstons dimmed and swollen eyes showed that she had been weeping. Mademoiselle absented herself from supper, on the plea of a bad headache. Rhoda saw that something, she knew not what, had occurred to agitate her elders, and was depressed and anxious. The old clergyman, whom we have already mentioned, had called, and stayed to supper. IDr. Danvers was a man of considerable learning, strong sense, and remarkable simplicity of character. His thoughtful blue eye, and well-marked countenance, were full of gentle- ness and benevolence, and elevated by a certain natural dignity, of which purity and goodness, without one debasing shade of self-esteem and ar- rogance, were the animating spirit. Mrs. Marston loved and respected this good minister of God, and many a time had sought and found, in his gentle and earnest counsels, and in the overflowing ten- derness of his sympathy, much comfort and sup-- port in the progress of her sore and protra& erl earthly trial. Most especially at one critical pe- riod in her history had he endeared himself to her,. by interposing, and successfully, to prevent a for- mal separation, which (as ending forever the one hope that cheered her on, even in the front of db- spair) she would probably not long have sur- vived. With Mr. Marston, however, he was far from being a favorite. There was that in his lofty and simple purity which abashed and silen thy reproach- ed the sensual, bitter, disappointed man of the world. The angry pride of the scornful man felt its own meanness in the grand presence of a sim pIe and humble Christian minister. And the very 34 MARSTON OF DUNORAN. fact that all his habits had led him to hold such a affectionate creature, said Mrs. Marston, who felt character in contempt, made him but the more un- called upon to say something. reasonably resent the involuntary homage which Come, Marston, will you contribute nothing its exhibition in Dr. Danvers person invariably to the general approbation ~ said Sir Wynston, extorted from him. He felt in this good mans who was gifted by nature with an amiable talent presence under a kind of irritating restraintnot, for teasing, which he was fond of exercising in a indeed, under any necessity whatever of modifying quiet way. We have all, but you, said some- his ordinary conduct or languagebut still he felt thing handsome of our absent young friend. that he was in the presence of one with whom he I never praise anybody, Wynstonnot even had and could have no sympathy whatever, and you, said Marston, with an obvious sneer. yet one whom he could not help both admiring Well, well, I must comfort myself with the and respecting; and in these conflicting feelings belief that your silence covers a great deal of were involved certain gloomy and humbling infer- good-will, and, perha9s, a little admiration, too, ences about himself, which he hated, and almost answered his cousin, significantly. feared to contemplate. Comfort yourself in any honest way you will, It was well, however, for the indulgence of my dear Sir Wynston, retorted Marston, with a Sir Wynstons conversational propensities, that degree of asperity, which, to all but the baronet Dr. Danvers had happened to drop in, for Marston himself, was unaccountable. You may be right was doggedly silent and sullen, and Mrs. Marston you may be wrong; on a subject so unimportant, was herself scarcely more disposed than he to it matters very little which; you are at perfect maintain her part in a conversation; so that, had liberty to practise delusions, if you will, upon it not been for the opportune arrival of the good yourself. clergyman, the supper must have been commenced By-the-bye, Mr. Marston, is not your son with a very awkward and unsocial taciturnity, about to come to this country l asked Doctor Marston thought, and perhaps not erroneously, Danv~rs, who perceived that the altercation was that Sir Wynston suspected something of the real becoming, on Marstons part, somewhat testy, if state of affairs, and he was therefore incensed to not positively rude. perceive, as he thought, in his manner, very evi- Yes; I expect him in a few days, replied dent indications of his being in unusually good he, with a sudden gloom. spirits. Thus disposed, the party sat down to You have not seen him, Sir Wynston ~ supper. asked the clergyman. One of our number is missing, said Sir I have that pleasure yet to come, said the Wynston, affecting a slight surprise, which, per- baronet. haps, he did not feel. A pleasure it is, I do assure you, said Doc- Mademoiselle de BarrasI trust she is welll tor Danvers, heartily. He is a handsome lad, said Doctor Danvers, looking towards Marston. with the heart of a hero; a fine, frank, generous I suppose she isI dont know, said Mars- lad, arid as merry as a lark. ton, dryly, and with some embarrassment. Yes, yes, interrupted Marston: he is well Why, how should he know ~ said the baro- enough, and has done pretty well at Cambridge. net, gayly, but with something almost imperce~ Doctor Danvers, take some wine. tibly sarcastic in his tone. Onr friend, Marston, It was strange, but yet mournfully true, that is privileged to be as ungallant as he pleases, ex- the praises which the good Doctor Danvers thus cept where he has the happy privilege to owe al- bestoweA upon his son, were bitter to the soul of legiance; but I, a gay young bachelor of fifty, am the unhappy Marston; they jarred upon his ear, naturally curious. I really do trust that our and stung hia heart, for his conscience converted charming French friend is not unwell. them into so many latent insults and humiliations He addressed his inquiry to Mrs. Marston, ~vho, to himself. with some slight confusion, replied Your wine is very good, Marston. I think Nonothing, at least, serious; merely a your clarets here are many degrees better than we slight headache. I am sure she will be well can get in England, said Sir Wynston, sipping enough to come down to breakfast. a glass of his favorite wine. You Irish gentle- She is indeed a very charming and interesting men are sad, selfish dogs; and, with all your young person, said Doctor Danvers. There is grumbling, manage to collect the best of whatever a certain simplicity and good-nature about her, is worth having about you. which argue a good and kind heart, and an open We sometimes succeed in collecting a pleasant i~ature. party, retorted Marston, with ironical courtesy, Very true, indeed, doctor, observed Berkely, though we do not always command the means with the same faint, but, to Marston, exquisitely of entertaining them quite as we would wish. provoking approximation to sarcasm. There is, It was the habit of Doctor Danvers, without as you say, a very charming simplicity. Dont respect of persons or places, to propose, before you think so, Marston l taking his departure from whatever domestic party Marston looked at him for a nioment, but con- he chanced to be thrown among fur the evening, tinued silent. to read some verses from that holy book, on which Poor mademoiselle !she is indeed a most j his own hopes and peace were founded, and to MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 35 offer up a prayer for all to the throne of grace. Marston, although he usually absented himself from such exercises, did not otherwise discourage them; but, upon the present occasion, starting from a gloomy reverie, he himself was first to re- mind the clergyman of his customary observance. Evil thoughts loomed upon the mind of Marston, like measureless black mists upon a cold, smooth sea. They rested, grew, and darkened there; and no heaven-sent breath came silently to steal them away. Under this dread shadow, his mind lay waiting, like the DEEP, before the Spirit of God moved upon its waterspassive and awful. Why, for the first time, now did religion interest him The unseen, intangible, was even now at work within him. A dreadful power shook his very heart and soul. There was some strange, ghastly wrestling going on in his own immortal spirita struggle which made him faintwhich he had no power to determine. lie looked upon the holy influence of the good mans prayera prayer in which he could not joinwith a dull, superstitious hope that the words, inviting better influence, though uttered by another, and with other objects, would, like a spell, chase away the foul fiend that was busy with his thoughts. Marston sat, look- ing into the fire, with a countenance of stern gloom, upon which the wayward lights of the flickering hearth sported fitfully; while, at a distant table, Doctor Danvers sat down, and taking his well- worn Bible from his pocket, turned over its leaves, and began, in gentle but impressive tones, to read. Sir Wynston was much too well-bred, to evince the slightest disposition to aught but the most proper and profound attention. The faintest imagin- ative gleam of ridicule might, perhaps, have been discerned in his features, as he leaned back in his chair, and, closing his eyes, composed himself to at least an attitude of attention. No man could submit with more patience to an inevitable bore. In these things, then, thou hast no concern the judgment troubles thee notthou hast no fear of death, Sir Wynston Berklcy; yet there is a heart beating near thee, the mysteries of which, could they glide out, and stand before thy face, would, perchance, appal theecold, easy man of the world ! Ay, couldst thou but see, with those cunning eyes of thine, but twelve brief hours into futurity, each syllable that falls from that good mans lips unheeded, would peal through thy heart and brain like maddening thunder. Heark- en, hearken, Sir Wynston Berkley, perchance these are the farewell words of thy better angel the last pleadings of despised mercy. * * * * * The party broke up. Dr. IJanvers took his leave, and rode homeward, down the broad avenue, between the gigantic ranks of elms that closed it in. The full moon was rising above the distant billsthe mists lay like sleeping lakes in the laps of the hollowsand the broad demesne looked tranquil and sad under this chastened and silvery glory. The good old clergyman thought, as he pursued his way, that here at least, in a spot so beautiful and sequestered, the stormy passions and fell contentions of the outer world could scarcely penetrate. Yet, in that calm, secluded spot, and under the cold, pure light which fell so holily, what a hell was weltering and glowing! what a spectacle was that moon to go down upon! As Sir V~~ynston was leaving the parlor for his own room, Marston accompanied him to the hall, and said, I shant play to-night, Sir Wynston. Ah, ha !very particularly engaged B sug- gested the baronet, with a faint, mocking smile; well, my dear fellow, we must endeavor to make up for it to-morroweb B I dont know that, said Marston, and In a word, there is no use, sir, in our masquer- ading with one anothereach knows the other each understands the otherI wish to have a word or two with you in your room to-night, where we shant be interrupted. Marston spoke in a fierce and grating whisper, and his countenance, more even than his accents, betrayed the intensity of his bridled fury. Sir Wynston, however, smiled upon his cousin, as if his voice had been melody, and hi~ looks all sun- shine. Very good, Marston, just as you please, he said, only dont be later than one, as I shall be getting into bed about that hour. Perhaps, upon second thoughts, it is as well to defer what I have to say, said Marston, mu- singly. To-morrow will do as well; so, per- haps, Sir Wynston, I rtt~ay not trouble you to- night. Just as suits you best, my dear Marston, re- plied the baronet, with a tranquil smile; only dont come after the hour I have stipulated. So saying, the baronet mounted the stairs, and made his way to his chamber. lie was in excellent spirits, and in high good humor with himself; the object of his visit to Dunoran had been, as he now flattered himself, attained. He had conducted an affair reqniring the profound- est mystery in its prosecution, and the wisest tac- tique in its management, almost to a triumphant issuehe had perfectly masked his design, and completely outwitted Marston; and to a person who piqued himself upon his clever diplomacy, and vaunted that he had never yet sustained a defeat in any object which he had seriously proposed to himself, such a combination of successes was for the moment quite intoxicating. Sir Wynston not only enjoyed his own supe- riority with all the vanity of a selfish nature, but he no less enjoyed with a keen and malicious rel- ish the intense mortification which, he was well assured, Marston must experience, and all the more acutely, because of the utter impossibility, circumstanced as he was, of his taking any steps to manifest his vexation, without compromising himself in a most unpleasant way. Animated by those amiable feelings, Sir Wyn- ston Berkley sat down, and wrote the following MARSTON OF DUNORAN. short letter, addressed to Mrs. Gray, Wynston may as well go down to Wynston, and send other Hall wines in proportion. I leave details to you. * * MRS. GRAY,On receipt of this, have the sitting- Some further directions upon other subjects fol- rooms, and several bedrooms put in order, and lowed ; and having subscribed the despatch, and thoroughly aired. Prepare for my use the suite j addressed it t.o the gentlemanlike scoundrel ~vho of three rooms over the library and drawing-room; filled the onerous office of factotum to this profli- and have the two great wardrobes, and the cabinet gate and exacting man of the world, Sir Wynston in the state bedroom, removed into the large dress- Berkle ing-room which opens upon the bedroom I have y rang his bell, and gave the two letters named. Make everything as comfortable as pos- into the hand of his man, with special directions sible. If anything is wanted in the way of furni- to carry them himself in person, to the post-office ture, drapery, ornament, & c., von need only write in the neighboring village, early next morning. to John Skelton, Esq., Spring-Garden, London, These little matters completed, Sir Wynston stirred stating what is required, and he will order and send his fire, leaned back in his easy chair, and smiled them down. You must be expeditious, as I shall blandly over the sunny prospect of his imaginary probably go down to Wynston, with two or three friends, at the beginning of next month. triumphs. WYNSTON BERKLEY. It here becomes necessary to describe, in a few words, some of the local relations of Sir Wynstons apartments. The bedchamber which he occupied opened from the long passage of which we have already spokenand there were two other smaller apartments opening from it in train. In the fur- ther of these, which was entered from a lobby, communicating by a back stairs with the kitchen and servants apartments, lay Sir Wynstons valet and the intermediate chamber was fitted up as a dressins~room for the baronet himself. These P. SI have written to direct Arkins and two or three of the other servants to go down at once. Set them all to work immediately. He then applied himself to another letter of con- siderably greater length, and from which, therefore, we shall only offer a few extracts. It was ad- dressed to John Skelton, Esq., and began as fol- lows circumstances it is necessary to mention, that what follows may be clearly intelligible. While the baronet was penning these records of vicious schemesdire waste of wealth and time irrevocable tinie !Marston paced his study in a very different frame of mind. There was gloom and disorder in the room accordant with those of his own mind. Shelves of ancient tomes, darkened by time, and upon which the dust of years lay sleepingdark oaken cabinets, filled with piles of deeds and papers, among which the nimble spiders were crawlingand, from the dusky walls, several stark, pale ancestors, looking down fearfully from their tarnished frames. An hour, and another hour passedand still Marston paced this melancholy chamber, a prey to his own fell passions and dark thoughts. He ~vas not a superstitious man. but. in the visions which haunted him, perhaps, was something which made him unusually excitable for he experienced a chill of absolute horror, as, standing at the further end of the room, with his face turned towards the entrance, he beheld the door noiselessly and slowly pushed open, by a pale, thin hand, and a figure, dressed in a loose white robe, glide softly in. He stood for some seconds gazing upon this apparition, as it moved hesitating- ly towards him from the dusky extremity of the large apartment, before he perceived that the form was that of Mrs. Marston. Hey, ha !Mrs. Marstonwhat on earth has called you hither I he asked sternly. You ought to have been at rest an hour agoget to your chamber, and leave meI have business to attend to. Now, dear Richard, you must forgive me, she said, drawing near, and looking up into his haggard face with a sweet and touching look of timidity and love, I could not rest until I saw Mv DEAR SKELTONYOu are, doubtless, sur- prised at my long silence, but I have had nothing very particular to saymy visit to this dull and un- comfortable place was (as you rightly surmise) not without its objecta little bit of wicked romance; the pretty demoiselle of Rouen, whom I meimtioned to you more than oncela belle de Barraswas, jn truth, the attraction that drew me hither; and, I think (for, as yet, she affects hesitation) I shall have no further trouble with her. She is a fine creature, and you will admit, when you have seen her, well worth taking some trouble about. She is, however, a very knowing little minx, and evidently suspects me of being a sad, fickle dogand, as I surmise, has some plans, moreover, respecting my morose cousin, Marstona kind of wicked Penruddock who has carried all his London tastes into his Irish retreat, a paradise of bogs and bushes. There is, I am very confident, a liasort in that quarter. The young lady is evidently a good deal afraid of him, and insists upon such precautions in our interviews, that they have been very few, and far between, in- deed. To-day, there has been a fracas of some kind. I have no doubt that Marston, poor devil, is iealous. His sjtuation is, really, pitiably comic with an intriguing mistress, a saintly wife, and a devil of a jealous temper of his own. I shall meet Mary on reaching t@wn. Has Clavering (shabby dog!) paid his 1. 0. U. yet l Tell the little opera woman sh.Q had better be quiet. She ought to know me by this timeI shall do what is rightbut wont submit to be bullied, If she is troublesome, snap your fingers at her, on roy behalf, and leave her to her remedy. I have written to Gray, to get things at Wynston in order. She will draw upon you for what money she requires. Send down two or three of the servants, if they have not already gone. The place is very dusty and dingy, and needs a great deal of brushing and scouring. I shall see you in town very soonby the way, their claret here is particularly goodso I ordered a pro- digious supply from a Dublin house; it is consigned to you, and goes by the Lizard ; pay the freight- age, and get Edwards to pack it; ten dozen or so 36 MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 37: you againyour looks have been all this night so unbuckled his sword, which lie had not loosed since unlike yourselfso strange and terriblethat I evening, and threw it hastily into a corner. He am afraid some great misfortune threatens you, looked at his watch, it was half-past twelvehe which you fear to tell me of. glanced at the door, and thence at the cabinet in My looks! why, curse it, must I give an ac- which he had placed the key; th.m he turned count of my looks B replied Marston, at once hastily, and sat down again. He leaned his elbows disconcerted and wrathful. Misfortune! what on his knees ; and his chin upon his clenched misfortune can befall us more No, there is noth- hand ; still he was restless and excited. Once ingnothing, I say, but your own foolish fancy more he arose, and paced up and down. lie con-, go to your roomgo to sleepmy looks, indeed; sulted his watch again; it was now but a quarter psha ! to one. I came to tell you, Richard, dear, that I will * * * * do, in alIrespects, just as you desire. If you con- Sir Wynstons man having received the letters, tinue to wish it, I will part with poor mademoiselle; and his masters permission to retire to rest, got though, indeed, Richard, I shall miss her more into his bed, and was soon beginning to dose. We than you can imagine; and all your suspicions have already mentioned that his and Sir Wynstons have wronged her deeply, said Mrs. Marston. apartments were separated by a small dressing- Her husband darted a sudden flashing glance room, so that any ordinary noise or conversation, of suspicious scrutiny upon her face; but its cx- could be heard but imperfectly from one to the pression was frank, earnest, and noble. He was other. rhe servant, however, was startled by a disarmedhe hung his head gloomily upon his sound of something falling on the floor of his mas- breast, and was silent for a time. She came ters apartment, and broken to pieces by the vio- nearer, and laid her hand upon his arm. He lence of the shock. He sat up in his bed, listened, looked darkly into her upturned eyes, and a feel- and heard some sentences spoken vehemently, and iu~ w hich had not touched his heart for many a gabbled very fast. He thought he distinguished dayan emotion of pitytransient, indeed, but the words wretch and God ; and there was vividrevisited him. He took her hand in his, something so strange in the tone in which they and said, in gentler terms than she had heard him were spoken, that the man got up and stole noise- use for a long time lessly through the dressing-room, and listened at No, indeed, Gertrude, you have deceived the door. yourself; no misfortune has happened, and if I He heard him, as he thought, walking in his em gloomy, the source of all my troubles is slippers through the room, and making his cus- vithin. Leave me, Gertrude, for the present. As tomary arrangements previously to getting into to the other matterthe departure of Mademoiselle bed. He knew that his master had a habit of de I3arraswe can talk of that to-morrownow speaking when alone, and concluded that the acci- I cannot; so let us part. Go to your roomgood dental breakage of some glass or chimney-ornament night. had elicited the volley of words he had heard. She was withdrawing, and he added, in a sub- Well knowing that, except at the usual hours, or dued tone in obedience to Sir Wynstons bell, nothing more Gertrude, I am very glad you camevery glad. displeased his master than his presuming to enter Pray for me to-night. his sleeping-apartment while he was there, the He had followed her a few steps towards the servant quietly retreated, and, perfectly satisfied (loor, and now stopped shortturned about, and that all was right, composed himself to slumber, walked dejectedly back again, and was soon beginning to dose again. I am right glad she came, he muttered, as soon The fretting adventures of the night, however, as he was once more alor.v. Wynston is provok- were not yet over. Waking, as men sometimes lug and fiery, too. Were I, in my present mood, to do, without any ascertainable causewithout a seek a t~te-~-u2te with him, who knows what might start or an uneasy sensationwithout even a dis- come of it? Blood ; my own heart whispers turbance of the attitude of repose, he opened his eyes blood! Ill not trust myself. and beheld Merton, the servant of whom we have He strode to the study door, locked it, and tak- spoken, standing at a little distance from his bed. ing out the key, shut it in the drawer of one of The moonlight fell in a clear flood upon this figure: the cabinets, the man was ghastly pale; there was a blotch of Now it will need more than accident or im- blood on his face; his hands were clasped upon pulse to lead me to him. I cannot go, at least, something which they nearly concealed; and his without refiectionwithoutpremeditation. Avanut, eyes, fixed on the serVant who had just awakened, fiend ! I have baffled you. shone in the cold light, with a wild and death-lik.e He stood in the centre of the room, crouching glitter. This spectre drew close to the side of and scowlin~ as he said this, and looked round the bed, and stood for a few moments there with with a glance half-defiant, half-fearful, as if he ex- a look of agony and menace, which startled the pected to see some dreadful form in the dusky re- newly-awakened man, who rose up aright, and cesses of the desolate chamber. lie sat himself said by the smouldering fire, in sombre and agitated Mr. Merton, Mr. Mertonin Gods name, ruminations. He was restlesshe rose again, what is the matter? ?4ARSTON OF DUNORAN. Merton recoiled at the sound of the voice; and, as he did so, dropped something on the floor, which rolled away to a distance; and he stood gazing silently and horribly upon his interrogator. Mr. Merton, I say, what is it ? urged the man. Are you hurt 1your face is bloody. Merton raised his hand to his face mechanically, and Sir Wynstons man observed that it, too, was covered with blood. Why, man, he said, vehemently, and actually freezing with horror, you are all bloodyhands and face ; all over blood. My hand is cut to the bone, said Merton, in a harsh whisper; and speaking to himself, rather than addressing the servant I wish it was my aeckI wish to God I bled to death. You have hurt your hand, Mr. Merton, repeated the man, scarce knowing what he said. Ay, whispered Merton, wildly drawing tow- ard the bedside again; who told you I hurt my hand? It is cut to the bone, sure enough. He stooped for a moment over the bed, and then cowered down toward the floor, to search for what he had dropped. Why, Mr. Merton, what brings you here at this hour ? urged the man, after a pause of a few seconds. It is drawing toward morning. Ay, ay, said Merton, doubtfully, and start- ing upright again, while he concealed in his bosom what he had been in search of. Near morning, is it? Night and morning, it is all one to me. I believe I am going mad, by But, what do you want ?what did you come here for at this hourV persisted the man. What! ay, that is itwhy, his boots and spurs, to be sure. I forgot them. Hishis Sir Wynston s boots and spursI forgot to take them, I say, said Merton, looking toward the dressing-room, as if about to enter it. Dont mind them to-night, I say; dont go in there, said the man, peremptorily, and getting out upon the floor. I say, Mr. Merton, this is no hour to be going about, searching in the dark for boots and spurs. You 11 waken the master. I cant have it, I say; go down, and let it be for to-night. Thus speaking, in a resolute and somewhat angry under-key, the valet stood between Merton and the entrance of the dressing-room; and, sign- ing with his hand towards the other door of the apartment, continued Go down, I say, Mr. Mertongo down; you may as well quietly, for, I tell you plainly, you shall neither go a step further, nor stay here a moincnt longer. The man drew his shoulders up, and made a sort of shivering moan, and clasping his hands together, shook them, as it seemed, in great agony. He then turned abruptly, and hurried from the room by the door leading to the kitcben. By my faith, said the servant, I am glad he is gone. The poor chap is turning crazy, as sure as I am a living man. I 11 not have him prowling about here any more, howeverthat I am resolved on. In pursuance of this determination, by no means an imprudent one as it seemed, he fastened the door communicating with the lower apartments upon the inside. He had hardly done this, when he heard a step traversing the stable-yard, which lay under the window of his apartment. He looked out, and saw Merton walking hurriedly across, and into a stable at the further end. Feeling no very particular curiosity about his movements, the man hurried back to his bed. Mer- tons eccentric conduct of late had become so gen- erally remarked and discussed among the servants, that Sir Wynstons man was by no means sur- prised at the oddity of the visit he had just had nor, after the first few moments of suspense, be- fore the appearance of blood had been accounted for, had he entertained any suspicions whatever connected with the mans unexpected presence in the room. Merton was in the habit of coining up every night to take Sir Wynstons boots, when- ever the baronet had ridden in the course of the day ; and this attention had been civilly under- taken as a proof of good-will toward the valet, whose duty this somewhat soiling and ungentle- manlike process would otherwise have been. So far, the nature of the visit was explained; and the remembrance of the friendly feeling and good offices which had been mutually interchanged, as well as of the inoffensive habits for which Merton had earned a character for himself, speedily calmed the uneasiness, for a moment amounting to actual alarm, with which the servant had regarded his appearance. We must now pass on to the morrow, and ask the readers attention for a few moments to a dif- ferent scene. In contact with Dunoran, upon the northern side, and divided by a common boundary, lay a demesne, in many respects presenting a very strik- ing contrast to its grander neighbor. It was a comparatively modern place. It could not boast the towering timber which enriched and overshad- owed the vast and varied expanse of its aristocratic rival; but, if it was inferior in the advantages of antiquity, and, perhaps, also in some of those of nature, its superiority in other respects was strik- ing and important. Dunoran was not more re- markable for its wild and neglected condition, than was Newton Park for the care and elegance with which it was kept. No one could observe the contrast, without, at the same time, divining its cause. The proprietor of the one was a man of wealth, fully commensurate with the extent and pretensions of the residence he had chosenthe owner of the other was a man of broken fortunes.0 Under a green shade, which nearly met above them, a very yoting man, scarcely one-and-twenty, of a frank and sensible, rather than a strictly hand- some countenance, was walking, side by side, with a light-haired, laughing, graceful girl, of some sixteen years. This girl, without being classically 38 MARSTON OF DTJNORAN. beautiful, had such an elegance and perfect sym- metry of form, and such an unutterable prettiness of feature that it would have been difficult to con- ceive a being more attractive. These two friends (for they were, in truth, no more) were taking a morning ramble together ; and the gay laugh of the girl, and the more sober tones of her compan- ion, sounded pleasantly among the arches of the greenwood. The young man was George Mervyn, the only son of the present proprietor of the place and the girl was his orphan niece, Emily Howard. The mutual feelings of the two cousins were, as we have said, those of mere friendship, untinctured by the faintest admixture of any more romantic ingredient; and, indeed, a close observer might easily have detected this in the perfectly disengaged and honestly familiar way in which each accosted the other. As they walked on, chatting, to the great gate, which was to be the boundary of their ramble, the clank of a horses hoofs in quick mo- tion upon the sequestered road which ran outside it, reached them; and hardly had they heard these sounds, when a young gentleman rode briskly by, directing his look into the demesne as he passed. He had no sooner seen them, than, wheeling his horse about, he rode up to the iron gate, and dis- mounting, threw it open, and let his horse in. Ha! Charles Marston, I protest ! said the young man, quickening his pace to meet his friend. Marston, my dear fellow, he called aloud, how glad I am to see you ! Miss Howard, on the contrary, walked rather slower than before, and blushed deeply ; but as the handsome young man, with an air in which delight, tendertiess, and admiration were undis- guisedly mingled, saluted her after his long ab- sence, through her smiles and blushes, there was in her pretty face a look of such blended gratifica- tion and modesty, as made her quite beautiful. There was another entrance into Newton Park, openin,, also from the same road, about half a mile further on; and Charles Marston, hut too intent on prolonging the happiness of this chance meet- ing, made his way to lie through this. Thus the young people walked on, talking of a hundred things as they proceeded, in the fulness and joy of their hearts. Between the fathers of the two young men, who thus walked so affectionately together, there subsist- ed, unhappily, no friendly feelings. There had been several slight disagreements between them, touch- ing their proprietary rights, and. one of these had ripened into a formal and somewhat expensive liti- gation respecting a certain right of fishing claimed hy each. This legal encounter had terminated in the defeat of Marston. Mervyn, however, promptly wrote to his opponent, offering him the free use of the waters for which they had thus sharply con- tested, and received a curt and scarcely civil reply, declining the proposed courtesy. This exhibition of resentment on Marston s part, had been follow- ed by some rather angry collisions, where chance or duty happened to throw them together. It is but justice to say that, upon all such occasions, Marston was the aggressor. But Me~~n was a somewhat testy old gentleman, and hal r~ curtain pride of his own, which was not to be hilled with. Thus, though near neighbors, the parents of the young friends were more than strangers to each other. On Mervyns side, however, the estrange- inent was unalloyed with bitterness, and simply of that kind which the great moralist would have re- ferred to defensive pride. It did not include any member of Marstons family, and Charles, as often as he desired it, which was, in truth, as often as his visits could escape the special notice of his father, was a welcome guest at Newton Park. These details, respecting the mutual relation in which the two families stood, it was necessary to state, for the purpose of making what follows per- fectly clear. The young people had now reached the further gate, at which they were to part. Charles Marston, with a heart heating happily in the anticipation of many a pleasant meeting, bid them farewell for the present, and in a few minutes more was riding up the broad, straight avenue, towards the gloomy mansion which closed in the hazy and sombre perspective. As he moved on- ward, he passed a laborer, with whose face from his childhood he had been familiar. How do you do, Mickl he cried. At your sarvice, sir,~ replied the man, un- covering, and welcome home, sir. There was something dark and anxious in the mans looks, which ill accorded with the welcome he spoke, and which suggested some undefined alarm. The master, and mistress, and Miss Rhoda are all well he asked, eagerly. All well, sir, thank God, replied the man. Young Marston spurred on, filled with vague apprehensions, and observing the man still leaning upon his spade, and watching his progress with the same gloomy and curious eye. At the hall-door he met with one of the ser- vants, booted and spurred. Well, Daly, he said, as he dismounted, how are all at home B This man, like the former, met his smile with a troubled countenance, and stammered All, sirthat is, the master, and mistress, and Miss Rhodaquite well, sir; but Well, well, said Charles, earnestly, speak onwhat is it B Bad work, sir, replied the man, lowering his voice. I am going off this minute for For what B urged the young gentleman. Why, sir, for the coroner, replied he. The coronerthe coroner! Why, good God, what has happened B cried Charles, aghast with horror. Sir Wynston, commenced the man, and hes- itated. Well B pursued Charles, pale and breathless. Sir Wynstonheit is he, said the man. He? Sir Wynston? Is he dead, or who is? who is dead B demanded the young man, fearfully. 40 MARSTON OF DIJNORAN. Sir Wynston, sirit is he that is dead. There is had work, sirvery bad, Im afeard, replied the man. Charles did not wait to inquire further, but with a feeling of mingled horror and curiosity, entered the house. He hurried up stairs, and entered his mothers sitting-room. She was there, perfectly alone, and so deadly pale, that she scarcely looked like a hu- man being. In an instant they were locked in one anothers arms. Mothermy dear mother, you are ill, said the young man anxiously. Oh, no, no, Charles, dear, but frightened horrified ; and as she said this, the poor lady burst into tears. What is all this horrible affair isomething about Sir Wynston. He is dead, I know, but is itis it suicide ~ he asked. Oh, no, not suicide, said Mrs. Marston, greatly agitated. Good God !then he is murdered, whispered the young man, growing very pale. Yes, Charleshorribledreadful! I can scarcely believe it, replied she, shuddering while she wept. Where is my father l inquired the young man, after a pause. Why, why, Charles, darlingwhy do you ask for him ~ she said, wildly, grasping him by the arm, as she looked into his face with a terrified lIe fixed his gaze for a few moments upon his son, turned abruptly, and walked a little way into the roomthen, in a disconcerted manner, he add- ed, hastily turning back Not, that it signifies to us, of coursebut I would fun have justice satisfied. And who is the wretch-the murderer? in- quired Charles. Who Why, every one knows !that scoun- drel, Merton, answered Marston in an irritated tone Merton murdered him in his bed, and fled last night; he is goneescapedand I suspect Sir Wynstons man of being an accessory. Which was Sir Wynstons bed-room? asked the young mail. The room that old Lady hadthe room with the portrait of Grace Hamilton in it. I knowI know, said the young man, much excited I should wish to see it. Stay, said Marston; the door from the passage is bolted on the inside, and I have locked the otherhere is the key, if you choose to go but you must bring Hughes with you, and do not disturb anythingleave all as it isthe jury ought to see, and examine for themselves. Charles took the key, and accompanied by the awe-struck servant, he made his way by the hack stairs to the door opening from the dressing-room, which, as we have said, intervened between the valets chamber and Sir Wynstons. After a mo- mentary hesitation, Charles turned the key in the expression. door, and stood Whywhy, lie could tell me the particulars In the dark chamber of white death. of this horrid tragedy, answered he, meeting her agonized look with one of alarm and surprise, as The shutters lay partly open, as the valet had far as they have been as yet collected. How is left them sotne hours before, on making the as- he, motheris he well ? tounding discovery, which the partially-admitted Oh, yes, quite well, thank God, she answer- light revealed. The corpse lay in the silk-em- ed, more collectedly quite well, but, of course, broidered dressing-gown, and other habibments, greatly, dreadfully shocked. which Sir Wynston had worn, while taking his I will go to him, motherI will see him, ease in the chamber, on the preceding night. The said he, turning towards the door. coverlit was partially dragged over it. The mouth He has been wretchedly depressed and excit- was gaping, and filled with clotted blood; a wide ed for some days, said Mrs. Marston, dejectedly, gash was also visible in the neck, under the ear and this dreadful occurrence will, I fear, affect and there was a thickening pool of blood at the him most deplorably. bedside, and quantities of blood, doubtless from The young man kissed her tenderly and affec- other wounds, had saturated the bedclothes under tionately, and hurried down to the library, where the body. There lay Sir Wynston, stiffened in his father usually sat when he desired to be alone, the attitude in which the struggle of death had or was engaged in business. He opened the door left him, with his stern, stony face, and dim, ter- softly. His father was standing at one of the rible gaze turned up. windows, his face haggard as from a nights watch- Charles looked breathlessly for more than a ing, unkempt and unshorn, and with his hands minute upon t.his mute and unchanging spectacle, thrust into his pockets. At the sound of the re- and then silently suffered the curtain to fall back volving door, he started, and seeing his son, first againand stepped, with the light tread of awe, recoiled a little, with a strange, doubtful expres- again to the door. There he turned back, and sion, and then rallying, walked quickly towards pausing for a minute, said, in a whisper to the him with a smile, which had in it something still attendant more painful. And Merton did this? Charles, I am glad to see you, he said, Troth, I m afeard he did, sir, answered the shaking him with an agitated pressure by both man, gloomily. hands Charles, this is a great calamity, and And has made his escape ? continued Charles. what makes it still worse, is, that the murderer has Yes, sir; he stole away in the night-time, escaped; it looks badly, you know. j replied the servant, after the murder was dc~e~ MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 41 (and he glanced fearfully towards the bed) God knows ~vhere he s gone. The villain ! muttered Charles; but what was his motive why did he do all thiswhat does it mean I dont know exactly, sir, but he was very queer for a week and more before it, replied the man; there was something bad over him for a long time.~~ It is a terrible thing, said Charles, with a profound sigh a terrible and shocking occur- rence. He hesitated again at the door, but his feelings had sustained a terrible revulsion at sight of the corpse, and lie was no longer disposed to prose- cute his purposed examination of the chamber and its contents, with a view to conjecturing the prob- able circumstances of the murder. Observe, Hughes, that I have moved nothing in the chamber from the place it occupied when we entered, he said to the servant as they with- drew. He locked the door, and as he passed through the ball, on his return, he encountered his father, and restoring the key, said I could not stay thereI am almost sorry I have seen itI am overpowered. What a determined, ferocious murder it wasthe place is all in a pool of gorehe must have received many wounds. I cant saythe particulars will be elicited soon enoughthose details are for the inquest as for me, I hate such spectacles, said Marston, gloomily; go, i~ow, and see your sister; you will find her there. He pointed to the small room where we have first seen her and her fair governess, and Charles obeyed the direction, and Marston proceeded him- self to his wifes sitting-room. CORRESPONDENCE. Paris, 29th May, 1848. A PROPER response has been made, by the na- tional assembly, to the address of the Congress of the United States. It is in the form of a short decree, which offers the thanks of the French Re- public to the American people, and the expression of its fraternal friendship. A terse preface was pronounced by the reporter; the minister of for- eign affairs, Citizen Bastide, added some acknowl- edgments, and referred to the enthusiasm of a Baltimore meeting of thirty thousand. The Cour- rier Francaisof which the chief editor is a mem- ber of the assemblyobserves, that the decree was adopted without opposition, as without en- thusiasm. This is true ; not that good-will towards the United States is wanting, but that there is a general distrust of the practicability, in France, of any republican system. Major Pous- sin has inserted in the Sit~cle of the 26th inst, an inrenious essay on the democratic principles which may be embodied in the French constitution. He follows the American model in most of the details. He would be content with a president for three years, chosen directly, by universal suffrage, and with the same powers as those of the American. Elections at so short an interval, by nine millions of voters for a president of a nation, like the French, of thirty-five millions of people, would be a hazardous experiment. The minister of justice has submitted a bill to revive legal divorce, abolished in 1816, in compliance with the doctrines of the Catholic church, which had been proclaimed the religion of the state. In the last week of February, we read placards, calling, in the name of the sex, for a law of divorce. Whether it would promote morality, I should not undertake to decide. The number of marriages has been exceedingly small since the revolution of February. The minister is harshly censured in the legitimist journals, while the oracle called the Voice of the Women commends his gallantry and equity. He has of- fered a less questionable bill for the re6rganization of the juryconsiderably and judiciously enlarg- ing its bases The ric~ht is provided for all French citizens to be inscribed on the jury list, except the wholly illiterate, and domestics and servants receiv- ing wages. This exception is reprehended by the extreme radical writers, as repugnant to the spirit of democracy. A ministerial bill for postal reform is also introduceduniform charge four sous, weight of single letter ten grams. No subject before the assembly has ezcited live- lier interest there and in the journals, thaim the decree banishing the Orleans family forever. The perpetuity is a matter of jest, on a retrospect of the vicissitudes of the French government. Most of the ex-deputies of the old opposition, and sev- eral of the old conservatives, abstained from the ballot-urn. They had been accused of a design to reinstate some member of the Orleans family: hence, probably, their inaction. If the assembly had rejected the measure, the anarchists would have cried treason. The A~tioeol explains the case thus: There are people who keep an en- trepot of intrigues and hopes for all monarchical cinigrations and all fallen royalties. Such a branch of industry must not be favored. This decree is simply a measure of police. Persons are not pro- scribed, but the causes of com~fiict are. The Journal des D~bats says: We saw with equal surprise and sorrow, among the ayes, men who had been ministers of Louis Philippe, and even some of those who manifested the most eagerness to sit in his council. Alexander Dumas, the novelist, has printed an eloquent series of strictures on the decree; reminding the country, at the same time, of the adulation so generally and recently paid to the old monarch, and of the military ser- vices and final patriotic conduct of his sons. The Prince de Joinville has to undergo acrimonious ridicule for his affectation, in his letters, of poverty, and his pretended plan of settling in the far Amer- ican West, in order to create an inheritance for his children. He is asked whether he has for- 42 CORRESPONDENCE. gotten his connection with the throne of Brazil, and his vast domain in that empire, to which it is thought that he would naturally repair to be re- lieved of all economical solicitudes. A portion of the assembly have associated them- selves in two clubs specially democratic, and for the special support of the executive commission. All operation and purpose of this kind, and in this mode, may be condemned as of bad example and tendency. To regulate, overawe, counteract the assemblyto warp the body to partial or person- al aimsis precisely the object of the common clubs, two of which the commission have just sup- pressed. We can distinguish no definite limitation or sphere of legislative and executive agency. The assembly undertake every administrative con- cern; the commission, or their ministers, create and abolish offices; levy taxes; orgauizi and dis- organize ; establish or reduce salaries; in short, do whatever seems to answer the exigencies of the day. The confusion of ideas, authority and pro- ceedings will continueat least until a new con- stitution shall have been framed and the machinery set at work The Journal des D~bats, of this morning, states that the matured scheme of consti- tution is not likely to be submitted to the assem- bly before the end of next month, June; and that the committee have agreed upon a single execu- tive, a responsible president, and one legislative body alone, by popular election every three or four years. It took eighteen months to digest the French constitution of 1791. But I have just read a note dated yesterday, from a distinguished member of the comruittee, to our consul, part of which I have obtained permission to copy: I have perused with due attention your excellent articles on the American System; they are often mentioned in the committee. They suggest much which I am glad to repeat. We are hard at work, six or seven hours a day, and we hope, in a fort- night, to draw iiear the conclusion of this arduous task. We are not, as you may suppose, planning the best constitution possible, but the one which will suit ~he times and France. The committee is composed of very remarkable men, and, with one or two exceptions, we are all of one mind. Nearly thirty thousand national guards came to this capital in forty-eight hours after the diffusion of the fact that, on the 15th, the assembly was in- vaded by the mob. In many of the provinces, a portion of the guards are inscribed and organized, of their own accord, and separately, for the pur- pose of marching hither whenever required. Ev- ery arrangement which may assure and encourage the assembly becomes more and more desirable. An awful light of danger and perplexity has at once broken upon the authorities and all the re- spectable classes, from the composition and mani- festations of the hordes congregated and marshalled in the national ateliers. A member of the assem- bly, M. Leon Faucherin high estimation as a writer on political and administrative economy argued, the day before yesterday, his motion for the appropriation of ten millions of francs, to the object of employing the men elsewhere. The finances of the state, he said, are about to be exhausted by the national aicliers. A hundred and twenty thousand workmen, at thirty sous per day, require thus a hundred and eighty thousand francs a daythat is, four and a half millions per month, or fifty-four millions per annuma sum larger than the whole budget of Paris. He denounced boldly various and terrible abuses in the manage- ment of the unprecedented system which has created an immense army, consisting of idlers, old malefactors, sturdy paupers from the provinces, good workmen lured from the regular factories and tradesan army within the walls, arid with no military discipline or responsible officers, but not without secret chiefs, who could delude or propel them to any excesses. Many thousands of men, accustomed to hard labor, have lost the habit of exertion, and deserted their families for clubs and tippling-shops; in a few months, he added, the working classes must become universally state- paupers, and, finally, pretorians or janissaries, for the desperate anarchists, if the ateliers should be maintained. M. Fauchers exposition fixed the attention of the assembly; his motion was instantly referred to the committee on the labor question. Recent transactions of and with the ateliers justi- fied and illustrated his views. An order had been issued from the ministry of public works, that the workmen from the provinces should at once re- turn honie, being supplied with means of subsist- ence for a fortnight. They positively refused to stir. It was discovered by the government, that the director in chief of the ateliers, M. Emile Thomas, a young man, sought to frustrate various arrange- ments of the minister. M. Thonias was summoned to the department, and there required to resign his office, and to set out immediately, under police escort, for Bordeaux. As soon next day as the fact of his arrest transpired, all the ateliers clamored for the deliverance and restoration of theirfather. The minister repaired to them about four oclock, to ex- postulate and advise; they declared him their pris- oner, and a hostage; he was released only on condition that Thomas should not be held in du- rance. The rappel was beaten, and a large force despatched to the neighborhood of the assembly. Since, the hotel of the ministry of public works has been placed under the protection of the line and the guards. Throughout the night, alarm prevailed in most quarters of the capital. In the morning, the Moniteur announced, officially, that Thomas had received a mission for Bordeaux, and started without delaythat a new director in chief had been duly installed; that the government was animated by notorious and sincere sympathies for the workmen, but did think of suppressing the atelierswhich, indeed, could not be maintained; and if disturbance unfortunately should increase, if culpable intrigues should succeed with the workmen, it would exert all energy and power, to carry into effect any measures deemed advisable. Genuine letters of Thomas are published, in which he complains of the violence practised with him, CORRESPONDENCE. 43 and the ateliers are about to protest on this head, and petition against dissolution. All branches of the executive tamper, as it were, with the work- men, and palter in a double sense with the public. A letter from the minister of public works, issued this day, tells us that in the steps taken with M. rhomas, there was nothing to affect his character, as a useful and honorable man. The ateliers are invited to a mass-banquet on Friday next, by the anarchical dabs and journals. A collision can scarcely be avoided more than a week or two more; it is thrice lucity that the executive commission, and the citizen classes, are forewarned and fore- armed. The workmen at Rouen and Orleans were associated in the conspiracy of Barbes & Co. a,ainst the national assembly. A committee of revolutionary journalists and club-worthies are preparing a complete biography of the assembly, the antecedent lives of a large number of the members being unknown to their constituents, as well as to the rest of the world. To bring the body into disrepute is a main effort with several of the factions. It must be admitted, observes an editor, that the press does not spare the assembly. Defamation, mutual and universal, may be cited as the common ha-bit, and a dire mis- chief. I remark among the mushroom journals, one entitled The Thunderbolt, and another Le Bon Dieu; a third proclaims that the republic must realize heaven, religion, happiness, equality, liber- ty, and fraternity! Some of them teach, that all vested interests, so called, are contrary to democ- racy, and were extinguished by the revolution of February. The wounded of the Three Days pe- tition the assembly for an inquiry into the man- ner in which they were cheated or robbed by the free corps, at the Hotel de Ville, of the public subscriptions for their benefit. On the 16th inst., by an executive decree, a Parisian republican guard was to be formed out of those corps dis- banded, at the same time, by another decree. You may judge of them from the titles recited in the Moniteur: the Republican Guard, the Montag- yards, the Lyonnais, and other like bodies; all pre- tending to absolute independence on the government, and attaching themselves, at will, to clubs, to the Hotel de Yule, to the ministry of the interior, arid to the prefecture of police; and claiming support out of any funds disposable by right or wrong. The Parisian guard is not yet completely organized. Yesterday an edict appeared, that the officers of every description, and the soldiers of the dissolved free corps, should receive pay until the 10th of next month. Citizen Caussidi~re, ex-prefect, and notorious conspirator, who resigned his seat in the assembly at the same time as his office, has come forward as a candidate for re~lection. He says, in his ad- dress, Amid the passions of the epoch, one half of Paris, if I had listened to it, would have caused the other to be arrested. He adds that, on the 15th May, he was excluded from that co5per- ation which it was incumbent upon all the deposi- taries of authority to lend to the cause of order. The executive commission have belied him this day, in the i\Ioniteur, by extracts from the records of their sittings on the 14th and 15th. He was for- mally summoned, but feigned sickness in bed; after the deliverance of the assembly, at ten at night, the commission evoked him again, and, then, in about half an hour, he presented himself, vigor- ous enough. lIe promises to publish, soon, a nar- rative of his administration from the 24th February, when, in fact, he took possession, with his suite, of the police department, and compelled the pro- visional government to acknowledge him as pre- fect. We shall have a fine elucidation of that fraternity to which glowing homage is paid in the resolutions of your meetings and the harangues of your fiery tongues. Cabet, head of the com- munists, who was initiated in the arcana of the revolutionary clubs of the two chief radical jour- nals, the National and the Reform, before the Three Days of February, is disclosing, in his l)a- per, curious particulars of their composition, feuds, compromises, and final monopoly and division among themselves of power, office, and the na- tional exchequer. Achille Fould, member of a principal banking-house, and an ex-deputy of high rank in monetary questions, has addressed a pam- phlet to the assemblyon the condition of the pub- lic finances. It is an awful disquisition, rendered more so by the official custom-house returns for the three months just past. Fould calculates that the daily deficitthe excess of expenditure over the ordinary receiptswas, for the 268 last days of the monarchical government, seven hundred and sixty thousand francs, with the resource of loans to supply it; but that the daily excess, for the 71 days of the provisional government, has been two and a half millions of francs, without that resource, public credit being, if not dead, in suspended ani- mation. By what virtue of anarchy, or necromantic skill, entire national bankruptcy can be averted, let the sanguine augurs divine by the entrails of the victim. A scheme of a mighty bank, for the exchange of indigenous products, without coin or paper as its representative, finds some favor. Pa- triotic gifts have ceased; they were but a drop in the bucket. The addresses of many of the candidates for the next elections are of nearly incredible tenor. Count Leon, a reputed bastard of Napoleon, boasts of his glorious illegitimacy, and professes, in the name of his father, unlimited devotion to the demo- cratic cause. Weill, an author of distinction, urges a variety of personal merits and perform- ances, but ends with the declaration that he is utterly indifferent about success; I care not whether you give or refuse your votes. Citizen de Richemont, Dauphin of France, the son of Louis XVI., renounces, for a seat in the assembly, the right which he has so long asserted to the throne of France. Alphonse Esquirosa writer of considerable talents, whose contributions, on the diversities and asylum of insanity, to the Revue des deux Mondes, deserve high appreciationpros- trates himself before the most squalid rags, and CORRESPONDENCE. 44 licks the foulest feet of universal suffrage. He The unfortunate subject of the respective attn- denounces the assembly as a second edition of the butes and the official relations of the assembly and chamber of Louis Philippe, and the majority of the the executive commission destroyed the anxious Parisians as traitors to the revolution. I have calm and politic concert of both parties. A judi- loved people to intoxication; I have worshipped cious compromise on three heads was ratified freely; them in the prisons; I am proud of my humble I but on the point whether the president of the as- circumstances; I was horn in the heroic faubourg sembly should share the prerogative of directing St. Antoine, in the midst of its workmen. I foam the military defence of the assembly, a vehement with a holy indignation, & c. contrariety of sentiment broke out on every side ________ Ledro-Rollin, the most distrusted of the executive. 30th occupied the tribune, and claimed exclusive control Paris, May. of the military, and unqualified confidence for the Agitation and alarm throughout yesterday; ma- commission. He ny legions of the guards, and nearly the whole of was seconded by the minister of the garrison of more than forty thousand of all war, General Cavaignac, with sound reasons. and arms, on the alert; the garden of the Tuileries temperate spirit and language. The assembly would at once have yielded, but an ex-deputy, of like a piece darrnes; companies of artillery sta- influence and elocution, reviewed the conduct of tioned about the basins and in the groves; formidable the commission in reference to the affair of the array in the Paubourg St. Germain and on the quays 15th, in a way to revive distrust and resentment. adjacent to the palace of the assembly, sopposed To lamor that ensued, the president to be threatened with a visit of the patriots of the repress the c ateliers. Between seven and eight in the rang his bell in vain, for a quarter of an hour. evening, Most of the members rushed out at seven oclock, the rappel again beaten, the turbulent groups on anting with so the fashionable boulevards dispersed ; shouts of p usation, and impatient for their dinners ; and the exciting topic will be further Vice la Ligne, when the regular squadrons advanc- ed in charging-trim ; many arrests, and among the discussed this afternoon. One of the best of the prisoners the commander of the mounted Guard reporters writes I left the assembly overcome wish the heat, exhausted by fatigue, and stunned Mobile for fabricating appointments of officers, with the noise of eight hundred voices at their Individuals with arms under their clothes were seized in the galleries of the assembly during the utmost pitch. sitting. Rumors prevailed that the atelie ~- The republic has been recognized in form by venge at once the abduction of their chief, Of), Spain and Belgium; but the latter improves and had resolved to cut the gas-pipes, to attack Yin- exercises her army of seventy thousand eight cennes with one ttreat division, and try barricades at I hundred men, and prepares herself for defensive the I and offensive operations. According to a Ben- night in capital with the other, besides conflagra- lin article of the 25th, a pacific convention has tion and pillage in many different and distant quar- been concluded between Prussia and Denmark. tens in order to distract the attention and forces of the authorities. The case of the ateliers and the Spain was tolerably quiet; finances chiefly trou- blesome. Insurrections over continental Greece; instinct of self-preservation have now kept the na- Pius IX. not safe at Rome, since the victory of Fer- tional guards three days on foot. In the afternoon, in the assembly, explanations of the dealings with dinand and his lazzaroni at Naples; a Paris journal affirms that the Austrian General Nugent, after Thomas were asked by his personal friends among the members; the minister of public works and- beating the Italians under Durando and Antonini, swered in an able, affecting, manly speech, which joined Radetsky in Verona, with 18,000 troops. overcame all disposition to blame, and gained for Doubtful. Advices from Italy are far from being his coup de main the approval of a very large and clear. In the manifesto of the Emperor of Austria, earnest majority. Every one became sensible of from the Tyrol, it is said that he will retract none of his task, and of the dimensions of the popular rights which he has conceded, but the arduousness will submit to no further violence. Intelligent of the state-difficulty, with the hosts of the ateliers, American travellers, just from Germany, assure who so well understood the array of riot and the of confusion. The report on the treat- toe that the Germans are still decidedly monarchs- discipline cal and the Austnians, in particular, warmly dy mont of the case from the committee on labora nastic. The scheme of the new constitution for comprehensive survey and resolute specification of Prussia is akin to that of Belgiumwish more of remedieswas not less successful than the appeal aristocratic element. In the seventeen articles of of the minister. It is proposed that task-work be substituted for the day-system, and all the adven- the Swiss compact, several provisions of the Amer- ican constitution are closely copied. tuners from the provinces, who have not been more than three months in the capital, be despatched, Paris, 3ist May, 1848. hon gre, mel gr~, to their homes; the eteliers to Yesterday, some seven or eight pages for yoa he otherwise purged, remodelled, and subdivided, were despatched to the steamer Washington. The The plan may not, however, prove feasible, or, matter of the present missive may not he quite so certainly, will not, without a fierce conflict. The abundant. Comparative tranquillity, from early noble regiment of cuirassiers, at St. Germain, where morning, rejoiced the Parisans, and enabled the I sleep, is hold in constant readiness. national guards and the troops to take a little CORRESPONDENCE. 45 repose. Late in the evening, the assemblages of ister of justice, to thank him for having proposed blouses at the gates of two of the north-eastern a law of divorce. He received twelve of them in fauhourgs, were large but inoffensive. It was not his cabinet and heard the spokes-lady with his best thought necessary to station a considerable force smile. They withdrew, crying, Long live the about the national assembly, and the proceedings protector of divorce ! Some of the male specta- of this body were temperate and satisfactory in the tors on the place, who ventured to gibe the proces- results. sion, were handled by a detachment of viragos so At four oclock, a meeting was held in a park roughly that they fled as soon as they could cx- to the west within the walls, of the seven hundred tricate themselves. delegates of the one hundred and seventeen thou- A distinguished Pole, high in my esteem for his sand workmen of the national ateliers, (1 ravailleurs learning and refinement, and author of an eloquent embri0 adds.) A new and bold petition to the tract on the democracy of Europe and the Polish national assembly was read and voted, and the question, called on me yesterday to talk over majority resolved that the new director of the affairs. I had earnestly dissuaded him from set- ateliers should be invited to appear beibre the del- ting out, in March, with the Polish legion that egates, and give categorical explanations of the hurried to the Duchy of Posen. He reminded me abduction of his predecessor, Monsieur Thomas. of my verified predictions. He had just conversed He declined the invitation at first, but appeared with a group of the refugees who reached this and explained on conditions. The sub-director capital last week. They harrowed him by the carried the unanimous petition to the president of accounts of their personal sufferings, the sad aspect the national assembly. The delegates were a little of their cause, and the antipathy of the Germans. scandalized in hearing that, in case of tumult on About three hundred have since reached Yalen- the part of their constituents, the minister of war, ciennes, through Belgium, in a miserable plight. General Cavaignac, was resolved to fire on them, The Belgians proved torpid, and our executive first, and would reason with them afterwards if commission have ordered that the band be kept they should so please. away from Paris. Sympathy here, is conspiracy; The proc~s verbal of the meeting of the assem- besides, the Poles imagine for themselves an abso- 61?, of the national ateliers, on the 27th inst., as lute, indefeasible right to all the energies and re- published officially in the Jacobin Commune de s~:rees of France. Paris, has a curious aspect. The minister of Your newspapers contain an appeal of the Polish public works was admitted to preside. He had committee at New York to American liberalism, sought an opportunity of exposing the evils of the to enable the patriots to emb-ark. The best service ateliers, and accounting for the manner in which which you can render them is to keep them where he had superseded Director Thomas. The brother they are. This counsel is equally applicable to of t.his gentleman rose and contradicted the minis- time Irish brigade, and the money voted for the ter in every detail; and then insisted on a reversal cause of insurrection in Ireland. All would be of the sentence. Citizens, exclaimed the mm- sacrificed. Poland and the oppressed Emerald ister, I know not whether I should or can speak Isle must rely on other means than arms; or at further, before such a convocation as this. He least the juncture for a successful struggle is not then endeavored to proceed with his statements, come. but the brother of Thomas impassiormed by fra- It is not now disputed that the Polish, German, ternal pietycried out, Not a word of the Belgian, and Italian expeditions from this capital, minister is true; he deceives us. Interroga- to revolutionize their several countries, have every- tions, most impetuous, are cast upon the unfortu- where injured the flag of republicanism, and occa- nate chairman, from all sides; many memubers of sioned alienation from France. Every attempt the club hold warm discourse with each other ; from our quarter has experienced utter defeat, from the question is debated whether the minister should the common indignation of those countries. The he put in duranceen charle priv~e. The pro- French provisional government was obliged to ex- c~s verbal continues thus: The citizen minister cuse and palliate its connivance, as well as it persevered in hararmguing against the organization could. of labor, and lacked both ideas and words. Citi- Lamartine told some of the deputations of over- zen Gibon, a journeyman-shoemaker of Paris, ez- weening foreigners, to the Hotel de Yule, that pressed himself with more sense and precision : he every nation had a right to repel the interference, showed that the people had earned the public within, or from without, of foreigners in her con- moneys by the barricades; and that the rights of cerns. The diplomatic communications which he every one Imad been violated in the treatment of read, wlmen addressing the assembly on the Italian Citizen Thomas, who must, he said, be instantly question, and the debates at Turin and Milan, reinstated. Acclamatiou. Petition moved, and slmow that Italy was not at all inclined to ask signed. Meeting adjourned. French codperation. Even the radical Vorort of About ten oclock in the mormming, we were S~vitzerland, alarmed at the mammifestamious of the attracted by a concourse of both sexes on the Place Swiss democratic club in Paris, disclaimed league Vendome. The cynosure was a numerous depu- or sympathy with the revolution of February. The tation of females, of every age and condition, march- speech of the president is a remarkable document. ing, with a grand banner, to the hotel of the miii- It is thought by time diet, that, in revolutions CORRESPONDENCE. however lawful on the wholethe end does not! inquiry. Every one may lament the source cf always justify the means; and that, iu demolishing 1 distraction and weakness opened in the formation, or creating governments, there are modes and out of door, of clubs of its members, of the differ- agencies which all regular and principled commo- eut nuances or shades of party. The divisions are nitics and governments should discountenance. We may presume that the enthusiasm of the American citiesquite naturalwas single-minded ; with- out any alloy; hut we see American letters and editorial articles in the London papers, which ascribe the emulation of homage to French trans- formation and Irish patriotism, in part to elec- tioneering ruseto the habit of making political capital out of all occasions of the kind. For the preservation of a sound moral senseas important for nations as individualsit is necessary to in- quire whether our sudden sympathies and explo- sive predilections be just and consistent. Upon reflection, fervent praise and solemn compliment might not seeni due to a people, fur merely abstain- ing from general proscription, butchery, and pil- lage, of each other, after demolishing a government created by themselves, and consisting of their own flesh and bloodthe same people being universally armed and on the alert for mutual aggression or repression. We can understand any tribute of admiration to the northern Italians, who fight desperately to expel a foreign sceptre, or to the Arab Abd-el-Kader, now a prisoner at Pan, who, so many years, so gallantly and skilfully contended against the subjugation of his race by a foreign invader. The people to be honored and felicitated are those who, like the. Americans, have never submitted to tyranny, and have tranquilly prac- tised and gloriously enjoyed the free institutions ________ ~vhich it needed the true spirit and intelligence of Christian liberty and social welfare to devise and establish. What peculiar merit is discoverable in not going to war, when there is no provocation when no enemy is prepared or disposed to fight when domestic motives, the strongest possible, abound for keeping the peace I Much political philosophy may be educed from the recent events and phases in Europe; but I reserve it for a sequel not very remote. A deal will have been gained for popular freedom on the continent, although the old royalties should survive. Possibly, in the end, the revolution of France will have produced more benefit to other nations than to herself. An able editor remarks that in France, on the ruins of all public authority, two great powers have arisenone, the national assembly, moral and political; the other, of arms, the national guard and the line united. These are the only reliable defences against anarchy, civil war, and universal disorder. But the assembly, he adds, is the sheet-anchor of mercy. Hence, the tran- scendent importance of keeping it in full repute and strength. The London oracles and the Paris press judge it with too little consideration and in- dulgence. If we dwell on its composition, num- bers, situation in Paris, and the condition of affairs at the period of its meeting, we may be surprised that, within three weeks, it has organized itself so well, and prepared so much useful work and scarcely yet defined or substantiated ; but these clubs tend to give them distinct being and direc- tion; in one, some two hundred representatives have pledged themselves, in writing, to support the exeentive commission and the ministry; from another, all the members of the old chambers are excluded. These associations, observes a re- publican candidate for the assemblya former editor of the National will have their adherents or factions in the city, their several banded forces; they will undertake to govern the ministries and the assembly ; they have no sufficient excuse; the representatives can know and consult each other by means of the many standing and special coma- mittees, and of the daily intercourse of all; they have scope and liberty in the tribune and the ballot- urn for every aim and idea; their true and sole lawful club is the assembly itself. We cannot forget what evils resulted from the direct connec- tion of our first revolutionary legislators with the external action of parties. Perhaps, the mem- bers of your American legislatures might deserve a lecture on this head. The central committee of the Paris clubs propose a subscription for the erec- tion of an immense amphitheatre wherein twenty or thirty thousand of the people may congregate at any time, to deliberate on public affairs. All the clubs and the ateliers are to furnish money and labor. Paris, June 1, 1848. In the afternoon of yesterday, the armed bodies in the neighborhood of the assembly were consid- erably reinforced: at night, various large gather- ings on the boulevards occupied the police. The executive commission announces that it will speed- ily submit to the assembly bills for the proper man- agement of attroupements and placards. They must be restrained, if not prohibited, or calm and order cannot return. A prosecution has been di- rected against the printem of a placard which re- commends the Prince de Joinville as a candidate for the assembly. It is asserted and believed that Louis Napoleon, the would-be emperor, was in Paris on the 29th May, and compelled, again, by the government, to hie to London. Every princi- pal journal offers its list for the elections. The department of the Seine has to elect eleven repre- sentatives on the 5th instant. There is a proba- bility of the success of Thiers, Charles Dupin, and General Changarniervaluable accessions. Close attention is lent to the executive commissions re- port on the insurrection of the 15th ultimo. It forms chiefly an apology for themselves, and an impeachument of the ex-prefect of police, Caussm- dihre. More about it when we have his narrative and recrimination. As every day is said to have its danger,so has every day its disclosures. Cmi- rions materials for history are supplied by con- trivers and actors in the three days of February, 46 CORRESPONDENCE. 47 who claim credit, as rivals, for revolutionary prow- ess and service. You shall get the suhstance of their puhlications in due season. The assembly are a little relieved, as the directory have conceded the power which was enacted for the chairman to sum- mon the military force, directly, for the protection of the sovereign body, on emergencies, of which he is to be the judge. Lamartine delivered, in the tribune, a conciliatory, compliant speech. The Journal des D6bats remarks: The assemhly and the executive are dissatisfied with each other, but will not avow why, and do not wish to part. No one utters all that he really thinks. Our northern provinces have spontaneously combined plans by which, in a few hours, fifty thousand of their na- tional guards can be thrown into the capital in aid of the assemhly. It is a comfort to find common in the electioneering addresses, such sentiments as the following in that of the chief editor of La Libert~ : I am for the tn-colored flag against the bonnet rouge; for 1848 against 1793; for La- martine against citizens Barbes, Blariqui, and con- sorts; for the national assembly against the armed clubs; for the national guards against the anar- chists; in fine, for the real workmen against the disorganizers of labor. Your public convocations that have sent or may send liberty-caps hither, should learn that t1~e, redthe bonnet Phrygien is detested by all the respectable classes, though it have a chance of ~come from the clubs. The hierarch of the disorganizers, Louis Blanc, member of the late provisional government, and apostle of the Luxemhourg, was placed yesterday afternoon in a critical predicament. The president of the assembly read to the house a request from the law officers (sturdy republicans) to be author- ized to include another of the representatives, Louis Blanc, in the prosecution for the conspiracy by which the national sovereignty was assailed on the 15th ultimo. They alleged violent presump- tions and weighty evidence against him. You could not conceive the excitement and tumult that ensued. He entered the trihune, pale and half mad with rage and fright. He cast the lie on all his accusers; he admonished the assembly that they would soon he invoked to revive the punishment of death, which would be suicidal, because they would destroy each other. Bitter contradictions were exchanged between him and a multitude of the members on the floor. On the whole, his passion- ate and pointed denials of any privity, connection, or participation whatever, produced an impression in his favor. The minister of justice stated that the executive stood aloof in the question, and pro- posed that the assembly should retire into the committee-rooms, where it might be less tempest- uously treated. Finally, a committee of eighteen was appointed to examine and report. The re- quest of the law officers is not likely to be granted, because additional excitement might prove of gen- eral detriment. Few doubt that Blanc and Ledru- Rollin would have associated themselves to the victors, if the conspiracy had triumphed. The assembly do not sit this (Ascension) daya pre- scriptive holiday. The stock of the Bank of France declined yesterday in the market. It was apprehended that the government would carry a loanor an emission of some hundred millions of the notes, for which government stock would be given; and the idea or belief prevailed of a deficit of a hundred millions in the ordinary budget of this year, 1848, ascertained by the committee on the finances. Lyons is still disturbed. New popular disturbances at Berlin on the 26th ultimo. The minister of foreign affairs yesterday disclaimed the notion of going to war with the government of Naples on account of any of her internal revo- lutions. Her army, despatched to the succor of the Lombards, has refused to return, and her squadron has coalesced with the Sardinian in blockading Trieste. A decisive battle between Marshal Radetsky, with 50,000 troops, and Charles Albert, with his united and ardent legions, was expected before Verona. Success to the side of national spirit and independence! NOTICES OF BOOKS. THE DIPLOMATIC AND OFFIcIAL PAPERS OF DANIEL WEBSTER, while Secretary of State, have just been issued, in a fair octavo of 392 close pages, by the Harpers. These Papers treat of the North-Eastern Boundary; the Suppression of the Slave Trade; Maritime Rights; the Case of the Caroline; that of Alexander McLeod; the Right of Search; the Ashburton Treaty ; Relations with Mexico; Do. with Spain; Sound Dues at Elsi- nore, the Zoll Verein, & c., & c. These topics possess a deep and abiding interest, which the great ability of Mr. Webster is calculated to extend and enhance. His correspondents and antagonists also ~vere generally men of mark; and the hook is alto- gether one which will command a place in every comprehensive library. An accurate map of the north-eastern section of the Union, with the con- tiguous portions of British America, showing the conflicting claims and final settlement of the bound- ary, is a valuable addition, while a half-length por- trait of Mr. Webster faithfully presents the most massive and majestic head in the wide world. This is a book for grave readers mainly, but they will know how to study and prize it. Tribune. ~Jircurnstances affecting Individual and Public Health. By CHARLES E. BUcKINOHAM, M. D. This is a lecture recently delivered before the Suffolk Lodge of Odd Fellows. But it is a valu- able discourse for general reading, arid there is not probably more than one in one hundred of our fel- low-citizens to whom the information contained in its pages is an old story. Dr. Buckiugham has not only done himself credit, but has deserved ~vell of his neighbors in telling them so simply and intel- ligibly what they have forgotten, or never knew, on the important subjects of proper ventilation, good drainage, pure air, and pure water, and the deplorable effects of the opposites of all these things. Though appearing in a modest form and manner, the discourse is not surpassed in value by anything heretofore published in this country on the same subjectsPost. CONTENTS OF No. 216. 1 Life in the Hudsons Bay Service, by Ballantyne, Spectator, 2. Byrnes Wanderings in the British Colonies, - 3. French SocialismSt. SimonFourier~ & c., - 4. A German Empire, 5. Voice of the People, 6. Marston of Dunoran - 7. European Correspondence - POETRY,T}Ie Boat Horn, - - - PSiOSPECTUSThIS work is conducted in the spirit of j~ittells Museum of Foreign Li:erature, (which was favor- ably received by the public for twenty years,) but as it is twice as large, and appears so often, we not only give p irit and freshness to it by many things which were ex- rl uded by a months delay, but while thus extending our acope and gathering a greater and more attractive variety, are able SO to increase the solid and substantial part of our literary, historical, aiid political harvest, as fully to aatisfy the wants of the American reader. The elaborate and stately Essays of ttse Edinburgh, Quurterly, and other Reviews and Biackwoods noble triticisms on Poetry, his keen political Conimentaries, highly wrought Tales, and vivid descriptions of rural and mountain Scenery and the contributions to Literature, History, aiid Conimon Life, by the sagacious Spectator, the sparkiin~ Examiner, the judicious Athenwum, the busy and industrious Literary Gazette, the sensible and romprehensive Britannia, the sober and respectable fihris- Uan Observer; these are intermixed with the Military and Naval retniniscences of the United Service, and with the best articles of the Dublin University, New Monthly, Frasers, Tails, Ainsirorths, Hoods, and Sporting 1IIug- azines, and of fihambers admirable Journal. We do not coiisider it beneath our dignity to borrow wit and wisdom from Punch; and, when we think it good enough, malce ase of the thunder of The Times. We shall increase our Yanety by importations from the continent of Europe, and from the new growth of the British colonies. The steamship has brought Europe, Asia, and Africa, into our nei~hborhood; and will greatly multiply our con sections, as Merchants, Travellers, and Politicians, with all parts of the world; so that much more than ever it cm North British Review, - Exanainer, - - - ii Dublin University Magazine, Of the Living Age, - - 1 - - 2 - - 5 - - 21 - - 22 - - 23 - - 41 - - .3 now becomes every intelligent Amerimn to be informe4 of the condition and changes of foreign countries. And this iiot only because of their nearer & onnection with our- selves, hut because the nations seem to be hastening. through a rapid process of change, to some new state ot things, which the merely political prophet cannot compute or foresee. Geographical Discoveries, the progress of Colonization, (wbich is extending over the whole world,) and Vcyages and Travels, will be favorite matter for our selections; and, in general, we shad systematically and very oIly acquaint our readers with the great department of Foreigi affairs, ~vithout entirely neglecting our own. White we aspire to make the Living Age desirable tt. all who wish to keep themselves informed of the rapia progress of the movementto Statesmen, Divines, Law- yers, and Physiciansto meii of business and men oh leisureit is still a stronger object to make it attractivc and useful to their Wives and Children. We believe tha we can thus do some g:od in our day and generation; and hope to make the xvoii. indispensable in every well-in- formed family. We say indispensrible, because in this day of cheap literature it is not possible to guard against the influx of what is bad in taste and vicious in morals, in any other way than by furnishing a sufficient supply of a healthy character. The mental and moral appetite must be gratified. We hope that, by winnowing~ the wheat from the chaff, by providing abundantly~for the imagination, and by a large collection of Bio,,rapl~, Yoyages and Travels, History, and more solid matter, w~may produce a work which shall be popular, while at the same time it lviI aspire to raise the standard of public taste. Tzams.The Lsvswo Aoz iS pumblished every Satur- glay,by E. LiTTELL & Co., corner of Tremont and Brom- geld sts., Boston; Price 121 cents a number, or six dollars a year in advance. Reniittane.e s for any period will be thankfully received and promptly atten dect to. ~ To insure reutarity in mailing the work, orders should be addresseto the oJJlce qfpiehlication, as above. Clubs, paying a year in advance, will be supplied as tollows Four copies for Nine Twelve $20 00 $40 00 $50 00 Complete sets, in fifteen volumes, to the end of 1847, hanaamnely bound, and packed in neat boxes, are for sale at thirty dollars. An~~ volume may be had separately at two dollars, bonn , or a doHar and a half in numbers. Any number may he had for 121 cents; and it may ye worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken voltimes they may have, and thus greatly en- hance their value. BindingWe bind the work in a uniform, strong, and good style; and where customers bring their numbers in good order, can generally give them hound volumes in ex- rhauge without any delay. The price of the binding is ~0 cents a volume. As they are always bound to one pattern, th2re will be no difficulty in matching the future rrslumes. Agencies.We are desirous of making arrangements, in all parts of North America, for increasing the circula- tion of this workand for doing this a liberal commisslo: will be allowed to gentlemen who will interest themselvet iii the business. And we will gladly correspond on this subject with any agent who will semid us undoubted refer ences. Postage .When sent with the cover on, the Living Age comisists of three sheets, and is rated as a pamphlet, at 4l cents. But when sent without the cover, it comeq within tue definition of a newspaper given in the law and cannot legally be charged with more than newspaper postage, (ticts.) We add the definition alluded to: A newspaper is any printed publication, issued us numbers, consisting of not more than two sheets, amid published at short, stated intervals of not more than one month, conveylmig intelligence of passing events. Monthly parts.-For such as prefer it in that form, IM Living Age is put up in monthly parts, containing four o~ five weekly numbers. In this shape it shows to great; advantage in comparison ~vith other works, commtaining ia each part double the matter of army of the quarterlies But ~ve recommend the weekly numbers, as fresher and fuller of life. Postage on the nmotmthly parts is about 14 cents. The volumes are published quarterly, each volume containing as much matter as a quarterly review gives iii eighteen months. WAsHrmemaTone, 27 DEC., 1845. Or all the Periodical Journals devoted to literature and science which abound in Europe and in thds country, this has appeared to me to he tIme most useful. It contains indeed the exposition only of the current literature of the English language, hint this by its imnmense extent and comprehension includes a portraiture of the humnan mind me the utmost expansion of the present age. 3. ~4. ADAMS.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 217.8 JULY, 1848. From the Journal of Commerce. PEAK OF POPOCATAPETL. ALTHOUGH the American army is about leaving Mexico, the stars and stripes will still continue to wave over that country, having been planted on the almost inaccessible peaks of Orizaba and Po- pocatapetl. An account of the ascent of the first- mentioned peak, about 18,000 feet above the level of the sca, by a party of American officers, we have already published. Of about forty individu- als who made the attempt, only the following reached the summit, viz., Major Manigault, Capt. Lomax, and Lieut. Reynolds, of the army, and Lieut. Maynard, (the same who acquitted himself so nobly at the wreck of the steamer Atlantic,) and Passed Midshipman Rogers, (who distinguished himself during the blockade of Vera Cruz, and was finally taken prisoner as a spy,) of the navy. This ascent is said to have never before been effected by man, and was pronounced by Humboldt, who himself made the attempt, impracticable. The American flag (made of shirts on the spot, for want of better materials) was hoisted and made fast on the highest peak. Another party of American officers, together with an Englishman, who is a professor in a college at Mexico, have ascended the peak of Popoca- tapetl. A description of the ascent is published in the Charleston Mercury, iii a letter from one of the party, who signs himself Stateburg. The original party, on leaving the capital, consisted of about twenty-five officers, with an escort of about seventy dragoons, and several citizens, both Amer- ican and foreign. This was on the 3d of April. On the 0th they reached the village of Asumba, at the western base of the mountain. On the morning of the 7th, having procured guides, they commenced the ascent. That night they spent at a herdsmens hut, only occasionally inhabited, near the limit of vegetation. We arrived at the hut (says the narrative) at an early hour in the afternoon, and flattered ourselves that round our camp fires of blazing pine knots we would pass a tolerably comfortable night. But, in the evening, a dark cloud gathered over the valley of Mexico, now far below us, and distant thunder announced the approach of a storm. We watched the heavy masses of vapor piling themselves about the base of the mountain, and rolling up its steep sides, until they broke upon us in driving sleet and snow, and sent us shivering with cold to our tents. Our guides comforted us at first with assurances that the storm would not last long; but all night the fierce wind, rumbling with dismal sounds along the ravines, and whistling through the torn branches of the pines around us, continued to drive the snow upon us. Our fires were nearly extinguished, and to complete the gloominess of our situation, we were enveloped in utter darkness, save when the ccxvii. LIVING AGE. VOL. XVIII. 4 lightning cast its glare about us, and threatened us by its close proximity. At one time we were startled by an explosion, like the sharp report of a long eighteen, and next morning we found a pine, within thirty paces of the place where we had been lying, shattered by the bolt. It had been our inten- tion to rise in the morning at about one oclock, and commence the ascent about two; but at that hour there was no abatement in the storm. At day- light it ceased snowing, but the wind continued, and whirled the dense clouds about us, so that we could distinguish no landmarks, and our guides said that it would be pure folly to attempt moving. Our irn- patience would listen to no reason, and at length,. yielding to our importunities, and to the possibility of the weathers growing better after sunrise, they consented to lead us on. It is worth remarking, that in no previous attempt had the ascent been successfully made when the snow lay upon tIne mountain more than a thousand feet from its sum mit on this side; and now it had fallen lower even than our posit.ion, and covered quite six times that height. Leaving our escort and attendants, except a few who wished to accompany us, we quitted our camp at six oclock, and a brisk walk of an hour brought us to the limit of Vegetation. The weather had not grown more favorable, and our gui(les declined going any further. Seeing that the poor fellows had nothing on their feet but san- dals, and that their backs were about as poorly protected, we could not insist on their accompany- ing us, hut were satisfied with a description of the route that we ought to pursue; and, braving all obstacles, we ascended into the clouds and snow above us. We were constantly led on by the hope that the sun would presently find its way to us, and that we might then accomplish our ohject. After toiling through about t~vo Iniles, and gain-- ing an elevation of about fifteen hundred feet above the limit of vegetation, the cold became severely; biting, and a fine sleet, beating upon our faces, an~ noyed us excessively. Some of our companions~ and attendants began to drop back and return; but~ others, more obstinate, pushed on. At about five hundred feet greater height, the thermometer stood at 230 Fahrenheit, and the weather continued to be as had as ever. The frozen mist formed icicles on. our hair, beards, and eyelashes, and the wind seemed to pierce us through and through. We had now, out of about thirty who had set out in the morning, only seven left. The wind had taken Lieut. Stones hat from him, and sent it at railroad speed across the field of snow; and, continuing on bareheaded, he soon became completely chilled. Whilst we were stopping under the shelterof a cliff, to rest ourselves, he stretched himself upon the snow, and fell asleep. Fearing that he was more nearly frozen than he was willing to admit, we insisted on his getting up and returmngimme- diately, and Capt. Sibley, 2d Dragoons, returned with him. This left but five of usfour officers and a soldier. It may appear extravagant to speak (if feeling the cold so severely, but it must be re- membered that the transition, from tropical heat to regions of eternal snow, and cold 12~ below freezing 50 point, was sudden, and that many had not made sufficient preparations to encounter it. The re- maining five ascended about five hundred feet higher, and then, completely baffled by projecting cliffs, and unable to discover any landmarks, we re- luctantly gave up, and turned to retrace our steps. The landmark which had served others for a guide was a very prominent conical rock, shooting up from the mountain side, seventy or eighty feet high, and is situated about one thousand feet below the crater; it is called the Pico del Frayle. Those who have previously made the ascent, deseribe, by the assistance of this rock, the only practicable route so accurately, that no one could fail in follow- ing their steps. We felt confident, at the time we turned back, that we could not be very far from Frayle; some thought we had got above it even; but we could not he positive as to our position at that time. When we had descended about half-way to the pines, the sun suddenly came out; and, on looking back, we felt increased disappointment at discover- ing that we had been near the base of this peak; and we instantly resolved to urge a second attempt next day. The sun was now shining brightly above, but below us rolled a tumultuous sea of clouds, sometimes completely engulfing the lower world, and leaving us, like wrecked mariners, upon a desolate island sometimes disclosing fleeting views of landscape, lighted by a momentary ray. We remained, catching the succession of beautiful contrasts, presented to us by this strange sight, until the recollection of a long and tiresome walk ~o camp forced us away. On arriving at the camp, we found that some of the party had already given up all hope of success, and gone down to the village of Asumba, and by far the larger part of those remaining were for abandoning the under- taking. A few, however, were willing to make a second attempt next day, encouraged by the pros- pect of better weather. Of those who declined joining the mountain party, the majority decided upon a visit to Cuernavaca, and a beautiful cave about a days ride from that city, whilst three or four were for an immediate return to the city of Mexico. We continued chatting around our fires until a little after sunset, when, sufficiently tired down, we turned into our tents. Before much time had elapsed, some faint complaints began to be made about inflamed eyes. To complaints suc- ceeded groans, and finally, towards midnight, all who had been up the mountain were fairly scream- ing with torture. I was not amongst those who suffered most severely, and yet I never felt such tormenting pain in all my life before. The pulling of half a dozen teeth at one time would have been nothing to what we endured. No one slept a mo- ment. Most were unable to sit or lie still at all, and were walking about nearly all night. I will venture to assert, that in no hospital in. Mexk~o was there that night as much keen suffering as there was in our camp. The next morning our guides prepared a wash for us, which allayed the pain ~considerably, and even enabled a few of those who were the least injured to open their eyes slightly, ~and to see a few paces before them. Of course our condition utterly forbade anything like the renew- ing of our attempt, and we descended to the town of Ameika, nearly all being still so blind as to re- quire being led every step of the way. On our arrival at the town, ive were kindly treated by the alcade, who gave us a solution of acetate of lead, which soon reduced the inflamma PEAK OF POPOCATAPETL. tion. The next morning our party split. More than half, with Capt. Sibley, of the Dragoons, and Capt. Porter, of the Riflemen, went off with the mounted portion of the escort towards Cuernavaca; some six or eight others returned to Mexico; and seven officers, and Mr. Baggally, remained at Ameika, determined on seeing the crater of Popo- catapetl. The officers who composed this last party were Capt. Bomford, 8th Infantry; Capt. Fowler. 5th Infantry; Lient. Newton, Rifles; Lieut. Stone, Ordnance; Lieuts. Kirkhamn and Buckner, 6th Infantry; and myself. We remained, until the morning of the 10th, in Ameika, and, being almost entirely recovered, we set out once again for the mountain. Profiting by our experience, we went this time well prepared with green veils and spectacles, warm gloves and thick sacks. Since the day of our failure we had had fine sunny weather, and a great deal of the snow, that had fallen then, had melted away. In reiiscending to the Vacaria, Lieut. Newton followed a wrong path, and we saw nothing more of him until we got back again to the valley. We left the escort at the Vacaria, and proceeded, with our attendants, and a few soldiers who wished to accompany us, to within a quarter of a mile of the limit of vegetation, where we pitched our tents. The night was far different from the first, being as clear and calm as could be de- sired. We rose at half-past one oclock, and were on our way at half-past two. In order to save our strength as much as we could, for the tug above the Pico del Frayle, we determined to ride our horses as far as possible, and then send them back to camp. The volcanic sand, which lies between the limit of vegetation and the region of eternal snow, and which, from its depth, is usually more fatiguing to travel over than the snow itself, was now, fortunately, frozen so hard that our horses carried us, with great ease, nearly two miles be- yond the pines. It would have been quite practi- cable to ride still further, but we did not care to jade our horses by forcing them up the ascent, which was now becoming very steep; and, more- over, our benumbed fingers and toes suggested that it would be more pleasant to climb than to ride. It was not yet daylight, but we could see sufficiently distinctly to avoid our former errors, and to gain the ridge which would lead us to the Pico del Frayle. Clambering up the steep slope was exceedingly toilsome, and we began also to feel the effect of the rarefaction of the air. We could not walk more than thirty steps without stopping to recover breath. The sun rose beautifully clear when we were at an elevation of nearly sixteen thousand feet, and we enjoyed at that moment another singularly striking sight. The huge shadow of the mountain was thrown across the valleys at its feet, over the range of mountains to the west of the valley of Mexico, far across the distant valley of Toluca, and finally vanished in a dimly blue point several degrees above the horizon. In the purple light which was spread over the country covered by the shadow, only the hills and valleys, and prominent features of the landscape, could be faintly distinguished, whilst on either side everything was glittering in the bright morning sunshine. Far away, to the west, we could see the white cap of the snow mountain of Toluca, and towards the south our view extended over a vast succession of hills and valleys, gradu- ally growing less and less distinct, until at length all seemed to vanish in a boundless sea. We had, PEAK OF POPOCATAPETL. 51 at this time, no view towards the east, nor could we see any portion of the valley of Mexico, except the extreme southern part. At this elevation the snow lay a few inches deep. We were about one mile in distance, and about seven hundred feet, perpendicularly, below the Pico del Frayle. At half-past eight oclock we reached that point. From it we could see the ex- treme peak, ahout a thousand feet above us. Leav- ing the Frayle, we followed, for about two hundred yards, the ridge on which it is situated; then, quitting this ridge, we descended to the small val- ley, or rather ravine, which separates the ridge of the Pico from the next ridge towards the east, and followed this ravine to its head. This brought us to the final ascent. The snow was now much above our knees, and this, with the extreme rare- faction of the air, caused our progress to be very slow. It was not possible to walk more than twenty steps without stopping to recover breath. We felt no difficulty or pain whatever in breathing when not exerting ourselves. On reaching the final slope, of which I have just spoken, we directed our steps towards a black rock, situated near the edge of the crater, about the middle of its south side. At about ten minutes past ten o~clock, Lieut. Stone was standing on the edge of the crater, exulting with huzzas at his complete success; and before the rest of us had arrived, he had already fastened the stars and stiipes to his staff, and planted them on the very loftiest peak of the mountainthe highest point of our continent. Mr. Baggally arrived soon after, and placed close by the cross of St. George. Now for a peep at the crater. It appears to he perfectly cylindrical in form, and nearly half a mile in diameter. The plane of its mouth inclines from the south to the north, making the northern side about sixty feet lower than the southern. Its depth is from six to eight hundred feet, and its sides are as perpendicular as the walls of a house. In its bottom, on the north side, are fifteen or twenty chimneys, apparently about five feet high, and a foot in diameter at their mouths. From these there is constantly emitted a dense yellowish smoke. The chimneys appear to be pure sulphur, and all that portion of the crater is covered with a crust of the same. From a great many crevices and fissures, in the side of the crater, smoke and gaseous vapors are ascending. From some they pour in continuous streams; from others they come in regular and sudden puffs, as though caused by water dripping on burning matter. The smoke which comes from the chimneys is generally so dissipated, before it reaches the mouth of the cra- ter, that it is not distinctly perceived there; but I have, on some occasions, seen it from the valley of Puebla, ascending quite densely. There is an ahomtnably suffocating stench of gases about the crater. The odor of sulphuretted hydrogen is the most distinct and unpleasant. From many differ- ent circumstances, we all agreed in rejecting, as perfectly absurd, the idea of anybodys ever having descended, by any means whatever, to the bottom of this crater. The only foundation for such a story is Carters statement, that he procured sul- phur from a mountain that burned with fire and smoke. But as a mountain may mean any moun- tain, we are quite sure that Popocatapetl was not the mountain. We had splendid views towards the east and north, but clouds had begun to accu- mulate around the mountain, and were hanging over the other quarters. We saw Orizaba very plainly, and had it not been for heavy clouds flying about its summit, we believe that we might have seen the Gulf. Our view of Mexico was inter- cepted by clouds, but we could see Puebla, as if at our very feet. The unpleasant effects of the gases did not permit us to remain long on the edge of the crater, and, a few minutes after eleven oclock, we commenced our descent, and at half-past t~vo were again at our camp, having been just twelve hours in accomplishing the ascent and descent. The thermometer stood at 260 Fahrenheit on the highest peakthat is, warmer, by several degrees, than it had been two thousand feet lower down, on the day that we failed. Others,, who have ascended to the crater, were either less fortunate in their route than we, or else they magnified the difficulties of the ascent vastly; but we followed their descrip- tions exactly, and, therefore, could not have gone far out of their way. They speak of having to pull themselves over crags and precipices with ropes. We met no such obstacles. My careless servant had lost my staff, and I went up without any as- sistance from any thing or person. They did not encounter snow until after passing Frayle; we fell upon it nearly a thousand feet below, therefore we had more to contend with. They also give nearly double what we give as the dimensions of the cra- ter. They call it nearly a mile in diameter, and twelve or fifteen hundred feet deep. We place both these dimensions at about half, and think it grand enough at that, without needing exaggera- tion. There are no traces or signs of the crater having undergone any material change for centu- ries back. The elevation of the crater above the valley of Mexico is about ten thousand feet. This is about equally divided by the parts above and be- low the limit of vegetation. Without becoming at all stunted in their character or appearance, the pines cease suddenly at about twelve thousand feet; very good and luxuriant grass grows also at. this point. Beyond vegetation, and to about the line of eternal snow, is a belt of deep volcanic sand; and above the sand, hard, compact lava extends to the crater. The elevation of the crater, above the level of the sea, is, according to various measure- ments that have been made, and which agree very closely, about 17,840 feet. The precautions that we had taken this time saved us from feeling any ill consequences, and we came down unscathed and delighted. STArzsuaG. VELOCITY OF ELEcTRIcITY.The immense ve- locity of electricity makes it impossible to calculate it by direct observation; it would require to be many thousands of leagues long before the result could be expressed in the fractions of a second. Yet, Professor Wheatstone has devised apparatus for this purpose, among which is a double metallic mirror, to which he has given a velocity of eight hundred revolutions in a second of time. The pro- fessor calculates, from his experiments with this apparatus, that the velocity of electricity through a copper wire one fifteenth of an inch thick, exceeds the velocity of light across the planetary spaces, and that it is at least 288,000 miles per second. The professor adds, that the light of electricity, in a state of great intensity, does not last the millionth part of a second; but that the eye is capable of dis- tinctly perceiving objects which present themselves for this short space of time.bSharpes Magazine. THE STORY OF A FAMILY. CHAPTER IV.THE HAPPY FAMILY. AT dinner there was a decided diminution of the restraint under which all the members of this sin- gular family party had previously labored. Some- what of the old Eastern sanctity of the bread and the salt yet lingers in the spirit, however utterly it may have departed from the forms, of English hospitality. You do not willingly keep a man at a distance after you have eaten with him. In the present instance there was more than ordinary diffi- culty to be contended with, inasmuch as the cure of disease is a harder task than the maintenance of health. These all had once loved each other; or rather, I should say, there had once been among them that habit of familiar kindliness which is all that some natures know of love. There were therefore memories to be stifled, allusions to be avoided, wounds scarcely closed to be touched cau- tiously and tenderly; there was anxious tact, con- scious and elaborate delicacy, fear, effort, silence. How unlike that service which, human as well as divine, is truly perfect freedom ! Even this difficulty, however, gradually wore away, and by the time that the cloth was removed, and the table, spread with wine and fruit, drawn to the open window, through which the children could be seen at play on the sunny terrace, they were all conversing together quite as freely and easily as if they were acquaintances of three months standing! Clever boy of yours, that! said Uncle John, addressing his elder brother; what do you mean to do with him, Alexander? make a lawyer of him, elf? Mr. Lee looked forth upon the gambols of his son and heir with a smile at once significant and benign, and replied, I have scarcely yet deter- mined; if he has talent, I should be very sorry not to give it full development; but he is very young as yet, and we can scarcely tell what he will be. Certainly his reasoning powers do sur- prise me a little now and thenthey are beyond his ageand he is so ready and fearless with them. His mother can do nothing with him, literally noth- ing; he is never without an argument, and I do assure you his logic is so plausible that he con- stantly puts her to silence, and she is obliged to call me in to carry the point. Which you do, I conclude, with the strong hand of authority? interposed Mr. Becket. To that I have never yet been obliged to have recourse, replied Mr. Lee, complacently. He is always amenable to reason; explain your order, and he obeys you directly; but he wont stir a finger unless he knows why he does it. A strong will, a calm temper, and a clear headI think I may venture to pronounce that he possesses those three gifts in no inconsiderable measure. Half a very fine character, I should say, ob- served Mr. Becket. And pray how would you define the other half? inquired the father, a little sharply. A reverent spirit, a warm heart, and a power- ful imagination. Scarcely very necessary qualifications for a lord chancellor, remarked Mr. Lee. Very good things in their way, though, chimed in uncle John, all except the last. I never in my life before heard it said that a power- ful imagination was necessary to anybody. I should think Alexander would be a vast deal safer with- out it. If safety were the principal question, re- joined Mr. Becket, smiling, he might perhaps be safer without remarkable abilities of any kind ; but where the reasoning faculty is unusually strong, imaginative power would seem, I think, to he in- dispensable in order to preserve the balance. Imagination preserving the balance! mur- mured the puzzled uncle John. Well, that s a new view of things, certainly. Why, it s common sense that preserves the balance. I should think imagination would be rather puzzled to know how to set about it. Quite out of his lineof imagi- nations that isI should say, anything so sub- lunary and practical as that. Hethat is, imagi- nation, you knowis busy in making poems, and allegories, and castles in the air, and all that sort of thing. I would nt trust my balance to imagi- nation, I promise you. Queer work he d make of it; odd sort of accounts he d keep, I fancy; to be sure, if one could pay ones bills by imagination, that might be pleasant enough, but there s no other mode that I can conceive for imagination to keep the balance. Ha, ha, ha ! Except in the case of a tipsy man, replied Mr. Becket, joining in the laugh, who imagines he keeps his balance, while in reality he is falling into the gutter. However, dont suppose I give up my principle; there are two scales to a bal- ance, you know, and as long as either is in the ascendant, you cant say that the balance is even. This was far too abstruse for uncle John, and while he was trying to discover the application of it, the fair Melissa interposed. I entirely agree with Mr. Becket, said she. Want of imagination is the great defect in our English character; we are so matter of fact; and we cling to forms, and laws, and creeds, instead of letting the imagination have free scope to wan- der and luxuriate without a fetter or a restraint. I express myself very badly, I know, but that is what you mean, is it not? turning to Mr. Becket. He looked a little confounded. Why, not exactly, he replied with much courtesy of man- ner; I think obedience comes before imagination in importance, but then I think the imaginative temper the most likely to be obedient. Moreover, I do not think that an over~submissiveness to forms and creeds, except, perhaps, to such as are self- imposed, has been generally found to be the weak side of the English character. No, indeed, cried Mr. Lee, it is our privi- lege to think for ourselves, to walk by the light of our own reason, and to govern ourselves, both as individuals and as a nation. 52 53 THE STORY OF A FAMILY. God forbid ! hastily exclaimed Percy Lee, who had hitherto taken no part in the discussion; then coloring and looking as though he would fain have withdrawn the ejaculation, he added, play- fully, Dont look frightened at me, good friends; I was only speaking as an individual who feels most particularly incompetent to the task of self- government. But, Alexander, remonstrated Mrs. Aytoun, is poor dear Alic really to be brought up with- out any indulgence in a little romance Is it to be all work and no play for him? Yes, indeed, said Melissa, seconding her sister; life without romance would be but a withered twig; it would be like a wounded bird, or a pianoforte out of tune. I dont know how to express my meaning, but I think I make myself understood. A little judicious cultivation nowa little care and watchfulnessmight do a great deal. You should make him learn poetry by heart; make it one of his regular lessons to learn so many lines a day, and I dare say he would soon acquire a taste for it. I am happy to deserve your approhation in this, my dear ladies ; answered Mr. Lee, with a slightly satirical how of deference to his sisters. Alic is in the habit of learning stated portions of the standard poets by heart among his other stud- jes, and I have never found him at all backward in this. The very last task of the kind which he achieved was learning the whole of the second canto of the Lay of the Last Minstrel,no trifle, I can assure you. And, to show you how much interest he took in the matter, I found, to my surprise, that he had amnsed himself by pars- ing it from beginning to end, and had detected no less than eight grammatical inaccuracies! Poor Sir Walter Scott ! said Percy Lee, with much fervor. That is what I call turning the study of poetry to some profit ! said the contented father of this intellectual prodigy. Ah ! cried Melissa, poetry is profit enough in itself; we want nothing else. It is, if I may so express it, the very acmethe keystone, of it- self ;it speaks to the heart. There is nothing like it. I cant tell you how it surprises me to hear you standing up for poetry in this ~vay, Melissa! observed uncle John; I always thought you were so excessively unpoetical. I! exclaimed the indignant lady; what can you possibly mean B For it is very observable that this is an accusation which the most matter- of-fact person in the world does not hear with equanimity. A mathematician might possibly say it of himself; but we doubt whether even a stock- broker, or a railroad speculator, could patiently endure to hear it said of him. This is perhaps that unconscious testimony of the multitude, which is worth a thousand arguments. Well, said uncle John, I dont know; it is my mistake, I suppose; but I think anybody would have thought the same. You dont give one the least idea of being a romantic person: you dont care for fine scenery; you never walk out by moonlight; you have nt any taste for music; you niever read poetry: in short, you do none of the things which I always fancy a romantic person doing. Melissas color rose higher and higher, but she forced a laugh: My dear John, you are so sim- ple ! said she; it is really quite amusing ; you never see an inch below the surface. One is nat- urally very reserved in the expression of ones tastes and feelings, and you fancy directly that one has neither tastes nor feelings to express. My health is too delicate to allow of my indulging my- self in many of my natural predilections; but I only wish I were what you fancy me; I only wish I had not that tendency to romance and love of poetry which were born with me, and which make me feel such privations so very keenly! As to your saying that I dont admire scenery, and never read poetry, I really cant imagine what you meanit is so very strange of you. Upon my word, my dear, responded uncle John, in a tone of the kindest sympathy, I only say what I think !I dont think you have that tendency at all by nature. When we were trav- elling in the north, you know, you always had your newspaper or your carpet-work, while the rest of the party were looking at the lakes and mountains; and to my certain knowledge you have had Shakspeare and Scott in your own private bookcase for two years and a half without ever cutting the leavesexcept of Hamlet, which, you know, you had down when Mr. Wharton was lec- turing on the subject, because you wanted to prove him wrong in his view of the character. And then Oh, pray, let us talk of something else ! in- terrupted Melissa. It is very unpleasant to be discussed in this manner; do, please, choose some more profitable subject! You never did under- stand me, and never will, if we were to live to- gether for a century. And she wound up by an appealing and victimized look at Mr. Coniston, which she trusted might neutralize the effect of these untoward revelations. Uncle John looked rebuked, but evidently did not quite understand the nature of his offence. Poor uncle John! This was often the case with him. Children were the only creatures with whom he got on, as the phrase is, perfectly well. He was like a great caricature of themselves; want- ing, perhaps, in delicacy and tenderness of do- tail, but very like in rough outline and general features. There was now a great commotion among the children on the lawn. The Midas joke had been revived, and Alexander had insisted upon as- certaining whether the ass~s ears were concealed under Idas profuse curls. As she stood there, a little frightened, with all her golden ringlets ruffled and disordered, Godfrey undertook her defence, and an argument ensued, terminating in a burst of anger on the part of the little knight-errant, so THE STORY OF A FAMILY. tremendous, that interference was unavoidable. Mrs. Aytoun and her brother Percy hurried to the field of battle; perhaps they were not sorry for any cause which enabled them to escape from the party within doors. Percy laid a strong hand upon the struggling Godfrey, and effectually prevented him from making a second onslaught upon his cousin, who, with torn collar, and flushed cheeks, but un- diminished dignity, marched away to report his wrongs to his father. He saidhe said, cried the unsubdued reb- el, as quivering from head to foot with passion, he tried to extricate himself from his uncles hands, he said that mamma was more likely to have the asss ears than anybody; he said it of you, mamma. He meant that you were stupid Let me go !let me go ! Mrs. Aytoun could not help laughing, though she colored a good deal as she whispered to her brother, Alics good breeding was a little at fault there! A little piece of home teaching slipped out by mistake, I suspect. Peace was with difficulty established; Godfrey, having been soothed, coaxed, and kissed into good- humor by his mother, was sent off to amuse him- self with his brother; and little Ida, who had withdrawn from the tumult, and was very happily gathering flowers in the distance, was summoned to bed. She came the instant she heard her fath- ers voice, though the chain of daisies and blue- bells which she was busily manufacturing hung half-finished over her arm ; she stood at his feet. lifting up her fair, innocent face for a kiss, and putting back the curls from her forehead with one tiny white hand. He raised her in his arms, and dismissed her with a fervent embrace and blessing. Do you trust that little creature to go by her- self? asked Ellenor, in a tone of wonder. Her brother smiled, but did not immediately re- ply. After a moments pause he said, with great earnestness, My dear Ellenorforgive me for saying itbut I fear that boy will cost you many and bitter tears ! Oh! Percy, how can you say so ? she re- plied, with flushing cheeks and glistening eyes. Is it possible that you can be so severe a judge of a little childish impetuosity I He has the most noble disposition, the most affectionate heart; when once his anger is over, a word or a look can melt him. It is only that he has such quick, enthusiastic feelings ; faults of temper always go with excessive warmth or keenness of feeling, and as he grows older he will learn self-command. It is useless to appeal to the reason of a mere child. Quite useless, returned Percy; but quite possible to subdue the will. I do not question the truth of a word you say, but these are the very reasons why discipline is so necessary for him. God knows it is not for me to teach; but I should grieve to think, he added in a quick and slightly tremulous voice, that he would ever feel what I feel now. His sister passed her arm through his, and laid her cheek upon his shoulder. Dearest Percy, said she, why should you think of anything painful in the past! There are so many happy things to rememberso much love and peace all the offences given were mere misunderstand- ingsand you kno~v, you must know, what perfect forgiveness there would be if she hesitated and paused. He bowed his face upon his hands for a mo- ment, amid then spoke, very quietly and gently. No, my beloved one, do not tell me to put away painful thoughts. By Gods mercy I trust they may be ever present with me. And do not suffer love to teach you gentle names for sin. I did what, if possible, I would at any cost prevent your Godfrey from doing. I made self my idol, and worshipped it, dethroning thereby both duty and love.~~ Self! repeated she wonderingly; how an- gry should I be with any one else who dared to say that of my generous brother! There is another idolatry of self, he replied, besides that which is deliberate and conscious. To spurn away the circumstances which God has assigned to you, and violently shape a new envi- ronment according to your own will, what is this but rebellion To burst the meshes of that golden network which love has woven for your soul, and insist upon developing unrestrained according to the measure and manner of your own choice, what is this but selfishness I Oh, for my lost fetters Oh, that I were a very prisoner and slave in the home I left! The voice of Ellenors sobs broke gently upon the silence, like the pulsations of a quiet and sor- rowful heart. It is strange how the mere pres- ence of sympathy causes the shyest feelings to come forth and show themselves, like sensitive children who will run to the veriest stranger that smiles on them lovingly, yet who shrink even from a mother if her face be stern and her voice cold. No word of his penitence had Percy Lee ever spoken till now, except when seeking the consola- tions of religion; and now it seemed as though he could have poured out the whole of it. There is no sign of love so true, so unmistakable, so blessed to him who receives it, as confidence in sorrow. Smooth and cheerful of aspect are the familiarities of daily life, but who can mistake their roving glances for the steadfast, tearful, un- fathomable eyes of friendship 1 That laughing, springing infant, with noble limbs, and cheeks ruddy with health, you may exhibit in the face of the world, and there are few who will not wel- come and admire him; but it is only a true brother or sister whom you would lead into the shadows of the still chamber, and place beside the bed where lies the deformed or sickly child, perhaps far dearer to your aching heart than the other. There was everlasting truth in the words of that woman, who, when asked why her love and inter- est clung so closely, so obstinately, so unceasingly around one whom the world neglected, and who perchance deserved its neglect, said, for all an- 54 THE STORY OF A FAMILY. 55 swer, I have wept with him. And who ques- Am I wrong? he added, suddenly checking tions the eternity of a tie thus cemented? We himself are joined together as by nails, which pierce while Not wrong, perhaps, rejoined Mr. Becket, they unite, hut which cannot be extracted without but certainly not wise. shivering the wood which they have penetrated. Percy felt the double meaning contained in this Ellenor, continued Percy after a pause, in hint, and was silent, coloring deeply. If the truth a low, terrible voice, I do not believe that I am of the suggestion required proof, it was supplied forgiven. the next moment, when Mr. Alexander Lee struck She looked up anxiously into his face; he into the conversation, with a certain bland author- could not meet her eye, bnt went on hurriedly. ity of demeanor highly irritating. On that nightyou know when I meanthe Not wise, indeed, said he; I perfectly night when she died he stopped; he perceived agree with Mr. Becket. My dear Percy, how is that she was thinking of his wife; after a short it possible that a man of the ~vorld like yourself, silence he said, trembling with the effort which it should entertain such a very romantic idea? One cost him, and in a tone of the profoundest rever- would fancy you had been living in a cloister all ence, my mother. Ellenor clasped his hand in your life. hers to let him know that he was understood, and Just the reverse, brother, replied Percy, again he proceeded: with resolute humility; it is the knowing so I knew itlong before I heard it; oa the much of evil which makes onewhich makes very nightat the very hour, I saw her, Ellenor. me so anxious to shield my child from it. She stood at the foot of my bed, and her face was And how would you put this fair-sounding hidden in her hands. I could not speak or move, theory into practice ? inquired Alexander. My but I clasped my hands together, and niy whole little niece will be singularly educated. History, being was one supplication for pardon. For the of course, she must not read, for by that she would space of some five minutes she stood so, as I have make acquaintance with a host of unknown sins; said, with her face hidden. She would not look society she must renounce, and the feminine rec- at menot one looknot one, Ellenorthat face, reation of innocent gossip; she may learn Ian- that lovely, venerable face upon which I had guages, but not study their literature; all poetry brought the shadow of so many griefs that I feared and fiction must be forbidden to her, for the strug to see what I knew was my own work, she hid it gle betwixt good and evil is eminently their sub- from me. Oh! could she do so? And soshe ject; physical science would, perhaps, be allowed went away his voice dropped to a murmur, her, though I could fancy dangers even in t.hat; and I have never seen her since. painting may be studied under severe restrictions; His sister was weeping on his bosom; she and music, I suppose, would be quite admissible, knew not how to comfort him. In an instant, only that it would be advisable to gag the music- however, he had resumed his usual self-command. master, lest some inadvertent expression of his My love, said he, kissing her tenderly, for- when she plays a false note should let her into give me for giving you all this unnecessary pain, the secret that there is such a sin in the world as Even now you see how selfish I amand look, anger ! they are coming to summon us to tea. Eh, Percy? interposed uncle John, with Oh, that perpetual recurrence of the needs and great cheerfulness; I should like to hear what requirements of common life in the midst of mighty you have got to say to that. emotions, how unnatural it is! It is as though a Why, you see, it does not exactly touch me, man should beat time with an unmeaning and dis- rejoined Percy; I never proceeded upon the sup- cordant stamp, all through the subduing harmonies position that all causes of evil were external. I of some glorious choir, to which one would hold have blundered as mnuclt in my endeavor to explain ones breath to listen! my meaning, as I am afraid I am likely to blunder Ellenor fled to her room; she could not en- in putting it into practice. counter that tea-party. Will it be thought strange Then pray do explain it a little more clearly, that Percy talked more, and more vivaciously, will you? said Melissa, fretfully; I really should that evening than he had done yet? He began not fancy you were likely to know munch about the to Mr. Becket, speaking of his darling Ida; and proper sort of education for a woman, and I should forgettingas the most reserved will sometimes quite like to hear your system. forgetthe presence of uncongenial hearers, he suf- It is a pleasant thing for a sensitive man to be fered himself to be betrayed into an expression of called upon to explain his system to an andm~ unwonted vehemence. So help me, God ! he ence disposed to be captious, sure not to sympa- cried, as she shall never see the face of evil ! thixe, and so intimate with him that there is not the Mr. Becket smiled gravely, and shook his head, slightest restraint either of manner or measure on though scarcely in discouragement. If it were the expression of their opinions. The agreeable- possible said he, gently. ness is increased if this system, as it is called, It isit must be possible ! exclaimed the be no neatly constructed piece of carpentry, par- other, dropping his voice. Surely, by tlte en- titioned off into cells of uniform shape and dimen- ergy of the will, by the devotion of a whole life in sions, but an idea which dwells in his heart as in thought and action, by the omnipotence of prayer a temple, and which he is in the habit of contemn 56 THE STORY OF A FAMILY. plating with love, and handling with reverence. Melissa felt decidedly uneasy, not having in the Percy Lee was an enthusiast of rather a peculiar least anticipated that her assertion of having corn- stamp, and in some respects he had failed to learn prehended the mystery would he hrought to so wisdom from experience; he was still somewhat speedy a proof. However, she summoned courage addicted to trying rash experiments, and suffering from the very extremity of the case, and answered, acutely from their ill-success, with a kind of intellectual plunge, Education, I I will tell you a fable, said he, smiling, to suppose. his sister, and leave you to discover the appli- Education ! cried uncle John, oh, that s all cation. Two children were bidden to scale a high very well. And it is uphill work with most boys, and dangerous mountain, by a path beset with that I can avouch. But if you mean, Percy, that thorns, and infested by serpents. Two angels, my pretty little niece ought to be educated by an with bright faces and sober eyes, and tall folded angel, I really dont exactly see how wings, stood before them and offered them guid- No, rio, no ! interrupted Percy, driven from ance. The one child was self-willed; he meant the cautious silence in which he had taken refuge, to do the task appointed him, but to do it in his own I did not mean that; I meant to symbolize the way; so lie put away the hands that were out- two tempers of ohedience and disobedience. stretched to lead him, and struggled up the path Yes, said Melissa, acquiescingly, by th~ by himself, wounded by the brambles, stung ever two angels. and anon by the snakes, and in much peril of No, reiterated Percy in a tone of despon- losing his way. The other child laid fast hold of dency, by the two children, Melissa. the angels hands; and as the angel slowly re- By the two children, said Alexander; a treated up the path, the child pursued, with up- most approved moral for the nursery. Not ex- turned eyes arid face, that never wandered from actly new, Percy, but perfectly indisputable. All the benign and radiant countenance which bent children are taught that they must mind what is towards them. Therefore this child could not said to them. And by the top of the mountain I even see the dangers by which it was surrounded; conclude you mean the end of childhood ? but planting its foot it knew not where, only ever Entrance into the world, suggested Melissa. in advance, the briars as it trod upon them changed Into the next world, said Percy quickly. to flowers, whose crushed blossoms sent up the Death ii exclaimed uncle John, entrance sweetest fragrance, and the serpents drew back into the next world Why, Percy, do you mean abashed from the presence of the angel, and glided to make everybody die in childhood ? away among the brushwood. And so, when the My dear Percy, said Melissa, in a tone of summit was attained, the face of the child was as remonstrance, you could not really mean death ~ joyful, and his garments as white and smooth, as Thcse impromptu allegories are apt to bewil- when he first started on his pilgrimage. der even their composer a little, when one comes And the other child, uncle Percy ~ inquired to apply them, remarked Alexander. We Frederic, eagerly, and dra~ving closer to his uncles must not be too hard upon him; we must let him side; did he get to the top, too, or did he lose speak for himself. The top of the mountain sig- his way after all B nifies death. The ascent must therefore be life. A sudden emotion came into Percys face, and But you see, Percy, you should have indicated lie could scarcely command his voice, as he replied, the point at which childhood ceases, or your Perhaps; I do not know. He might do so, after allegory would imply that the temper of obedi- wandering long, and suffering many wounds. ence, as you call it, ought to continue throughout Then, quickly changing his manner, he turned to life. the rest of the company, and inquired, Well, do This was spoken with mild triumph, as being you see my drift ? evidently a pleasant exposition of a result so nude- Your drift B repeated uncle John; why, no, niably absurd, that the mere enunciation of it dis- you have nt come to it yet, have you I thought proved the correctness of the steps by which it had the question was about female education, and both been attained. This is a woful species of argu- the children in your fable are little boys, aint ment not uncommonly adopted in society, and few, they il thus assailed, have the courage to avow at the I see what you mean, observed Melissa, but moment, that they believe in the truth of the very I really do not think that it applies. idea so unhesitatingly proffered to their ridicule Well, said Alexander, I confess I am rather Indeed, unless you have a great deal of presence in the same predicament as John; I dont exactly of mind, it is ten to one that you are surprised see the drift of the story; suppose we examine it into joining the laugh against your own principles, a little.Aud first, what are the angels intended and then left to the unpleasant contemplation of to represent B your own spiritual minuteness. Percy would fain I hope Melissa will be so kind as to answer for have held Isis tongue, but they were all looking at me, suggested Percy; she says she understood him interrogatively, so lie began with some hesi- my meaning, and I am sure she will explain it a tation. great deal better than I could. Thero is a childhood of the heart Come, Melissa, said uncle John, what are said he. the angels B And of the mind too, I think, interposed THE STORY OF A FAMILY. 57 CHAPTER V.THE WILL. Alexander. My dear teflow, you must excuse ful servant would be very sedulous, in such a case, me, but I am a practical man, and I must tell you, tomaintain her disguise i that all these theories and allegories of yours are. You are right, said Percy, and yet there is very pretty things npon paper, but utterly unreal a difficulty in fact, mere fancies wherewith to amuse a Surely not, observed Mr. Becket, it is very lively imagination. You must have seen, I think, easy to trust to the holy instinct of silence. How- how, even in itself, your system is not coherent; ever, he added smiling, if you think you have far less is it reducible to practice. I should really done any good by your little allegorical ser- be sorry to think that you were likely to make that mon sweet little girl of yours the subject of any romantic No, no ! cried the other in the same tone, educational experiments. But I know enough of have mercy! I have suffered enough for one the world to be aware how such notions end. offence. Nothing can be more amiable or poetical than your And so they parted for the night. views, bnt trust my word for it, when Ida is, as I dare say she will be, a fine, lively, light-hearted girl of fifteen, she will be hiding French novels under her pillow, and flirting with her partners behind your back, jnst like other young ladies, and I, for one, shall not think the worse of her. Young ladies in general, replied Percy, with the first approach to sarcasm in which he had allowed himself, ought to be grateful for being thus made acquainted with a practical mans theo- ries about them. Your system differs from mine, Alexander, for it is not a pretty thing, even upon paper.~~ Truth, my dear Percy, truth, rejoined his brother, betraying a shade of irritation, as a vague doubt of his intellectual supremacy flitted for one instant across his mind; but I see you are deter- mined not to confess yourself conqueredno unu- sual case in an argument, as Mr. Coaiston can tell us. Uncle Percy, cried little Godfrey, who with fixed eyes and earnest face had been trying to realize to himself the circumstances of the allegory, while his elders were discussing it, will you tell me one thing I Was it not very awkward for the angels to walk up that hill backwards I The question was received with shouts of laugh- ter, in which Percy heartily joined. Godfrey was patted on the head, and pronounced to be a most ingenious commentator; indeed, as his uncle Alex- ander observed, he was the only person who had discovered the true purport of the fable, which, if reduced to practice, would most undoubtedly be, at this time of day, a going backwards. Mr. Coniston ventured to express his cordial concur- rence in this opinion, and Percy, after a moments silence, said that he agreed in it likewise, which was taken as a sign of complete submission. Mr. Alexander Lee always considered that he had this evening enjoyed a thorough intellectual tri- umph. Why did you desert mel said Percy to Mr. Becket as they moved up stairs; I thought myself sure of your support. You might have been sure of my inaction, replied his friend. Since you are fond of illus- trations, what would you think of the loyalty of a man, who should proclaim the presence of his queen in the midst of an assembly of rebels pre- pared to insult her? Dont you think that a faith- The will was read by Mr. Coniston, with due soleninity, in presence of the assembled family, on the following morning. It was a very singular document, but as we do not possess the legal qual- ifications necessary in order to enable us to lay it before our readers with due technical accuracy, we shall endeavor to make them acquainted with its purport as briefly as possible. If any lynx-eyed special pleader should profess himself able to drive a coach-and-four throngh it, (a feat which we have often heard alluded to, but were never so lucky as to see performed, and which we suppose to be somewhat analogous to the fairy exploit of draw- ing a hundred ells of muslin through a ring,) we beg to disembarrass ourselves at once of his incon- venient logic by assuring him, that whatever errors he may detect have their origin only in our report of the transaction, and that if he will please tocor- rect them in the manner which his judgment shall most approve, that, and no other, was the manner in which the objectionable phrases were really ex- pressed. We claim for ourselves that fabulous power which the captains of ships tax the credulity of landsmen by assuming, and can make it what oclock we please at any given hour of the day. Mr. Clayton Lees principal characteristic had been the love of power, which, existing in a nature of no large proportions or noble stamp, ~vas faiii to develop itself in all that minute and harassing supervision of detail to which unintellectual des- potism is prone. Had he been emperor of all the Russias, he would probably have spent much of his time in regulating the curl of judicial wigs, and apportioning the precise quantity of starch for the stiffening of regimental neck-ties. Another spir- itual pettiness was eminently his, namely, jealousy of the exertions of others, even when in strict ac- cordance with his wishes, unless they were openly and unequivocally subordinated to his will. He would rather have been thrown by a runaway horse than have the animal stopped by some officious friend, lest the bystanders should think he could not manage it himself; and if he had been thrown, no injury, short of insensibility, would have pre- vented him from asserting that he had done it on purpose. No man was so sure to be considered his enemy, as one who had substantially befriended him in some way not prescribed by himself. Tlieae 58 THE STORY OF A FAMILY. peculiarities may perhaps account for his very elab- orate and unusual provisions for the arrangement of his property after his death, many of which would seem to have been suggested solely by the desire of making his authority felt, and compelling his descendants to do by his order what they never would have thought of doing by their own judg- ment. The preamble commenced by a short review of the past misfortunes of the Lee family, in which the fact was specially noticed, that each successive inheritor of the property had come into full exer- cise of his rights at an early age, and that under each, debts had increased, and resources diminished. The object of the testator was then stated; namely, to enable a considerable sum to accumulate before the lands and lordships should again pass to a new possessor. Next followed the actual arrangement, namely, that the estates and entire income, with the exception of certain specified legacies, should all descend to the youngest member of the Lee family existing at the time of the testators death. As this youngest member was a girl of very tender years, certain elaborate regulations were superadded. The manor-house, and a moderate but sufficient allowance for its support, were to be committed to the single brother and sister, John and Melissa, till Ida should attain her majority the rents, meanwhile, being suffered to accumulate without any further expenditure than was absolutely necessary for the proper care of the land. Ida was to be under the sole personal guardianship of her father. The marriage and establishment, as it is called, of the lovely little prattler were, ho~vever, contemplated and carefully provided for. Mr. Clayton Lee gave her the option of remaining single, or marrying one of her cousins; and in order to avoid all suspicion of partiality, he decided that she should be kept wholly without intercourse with the aforesaid cousins till she should have attained the age of eighteen, at which period he determined that all the surviving members of the Lee family should assemble once more at the manor-house, in order that Ida might make her free and uncontrolled choice among her cousins. Should she then insist upon rejecting all, she was to receive as her sole inheritance the manor-house and grounds, together with the sum allotted for their maintenance, while the rest of the property was to be sold, and the proceeds equally divided among the surviving members of the family, with- out reference to age or sex. Should she, however, marry another, not of the family, she was to for- feit all claim whatsoever, and the whole property was to be sold and divided in the manner before indicated. On her marriage, supposing it to take place as desired, with one of her cousins, she was to be considered of age, and to come immediately into foil exercise of all her rights as heiress of the Lee estates. The countenances and demeanor of Mr. Conis- tons auditors would have been interesting subjects of speculation to a philosopher, during the reading of the will.e Mr. Alexander Lee threw himself back in his arm-chair with an expression of pom- pous nonchalance; he had a new political pam- phlet on his knee, and he amused himself with cutting the leaves, as if the whole matter were one in which he took no possible interest. At the same time, his manner expressed so studied a deferencethere was in hint so conscious an as- sumption of insignificance, that no one could doubt as to his actual expectations. Melissa exhibited an indifferent copy of him; she was playing with a bouquet, and occasionally whispering, with an affected smile, to her sister Ellenor, whose evident nervousness was irrepressible. She was thinking of her boys ; her own means, since her husbands death, were small, and she had learned to be am- bitious for their sakes. She longed to provide them with every conceivable happinessto protect them from every possible deprivation. All her visions of the future were comprised in the one idea of their advancement and distinction. Life was to her a fair plant covered with blossoms, but growing out of her reach, and she would fain have plucked it, but only to wreath it into garlands for those two dear heads. Her anxiety also sought to conceal itself; she changed her posture a dozen times in a minute, and answered her sisters remarks with a hurry and agitation which often caused her to speak aloud when she ought to have whispered, and to laugh when gravity would have been the more fitting expression. Uncle John was undis- guisedly fussy. He was too honest to affect either indifference or regret when he did not feel them, so he bustled about the room, rising and sitting down again repeatedly without any apparent rea- son, causing each person in succession to change places with him, always on the pretext of resign- ing some convenience specially adapted to the individual for whose sake he resigned it, and thrice crying Hush ! in a loud voice, when nobody was talking but himself. Percy was the only member of the party who was really indifferent and predccupied, and accord- ingly he was the only one who behaved with strict decorum. He assumed an air of grave, quiet at- tention, and politely assisted Mr. Coniston in turn- ing the leaves of the bulky document. When first the youngest member of the fam- ily was mentioned, all Mr. Alexander Lees habitual presence of mind did not enable him to preserve his equanimity. His face flushed, and he startedbut after one instant he conquered all ex- pression of emotion, and, shading his eyes with his hand, listened ~vith a concentrated intensity of attention, of which it would be difficult to convey an adequate idea. The youngest member of the family ! cried IJncle John, why, thats me, is nt it? Oh, my dear Percy, I beg your pardonyou have been so long away, you know, that really I quite forgot you. It s you, of course. Melissa is older than both of us. Will you allow Mr. Coniston to proceed, John ? said Melissa, with much emphasis. Mr. John Lee is under a slight mistake, THE STORY OF A FAMILY. observed Mr. Coniston courteously; the provision here comprehends all members of the family, not a single generation only. May I request you to continue reading? said Alexander stiffly. Poor Alexander is vexed ! subjoined uncle John, in an uncautiously loud whisper, addressed to Ellenor, and expressive of unaffected sympathy. It is no wonder; I am sure I always thought he would be the heir. Mr. Coniston, I beg to apologize for my bro- ther. said Alexander, in a sustained and equable tone of voice; he does not mean to interrupt you; I hope you will have the goodness to con- tinue. I am surebegan uncle John. My dear fellow, be quiet, cant you, just for five minutes, whispered Percy, laying his hand upon his arm, and anxious to keep the peace; we will hear all you have to say afterwards. Thus rebuked, uncle John submitted to he si- lent, and the reading of the will was completed without further interruption. Mr. Alexander Lee rose at its conclusion. I suppose, said he, with a cold bow to Mr. Coniston, there is nothing further to detain usP Mr. Coniston acquiesced in this observation, with that deprecatory and uncomfortable manner which a person who has been made, however in- nocently, the means of conveying very disagreeable information to another, can scarcely avoid. A glorious morning ! pursued Mr. Lee, walk- ing to the window; it is a shame to waste it within doors. Ellenor, will you ride to the cliffs? I shall be delighted to attend you. Mrs. Aytoun withdrew ~o put on her habit, and there ensued a very awkward silence, which Alexander in vain endeavored to enliven by labori- ous small talk. Everybody felt so conscious of the annoyance which he was so resolutely de- termined to ignore, that no one could imitate his magnanimous equability, and his own temper be- gan rapidly to fail him under such complicated trials. Why, Percy, exclaimed he, addressing his brother, who was sitting apart, with his face bowed upon his hands, what is the matter? you seem quite overwhelmed with your good fortune. Percy lifted his eyes, and the sorrowful and perplexed expression in them was wholly unin- telligible to his companions. He took Alexanders hand in his with a sudden warmth that he had not shown before, and said, in a faltering voice, My dear orotherI beg your pardonbut dont let there be any coldness betwixt us. Coldness ! repeated the other, in a tone of quiet surprise, and extricating himself from that affectionate grasp, you must excuse me, but really I do not exactly comprehend you. These sentimental reproaches are surely a little misplaced. You are now, of course, the head of the family; at least I conclude you so consider yourself, at any rate for the present. But I do not conceive that my position with regard to you is in any way al-, tered by the fact that I am deprived of what I shall perhaps be considered presumptuous in asserting to be my just rights. Well, I dont know, Alic, interposed uncle John, while Percy, whose self-command seemed almost entirely to have forsaken him, observed a distressed silence, I dont see that any one of us can be said to have a right to any share of the property, strictly speaking. Old Lee had a right, you know, to leave it to whomsoever he pleased; if he had left it to his housekeeper, I suppose nobody could have found fault with him. As far as re- garded right, we were all on a level, and your being the eldest brother made no difference as to your claim. I must needs congratulate my pretty little niece; she will be one of the greatest heir- esses in the kingdom. Whichever of the boys she chooses, will be a lucky. fellow. But, Alexander, though it is quite natural that you should be a good deal cast down, I think, you know, you ought not to visit your disappointment upon poor Percy, who can have had no hand in it, as he did nt know what was in the will till it was read to him. Your judgment is as profound as usual, re- turned Alexander, with a bitter sneer, and it has. at least, the happiness of possessing your own con- fidence. But I must positively request you not to promulgate your groundless assumptions as to the state of my feelings. I imagine that nobody but yourself would think me likely to be cast down, because I am made the subject of injustice. As to the will, there is imbecility upon the very face of it; Mr. Clayton Lees intellects I beg your pardon~ interrupted Mr. Coniston, good-naturedly anxious to save him from any un- necessary mortification; but I hope you will not think me impertinent for assuring you beforehand that it is impossible, absolutely impossible, that any plea of that kind could be entertained for one moment. Mr. Lee bowed loftily. I have no doubt, said he, that very complete arrangements have been made for all emergencies; I shall, however, request a copy of the will, which I dont suppose will be denied me Percy rose from his seat, and abruptly walked out upon the terrace, followed by Mr. Becket. He cast himself upon a stone bench, and again buried his face in his hands. Oh! my father, mur- mured he, is this my punishment ? The voice, the attitude, the words, all seemed to undo the lapse of years, and renew the time when, in childhood, he had been wont to carry his griefs and his faults to that kind friend and counsellor, and receive from him comfort, reproof, and direction. Mr Becket had always loved him with a love pro- portioned rather to his capacity for virtue than to his attainments in it, and he now spoke to him in the old tone and manner, with a muixture at once of softness and authority, that might have seemed to many fitter for the past than the present. Tell me all that is in your heart, my dear Percy, said lie. It was enough beforeand too much, 59 60 THE STORY OF A FAMILY. replied Percy, hurriedly ; the burden, the respon- sibility. Too much for me, whose labors are labors of penitence. God help rue! I am not suf- ficient for these things. My lovely Idamy little innocent, stainless babewhy was she given to such a guardianship, in order to prepare her for such a destiny? He stopped; his friend, taking him gently by the arm, led him into the shadow of the trees. A brook flowed beside them, whose harmonious mur- mur, as it chafed against the pebbles of its bed, so blended with their voices, that the words of their conversation were undistinguishable. Ere they parted, however, Percy kneeled down, as he had been wont to do in former days, and bowed his head with the humility of a child, as the venerable pastor laid his hands upon it, and solemnly gave him his blessing. That night, long after all the rest were asleep, Percy Lee left his room, and descended softly to the library. He placed the lamp he carried upon the table, and stood for some minutes irresolute, with eyes fixed upon the ground. Then he ad- vanced a few steps, and with an effort and a deep, heavy sigh, lifted up his face, and looked for the first time upon his mothers picture. He stood still, with hands strongly clasped together, and the hours passed by him unheeded, while he released not that fixed, melancholy gaze, though tear after tear rose blindingly to his eyes, and rolled slowly down his cheeks. Steadily and unshrinkingly, though with much agony, he went through the past, step by step; the early happinessthe warm, confiding lovethe childish offencesthe tender pardonsthe never-failing sympathy, and care, and anxious guidance. Then through the boyish days headstrong, impetuous, disobedient, but still watched over, and nurtured, and tended, with a most gentle and steadfast companionship. And then came the forgetfulness and ingratitude of his manhoodthe strung, selfish willthe pangs in- flictedthe heart wounded and made desolate his mothers heart, that never changed towards him. He fell upon his knees, and stretched Ibrth his hands imploringly, but yet ceased not from this bitter retracing of the past. It was daybreak ere he left the room, and then he went not to rest, but to the little chapel, where, kneeling at the altar- rails, he poured out his soul in silent prayer. What passed then in his thoughts it is not for us to pro- claim; his eyes were still tearful when he took the little Ida in his arms, and carried her into the chapel for the first time, to be present at the service which Mr. Becket daily read there in the early morning. She clung to his bosom, and looked up in his face with a kind of terror; but meeting there the wonted look of perfect tenderness, her sweet eyes resumed their childish calmness, and she watchfully imitated his gestures, observing all the while a timid but by no urmeaus sorrowful silence. A warm but mute pressure of the hand was ex- chanEed between the friends as they quitted the chapel, and Mr. Becket kissed the fair forehead of Ida, as it rested upon her fathers shoulder. The lilies that are to crown a bride should be gathered at dawn, ere the dew is dry upon them, or the sun has bad time to sully the tender brilliancy of their first whiteness. THE INV1NCtI3LE ARMADA. TRANSLATED (FOR THE JERSEY TIMEs) FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.BY A BRITI5H OFFICER. Aj7lcwit Deus, et dissipati sunt.ELIzASETHAN MEDAL. SHE comes, she comes, the southern haughty fleet, Borne on the bosom of the groaning main, With shackles laden and a hated creed, And threatened thunders from a thousand mouths. Big with the worlds destruction she hears on, A swimming host of towering citadels, (Such as the sea neer looked upon before,) Her boastful nameThe Invincible Armada. How loud the title by the spreading fright, She strikes on all around; Old Neptune, awestruck, with majestic pace His burden onward bears. Behold, she nears! each gale, each storm is hushed. See, where she floats right opposite thy shores, Thou happy isle! Fair ruler of the seas, Great-hearted, proud Britannia! T is thou they threaten, with their galleon hosts: Woe, woe to thy free-born gallant sons! See, where, she floats! A thunder-laden cloud. Who won thee, say, that high and priceless gem That made thee queen of nations upon earth? Thdst thou not conquer, from thine own proud kings, Of nations laws the wisest ever known? The Magna Charta, that turns your kings to citi- zens, Your citizens to kings? The seas proud sway; last thou not wrung it from a million foes, In bloody battle on the foaming main? Who won it for thee? Blush, ye nations all! Who, but thy mind, thy spirit, and thy sword? Thou doomed one! Mark those grand batteries yonder; Mark! with forebodings of thy glorys fall; Throughout the world all eyes are strained on thee, In anxious fear. Each freemans heart beats high, And every good and beauteous soul bewails, In sorrowing brotherhood, thy glorys fall! God, the Almighty, cast his eye on earth, And saw thy foes proud lion-flag unfurled; Saw, threatening, open thy too certain grave. Shall, said He, shall my Albion pass away, And perish thus my noblest heroes stock? Oppressions rocky barrier crumble down, And last obstruction gainst a tyrants power Be swept away from off the hemisphere? Shall manly worths firm bulwark be destroyed? God, the Almighty, blew And scattered to each wind th Armada crew! MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 61 PART II. CHARLES MARSTON and his father parted, after the brief interview recorded in our last number, in the hall of Dunoran, upon the gloomy morning suc- ceeding the murder of Sir Wynston. The young man, dispirited and horrified by the awful spectacle he had just contemplated, hurried to the little study occupied by his sister. Marston himself ascended, as we have said, the great staircase leading to his wifes private sitting-room. Mrs. Marston, he said, entering, this is a hateful occurrence, a dreadful thing to have taken place here; I dont mean to affect grief which I dont feelbut the thing is very shocking, and particularly so, as having occurred under my roof but that cannot now be helped. I have resolved to spare no exertions, and no influence, to bring the assassin to justiceand a coroners jury will, within a few hours, sift the evidence which we have succeeded in collectingbut my purpose in seeking you now is, to recur to the conversation we yesterday had, respecting .a member of this establishment. Mademoiselle de Barrasl suggested the lady. Yes, Mademoiselle de Barras, echoed Mars- ton; J wish to say, that, having reconsidered the circumstances affecting her, I am absolutely resolved that she shall not continue to be an inmate of this house. He pausedand Mrs. Marston said Well, Richard, I am sorry, very sorry for it; but your decision shall never be disputed by me. Of course, said Marston, dryly; and, there- fore, the sooner you acquaint her with it, and let her know that she must go, the better. Having said this, he left her, and went to his own chamber, where he proceeded to make his toilet with elaborate propriety, in preparation for the scene which was about to take place under his roof. Mrs. Marston, meanwhile, suffered from a horri- ble uncertainty. She never harbored, it is true, one doubt as to her husbands perfect innocence of the ghastly crime which filled their house with fear and gloom; but, at the same time that she thor- oughly and indignantly scouted the possibility of his, under any circumstances, being accessory to such a crime, she experienced a nervous and ago- nizing anxiety lest any one else should possibly suspect him, however obliquely and faintly, of any participation whatever in the foul deed. This vague fear tortured herit had taken possession of her mind; and it was the more acutely painful, because it was of a kind which precluded the pos- sibility of her dispelling it, as morbid fears so often are dispelled, by taking counsel upon its sugges- tions with a friend. The day wore on, and strange faces began to fill the great parlor. The coroner, accompanied by a physician, had arrived. Several of the gentry in the immediate vicinity had been summoned as jurors, and now began to arrive in succession. Marston, in a handsome and sober suit, received these visitors with a stately and melancholy cour- tesy, befitting the occasion. Mervyn and his son had both been summoned, and, of course, were in attendance. There being now a sufficient number to form a jury, they were sworn, and immediately proceeded to the chamber where the body of the murdered man was lying. Marston accompanied them, and with a pale and stern countenance, and in a clear and subdued tone, called their attention successively to every particu- lar detail which he conceived important to be noted. Having thus employed some minutes, the jury again returned to the parlor, and the examination of the witnesses commenced. Marston, at his own request, was first sworn and examined. He deposed merely to the circumstance of his parting, on the night previous, with Sir Wynston, and to the state in which he had seen the room and the body in the morning. He men- tioned also the fact, that, on hearing the alarm in the morning, he had hastened from his own cham- ber to Sir Wynstons, and found, on trying to enter, that the door opening upon the passage was secured on the inside. rrbis circumstance showed that the murderer must have made his egress at least through the valets chamber, and by the back stairs. Marstons evidence went no further. The next witness sworn was Edward Smith, the servant of the late Sir Wynston Berklcy. His evi- dence was a narrative of the occurrences we have already stated. He described the sounds which he had overheard from his masters room, the subse- quent appearance of Merton, and the conversation which had passed between them. He then pro- ceeded to mention, that it was his masters custom to have himself called at seven oclock, at which hour he usually took some medicine, which it was the valets duty to bring to him; after which he either settled again to rest, or rose in a short time, if unable to sleep. Having measured and prepared this dose in the dressing-room, the servant went on to say, he had knocked at his masters door, and receiving no answer, had entered the room, and partly unclosed the shutters. He perceived the blood on the carpet, and on opening the curtains. saw his master lying with his mouth and eyes open, perfectly dead, and weltering in gore. He had stretched out his hand, and seized that of the dead man, which was quite stiff and cold; then, losing heart, he had run to the door communicating with the passage, but found it locked, and turned to the other entrance, and ran down the back stairs, cry- ing Murder ! Mr. Hughes, the butler, and James Carney, another servant, came immediately, and they all three went back into the room. The key was in the outer door, upon the inside, but they did not unlock it until they had viewed th~ body. There was a great pool of blood in the bed, and in it was lying a red-handled case-knife, which was produced, and identified by the witness. Just then they heard Mr. Marston calling for admission, and they opened the door with some difficulty, for the lock was rusty. Mr. Marston had then ordered them to leave the things as they were, and had 62 MARSTON OF DUNORAN. used very stern language to the witness. They had then left the room, securing both doors. This witness underwent a severe and searching examination, but his evidence was clear and con- sistent. In conclusion, Marston produced a dagger, which was stained with blood, and asked the man wheth- er he recognized it. Smith at once stated this to have been the property of his late master, who, when travelling, carried it, together with his pistols, along with him. Since his arrival at Dunoran, it had latn upon the chimney-piece in his bed-room, where he believed it to have been upon the previous night. James Carney, one of Marstons servants, was next sworn and examined. He had, he said, ob- served a strange and unaccountable agitation and depression in Mertons manner for some days past; he had also been several times disturbed at night by his talking aloud to himself, and walking to and fro in his room. Their bed-rooms were sep- arated by a thin partition, in which was a window, through which Carney had, on the night of the murder, observed a light in Mertons room, and, on looking in, had seen him dressing hastily. He also saw him twice take up, and again lay down, the red-hafted knife which had been found in the bed of the murdered man. He knew it by the handle being broken near the end. He had no suspicion of Merton having any mischievous inten- tions, and lay down again to rest. He afterwards heard him pass out of his room, and go. slowly up the back stairs leading to the upper story. Shortly after this he had fallen asleep, and did not hear or see him return. He then described, as Smith had already done, the scene which presented itself in the morning, on his accompanying him into Sir Wynston s bedchamber. The next witness examined was a little boy, who described himself as a poor scholar. His testimony was somewhat singular. He deposed that he had come to the house on the preceding evening, and had been given some supper, and was afterwards permitted to sleep among the hay in one of the lofts. He had, however, discovered what he considered a snugger berth. This was an unused stable, in the further end of which lay a quantit~n of hay. Among this he had lain down and gone to sleep. He was, however, awakened in the course of the night, by the entrance of a man, whom he saw with perfect distinctness in the moonlight, and his description of his dress and appearance tallied exactly with those of Merton. This man occupied himself for some time in wash- ing his hands and face in a stable bucket, which happened to stand by the door; and, during the whole of this process, he continued to moan and mutter like one in woful perturbation. He said, distinctly, twice or thrice, By , I am done for ! and every now and then he muttered, and nothing for it, after all. When he had done washing his hands, he took something from his coat-pocket, and looked at it, shaking his head; at this time he was standing with hi~ back turned to- wards the hay, so that he could not see what this object might be. The man, however, put it into his breast, and then began to search hurriedly, as it seemed, for some hiding-place for it. After looking at the pavement, and poking at the chinks of the wall, he suddenly went to the window, and forced up the stone which formed the sill; under this he threw the object which the boy had seen him examine with so much perplexity, and then he re~idjusted the stone, and removed the evidences of its having been recently stirred. The boy was a little frightened, but very curious at all that he saw; and when the man left the stable in which he lay, he got up, and following to the door, peeped after him. He saw him putting on an out- side-coat and hat, near the yard gate ; and then, with great caution, unbolt the wicket, constantly looking back towards the house; and so, let him- self out. The boy was uneasy, and sat in the hay, wide awake, until morning. He then told the servants what he had seen, and one of the men having raised the stone, which he had not strength to lift, they found the dagger which Smith had identified as belonging to his master. This ~veap- on was stained with blood; and some hair, which was found to correspond in color with Sir Wyn- stons, was sticking in the crevice between the blade and the handle. It appears very strange that one man should have employed two distinct instruments of this kind, observed Mervyn, after a pause. A silence followed. Yes, strange; it does seem strange, said Marston, clearing his voice. Yet, it is clear, said another of the jury, that the same hand did employ themit is proved that the knife was in Mertons possession just as he left his chamber, and proved also that the dagger was secreted by him, after he quitted the house. Yes, said Marston, with a grizzly sort of smile, and glancing sarcastically at Mervyn, while he addressed the last speaker I thank you for recalling my attention to the factsit certainly is not a very pleasant suggestion, that there still re- mains within my household an undetected mur- derer. Mervyn ruminated for a time, and said he should wish to put a few more questions to Smith and Carney. They were accordingly recalled, and ex- amined in great detail, with a view to ascertain whether any indication of the presence of a second person having visited the chamber with Merton was discoverable. Nothing, however, appeared, except that the valet mentioned the noise and the exclamations which he had indistinctly heard. You did not mention that before, sir, said Marston, sharply. I did not think of it, sir, replied the man, the gentlemen were asking me so many ques- tions; but I told you, sir, about it in the morning. Oh, ~hyes, yesI believe you did, said Marston; but you then said that Sir Wynston often talked when he was aloneeb, sir ~ MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 63 Yes, sir, and so he used, which was the rea- son I did not go into the room when I heard it, replied the man. How long afterwards was it when you saw Merton in your own room ? asked Mervyn. I could not say, sir, answered Smith; I was soon asleep, and cant say how long I slept before he came. Was it an hour? pursued Mervyn. I cant say, said the man, doubtfully. Was it five hours ? asked Marston. No, sir; I am sure it was not five. Could you swear it was more than half-an- hour? persisted Marston. No, I could not swear that, answered he. I am afraid, Mr. Mervyn, you have found a mares nest, said Marston, contemptuously. I have done my duty, sir, retorted Mervyn, cynically; which plainly requires that I shall leave no doubt which the evidence of the witnesses can clear up, unsifted and unsatisfied. I happened to think it of some moment to ascertain, if possi- ble, whether more persons than one were engaged in this atrocious murderyou dont seem to think the question so important a onedifferent men, sir, take different views. Views, sir, in matters of this sort, especially where they tend to multiply suspicions, and to im- plicate others, ought to be supported by something more substantial than mere fancies, retorted Mars- ton. I dont know what you call fancies, replied Mervyn, testily, but, here are two deadly weap- ons, a knife and a daggereach, it would seem, employed in doing this murderif you see nothing odd in that, I cant enable you to do so. Well, sir, said Marston ,gri mly, the whole thing is, as you term it, odd, and I can see no ob- ject in your picking out this particular singularity for long-winded criticism, except to cast scandal upon my household, by leaving a hideous and vague imputation floating among the members of it. Sir sirthis is a foul way, he cried sternly, to gratify a paltry spite. Mr. Marston, said Mervyn, rising and thrust- ing his hands into his pockets, while he confronted him to the full as sternly, the country knows in which of our hearts the spite, if any there is be- tween us, is harbored. I owe you no friendship but, sir, I cherish no malice either: and against the worst enemy I have on earth I am incapable of perverting an opportunity like this, and inflicting pain, under the pretence of discharging a duty. Maiston was on the point of interrupting, but the coroner interposed, and besought them to con- line their attention strictly to the solemn inquiry which they were summoned together to prosecute. Meanwhile George Mervyn and Charles Marston were deeply pained and embarrassed at this fiery renewal of mutual hostilities between their parents; at a moment, too, when each had cherished the hope that they would, at least upon this occasion, have met without the exhibition of angry feelings. There remained still to be examined the surgeon who had accompanied the coroner, for the purpose of reporting upon the extent and nature of the in- juries discoverable upon the person of the deceased. He accordingly deposed, that having examined the body, he found no less than five deep wounds, in- flicted with some sharp instrument; two of them had actually penetrated the heart, and had, of course, caused instant death. Besides these, there were two contusions, one upon the back of the head, the other upon the forehead, with a slight abrasion of the eyebrow. There was a large lock of hair torn out by the roots at the fiont of the head, and the palm and lingers of the right hand were cut. This evidence having been taken, the jury once more repaired to the chamber where the body lay, and proceeded with much minuteness to examine the room, with a view to ascertain, if pos- sible, more particularly, the exact circumstances of the murder. The result of this elaborate scrutiny was as fol- lows: The deceased, they conjectured, had fallen asleep in his easy chair, and, while he was uncon- scious, the murderer had stolen into the room, and, before attacking his victim, had secured the bed- room door upon the insidethis was argued from the non-discovery of blood upon the handle, or any other part of the door. It was supposed that he had then approached Sir Wynston, with the view either of robbing, or of murdering him while he slept, and that the deceased had awakened just afier he had reached himthat a brief and desperate struggle had ensued, in which the assailant had struck his victim with his fist upon the firehead, and having stunned him, had hurriedly clutched him by the hair, and stabbed him with the dagger which lay close by upon the chimney-piece, forc- ing his head violently against the back of the chair. This part of the conjecture was supported by the circumstance of there being discovered a lock of hair upon the ground, at the spot, and a good deal of blood. The carpet, too, was tossed, and a wa- ter-croft, which had stood updn the table close by, was lying in fragments upon the floor. It was supposed that the murderer had then dragged the half-lifeless body to the bed, where, having substi- tuted the knife, which he had probably brought to the room in the same pocket from vi hich the boy after- wards saw him take the dagger, he dispatched him; and either hearing some alarmperhaps the move- ment of the valet in the adjoining room, or from some other causehe dropped the knife in the bed, and was not able to find it again. The wounds upon the hand of the dead man indicated his hav- ing caught and struggled to hold the blade of the weapon with which he was assailed. The im- pression of a bloody hand thrust under the bolster, where it was Sir Wynstons habit to place his purse and watch, when making his arrangements for the night, supplied the motive of this otherwise unaccountable atrocity. After some brief consultation, the jury agreed upon a verdict of wilful murder against John Mer- ton; a finding of which the coroner expressed his entire approbation. 64 MARSTON OF DUNORAN. As the two young friends, George Mervyn and Charles, passed through the hall, they saw Rhoda gliding into her little study. Mervyn hesitated, as if about to follow her; but sighed, and said, after a moments pause Charles, I think she is more beautiful than ever. Charles looked gratified, and replied She is greatly improved since I saw her last she is certainly very pretty. They walked on in silence, and after a few seconds, Mervyn said with a sigh You cant think how my fathers unhappy disagreement with yours afflicts me. I could have died with vexation to-day. It is, indeed, a deplorable thingsuch near neighbors, too, replied Charles. It was quite plain in what direction the thoughts of the two young men were travelling. * * * * * * Marston, as a justice of the peace, had informa- tions, embodying the principal part of the evidence given before the coroner, sworn against Merton, and transmitted a copy of them to the castle. A reward for the apprehension of the culprit was forthwith offered in the Gazette, but for some months without effect. Marston had, in the interval, written to several of Sir Wynstons many relations announcing the catastrophe, and requesting that steps might im- mediately be taken to have the body removed. Meanwhile, undertakers were busy in the chamber of death. The corpse was enclosed in lead, and that again in cedar, and a great oak shell, covered with crimson cloth and gold-headed nails, and with a gilt plate recording the age, title, & c. & c., was screwed down firmly over all. Nearly three weeks elapsed before any reply to Marstons letters was received. A short epistle at last arrived from Lord the late Sir Wyn- stons uncle, deeply regretting the sad and inex- plicable occurrence ; and adding, that the will which, on receipt of the distressing intelligence, was immediately opened and read, contained no direction whatever respecting the sepulture of the deceased, which had therefore better be completed as modestly and expeditiously as possible, in the neighborhood of Dunoran; and, in conclusion, he directed that the accounts of the undertakers, & c., employed upon the melancholy occasion, might be sent in to Mr. Skelton, who had kindly undertaken to leave London for Ireland without delay, for the purpose of completing these last arrangements, and who would, in any matter of business con- nected with the deceased, represent him, Lord H, as executor of the late baronet. This letter was followed, in a day or two, by the arrival of Skeltona well-dressed, languid, impertinent London tuft-huntera good deal faded with a somewhat sallow and puffy face, charged with a pleasant combination at once of meanness, insolence, and sensualityjust such a person as Sir Wynstons parasite might have been expected to prove. However well disposed to impress the natives of Dunoran with high notions of his extraordinary refinement and importance, he very soon discovered, that, in Marston, he had stumbled upon a man of the world, and one thoroughly versed in the ways and characters of London life. After some inef- fectual attempts, therefore, to overawe and aston- ish his host, Mr. Skelton became aware of the fruitlessness of the effort, and condescended to abate somewhat of his pretensions. Marston could not avoid inviting this person to pass the night at Dunoran, an invitation which was accepted, of course; and next morning, after a late breakfast, Mr. Skelton observed, with a yawn And now, about this bodypoor Berkley I - what do you propose to do with him? I have no proposition to make, said Marston, dryly ; it is no affair of mine, except that the body may be removed without more delay. I have no suggestion to offer. Hs notion was to have him buried as near the spot as may be, said Skelton. Marston nodded. There is a kind of vaultis there notin the demesne, a family burial place? inquired his visitor. Yes, sir, replied Marston curtly. Well ? drawled Skelton. Well, sir; what then? responded Marston. Why, as the wish of the parties is to have him buriedpoor fellow !as quietly as possible, I think he might just as well be laid there as any- where else. Had I desired it, Mr. Skelton, I should my- self have made the offer, said Marston, abruptly. Then you dont wish it? said Skelton. No, sir; certainly notmost peremptorily not, answered Marston, with more sharpness than, in his early days, he would have thought quite consistent with politeness. Perhaps, replied Skelton, for want of some- thing better to say, and with a callous sort of lev- ity perhaps you hold the ideasome people dothat murdered men cant rest in their graves until their murderers have expiated their guilt l Marston made no reply, but shot two or three livid glances from under his brow, at the speaker. Well, then, at all events, continued Skelton, indolently resuming his theme, if you decline your assistance, may I, at least hope for your ad- vice. Knowing nothing of this country, I would ask you whither you would recommend me to have the body conveyedP I dont care to advise in the matter, said Marston, but if I were directing, I should have the remains buried in the city of Dublin. It is not more than twenty miles from this; and if at any future time his family should desire to remove the body to England, it could be effected more easily from thence. But you can decide. Egad! I believe you are right, said Skelton, glad to be relieved of the trouble of thinking about the matter; and I shall take your advice. MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 65 In accordance with this declaration, the body was, within four-and-twenty hours, removed to Dublin, and buried there in St. Peters church- yard, Mr. Skelton attending on behalf of Sir Wynstons numerous and afflicted friends and rela- tives. There are certain heartaches for which time brings rio healing; nay, which grow but the sorer aud fiercer as days and years roll on. Of this kind, perhaps, was the stern and bitter feeling which now darkened the face of Marston, with an almost perpetual gloom. His habits became even more unsocial than before. The society of his son he no longer seemed to enjoy. Lung and soli- tary rambles in his wild and extensive demesne consumed the listless hours of his waking exist- ence; aui(l when the weather prevented this, he Mint himself up, upon preteuce of business, in his study. He had not, since the occasion we have already mentioned, referred to the intended departure of Mademoiselle de Barras. Truth to say, his feel- ings with respect to that young lady were of a conflicting arid mysterious kind; and as often as his dark thoughts wandered to her, (which indeed was frequently enough,) his muttered exclamations seemed to imply some painful and horrible suspi- cions respecting her. Yes, lie would mutter, I thought I heard your light foot upon the lobby, on that accursed night. Fancy! well it may have been, but assur- edly a strange fancy. I cannot comprehend that woman. She baffles my scrutiny. I have looked into her face with an eye she might well under- stand, were it indeed as I sometimes suspect, and she has been calm and unmoved. I have watched and studied her, still doubtdoubthideous doubt lated Charles. is she what she seems, ora vtaaass ~ Ay, sir, Mertonready to go to gaol, or Mrs. Marston, on the other hand, procrastinated wherever you will, said the man, recklessly. from d~y to day the painful task of announcing to A murderera madmandont believe him, Mademoiselle de Barras the stern messaoe with muttered Marston, scarce audibly, with lips as which she had been charged by her husband. And white as wax. thus several weeks had passed, and she began to Do you surrender yourself, Merton ? de~. think that his silence upon the subject, notwithstand- mancled the young man, sternly advancing toward ing his seein,v the young French lady at breakfast him. every morning, amounted to a kind of tacit intima- Yes, sir; I desire nothing moreGod knows tion that the sentence of banishment was not to be I wish to die, responded he, despairingly, and carried into immediate execution, but to be kept advancing slowly to meet Charles. suspended over the unconscious offender. Come, then, said young Marston, seizing him It was now six or eight weeks since the hearse, by the collar come quietly to the house. Guilty carrying away the remains of the ill-fated Sir and unhappy man, you are now my prisoner, and, Wynston Berkley, had driven down the dusky depend upon it, I shall not let you go. avenue; the autumn was deepening into winter, I dont want to go, I tell you, sir. I have and as Marston gloomily trod the lonely woods of travelled fifteen miles to-day, to come here and Dunoran, the withered leaves whirled drearily along give myself up to the master. his pathway, and the gusts that swayed the mighty Accursed madman ! said Marston, uncon- branches above him were rude and ungenial. It sciously gazing at the prisoner, and then suddenly was a bleak and sombre day, and as he broke into rousing himself, he said, Well, miscreant, you a long and picturesque vista, deep among the most wish to die, and, by , you are in a fair way sequestered woods, he suddenly saw before him, to have your wish. and scarcely twenty paces from the spot on which So best, said the man, doggedly. I dont he stood, an apparition, which for some moments want to liveI wish I was in my graveI wish absolutely froze him to the earth. fi was dead a year ago ! Travel-soiled, tattered, pale, and wasted, John Some fifteen minutes afterwards, Merton, accora CCXVII. LIVING AGE. VOL. XVIiI. 5 Merton, the murderer, stood before him. He did not exhibit the smallest disposition to turn about and make his escape. On the contrary, lie remained perfectly motionless, looking upon his former mas- ter with a wild and sorrowful gaze. Marston twice essayed to speak; his face was white as death, and had he beheld the spectre of the mur- dered baronet himself, he could not have met the sight with a countenance of ghastlier horror. Take me, sir, said Merton, doggedly. Still Marston did not stir. Arrest me, sir, in Gods namehere I am, he repeated, dropping his arms by his side. Ill go with you, wherever you tell me. Murderer ! cried Marston, with a sudden burst of furious horror murdererassassin miscreant take that. And, as he spoke, he discharged one of the pis- tols he always carried about him full at the wretched man. The shot did not take effect, and Mertoo made no other gesture but to clasp his hands to- gether, with an agonized pressure, while his head sunk upon his breast. Shoot meshoot me, he said, hoarsely; kill me like a dog; better for me to be dead than what I am. rhe report of Marstons pistol had, however,. reached another ear; and its ringing echoes harf hardly ceased to vibrate among the trees, when a stern shout was heard not fifty yards away, and, breathless and amazed, Charles Marston sprang to the place. His father looked from Merton to him,. and from him again to Merton, with a guilty an stupefied scowl, still holding the smoking pistol in his hand. Whathow! Good GodMerton ! cjacu ~ARSTON OF DUNORAN. panied by Marston and his son Charles, entered the hall of the mansion which, not ten weeks be- fore, he had quitted under circumstances so guilty and terrible. When they reached the house, Mer- ton seemed much agitated, and wept bitterly on seeing two or three of his former fellow-servants, who looked on him in silence as they passed, with a gloomy and fearful curiosity. These, too, were succeeded by others, peeping and whispering, and upon one pretence or auother, crossing and re- crossing the hall, and stealing hurried glances at the criminal. Merton sat with his face buried in his hands, sobbing, aud taking no note of the hu- miliating scrutiny of which he was the subject. Meanwhile, Marston, pale and agitated, made out his committal, and having sworn in several of his laborers and servants as special constables, dis- patched the prisoner in their charge to the county gaol, where, under lock and key, we leave him in safe custody for the present. After this event, Marston became excited and restless. He scarcely eat or slept, and his health seemed now as much shattered as his spirits had been before. One day he glided into the room in which, as we have said, it was Mrs. Marstons habit frequently to sit alone. His wife was there, and, as he entered, she uttered an exclamation of doubtful joy and surprise. He sat down near her sn silence, and for some time looked gloomily on the ground. She did not care to question him, sand anxiously waited until he should open the con- versatien. At length he raised his eyes, and, looking full at her, asked abruptly Well, what about mademoiselle I Mrs. Marston was embarrassed, and hesitated. I told you what I wished with respect to that young lady some time ago, and commissioned you to acquaint her with my pleasure; and yet I find her still here, and apparently as much established as ever. Again Mrs. Marston hesitated. She scarcely knew how to confess to him that she had not con- veyed his message. Dont suppose, Gertrude, that I wish to find fault. I merely wanted to know whether you had told Mademoiselle de Barras, that we were agreed as to the necessity, or expediency, or what you please, of dispensing henceforward with her ser- vices. I perceive by your manner that you have not done so. I have no doubt your motive was a kind one, but my decision remains unaltered; and I now assure you again that I wish you to speak to herI wish you explicitly to let her know my wishes and yours. Not mine, Richard, she answered faintly. Well, mine, then, he replied, roughly. We shant quarrel about that. And whenhow soondo you wish me to speak to her on this, to both of us, most painful subjectP asked she, with a sigh. To-daythis hourthis minute, if you can; in short, the sooner the better, he replied, rising. I see no reason for holding the thing back any cions. longer. I am sorry my wishes were not complied j Do so, mademoiselle, and I will add my ear- with immediately. Pray, let there be no further hesitation or delay. I shall expect to learn this evening that all is arranged. Marston, having thus spoken, left her abruptly went down to his study with a swift stepshut himself in, and throwing himself into a great chair, gave a loose to his agitation, which was extreme. Meanwhile, Mrs. Marston had sent for Mad- emoiselle de Barras, anxious to get through her painful task as speedily as possible. The fair French girl speedily presented herself. Sit down, mademoiselle, said Mrs. Marston taking her hand kindly, and drawing her to the priedi6u chair beside herself. Mademoiselle de Barras sat down, and, as she did so, read the countenance of her patroness with one rapid glance of her flashing eyes. These eyes, however, when Mrs. Marston looked at her the next moment, were sunk softly and sadly upon the floor. There was a heightened color, however, in her cheek, and a quicker heaving of the bosom, which indicated the excitement of an anticipated and painful disclosure. The outward contrast of the two women, whose hands were so lovingly locked together, was almost as striking as the moral contrast of their hearts. The one, so chas- tened, sad, and gentle; the other, so capable of pride and passionso darkly excitable, and yet, sc mysteriously beautiful. The one, like a Niobe, seen in the softest moonshine; the other, a Venus, lighted in the glare of distant fires. Mademoiselle, dear mademoiselle, I am so much grieved at what I have to say, that I hardly know how to speak to you, said poor Mrs. Mars- ton, pressing her hand; but Mr. Marston has twice desired me to tell you, what you will hear with far less pain than it costs me to say it. Mademoiselle de Barras stole another flashing glance at her companion, but did not speak. Mr. Marston still persists, mademoiselle, in desiring that we shall part. Est ii possible? cried the Frenchwoman, with a genuine start. Indeed, mademoiselle, you may well be sur- prised, said Mrs. Marston, encountering her full and dilated gaze, which, however, dropped again in a moment to the ground. You may, indeed, naturally be surprised and shocked at this, to me, most severe decision.~~ When did he speak last of it l asked she, rapidly. But a few moments since, answered Mrs. Marston. Ha ~ said mademoiselle, and remained silent and motionless for more than a minute. Madame, she cried at last, mournfully, I suppose, then, I must go; but it tears my heart to leave you and dear Miss Rhoda. I wo~ild be very happy if, before departing, you would permit me, dear madame, once more to assure Mr. Mars- ton of my innocence, and, in his presence, to call Heaven to witness how unjust are all his suspi 66 MAttSTON OF DUNORAN. nest assurances again; though, Heaven knows, she said despondingly, I anticipate little success; but it is well to leave no chance untried. Marston was sitting, as we have said, in his library. His agitation had given place to a listless gloom, and he leaned back in his chair, his head supported by his hand, and undisturbed except by the occasional fall of the embers upon the hearth. There was a knock at the chamber door. His back was towards it, and, without turning or mov- ing, he called to the applicant to enter. The door openedclosed againa light tread was audible a tall shadow darkened the wallMarston looked round, and Mademoiselle de Barras was standing before him. Without knowing bow or why, he rose, and stood gazing upon her in silence. Mademoiselle de Barras, he said at last, in a tone of cold surprise. Yes, poor Mademoiselle de Barras, replied the sweet voice of the young Frenchwoman, while her lips hardly moved as the melancholy tones passed them. Well, mademoiselle, what do you desire ? he asked, in the same cold accents, and averting his eyes. Ah, monsieur, do you askcan you pretend to be ignorant Have you not sent me a message a cruel, cruel message ? She spoke so low and gently, that a person at the other end of the room could hardly have heard her words. Yes, Mademoiselle de Barras, I did send you a message, he replied, doggedly a cruel one you will scarcely presume to call it, when you reflect upon your own conduct, and the circum- stances which have provoked the measures I have taken. What have I done, monsieur ?~what circum- stances do you mean I asked she, plaintively. What have you done! A pretty question trulyha, ha ! he repeated, bitterly, and then added with suppressed vehemence ask your own heart, mademoiselle. I have askedI do ask, and my heart answers nothing, she replied, raising her fine melan- choly eyes for a moment to his face. It lies, then ! he retorted, with a fierce scoff. Monsieur, before Heaven I swear, you wrong me foully, she said earnestly, clasping her hands together. Did ever woman say she was accused rightly, mademoiselle? retorted Marston, with a sneer. I dont knowI dont care; I only know that I am innocent, continued she, piteously. I call Heaven to witness you have wronged me. Wronged you !why, after all, with what have I charged you ? said he, scoffingly; but let that pass. I have formed my opinionsar- rived at my conclusions; if I have not named them broadly, you at least seem to understand their na- ture thoroughly. I know the world; I am no novice in the arts of women, mademoiselle. Re- serve your vows and attestations for schoolboys and simpletons; they are sadly thrown away upon me. Marston paced to and fro, with his hands thrtist into his pockets, as he thus spoke. Then you dont, or rather you will not believe what I tell you B said she, imploringly. No, he answered, dryly and slowly, as he passed her; I dont, and I wont (as you say) believe one word of it, so, pray spare yourself any further trouble about the matter. She raised her head, and darted after him a glance that seemed absolutely to blaze, and at the same time smote her little hand fast clenched upon her breast; the words, however, that trembled on her pale lips were not uttered; her eyes were again cast down, and her fingers played with the little locket that hung round her neck. I must make, before I go, she said, with a deep sigh and a melancholy voice, one confidence one last confidence; judge me by it. You can- not choose but believe me now; it is a secret, and it must even here be whispered, whispered, whis- pered! As she spoke, the color fled from her face, and her tones became so strange and resolute, that Marston turned short upon his heel and stopped before her. She looked in his face; he frowned, but lowered his eyes. She drew nearer, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and whispered for a few moments in his ear. He raised his face suddenly; its features were sharp and fixed; its hue was changed; it was livid and moveless, like a face cut in gray stone. He staggered back a little, and a little more, and then a little more, and fell backward. Fortunately the chair in which he had been sitting received him, and he lay there insen- sible as a corpse. When at last his eyes opened, there was no gleam of triumphno shade of an- ger, nothing perceptible of guilt or menace, in the young womans countenance; the flush had re- turned to her cheeks; her dimpled chin had sunk upon her full, white throat; sorrow, shame, and pride seemed struggling in her handsome face; and she stood before him like a beautiful penitent, who has just made a strange and humbling shrift to her father confessor. Next day, Marston was mounting his horse for a solitary ride through his park, when I)octor Danvers rode abruptly into the courtyard from the back entrance. Marston touched his hat, and said I dont stand on forms with you, doctor, and you, I know, will waive ceremony with me. You will find Mrs. Marston at home. Nay, my dear sir, interrupted the clergyman, sitting firm in his saddle, my business lies with you to-day. The devil it does ! said Marston, with dis- contented surprise. Truly it does, sir, repeated he, with a look of gentle reproof, for the profanity of Marston s ejaculation, far more than the rudeness of his manner, offended him, and I grieve that your fir 68 MARSTON OF DUNORAN. surprise should have somewhat carried you said Doctor Danvers; I even declined to heat away him speak upon it at firstbut he told me he was Well, then, Doctor Danvers, interrupted, resolved to offer no defence, and that he saw the Marston, dryly, and without heeding his conclud- ing remark, if you really have business with me, it is, at all events, of no very pressing kind, and may be as well told after supper as now; so, pray, go into the house and rest yourselfwe can talk together in the evening. My horse is not tired, said the clergyman, patting his steeds neck; and if you do not ob- ject, I will ride by yonr side for a short time, and as we go, I can say out what I have to tell. Well, well, be it so, said Marston, with suppressed impatience, and without more ceremony he rode slowly along the avenue, and turned off upon the soft sward in the direction of the wildest portion of his wooded demesne, the clergyman keeping close beside him. They proceeded some little way at a walk before Doctor Danvers spoke. I have been twice or thrice with that unhappy man, at length he said. What unhappy man ?unhappiness is no dis- tinguishing singularityis it ~ said Marston, sharply. No, truly, you have well said, replied Dr. Danvers; true it is that man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward. I speak, however, of your servant, Mertona most unhappy wretch. Ha! you have been with him, you say? re- plied Marston, with evident interest and anxiety. Yes, several times, and conversed with him long and gravely, continued the clergyman. Ilumph! I thought that had been the chap- lains business, not yours, my good friend, ob- served Marston. He has been unwell, replied Dr. Danvers; and thus, for a day or two, I took his duty, and this poor man, Merton, having known something of me, preferred seeing me rather than a stranger and so, at the chaplains desire and his, I con- tinued my visits. Well, and you have taught him to pray and sing psalms, I suppose; and what has come of it all ? demanded Marston testily. He does pray, indeedpoor man! and I trust his prayers are heard with mercy at the throne of grace, said his companion, in his ear- nestness disregarding the scoffing tone of his com- panion. He is full of compunction, and admits his guilt. Ho! that is wellwell for himselfwell for his soul, at leastyou are sure of ithe con- fessesconfesses his guilt I Marston put his question so rapidly and excit- edly, that the clergyman looked at him with a slight expression of surpriseand recovering him- self, he added, in an unconcerned tone Well, wellit was just as well he did so; the evidence is too clear for doubt or mystification; he knew he had no chance, and has taken the seemliest courseand, doubtless the best for his hopes hereafter. I did not question him upon the subject, I finger of God in the fate which had overtaken him. He will plead guilty, then, I suppose ? sug- gested Marston, watching the countenance of his companion with an anxious and somewhat sinister eye. His words seem to imply so much, answered he; and having thus frankly owned his guilt, avowed his resolution to let the law take its due course in his case, without obstruction or evasion, I urged him to complete the grand work he had begun, and to confess to you, or to some other magistrate, fully, and in detail, every circumstance connected with the perpetration of the dreadful deed. Marston knit his brows, and rode on for some minutes in silence. At length, he said abruptly In this, it seems to me, sir, you a little ex- ceeded your commission. How so, my dear sir ? asked the clergyman. Why, sir, answered Marston, the man may possibly change his mind before t.he day of trial, and it is the hangmans office, not yours, my good sir, to fasten the halter about his neck. You will pardon my freedom ; but, were this de- position made as you suggest, it would undoubt- edly hang him. God forbid, Mr. Marston, rejoined Danvers, that I should induce the unhappy man to forfeit his last chance of escape, and to shut the door of human mercy against himself; but on this he seems already resolved ; he says so ; he has solemnly declared his resolution to meand even against my warning, again and again reiterated the same declaration. That I should have thought quite enough, were I in your place, without inviting a detailed description of the whole process by which this de- testable butchery was consummated. What more than the simple knowledge of the mans guilt does any mortal desire? guilty, or not guilty, is the plain question which the law asks, and no more; take my advice, sir, as a poor Protestant layman, and leave the arts of the confessional and inquisition to po- pish priests. Nay, Mr. Marston, you greatly misconceive me; as matters stand, there exists among the euro- ncrs jury, and thus among the public, some faint and unfounded suspicion of the possibility of Mer- tons having had an accessory or accomplice in the perpetration of this foul murder. It is a lie, sir-a malignant, dd lie the jury believe no such thing, nor the public nei- ther, said Marston, starting in his saddle, and speaking in a voice of thunder; you have been crammed with lies, sir; malicious, unmeaning, vindictive lies; lies invented to asperse my family, and torture my feelingssuggested in my pres- ence by that scoundrel Mervyn, and szouted by the common sense of the jury. I do assure you, replied Doctor Danvers, in MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 69 a voice which seemed scarcely audible, after the stunning and passionate explosion of Marstons wrath, I did not imagine that you could feel thus sorely upon the point, nay, I thought that you yourself were not without such painful douhts. Again, I tell you, sir, said Marston, in a tone somewhat calmer, hut no less stern, such doubts as you describe have no existence; your unsuspecting ear has been alarmed by a vindictive wretch, an old scoundrel, who has scarce a passion left but spite towards mefew such there are, thank God !few such villains as would, from a mans very calamities distil poison to kill the peace and character of his family. I am sorry, Mr. Marston, said the clergy- man, you have formed so ill an opinion of a neighbor, and I am very sure that Mr. Mervyn meant you no ill in frankly expressing whatever doubts still rested on his mind, after the evidence was taken. He didthe scoundrel ! said Marston, furi- ously striking his hand, in which his whip was clutched, upon his thigh he did mean to wound and torture me ; and with the same object he per- sists in circulating what he calls his doubts. Meant me no ill ! forsooth! why, my good God, sir, could any man be so stupid as not to perceive that the suggestion of such suspicionsabsurd, contradictory, incredible as they werewas pre- cisely the thing to exasperate feelings, God knows, sufficiently troubled already; and not content with raising the question, ~here it was scouted, as I said, as soon as named, the vindictive slanderer proceeds to proj)agate and publish his pretended surrnisesd n him ! Mr. Marston, you will pardon me when I say that, as a Christian minister, I cannot suffer a spirit so ill as that you manifest, and language so unseemly as that you have just uttered, to pass unreprovecl, said Danvers, solemnly. If you will cherish those bitter and unchristian feelings, at least for the brief space that I am with you command your fierce, unbecuming words. Marston was about to make a sneering retort, but restrained himself, and turned his head away. The wretched man himself appears now vcry anxious to make some further disclosures, re sumed Doctor Danvers, after a pause, and I recommended him to make them to you, Mr. Marston, as the most natural depository of such a statement. Well, Mr. Danvers, to cut the matter short, as it appears that a confession of some sort is to he made, be it so. I will attend and receive it. The judges will not be here for eight or ten weeks to come, sn there is no great hurry about it. I shall ride down to the town, and see him in the jail some time within the next week. With this assurance, Marston parted from the old clergyman, and rode on alone through the furze and fern of his wild and sombre park. After supper that evening, Marston found him- self alone in the parlor with his wife. Mrs. Marston availed herself of the opportunity to re deem her pledge to Mademoiselle de Barras. She was not aware of the strange interview which had taken place between him and the lady for whom she pleaded. The result of her renewed entreat- ies perhaps the reader has anticipated. Marston listened, doubtedlistened, hesitated againput questions, pondered the answersdebated the mat- ter inwardly, and at last gruffly consented to give the young lady another trial, and permit her to remain for some time longer. Poor Mrs. Mars- ton, little suspecting the dreadful truth, over- whelmed her husband with gratitude for granting to her entreaties (as he had predetermined to do) this fatal boon. Not caring to protract this scene either from a disinclination to listen to expres- sions of affection, which had long lost their charm for him, and had become even positively distaste- ful, or l)erhaPs from some instinctive recoil from the warin expression of gratitude from lips which, were the truth revealed, might justly have trem- bled with execration and reproach, he abruptly left the room, and Mrs. Marston, full of her good news, hastened, in the kindness of her heart, to communicate the fancied result of her advocacy to Mademoiselle de Barras. It was about a week after this, that Marston was one evening surprised in his study by the receipt of the following letter from Dr. Danvers DEAR SIR,You will he shocked to hear that Merton is most dangerously ill, and at this mo- ment in imminent peril. He is thoroughly conscious of his situation, and himself regards it as a merciful interposition of Providence to spare him the dis- grace and terror of the dreadful fate which he an- ticipated. The unhappy man has twice repeated his anxious desire, this day, to state some facts connected with the murder of the late Sir Wynston Berkley, which he says, it is of the utmost moment that you should hear. He says that he could not leave the world in peace without having made this disclosure, which he especially desires to make to yourself, and entreats that you will come to re- ceive his communication as early as you can in the morning. This is indeed needful, as the physician says that he is fast sinking. I offer no apology for adding my earnest solicitations to those of the dying man; and am, dear sir, your very obedient servant, J. D~vsms. He regards it as a merciful interposition of Providence! muttered Marston, as he closed the letter, with a sneer. Well, some men have odd notions of mercy and providence, to be sure; but if it pleases hi/n, certainly I shall not complain, fxr one. Marston was all this evening in better spirits than he had enjoyed for months, or even years. A mountain seemed to have been lifted from his heart. He joined in the conversation during and after supper, listened with apparent interest, talked with aniniation, and even laughed and jested. It is needless to say all this flowed not from the healthy cheer of a heart at ease, but from the ex- cited and almost feverish sense of sudden relief. Next morning, Marston rode into the old-fash- ioaed assize town, at the further end of which the 70 MARSTON OF DTJNORAN. dingy and grated front of the jail looked warningly hideous additional mystery over the occurrence out upon the rustic passengers. He passed the I Listen to me, my dear sir, and the whole narrative, sentries, and made his inquiries of the official at as he stated it to me, shall be related now to you, the hatch. He was relieved from the necessity of said Dr. Danvers. pushing these into detail, however, by the appear- Marston had closed the door carefully, and they ance of the physician, who at that moment passed sat down together at the further end of the apart- from the interior of the prison. snent. Marston, breathless, and ghastly pak; his Doctor Danvers told me he expected to see you lips compressedhis brows knitand his dark, here this morning, said the medical man, after dilated gaze fixed immovably upon the speaker. the customary salutations had been interchanged. Mr. Danvers, on the other hand, tranquil and sol- Your call, I believe, is connected with the pris- emn, and with, perhaps, some shade of awe over- oner, John Merton ~ casting the habitual sweetness of his countenance. Yes, sir, so it is, said Marston. Is he in His confession was a strange one, renewed a condition, pray, to make a statement of consid- Dr. Danvers, shaking his head gravely. He erable length l said that the first idea of the crime was suggested Far from it, Mr. Marston; he has but a few by Sir Wynstons man accidentally mentioning, a hours to live, answered the phy~ieian, and is few days after their arrival, that his master slept now insensible; but I believe he last night saw with his bank-notes, to the amount of some hun- Doctor Danvers, and told him whatever was weigh- dreds of pounds, in a pocket-book under his pillow. ing upon his mind. He declared that as the man mentioned this cir- Ha !and can you say where Dr. Danvers cumstance, something muttered the infernal sug- now is l inquired Marston, anxiously and hur- gestion in his ear, and from that moment he was riedly. Not here, is he ? the slave of that one idea; it was ever present No; but I saw him, as I came here, not ten with him. He contended against it in vainhe minutes since, ride into the town. It is market-day, dreaded and abhorred it; but still it possessed and you will probably find him somewhere in the high him; he felt his power of resistance yielding. street for an hour or two to come, answered he. This horrible stranger which had stolen into his Marston thanked him, and, lost in abstraction, heart, waxed in power and importunity, and tor- rode down to the little inn, entered a sitting-room, mented him day and night. He resolved to fly and wrote a hurried line to Dr. Danvers, entreat- from the house. He gave notice to you and Mrs. ing his attendance there, as a place where they Marston of his intended departure; but accident might converse less interruptedly than in the street ; protracted his stay until that fatal night which sealed and committing this note to the waiter, with the in- his doom. The influence which had mastered junction to deliver it at once, and the information him, forced him to rise from his bed, and take the where Dr. Danvers was probably to be found, he knifethe discovery of which afterwards helped awaited, with intense and agitating anxiety, the to convict himand led him to Sir Wynstons arrival of the clergyman, chamber; he enteredit was a moonlight night. It was not for nearly ten minutes, however, Here the clergyman, glancing round the room, which his impatience magnified into an eternity, lowered his voice, and advanced his lips so near to that the well-known voice of Dr. Danvers reached Marston that their heads nearly touched. In this him from the little hall. It was in vain that tone and attitude he continued his narrative for a Marston strove to curb his violent agitation ; his few minutes. At the end of this brief space, heart swelled as if it would smother him ; he Marston rose up slowly, and with a movement felt, as it were, the chill of death pervade his backward, every feature stung with horror, and frame, and he could scarcely see the door through saying, in a long whisper, the one word, Yes, which lie momentarily expected the entrance of which seemed like the hiss of a snake before he the clergyman, makes his last deadly spring. Both were silent A few minutes more, and Dr. Danvers entered for a time. At last Marston broke out with hoarse the little apartment. vehemence My dear sir, said he, gravely and earnestly, Dreadfulhorribleoh, God! God !my as he grasped the cold hand of Marston, I am God ! how frightful ! rejoiced to see you. I have matters of great mo- And throwing himself into a chair, he clasped ment and the strangest mystery to lay before you. his hands across his eyes and forehead, while the I dare sayI was surethat is, I suspected sweat of agony literally poured down his pale face. so much, answered Marston, breathing fast, and Truly it is so, said the clergyman, scarcely looking very pale. I heard at the prison that above his breath; and, after a long interval the murderer, Merton, was fast dying, and now is Horrible, indeed ! in an unconscious state; and from the physician, Well, said Marston, rising suddenly to his that you had seen him, at his urgent entreaty, last feet, wiping the dews of horror from his face, and night. My mind misgives me, sir. I fear I know looking wildly round, like one newly waked from a not what. I long, yet dread, to hear the wretch- nightmare, I must make the most of this mo- ed mans confession. For Gods sake tell me, mentous and startling disclosure. I shall spare no does it implicate anybody else in his guilt? pains to come at the truth, said he, energetically. No; no one specifically; but it has thrown a Meanwhile, my dear sir, for the sake of justice MAItSTQN OF DTJNORAN. 71 and of mercy, observe secrecy. Leave me to sift this matter; give no note anywhere that we suspect. Observe this reserve and security, and with it, detection will follow. Breathe but one word, and you arm the guilty with double caution, and turn licentious gossip loose upon the fame of an innocent and troubled family. Once more I en- treatI expectI implore silencesilence, at least, for the presentsilence! I quite agree with you, my dear Mr. Marston, answered Dr. Danvers. I have not divulged one syllable of that poor wretchs confession, save to yourself alone. You, as a magistrate, a rela- tive of the murdered gentleman, and the head of that establishment among whom the guilt rests, are invested with an interest in detecting, and pow- ers of sifting the truth in this matter, such as none other possesses. I clearly see with you, too, the inexpediency and folly of talking, for talkings sake, of this affair. I mean to keep my counsel, and shall most assuredly, irrespectively even of your requestwhich should, however, of course, have weight with memaintain a strict and cautious silence upon this subject. Some little time longer they remained together, and Marston, buried in strange thoughts, took his leave, and rode slowly back toDunoran. Months passed awaya year, and moreand though no new character appeared upon the stage, the relations which had subsisted among the old ones became, in some respects, very materially al- tered. A gradual and disagreeable change came over Mademoiselle de Barras manner; her affec- tionate attentions to Mrs. Marston became less and less frequent; nor was the change merely confined to this growing coldness; there was something of a positive and still more unpleasant kind in the al- teration which we have noted. There was a cer- tain independence, an insouciance, conveyed in a hundred intangible hut significant little incidents and looksa something which, without being open to formal rebuke or remonstrance, yet bordered, in effect, upon impertinence, and even insolence. This indescribable and provoking self-assertion, implied in glances, tones, emphasis, and general bearing, surprised Mrs. Marston far more than it irritated her. As often as she experienced one of these studied slights or insinuated impertinences, she revolved in her own mind all the incidents of after the supper party had dispersed. They had been for a long time silent, and Mrs. Marston re- solved to improve the t& e-d-tite, for the purpose of eliciting from mademoiselle an explanation of her strange behavior. Mademoiselle, said she, I have lately ob- served a very marked change in your conduct to me. Indeed! said the Frenchwoman. Yes, mademoiselle; you must be yourself per- fectly aware of that change; it is a studicd and intentional alteration, continued Mrs. Marston, in a gentle but dignified tone; and although I have felt some doubt as to whether it were advisable, so long as you observe toward me the forms of external respect, and punctually discharge the du- ties you have undertaken, to open any discussion whatever upon the subject; yet I have thought it better to give you a fair opportunity of explaining frankly, should you desire to do so, the feelings and impressions under which you are acting. Ah, you are very obliging, madame, said she, coolly. It is quite clear, mademoiselle, that you have either misunderstood me, or that you are dissatis- fled with your situation among us;. your conduct cannot otherwise be accounted for, said Mrs. Marston, gravely. My conductma foi! what conduct l re- torted the handsome Frenchwoman, confidently, and with a disdainful glance. If you question the fact, mademoiselle, said the elder lady, it is enough. Your ungracious manner and ungentle looks, I presume, arise from some apparently sufficient and well-defined cause, of which, however, I know nothing. I really was not aware, said Mademoiselle de Barras, with a supercilious smile, that my looks and my manner were subjected to so rigid a criticism, or that it was my duty to regulate both according to so nice and difficult a standard. Well, mademoiselle, continued Mrs. Mars- ton, it is plain that whatever may be the cause of ybur dissatisfaction, you are resolved against confiding it to me. I only wish to know frankly from your own lips, whether you have formed a wish to leave this situation; if so, I entreat of you to declare it freely. You are very obliging, indeed, madame, said their past intercourse, in the vain endeavor to re- the pretty foreigner, dryly, but I have no such collect some one among them which could possibly wish, at least at present. account for the offensivechange so manifest in the Very well, mademoiselle, replied Mrs. Mars- conduct of the young Frenchwoman. ton, with gentle dignity; I regret your want of Mrs. Marston, although she sometimes rebuked candor, on your own account. You would, I am these artful affronts by a grave look, a cold tone, sure, be much happier, were you to deal frankly or a distant manner, yet had too much dignity to with me. engage in a petty warfare of annoyance, and had, May I now have your permission, madame, to in reality, no substantial and well-defined ground retire to my room ~ asked the French girl, risingt of complaint against her, such as would have war- and making a low courtesy that is, if madame ranted her either in taking the young lady herself has nothing further to censure.~~ to task, or in bringing her conduct under the ceti- Certainly, mademoiselle; I have nothing fur- sure of Marston. ther to say, replied the elder lady. One evening it happened that Mrs. Marston and The Frenchwoman made another and a deeper Mademoiselle de Barras had been left alone together courtesy, and withdrew. Mrs. Marston, however, 72 MARSTON OF DUNORAN. heard, as she was designed to do, the young lady tittering and whispering to herself, as she lighted ~er candle in the hall. This scene mortified and grieved poor Mrs. Marston inexpressibly. She was little, if at all, accessible to emotions of anger, and certainly none such mingled in the feelings with which she regarded Mademoiselle de Barras. But she had found in this girl a companion, and even a confidante in her melancholy solitude; she had believed her affectionate, sympathetic, tender, and the disappointment was as bitter as unimagined. The annoyances which she was fated to receive from Mademoiselle de Barras were destined, how- ever, to grow in number arid in magnitude. The Frenchwoman sometimes took a fancy, for some unrevealed purpose, to talk a good deal to Mrs. Marston, and on such occasions would persist, not- withstanding that ladys marked reserve and dis- couragement, in chatting away, as if she were con- scious that her conversation was the most welcome entertainment possible to her really unwilling audi- tor. No one of their interviews did she ever suffer to close without in some way or other suggesting or insinuating something mysterious and untold to the prejudice of Mr. Marston. Those vague and intangible hints, whose meaning, for an instant legible and terrific, seemed in another moment to dissolve and disappear, tortured Mrs. Marston like the intrusions of some spectre, vanishing as soon as revealed ; and this, along with the portentous change, ratherfelt than visible, in mademoiselles conduct toward her, invested the beautiful French- woman, in the eyes of her former friend and pat- roness, with an indefinable character that was not only repulsive but formidable. Mrs. Marstons feelings with respect to this person were still further disturbed by the half-con- veyed hints and innuend& es of her own maid, who never lost an opportunity of insinuating her intense dislike of the Frenchwoman, and appeared perpet- ually to be upon the very verge of making some explicit charges, or some shocking revelations, respecting her, which, however, she as invariably evaded ; and even when Mrs. Marston once or twice insisted upon her explaining her meaning distinctly, she eluded her mistress desire, and left her still in the same uneasy uncertainty. Marston, on his part, however much his conduct might tend to confirm suspicion, certainly did noth- ing to dissipate the painful and undefined appre- hensions respecting himself, which Mademoiselle de Barras, with such malign and mysterious indus- try, labored to raise. His spirits and temper were liable to strange fluctuations. In the midst of that excited gayety, to which, until lately, he had been not. so long a stranger, would sometimes intervene Why, what has happened to vex youhas paroxysms of the blackest despair, all the ghastlier any one ill-treated you l said Mrs. Marston, who for the contrast, and with a suddenness so abrupt1 had an esteem for the poor girl. Comecome and so overwhelming, that one might have fancied I you must not fret about it; only tell me what him crossed by the shadow of some terrific appari- has vexed you. Come, come, you really must not tion, unseen by all but his own fascinated gaze. be foolish. Sometimes, for a whole day, or even more, he Oh! maam, no one has ill-used me, maam; would withdraw himself from the society of his but I cant but be vexed sometimes, maam, and family, and, in morose and moody solitude, take fretted to see how things is going on. I have one his meals alone in his library, and steal out unat- tended to wander among the thickets and glades of his park. Sometimes, again, he would sit for hours in the room which had been Sir Wynstons, and, with a kind of horrible resolution, often loi- tered there till after nightfall. In such hours, the servants would listen with curious awe, as they heard his step, pacing to and fin, in that deserted and inauspicious chamber, while his voice, in bro- ken sentences, was also imperfectly audible, as if maintaining a muttered dialogue. These eccentric practices gradually invested him, in the eyes of his domestics, with a certain preternatural mystery, which enhanced the fear with which they habitu- ally regarded him, and was subsequently confirmed by his giving orders to have the furniture taken out of the ominous suite of rooms, and the doors nailed up and secured. He gave no reason for this odd and abrupt measure, and gossip of course reported that the direction had originated in his having encountered the spectre of the murdered baronet, in one of these strange and unseasonable visits to the scene of the fearful catastrophe. In addition to all this, Marstons conduct towards his wife became strangely capricious. He avoided her society more than ever, and when he did hap- pen to exchange a few words with her, they were sometimes harsh and violent, and, at others, re- morsefully gentle and sad, and this without any changes of conduct upon her part to warrant the wayward uncertainty of his treatment. Under all these circumstances, Mrs. Marstons unhappiness and uneasiness greatly increased. Mademoiselle de Barras, too, upon several late occasions, had be- gun to assume a tone of authority and dictation which justly offended the mistress of the establish- ment. Meanwhile Charles Marston had returned to Oxford, and Rhoda, no longer enjoying those happy walks with her brother, which had been made still more happy by their often leading her into the society of her young neighbors of Newton Park, pursued her light and easy studies with Mademoiselle de Barras, and devoted her leisure hours to the loved society of her mother. One day Mrs. Marston, sitting in her own room with Rhoda, had happened to call in her own maid, to take down and carefully dust some richly-bound volumes which filled a bookcase in the little cham- ber. You have been crying, Willett, said Mrs. Marston, observing that the young womans eyes were red and swollen. Indeed, and I was, maam, she replied, re- luctantly, and I could not help it, so I could MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 73 wishjust one wish, maamand if I got that, I d ask no more, said the girl. And what is it ? asked Mrs. Marston ; what do you wish for ?speak plainly, Willett, what is it? Ah! maam, if I said it maybe you might not be pleased. Dont ask me, maam, said the girl, dusting the books very hard, and tossing them down again with angry emphasis. I dont de- sire anybodys harm, God knows, but for all that I wish what I wish, and that is the truth. Why, Willett, I really cannot account for your strange habit of lately hinting, and insinuating, and always speaking riddles, and refusing to ex- plain your meaning. What do you mean ?speak plainly if there are any dishonest practices going on, it is your dut.y to say so distinctly. Oh! maam, it is just a wish I have. I wish but it s no matter. If I could once see the house clear of that Frenchwoman If you mean Mademoiselle de Barras, she is a lady, interrupted Mrs. Marston. Well, maam, I beg pardon, continued the woman; lady or no lady, it is all one to me; for I am very sure, maam, she 11 never leave the house till there is something bad comes about; and and . I cant bring myself to talk to you about her, maam. I cant say what I want to tell you ; but-but . Oh, maam, for Gods sake, try and get her out, any way, no matter how try and get rid of her. As she said this, the poor girl burst into a pas- sionate agony of tears, and Mrs. Marston and Rhoda looked on in silent amazement, while she for some minutes continued to soh and weep. The party were suddenly recalled from their various reveries by a knock at the chamber-door it opened, and the subject of the girls deprecatory entreaty entered. There was something unusually excited and assured in Mademoiselle de Barras air and countenance; perhaps she had a suspicion that she had been the topic of their conversation. At all events, she looked round upon them with a smile, in which there was something supercilious, and even defiant; and, without ~vaiting to be in- vited, sat herself down with a haughty air. I was about to ask you to sit down, madem- oiselle, but you have anticipated me, said Mrs. Marston, gravely. You have something to say to me, I suppose; I am quite at leisure, so pray let me hear it now. Thank youthank you, madame, replied she, with a sharp, and even scornful glance; I ought to have asked permission to sit; I forgot to do so; but you have condescended to give it with- out my doing so; that was very kindvery kind, indeed. But I wish to know, mademoiselle, whether you have anything very particular to say to me? said Mrs. Marston. You wish to know !tlnd why, pray, mad- ame? ask*~d Mademoiselle de Barras, sharply. Because, unless it is something very urgent, I should prefer your talking to me some other time as, at present, I desire to be alone with my daugh- ter. Oh, ho! I ought to ask pardon again, said mademoiselle, with the same glance, and the same smile. I find I am de tropquite in the way. Helas! Jam very unfortunate to-day.~~ Mademoiselle de Barras made not the slightest movement, and it was evident that she was resolved to prolong her stay, in sheer defiance of Mrs. Marstons wishes. Mademoiselle, I conclude from your silence that you have nothing very pressing to say, and therefore must request that you will have the good- ness to leave me for the present, said Mrs. Mars- ton, who felt that the spirit of the French girls conduct was too apparent not to have been under- stood by Rhoda and the servant, and that it was of a kind, for example sake, impossible to be sub- ~mitted to, or tolerated. Mademoiselle de Barras darted a fiery and in- solent glance at Mrs. Marston, and was, doubtless, upon the point of precipitaiing the open quarrel which was impending, by setting her auLhority at defiance; but she checked herself, and changed her line of operations. We are not alone, madame, she said, with a heightened color, and a slight toss of the head. I was about to speak of Mr. Marston; I had somethingnot much, I confessto say; but be- fore servants I shant speak, nor, indeed, now at all. So, madame, as you desire it, I shall not further interrupt you. Come, Miss Rhoda, come to the music-room, if you please, and finish your practice for to-d~y. You forget, mademoiselle, that I wish to have my daughter with me at present, said Mrs. Mars- ton. I am very sorry, madame, said the French lady, with the same heightened color and unpleas- ant smile, and her finely-pencilled brows just dis- cernibly knit, so as to give a novel and menacing expression to her beautiful face I am very sorry, madame, but she must, so long as I remain accountable for her education, complete her allotted exercises at the appointed hours; and nothing shall, I assure you, with my consent, interfere with these duties. Come, Miss Rhoda, precede me, if you please, to the music-room. Come, come. Stay where you are, Rhoda, said Mrs. Mars- ton, firmly and gently, and betraying no symptom of excitement, except in a slight tremor of her voice, and a faint flush upon her cheek. Stay where you are, my dear child. I am your mother, and, next to your father, have the first claim upon your obedience. Mademoiselle, she continued, address- ing the Frenchwoman, calmly but firmly, my daughter will remain here for some time longer, and you will have the goodness to withdraw. I insist upon it, Mademoiselle de Barras. I will not leave the room, I assure you, madame, without my pupil, retorted mademoi- selle, with resolute insolence. Your husband, madame, has invested me with this authority over 74 MARSTON OF DUNORAN. my pupil, and she shall obey me. Miss Rhoda, I say again, go down to the music-room.~~ Remain where you are, Rhoda, said Mrs. Marston again. Mademoiselle, you have long been acting as if your object were to provoke me to part with you. I find it impossible any longer to overlook this grossly disrespectful conduct conduct of which I had, indeed, believed you ab- solutely incapable. Willctt, she continued, ad- dressing the maid, who was evidently bursting with rage at the scene she had just witnessed your master is, I believe, in the librarygo down, and tell him that I entreat him to come here immediately. The maid started on her mission with angry alacrity, darting a venomous glance at the hand- some Frenchwoman as she passed. Mademoiselle de Barras, meanwhile, sat, listless and defiant, in her chair, and tapping her little foot with angry excitement upon the floor. Rhoda sat close by her mother, holding her hand fast, and looking frightened, perplexed, and as if she were on the point of weeping. Mrs. Marston, though flushed and excited, yet maintained her dignified and grave demeanor. And thus, in silence, did they all three await the arrival of the arbiter to whom Mrs. 1\Iarston had so promptly appealed. A few minutes more, and Marston entered the room. Mademoiselles expression changed as he did so to one of dejected and sorrowful submission; and, as Marstons eye lighted upon her, his brow darkened, and his face grew pale. \Vell, wellwhat is it?what is all this? he said, glancing with a troubled eye from one to the other. Speak, some one Mrs. Marston, you sent for mewhat is it? !i want to know, Mr. Marston, from your own lips, said the lady, in reply, whether Rhoda is to obey me or Mademoiselle de Barras B Bah a question of womens prerogative, eaid Marston, with muttered vehemence. Of a wifes and a mothers prerogative, Rich- ard, said Mrs. Marston, with gentle emphasis; a very simple question, and one I should have thought needing no deliberation to decide it. Well, child, said he, turning to Rhoda, with angry irony, pray what is all this fuss about You are a very ill-used young lady, I dare aver. Pray what cruelties does Mademoiselle de Barras propose inflicting upon you, that you need to ap- peal thus to your mother for protection ? You quite mistake me, Richard, interposed Mrs. Marston; Rhoda is perfectly passive in this matter. I simply wish to learn from you, in madem- oiselles presence, whether I or she is to com- mand my daughter. Command I said Marston, evading the direct appeal; and pray what is all this commanding about twhat do you want the girl to do B I wish her to remain here with me for a little time, and mademoiselle, knowing this, desires her instantly to go to the music-room, and leave me. That is all, said Mrs. Marston. And pray, is there nothing to make her going to the music-room advisable or necessary? Has she no music to learn, or studies to pursue? Psha! Mrs. Marston, what needs all this noise about nothing? Go, miss, he added, sharply and peremptorily, addressing Rhoda go this mo- ment to the music-room. The girl glided from the room, and mademoi- selle, as she followed, shot a glance at Mrs. Marston, which wounded her and humbled her in the dust. Oh! Richard, Richard, if you knew all, you would not have subjected me to this indignity, she said; and throwing her arms about his neck, she wept, for the first time for many a long year, upon his breast. Marston was embarrassed and agitated. He disengaged her arms from his neck, and placed her gently in a chair. She sobbed on for some time in silencea silence which Marston himself did not essay to break. He walked to the door, apparently with the intention of leaving her. He hesitated, however, and returned; took a hurried turn through the room; hesitated again; sat down; then returned to the door, not to depart, but to close it carefully; and walked gloomily to the window, whence he looked forth, buried in agitating and absorbing thoughts. Richard, to you this seems a trifling thing; but indeed it is not so, said Mrs. Marston, sadly. You are very right, Gertrude, lie said, quickly, and almost with a start; it is very fa: from a trifling thing; it is very important. You dont blame me, Richard ? said she. I blame nobody, said he. Indeed, I never meant to offend you, Rich- ard, she urged. Of course not; no, no; I never said so, he interrupted, sarcastically; what could you gain by that? Oh! Richard, better feelings have governed me, she said, in a melancholy and reproachful tone. Well, well, I suppose so, he said; and after an interval, he added, abstractedly, This cannot, however, go on; no, noit cannot. Sooner or later, it must have come; better at oncebetter now. What do you mean, Richard? she said, greatly alarmed, she knew not why. What are you resolving upon? Dear Richard, in mercy tell me. I implore of you, tell me. Why, Gertrude, you seem to me to fancy that, because I dont talk about what is passing, that I dont see it either. Now this is quite a mistake, said Marston, calmly and resolutely. I have long observed your growing dislike of Mademoiselle de Barras. I have thought it over; this fracas of to-day has determined meit is de- cisive. I suppose you now wish her to go, as earnestly as you once wished her to stay. You need not answer. I know it. I neither ask nor care to whose fault I am to attribute these changed feelingsfemale caprice accou nts sufficiently for it; but whatever the cause, the effect is unde-. MARSTON OF DUNORAN. 75 niable; and the only way to deal satisfactorily with it, is to dismiss mademoiselle peremptorily and at once. You need take no part in the mat- ter; I take it all upon myself. To-morrow morn- ing she shall have left this house. I have said it, and am perfectly resolved. As he thus spoke, as if to avoid the possibility of any further discussion, he turned abruptly from her, and left the room. The extreme agitation which she had just un- dergone, comhined with her physical delicacy to hring on an hysterical attack; and poor Mrs. Marston, with an aching head and a heavy heart, lay down upon her bed. She had swallowed an opiate, and before ten oclock upon that night, an eventful one as it proved, she had sunk into a profound slumber. Some hours after this, she became in a confused way conscious of her husbands presence in the room. He was walking, with an agitated mien, up arid down the chamber, and casting from time to time looks of great trouble toward the bed where she lay. Though the presence of her hus- band was a strange and long unwonted occurrence there, and at such an hour, and though she felt the strangeness of the visit, the power of the opiate overwhelmed her so, that she could only see this al)parition gliding back arid forward before her with the passive wonder and curiosity with which one awaits the issue of an interesting dream. For a time she lay once more in an uneasy sleep; but still, throughout even this, she was conscious of his presence; and when, a little while after, she again saw him, he was not walking to and fro before the foot of the bed, but sitting beside her, with one hand laid upon the pillow on which her head was resting, the other supporting his chin. He was looking steadfastly upon her, with a changed face, an expression of bitter sorrow, compunction, and tenderness. There was not one trace of sternness; all was softened. The look was what she fancied he might have turned upon her had she lain there dead, ere yet the love of their early and ill-fated union had grown cold in his heart. There was something in it which re- minded her of days and feelings, gone, never to return. And while she looked in his face with a sweet and mournful fascination, tears unconsciously wet the pillow on which her poor head was rest- ing. Unable to speak, unable to move, she heard him say It was not your fault, Gertrudeit was not yours nor mine. There is a destiny in these things too strong for us. Past is pastwhat is done, is done forever; and even were it all to do over again, what power have I to mend it! No, no; how could I contend against the combined power of passions, circumstances, influencesin a word, of FATC You have been good and patient, while I but no matter. Your lot, Gertrude, is a happier one than mine. Mrs. Marston heard him and saw him, but she had not the power, nor even the will, herself to speak or move. He appeared before her passive sense like the phantasm of a dream. He stood up at the bedside, and looked on her steadfastly, with the same melancholy expression. For a moment he stooped over her, as if about to kiss her face, but checked himself, stood erect again at the bed- side, then suddenly turnedthe curtain fell back into its place, and she saw him no more. With a strange mixture of sweet and bitter feelings, this vision rested upon the memory of Mrs. Marston, until, gradually, deep slumber again overcame her senses, and the incident and all its attendant circumstances faded into oblivion. It was past eight oclock when Mrs. Marston awoke next morning. The sun was shining richly and cheerily in at the windows ; and as the re- membrance of Marstons visit to her chamber, and the unwonted manifestations of tenderness and com- punction which accompanied it, returned, she felt something like hope and happiness, to which she had long been a stranger, flutter her heart. The pleasing reverie, to which she was yielding, was, however, interrupted. The sound of stifled sob- bing in the room reached her ear, and, pushing back the bed-curtains, and leaning forward to look, she saw her maid, Willett, sitting with her back to the wall, crying bitterly, and striving, as it seemed, to stifle her sobs with her apron, which was wrapped about her face. SvVillett~Willett, is it you who are sobbing What is the matter with you, child? said Mrs. Marston, anxiously. The girl checked herself, dried her eyes hastily, and walking briskly to a little distance, as if en- gaged in arranging the chamber, she said, with an affectation of carelessness Oh, maam, it is nothingnothing at all, in- deed, maam. Mrs. Marston remained silent for a time, while all her vague and agonizing apprehensions returned. Meantime the girl continued to shove the chairs hither and thither, and to arrange and disarrange everything in the room, with a fidgety industry, intended to cover her agitation. A few minutes, however, served to weary her of this; for she abruptly stopped, stood by the bedside, and, look- ing at her mistress, burst into tears. Good God! what is it? said Mrs. Marston, shocked and even terrified, while new alarms dis- placed the old ones. Is Miss Rhodacan it be is sheis my darling well ? Oh yes, maam, answered the maid very well maam; she is up, and out walking, and knows nothing of all this. All what? urged Mrs. Marston. Tell metell me, Willett, what has happened. What is it? Speak, childsay what it is. Oh, maamoh, my poor, dear mistress ! continued the girl, and stopped, almost stifled with sobs. Willett, you must speakyou must say what is the matter. I implore of youI desire you ! urged the distracted lady. Still the girl, having made one or two ineffectual efforts to speak, con- tinued to sob. MARSTON OF DUNORAN. Willett, you will drive me mad. For mercys sakefor Gods sake, speaktell me what it is cried the unhappy lady. Oh, maam, it isit is about the master, sobbed the girl. Why he cantbe has notOh, merciful God! he has not hurt himself ! she almost screamed. No, maamnonot himselfnonobut and again she hesitated. But what 1 Speak out, Willettdear Wil- lett, have mercy on me, and speak out, cried her wretched mistress. Oh, maam. dont be fretteddont take it to heart, maam, said the maid, clasping her hands together in anguish. Anythinganything, Willettonly speak at once, she answered. Well, maam, it is soon saidit is easy told. The master, maamthe master is gone with the Frenchwoman; they went in the travelling coach last night, maamhe is gone away with her, maamthat is all. Mrs. Marston looked at the girl with a gaze of stupefied, stony terrornot a muscle of her face movednot one beaving respiration showed that she was living. Motionless, with this fearful look fixed upon the girl, and her thin bands stretched to~vards her, she remained, second after second at last liar outstretched hands began to tremble more and more violentlyand as if, for the first time the knowledge of his calamity bad reached herwith a cry, unearthly, as though body and soul were parting, she fell back motionless in her bed. Several hours had passed before Mrs. Marston ~vas restored to consciousness; to this state of utter insensibility, one of silent, terrified stupor succeededand it was not until she saw her daughter Rhoda standing at her bedside, weeping, that she found voice and recollection to speak. My childmy darlingmy poor child! she cried, sobbing piteously, as she drew her to her heart, and looked in her face alternately my darlingmy darling child ! Rhoda could only weep, and return her poor mothers caresses in silence. Too young and inexperienced to understand the full extent and nature of t.his direful calamitythe strange occur- rencethe general arid apparent consternation of the whole household, and the spectacle of her mothers agony, had filled liar with fear, perplexity, and anguish. Scared and stunned with a vague sense of danger, like a young bird, that, for the first time, cowers under a thunder-storm, she nestled in her mothers bosomthere, with a sense of protection, and with a feeling of boundless love and tenderness, she lay, frightened, wondering, and weeping. Two or three days passed, and Dr. Danvers came and sat for several hours with poor Mrs. Marston. To comfort and console, were, of course, out of his power. The nature of the bereavement far more terrible than deathits recent occur- reccethe distracting consciousness of all its com- plicated consequencesrendered this a hopeless task. She bowed herself under the blow, with the submission of a broken heart. The hope to which she had clung for years bad vanishedthe worst that ever her imagination feared, bad come in earnest. One idea was now constantly present in her mind. She felt a sad, but immovable assurance, that she should not live long, and the thought What will become of ray darling, when I am gonewho will guard and love my child when I am in my gravewhom is she to look to for ten- derness and protection then ? perpetually haunted her, and superadded the pangs of a still wilder despair to the desolation of a broken heart. It was not for more than a week after this event, that, one day, Willett, with a certain air of anxious mystery, entered the silent and dark- ened chamber where Mrs. Marston layshe bad a letter in her bandthe seal and handwriting were Mr. Marstons. It was long before the injnred ~vife was able to open itwhen she did so, the following sentences met her eye GERTRUDEYou can be ignorant neither of the nature, nor of the consequences of the decisive step I have takeni do not seek to excuse it. For the censure of the worldits meddling and mouthing hypocrisyI care absolutely nothingI have lung set it atdefianceand you yourself, Gertrude, when you deliberately reconsider the circumstances of estrangement and coldness under which, though beneath the same roof, we have lived for years without either sympathy or confidence, can scarcely if at allregret the rupture of a tie which had long ceased to be anything better than an irksome and galling formalityI do not desire to attribute to you the smallest blame. There was an incom- patibility, not of temper, hut of feelings, which made us strangers, though calling one another man and wifeupon this fact I rest my own justification our living together under these circumstances was, I dare say, equally undesired by us both. It was, in fact, but a deference to the formal hypocrisy of the world. At all events, the irrevocable act which separates us forever is doneand I have now merely to state so much of my intentions as may relate in anywise to your future arrangements I have writ- ten to your cousin, and former guardian, Mr. Roe, telling him how matters stand between us. You, I told him, shall have, without opposition from me, the whole of your own fortune to your own separate use, together with whatever shall be mutually agreed upon as reasonable, from my income, for your support, and that of my danghter. It will be necessary to complete your arrangements with ex- pedition, as I purpose returning to Dunoran in about three weeksand as, of course, a meeting between you and those by whom I shall be accompanied is wholly out of the question, you will see the expe- diency of losing no time in adjusting everything for yours, and my daughters departure. In the details, of course, I shall not interfere. I think I have made myself clearly intelligible, and would recommend your communnicatimig at once with Mr. Roe, with a view to completing temporary arrange- ments, until your final plans shall have been decided upon. RICHARD MARSToN. 76 MARSTON OF D1JNORAN. The reader can easily conceive the feelings with which this letter was perused. We shall not at- tempt to describe them; nor shall we weary his patience by a detail of all the circumstances attend- ing Mrs. Marstoris departure. Suffice it to men- tion, that, in less than a fortnight after the receipt of the letter which we have just copied, she had forever left the mansion of Dun.oran. In a small house, in a scquestered part of the beautiful country of Wicklow, the residence of Mrs. Marston and her daughter was for the pres- ent fixed. And there, for a time, the heartbroken and desolate lady enjoyed, at least, the privilege of an immunity from the intrusions of all external troubles. But the blow, under which the feeble remains of her health and strength were gradually to sink, had struck too surely homeand, from month to monthalmost from week to weekthe progress of decay was perceptible. Meanwhile, though grieved and humbled, and longing to return to Ireland, to comfort his unhappy mother, Charles Marston, for the prcsent abso- lutely dependent upon his father, had no choice but to remain at Oxford, and to pursue his studies there. At Dunoran, Marston and the partner of his guilt continued to live. The old servants were all gradually dismissed, and new ones hired by Made- 77. moiselle de Barras. There they dwelt, shunned by everybody, in a stricter and more desolate seclu- sion than ever. The novelty of the unrestraint and license of their new mode of life speedily passed away, and with it the excited and guilty sense of relief, which had for a tune produced a false and hollow gayety. The sense of security prompted in mademoiselle a hundred indulgences, which, in her former precarious position, she would not have dreamed of. Outbreaks of temper, sharp, and sometimes violent, began to manifest them- selves on her partand renewed disappointment, and blacker remorse, to darken the mind of Mars- ton himself. Often, in the dead of night, the servants would overhear their bitter and fierce altercations ringing through the melancholy maim- sionand often the reckless use of terrible and mysterious epithets of crime. Their quarrels increased in violence and in frequencyand, be- fore two years had passed, feelings of bitterness, hatred, and dread, alone seemed to subsist between them. Yet upon Marston she continued to exer- cise a powerful and mysterious influence. There was a dogged, apathetic submission upon his part, and a growing insolence upon hers, constantly more and more strikingly visible. Neglect, dis- order, and decay, too, were more than ever appar- ent in the dreary air of the place. From Blackwoods Magazine. THE LAST WALK.BY B. SIMMONS. OH lost Madonna, young and fair! Oer-leant by broad embracing trees, A streamlet to the lonely air Murmurs its meek low melodies; And there, as if to drink the tune, And mid the sparkling sands to play, One constant sunbeam still at noon Shoots through the shades its golden way. My lost Madonna, whose glad life Was like that ray of radiant air, The March-wind~s violet scents blew rife When last we sought that fountain fair. Blithe as the beam from heaven arriving, Thy hair held back by hands whose gleam Was white as stars with night-clouds striving Thy bright lips bent and sipped the stream. Fair fawn-like creature! innocent In soul as faultless in thy form As oer the wave thy beauty bent It blushed thee back each rosy charm. How soon the senseless wave resigned The tints, with thy retiring face, While glassed within my mournful mind Still glows that scenes enchanting grace. Ah! every scene, or bright or bleak, Where once thy presence round me shone, To echoing Memory long shall speak The Pasts sweet legends, Worshipped One! The wild blue hills, the boundless moor, That, like my lot, stretched dark afar, And oer its edge, thine emblem pure, The never-failing evening star. The lawn on which the sunsets track Crimsoned thy home beside the glen The village pathway, leading back From thee to haunts of hated men The walk to watch thy chambers ray, Mid storm and midnights rushing wings These, these were joys, long passed away, To dwell with Griefs eternal things. My lost Madonna, fair and young! Before thy slender-sandalled feet The dallying ~vave its silver flung, Then dashed far oceans breast to meet; And further, wider, from thy side Than unreturning streams could rove, Dark Fate decreed me to divide To me, my henceforth buried Love! Yes, far forever from thy side, Madonna, now forever fair, To death of DISTANCE I have died, And all has perished, butDespair. Whether thy fate with woe be fraught, Or Joys gay rainbow gleams oer thee, Ive died to all, but the mad thought That WHAT WAS ONCE NO MORE SHALL HE. T is well :at least I shall not know How time or tears may change that brow; Thine eyes shall smile, thy cheek shall glow To me in distant years as now. And when in holier worlds, where Blame, Amid Blight, and Sorrow, have no birth, Thou rt mine at lastI II clasp the same Unaltered Angel, loved on earth. 78 From Blackwoods Magazine. SCOTTISH KIDNAPPINGPETER WILLIAMSON S CASE. BEFORE entering on the personal history of a man whose adventures carried him through all the strata of social life, from tine feathered savage of the prairies to the industrious burgess in small- clothes, let us give a few incidental notices of that crimekidnapping, or man-stealinghis subjec- tion to which was the opening scene of his event- ful career. We can, perhaps, scarcely point to a more distinct type of feebleness in the law of any country than the frequency of this crime. In that community where the people, marked off by any distinction in race or appearancewhere persons born in serfdom, or of a particular line, or speak- ing a peculiar languageare doomed to slavery, the laws may be unjust and barbarous in the ex- treme, but it does not follow that they are feeble. The slavery exists by them, not in spite of them. It is in the country where the person, free by the law, is seized, and, in defiance of the law, held in forced bondage, in obedience to the interest or the malevolence of individuals, that this characteristic of feebleness is so prominently developed. The purloiner of coin or plate can only be tracked by external incidents; there is nothing in his connec- tion with the property that in itself proclaims his crime. The horse and cattle-stealer have to deal with less silent commodities; but even the objects of their depredations are not placed in an unnatu- ral position by ownership, and have no voice wherewith to proclaim their custodiers dishonesty. But the man who holds another in possession in a free country, is a criminal in the eye of every one who sees him exercise his ownership; and he car- ries about with him a perpetual witness and accu- ser, who is under the strongest inducements to be ever vigilant and ever active. The law under which common thefts are practised, is only that which does not see far into a muillstone; but the law under which kidnapping may he pursued with impunity, is deaf, and blind, and paralytic. Owing to the strong central administration of justice in England, it does not appear that this crime was ever very prevalent in the south. We find, in- deed, in Whitelocks Memorials, under the date of 9th May, 1645An ordinance against such who are called spirits, and use to steal away and take up children, and bereave their parents of them, and convey them away. The measure then adopted, which will be found among the or- dinances of the Long Parliament, shows us that it had become customary to seize children and carry them out of the country, to be employed as slaves in the plantations, or probably to be sold to the Mediterranean pirates. The ordinance says, Whereas, the houses of parliament are informed that divers lewd persons do go up and down the city of London and elsewhere, and in a most bar- barous and wicked manner steal away many little children, it is ordered by the lords and commons, in parliament assembled, that all officers and min- isters of justice be hereby s~raitly charged and re SCOTTISH KIDNAPPING. quired to be very diligent in apprehending all such persons as are faulty in this kind, either in steal- ing, selling, buying, inveigling, purloining, con- veying, or receiving children so stolen, and to keep them in safe imprisonment till they may be brought to severe and exemplary punishment. It is fur- ther ordered, that the marshals of the Admiralty and the Cinque Ports do immediately make strict and diligent search in all ships and vessels upon the river, and at the Downs, for all such children, according to sucln directions as they have, or shall receive from the committee of the Admiralty and Cinque Ports. The few reports we have of English cases of kidnapping are too profusely dressed up with technicalities to permit us to see the naked facts. Shower reports the case of Lees v. Dassigny, the 34th of Charles II. An Englisln common-law reporter never condescends to know the year of the Christian era; he kno~vs only that of the kings reign, and if he had to mention the foundation of the Turkish empire, he would mark it as the 28th Edward I.; while the discovery of America would as undoubtedly be an event of the 8th Henry VII. When we turn to our chronolocr- ical tables, we find that the 34th of Charles II. means the year 1682. How far the pleadings throw any light on the adventures of the youth who had been kidnapped and sent abroad, the reader may judge from a fair specimen . They sue an hornine replcgiando in the name of the young Turbett; and after an alias and a pluries, they get an elongatus est per quendam Philippurn Dassigny infra nominatum. This was to the Sheriff of London, whereas the defender never lived in London, but at Wapping, in Middlesex, & c. The effect of the pleading, of which this is the comniencement, was, that the accused migint be bailed, and on security to bring home the boy in six months, death and the perils of the seas excepted, he was discharged on hail. In Trinity term the boy came home, and being brought into court was delivered to the father; but they never proceeded. Sir Thomas Raymond gives us the further information, that the kidnapper was a mer- chant trading to Jamaica, and that the victim was a scholar at Merchant Taylors school, and a hopeful young youth.* An act of King Wil- liams reign shows that the offence was still preva- lent, by imposing penalties on the masters of ves- sels leaving people behind in his majestys plan- tations or elsewhere. It appears to have been almost solely for the foreign market that kidnap- ping was practised in England. The cultivated and populous character of the country, the power of the laws, and the perpetual vicinity of a kind of parochial municipalities, probably rendered the forcible seizure and imprisonment of. individuals within the country too difficult and dangerous atm operation to have been frequently accomplished by force; though the fatal facilities for confinement in lunatic asylums may have frequently made them the living tombs of those whom the rapacity, or * Raymonds Reports, 474. SCOTTISH KIDNAPPING. 79 the malignant passions of others, have doomed to imprisonment. Yet were we to take foreign nov- elists as true painters of English manners, we would find in Madame Cotin~s Malvina, that a French beauty having secured the affections of an English duke, his powerful relations seize her, after she has become his ~vife, and lock her up in a turret of their private castle, where, though the neighboring physician and the clergyman visit her, and all the world knows that she is imprisoned, no one dares to interfere in her behalf; and her fate is only balanced hy that of her hushand, whom the attorney-general transports, by a writ of Ha- beas Corpus, to the West Indies. Somewhat sim- ilar, if our memory serves us right, are the no- tions of British liberty embodied in Walladmor, the story got up to pass as a Waverley novel at one of the Leipsie fairs, where, in the year 1818, the lord lieutenant is found committing every person with whom he quarrels to his private dun- geons in his own castle. We need no writers of romance to find instances of kidnapping in Scotland before the Union. The vast solitudes which frequently separated inhabited districts from each other, the feudal fortalices scat- tered hither and thither, the weakness of the crown, the judicial powers possessed by many of the barons; and we may add to this, the spirit of clanship, which surrounded every Highland chief with an army of retainers, as faithful to the pres- ervatiori of his secrets as they were relentless in avenging his feudsall conspired to render it too easy for a powerful individual to adopt such a form of outrage against his enemy. Not that the practice was pursued in the manner of a sordid trade, as we have found it followed in England, and as we shall find that at a later period it was adopted among ourselves. The Scots had no colo- nies to be supplied with this species of living mer- chandise; and in truth the human animal has sel- doni been with us so valuable a commodity in the home market, as greatly to raise the cupidity of his neighbor Those who ventured on kidnapping flew at high game. A young or a superannuated king requir- ing the aid of able counsellors, nay, sometimes a monarch in the vigor of his power, would be the object of such an attempt. Among lesser person- ages, statesmen offensively powerful, dignified churchmen about to issue ecclesiastical censures, and judges of the Court of Session prepared to give adverse decisions, were in great request, and eagerly sought after. Alexander Gibson of Dune for some time a principal clerk of session, and af- terwards a judge in that courtlawyers know him as the author of a folio volume of reports of more than average unreadabilitywas a special victim, having been twice successfully spirited away. In 1604, George Meldrum, younger of Dumbreck, was tried for several acts of this description, of one of which Dune, then ane of the clerks of our sovereign Lords Council and Session, was a victim. Among those whom the kidnapper *Pitcairn, ii. 428. took to his assistance were John Johnston, t Forbes Jour al of the Session, preface, p. xviii. called Swyne-foot, and some other worthies, com- prehensively described as ane company of com- mon and notorious thieves, brigands, and murder- ers, who assembled with swords, hagbuts and pistolets. Dune was residing in St. Andrews, and it appears that his enemy employed ane fel- low called Craik, the said George Meldrums own man, to watch his motions. He was riding, as it would appear, on the bank of the Firth of Tay, opposite to Dundee, accompanied by a brother bar- rister and his servant, when the ambuscade trea- sonably put violent hands on their person, and took them captives and prisoners. Their cap- tor reft fra them their purses, with certain gold and silver being there, extending to the quantity of three hundred merks or thereby an act which the indictment reproachfully mentions as specially unworthy of ane landed man. Meldrum pro- ceeded with his captive through Fifeshire to King- horn on the Forth; thence crossing over to Leith, he marched through Edinburgh, passing the pal- ace gate of Holyroodhouse a circumstance to which the indictment alludes as a powerful illus- tration of the audacity of the transaction. The party then proceeded through Lothian and Tweed- dale across the Border unto England, to George Ratclifls house, where they detained him captive and prisoner for the space of eight days or there- by.* Thus was this high official conveyed a distance of about a hundred miles, not only through the most populous and fertile part of that kingdom, but through the centre of the metropolis, under the very shadow of the throne; and that not by any of the great barons who could command an army of followers, but by a petty country gentle- man, aided by a few Border freebooters. The second private captivity of Dune was ac- complished on the principle on which an elector is sometimes abstracted. It was for the purpose of defeating his adverse vote on the bench in a cause then before the court. Sir Walter Scott mentions the incident in the notes to the Border Minstrel- sy ; and the reader who remembers his pictur- esque and spirited narrative may perhaps be amused by seeing how the same event appears in the sober garb of a reporter of decisions. Forbes, in his Journal of the Session, says Some party in a considerable action before the session, finding the Lord Dune could not be per- suaded to think his plea good, fell upon a stratagem to prevent the influence and weight that his lordship might have to his prejudice, by causing some strong masked men kidnap him in the Links of Leith at his diversion on a Saturday afternoon, and transport him to some blind and obscure roomin the country, where he was detained captive without the benefit of daylight a matter of three monthsthough other- wise civilly and well entertainedduring which time Imis lady and children went in mourning for him as dead. But after the cause aforesaid was decided, the Lord Dune was carried back by mncognitoes, and dropped in the same place where he had been taken up.f 80 SCOTTISH KIDNAPPING. During the civil wars of the seventeenth century, the victorious party frequently found it difficult to dispose of their captives. In England, many of them were sent to the plantations; and, perhaps, the idea which this practice communicated to the public, of the value of captives transported to the colonies, may have first instigated those acts of kidnapping against which we have found the Long Parliament protesting. Scotland had na such means of disposing of her prisoners, whose num- bers were frequently very inconvenient. Many of them were sent abroad to be soldiers under those continental leaders who were considered on the same side with the victorious party at home; oth- ers were subjected to a sort of slavery in this coun- try but, wherever their lot might be cast, their captivity would be very apt to be abbreviated by some revolution in the fortunes of war. A person who preserved accurate notes of political events as they passed under his eye, kept the following very business-like account of the distribution of the com- mon soldiers taken in the battle in which Montrose was made prisoner Tuesday, 21st May, [1650.]This day the two hundred and eighty-one common soldiers taken at Kerbester, that were in the Cannongate prison the house ordains forty of them, being forced from Orkney, and have wife and children, to be dismissed. The house gives six of them, being fishers, to the lieutenant-general also other six fishers of them, given by the parliament to the Marquis of Argyle; and six of them being lusty fellows, given to Sir James Hope, to his lead-mines. The remnant of them the house gives to the Lord Angus and Sir Robert Murray, to recruit the French regiments with, to be transported out of the country to France.* who may beat, mutilate, tortu,e, starve, or kill, so great a number of mankind at pleasure? Shall the far greater part of the commonwealth be slaves, not that the rest may be free, but tyrants over them? With what face can we O~~O5O the tyran- ny of princes, and recommend such tyranny as the highest virtue, if we make ourselves tyrants over the greatest part of mankind? Can any man, from whom such a thing has escaped, ever offer to speak for liberty? But they must pardon me if I tell theni, that I regard not names but things; and that the misapplication of names has confounded every- thing. ~* His plan of social redrganization was, that every man of a certain estate in this nation should be obliged to take a proportional number of tbe poor, and employ them in hedging and ditcbing his grounds, or any other sort of work, while the young were to be educated in tbe knowledge of some mechanical art. Here we have one of the earliest undoubted expositions of communism. But Fletcher called things by their accepted names, and for Saint Simons industriel and chef, we have slave and owner; for Fouriers phalanges we have gangs. Nor does the illustrious patriot flinch from describing in their proper harsh colors the coercive means necessary for thus keeping society in fetters. We recommend to M. Louis Blaiic the passage where he says : These things, when once re- solved, must be executed with great address, dili- gence, and severity; for that sort of people is so desperately wicked, such enemies of all work and labor, and, which is yet more amazing, so proud, in esteeming their own condition above that which they will be sure to call slavery; that, unless pre- It may be questioned if these gifts were very vented by the utmost industry and diligence, upon valuable to their receivers, or if the coerced labor the first publication of any orders necessary for they inferred was worth possessing. Certainly so putting in execution such a design, they will rather little valuable was the mere human being to the die with hunger in caves and dens, and murder community, some thirty years afterwards, that the their young children, than appear~ abroad, to have liberal and patriotic Fletcher of Saltoun pleaded them and themselves taken itito such a kind of hard for the establishment of slavery in Scotland, service. riot as a privilege to the aristocracy, but as a boon There is spiritalmost sympathy in this picture to so many thousands of our people who are, at of the desperation of savage liberty; and the enthe- this day, dying for want of bread. He saw that siasm with which the lover of his own freedom sheep and oxen, being property, were cared for and describes the love of the poor outcasts for theirs, kept alive, and, by a process of reasoning which sounds as if it gave the lie to the sincerity of the he seemed to consider a very natural one, he project. It seems to have had no supporters. The thought that he had but to convert his fellow- state of the labor market did not make the pos- beings into property, to let them be also cared for. session of human beings a desirable investment, Yet, like all men who conceive social paradoxes, and landed gentlemen were not anxious to become he was haunted by the shadow, cast before, of the the owners of their poorer neighbors, for the gen- revulsion of common sense against his proposal, eral good of the community. Kidnappings and and thus anticipated the obloquy it would incur, deportations for political purposes, still continued I doubt not that what I have said will meet, not to be occasionally practised. One memorable in- only with all the misconstruction and obloquy, but stance was the far-famed story of Lady Grange, to all the disdain, fury, and outcries, of which either which we propose to dedicate a separate notice, in ignorant magistrates or proud lazy people are ca- virtue of our having perused some documents with pablo. Would I bring back slavery into the world? which the world at large does not seem yet to be Shall men of immortal souls, and by nature equal acquainted. There is little doubt that occasionally to any, be sold as beasts? Shall they and their a person who showed a disposition to impart dan- posterity be forever subjected to the most miserable gerous Jacobite secrets was spirited away to France, of all conditions, the inhuman barbarity of masters, to give an account of his views and intentions, Un- * Balfours Briefe Memorials of Church and Stale, 18. * Fletchers Works 91. SCOTTISH KIDNAPPING. 81 der circumstances in which he might not be so likely to forget the obligations he had incurred to the exiled house. Generally speaking, however, kidnapping was worthless in a commercial sense though Lovat, whose actions were scarcely in con- formity with any particular social rule, choosing to have in his service a well-trained London footman, without paying him, got possession of his person, and kept it as safe in his own custody at Castle IDounie as if he had taken hiTn to Algiers. It was, however, when the Scottish trade with the plantations began to open up, soon after the union, that the disgraceful practice of kidnapping and transporting children became prevalent. The power possessed by many of the chiefs, as inde- pendent local judges, with but a nominal responsi- hility to the control of the crown or the interven- tion of the supreme courts, gave facilities for this traffic, which poor human nature seems to have been incapable of resisting. The victims were sometimes persons tried and convicted before the hereditary tribunal; and since they must be pun- ished, it were pity to allow an opportunity to be lost, by which the infliction might be turned to the profit of the judge or his friends. Thus we find Lovat, desirous to propitiate the favor of Duncan Forbes, offering his brother a gift of a few Strathglass rogues, clansmen of his next neigh- bor and hereditary enemy, whom he had caught in his own domain, and convicted in his own coort. He had at first proposed to send them to America~ but, as they are haiidsome fellows, he offers them to Forbes, for his nephews Dutch regiment. I shall send them to him, says the accommodating chief, without any expense in keeping of them; for I will send immediately orders to carry them south with a guard. There is a captain there of Arthurs regiment, who will receive them and deliver them to Arthur ; and I II send him other two Camerons that are in your prisontall fel- lows; and five such good men will do him more service, now that the Dutch expect a war, than thirty men next season. * It was in reference to such practices that the engineer officer, who, while employed in laying out the military roads through the Highlands, pre- served so many shrewd remarks on the manners of the people, added the following to his budget: When any ship in these parts is bound for the West Indies, to be sure, a neighboring chief, of whom none dares operdy to complain, has several thieves to send prisoners to towii. It has been whispered their crimes were only asking their dues, and such-like offences; and I have been well assured they have been threatened with hanging, or at least perpetual imprisonment, to intimidate and force them to sign a contract for their banishment, which they seldom refused to do, as knowing there could be no want of witnesses against them, however innocent they were; and then they were put on board the ship, the master paying so much a head for them. Thus two pur- poses were served at onceviz., the getting rid of * Culloden Papers, 113. CCXV1I. LIVING AGE. VOL. xvIlI. 6 troublesome fellows, and making money of them at the same time.* But our more immediate concern, in the present instance, is with no frightful feudal baron, presid- ing over chains and dungeons, in the mysterious recesses of his own solitary moated tower. The offenders exposed in Peter Williamsons history were grave, sober burghersbailies and town- councillors of one of the most worshipful and re- spectable corporations in the United Kingdom men of peace, staid in their demeanor, cautious in their walk of life-careful not to rub their smooth, well-brushed broad-cloth against any impure thing. Their proceedings had the fairest and most inno- cent appearance; men of industry and business themselves, keepers of their bonds and engage- ments, they were but somewhat rigid in exacting industry and punctual performance of oblioations from others. Kidnapping, crimping, de- forcement, slavery, were words unknown in their vocabularythey did but hire servants it was nominally for a period of years; it might happen to be virtually for life; it might be to bear the burden, under a tropical sun, in the steaming swamps of the Antillasstill it was a mere con-~ tract. They would have been frightened by the name of a slave-ship, but they meekly acknowl-.. edged that they freighted vessels in the servant. trade, with cargoes of boys. For them alone did seethe A thousand men in troubles wide and dark: Half-ignorant, they turned an easy wheel, That set sharp racks at work to pinch and peel. Many years had passed over the guilty traffic, ere an accident having disturbed the placid surface it assumed to the world, some men of honor, cour- age, and high station resolved to probe its myste- ries; and discovered that the sleek burgesses, by their corporate authority, had been able noiselessly to accomplish as wide and devastating a tyranny as ever had been revealed by the dungeons of some mouldering baronial tower to frighten this. world against feudality. Peter Williamson was born at Hirnley, in the parish of Aboyne, Aberdeenshire, the clergyman. of which mentions him in the statistical account,. along with the celebrated Father Innes, and Ross,. the author of The Fortunate Shepherdess, as one of the eminent men connected with his. parish.t The district, though situated on the slopes of the higher Crampians, has not, within the reach of history, been inhabited by Celts, and William- son s name speaks to his Saxon origin. He says he was, if not of rich, yet of reputable parents ; and they evidently belonged to a poor and frugal,. but independent class, who may still be foun.d rearing their humble fortunes on those somewhat sterile uplands, neither as masters nor as servants, * Burts Letters from the North of Scotland, 5th Edi-~ tion, 1. 50. iNezc Statistical Account, Aberdeen, 1054. 82 SCOTTISH KIDNAPPING. but each independently farming his own croft. One of the witnesses, examined more than twenty years afterwards, said he knew James William- son having a plough going in Upper Balnacraig, to the best of the deponents remembrance, and heard he had likewise a plough going in Hirnlcy, when he lived there; and that he was in such circumstances as to keep his children and his family, without their being obliged to beg their bread. We take the brief history of his seizure from Peters own narrative. I was sent to live with an aunt at Aberdeen, whcre, at eight years of age, playing on the quay, with others of my companions, being of a stout, ro- bust constitution, I was taken notice of by two fel- lows belonging to a vessel in the harbor, employed (as the trade then was) by some of the worthy mer- chants of the town, in that villanous and execrable practice called kidnapping; that is, stealing youn,~ children from their parents, and selling them as slaves in the plantations abroad. Being marked out by those monsters of iniquity as their prey, I was easily cajoled aboard the ship by them, where I was no sooner got, than they conducted me between the decks, to some others they had kidnapped in the same manner. At that time I had no sense of the fate that was destined for me, and spent the time in enildish amusements with my fellow-suffer- ers in the steerage, being never suffered to go upon deck while the vessel lay in the harbor, which was till such a time as they had got in their loading, with a complement of unhappy youths for carrying ~on their wicked commerce.* ~Ve shall take our further notices of this occur- rence from a very different sourcea huge bundle of papers, chiefly printed, consisting of the deco- ments connected with the long train of litigation in which Williamson was subsequently involved, owing to the publication of the passage we have just cited. The papers consist of pleadings, ac- counts, letters, and the testimonies of witnessesa sort of mass in which it is clear from the begin- ning that one cannot fail to find curious thiiigs by boring holes through it here and there. We are not aware that this valuable source of information about the manners of the place and period has ever been heretofore applied to literary uses, with the exception of some references made to it, in a cu- rious and very able compendium of provincial lore, called The Book of Bon Accord, or a Guide to the City of Aberdeen ; a work which, like Tookes Diversions of Purley, not unknown to collectors of juvenile circulating libraries, appears to have been christened with some peculiar object ;of hiding the learning and ingenuity of its contents under a frivolous exterior. At the time when legal investigations were commenced, Williamson was a man in middle life, who had gone throuah adventures and vicissitudes enough for a century of ordinary human existence. The first step was to identify the trained travelled ~nan with the poor boy who had mysteriously disap- ~peared from the streets of Aberdeen; and the next to prove the act of kidnapping. Several witnesses * Life and Various Vicissitudes of Peter Williamson. reniembered Williamsoii; he was described by them as a rough, ragged, bumble-headed, long, stourie clever boy, by which is meant a growthy boy ; and a stout, clever, rough loon, and very ill to guide, and very ragged till he got clothes. A neighbor of the old crofter said he believed, upwards of four years befure the battle of Culloden, it was the general report of t-he country, that when the said Peter Williamson was a little boy going with a clipped head, he was taken at Aberdeen, and car- ried to Philadelphia with several other boys. He remembered conversations with the youth~s father, who complained that he came iiito Aberdeen seeking his son Peter, but they would not let him near hand him; that his son Peter was in a barn in Aberdeen, and they would not let him speak with him ; and, that the merchants in Aber- deen had carried away his son to Philadelphia, and sold him for a slave observing that it was commonly rumored that several merchants there, whom he named, did deal in that way of carry- ing a~vay boys ; and he concluded by saying he saw the father shed many salt tears on that ac- count. The session clerk, who had been at Peters baptism, recognized him when he saw him, as the same identical Peter Williamson at whose baptism be had been present, and confirmed the story of his fathers having attempted in vain to get access to him in the barn, characterizing the old mans lamentation as very sore and grievous.~~ Mr. Fraser of Findrac, a neighboring proprietor, knew several of James Williamsons children, and had beard it was the practice of some of the merchants of Aberdeen to kidnap young children, and send them to the plantations to be sold as slaves. He heard in the country that the said ~arnes Williamson or his wife had gone into Aber- deen, and one of their sons called Peter Williani- son had followed; and that James Smith, saddler in Aberdeen, had picked up the said Peter; and the deponent heard he was either put in prison, or put on board a ship, till the ship sailed ; it was the voice ~f the county that James XVilliamson and his wife regretted, or made a clamor for the loss of their son, miot knowing what was beconie of him. The investigation brought to light some other cases, and gradually opened up the whole mystery of iniquity. One old woman, the millers widow, who remembered that Peter was sent into Aber- deen, to be under his aunts, his mother being dead, and that soon thereafter he was missing,~ said that in the parish of Aboyne they were generally afraid to send their boys on errands to Aberdeen, for fear they should be carried off. Some wit- nesses remembered having in their youth made marvellous escapes; and Alexander Grigson, do- mestic at Aboyne castle, had a story to tell, that about twenty years ago, lie and another boy were coming from the mill of Crathie, where they had been seeking their meat; and near to a birch wood, near to the kirk & f Crathy, three countrymen on horseback came up with them, but the deponent knew none of them; and they asked him and the SCOTTISH KIDNAPPING. 83 other boy that was along with him, if they would go with them, and they would clothe them like gentlemen; but the deponent being elder than the other boy, made answer that they would [lot go along with them, for it strnck the deponent in the head that perhaps he and the other boy were to be carried abroad, in respect a rumor l)revailed in the country that young boys were carried abroad at that time. The men threatened force ; and the boys, who could not fail then to have the blackest notions of their intentions, took to their heels while the kidnappers were tying their horses, and defied discovery in the recesses of the old forest of Mar, which, fortunately for them, skirted the road. This incident may have been a trick to frighten two country lads. Another, recorded by a chairman in Edinburgh, has a more business-like appearance. In the year 1728 or 1729, he went to Aberdeen to see an uncle and an aunt, who lived there; and whilst he was there he was carried up to a house by a person whom he did not know, where he got a dram and a piece of biscuit, and was promised a new coat and great encouragement, if he would agree to go over to America with the other lads that were engaged to go there ; that he signified his willingness to agree to the proposal; that up- on this he was desired to go and come back to his breakfast again; but when he told this to some of the countrymen of his acquaintance, they told him that he was a fool, for he would be sold to the blacks, and they would eat him; that upon this he resolved immediately to leave the town, which he did. It appeared that those who endeavored to re- cover their children were threatened with co& cive measures; and the poor people seem to have been impressed with the conviction that they were in the hands of an overwhelming power, with which it would be vain to contend. Thus, one individu- al, having recovered possession of his son, met the captain of the transport vessel in tile street, who bade him send back the youth, otherwise he might expect unpleasant consequences. Therefore he promised and engaged to return his said son, which he accordingly did. Depones, that if he could have hindered his son from going to America he would have done it; and if he had known as much then as he does now, he would have done it. Depones, that before lie promised to return his son to the said ship as above, he was himself threatened to be put into the Tolbooth. The line of defence adopted by the kidnappers was, that no one was forced, in the first instance; that each boy was the object of a distinct agree- ment, either with his parents or ~vith hilnself; and the subsequent coercion employed towards them, which could not be denied, was thus interpreted to be a judicious protection by the employers of the property they had fairly acquired. But the very evidence given by their own enussariesal- most every sentence bearing in its bosom a general assurance that nothing illegal was doneis quite sufficient in the description of minute facts to support, if not confirm, the darkest suspicions. Thus one of the crimps, desiring to excite some feeling against the exiles, as a graceless, inconsid- erate class, unworthy of sympathy, said that such persons, whether boys, or older people, whom the deponent engaged to go to America on board the said ship, the Planter, after they had been some four, some five, some six weeks, clothed aud maintained by him at the expense of his employ- ers, were endeavoring to desert and run away, and were tampered with, or decoyed to en- gage or take on with other people in the town of Aberdeen, who were, at the very same time, en- gaging and indenting servants to America : and, in order to prevent their being so decoyed, the older people so engaged by the deponent were put in prison, and the younger people were put into the workhouse or poors hospital. There was, it seems, much competition in the trade ; and, at the same time, the live commodity had a propen- sity to remove itself from the custody of its own- ers. Thus might the employment he termed a doubly hazardous one; and a certain scrupu- lous citizen, who had grave doubts about the propriety of joining the speculation, though he wished to be a part-owner of the ship in which it was conducted, gave this account of his hesita- tion Having been informed that servants had been indented by Ragg and his owners to. g on board of his said ship to America, and the deponent not inclining to be concerned in that servant trade, proposed to Ragg to hold a share of the ship if he was to have no concern of that adventure of the servants, as he was an utter stranger to any merchandise or trade in that way; to which Robert Ragg said, that he could not have any concern with the ship without having a con- cern in the servants, which made him break up any further communing with Ragg about the mat- ter. But this witness was an instance of the instability of good resolutions: he was strongly pressed by friends for whom he had a high esteem; the profits and advantages of the undertaking but that, of course, was a secondary matter were largely spoken of in support of these impor- tunities, to hold a share in the same way as the other owners had done, as well in the adventure of the servants as in the shipto which impor- tunities the deponent at last yielded. Not less tell-tale is a letter by the captain of the vessel, written in a spirit of honest indignation to one of the parties involved in the legal proceedings. Dear Sir,I am favored with yours of the 28th September, and am sorry you are put to trouble about one Williamson. I do not remember any of that name that went out in the Planter, and am cer- tain, if he is not mentioned in the account of what was got for the servants indentures, [that is to say, of course, for the sale of the servants themselves,I if even he was ever indented, he must have run away at Aberdeen, or at Cape May, where the ship was lost; and I am sure there was no servant in that ship but what was legally attested before they went from Aberdeen. I cannot tell ~f any register is kept at Philadelphia of the sale of servants, but I imagine not. 84 These admissions, that the servants required eo5rcion ; that they were confined in the public prison and other convenient places; and that they were sold, are of course amply confirmed by the witnesses on the other side. A witness, William Jamieson, had a pathetic little history of his own to tell. He lived in the village of Old Meldrum, in the year 1740, and he had then a son John, between ten and eleven years old. One evening his boy did not come home; and in the course of his anxious inquiries, next day, about the missing youth, he was told by some neighbor*, fnat they saw a man, whom they said was a servant to John Burnet, late merchant in Aberdeen, who was corn- monly called Bonny John, with the deponents said son, and two other boys, much about the same age, travelling towards Aberdeen, and that his son would be sent to the plantations. The kind of alarm that would be conveyed to the fathers heart by such an intimation, may be imagined ; and the poor villager, surrounded by people among whom a dread of this species of kidnapping had become a pahic, would be little relieved from his anxieties, by hearing the neighbors describe the horrors of the slavery to which such of their offspring as un- derwent the calamity of capture were subjected, and lament their utter feebleness to resist the stroiig hand, fortified by law and authority, hy which the injury was perpetrated. Jamieson, however, re- solved to make an effort for his son. He went presently to Aberdeen, and saw Burnet, who ap- parently transacted too large a business in the servant trade, to be conscious of so small an item in the account as the villagers son, and told him that he had several boys, but did not know whether the deponents son was amongst them but said, though he was, the deponent would not get him back, because he was engaged with him.~~ The deponenta word which in Scotland is the technical term for witness; we are sorry that it is necessary to use it so often, but we cannot help itafter his interview with the great kidnap- per, wandered along the hroad links or downs on the sea-shore, where he had been informed the boys were out getting the air There he ob- served a great number of boyshe thinks about sixty; that they were attended by a man who, the deponent was informed by the people of the town, was employed for the purpose by the said John Bornet; that this man had a horsewhip, and the deponent observed him striking the buys there- with, when they went out of the crowd. The poor man saw his own boy John in the little herd, and joyfully hailed him. The boy, by a natural impulse, ran to his father, and said he would gladly follow him home if he dared. Immediately upon this, the person who was Mr. Burnets overseer, eam.~ up and gave the boy a lash with his whip, and took him by the shoulder and carried him amongst the rest, and immediately drove them off. The father kept company with the procession, and thus describes its progress. When the boys were marching up to the barn, the deponent kept pace with the overseer, who fol SCOTTISH KIDNAPPING. lowed immediately after the boys, entreating of him to get liberty to speak to his son; who an- swered him that he should get leave to speak to him by-and-by, when they were come to the barn; but when they came there the overseer locked the door, and refused the deponent access; that he never sau his son after this. That the deponent, in passing through the town of Aberdeen, after his son was so locked up from him, was told by several tradespeople, and others to whom he had told the story of his son, that it would be in vain for him to apply to the magistrates to get his 50fl liberated, because some of the magistrates had a hand in those things, as well as the said John Burnet; upon which the deponent went home. A very characteristic record of these transac- tions still remaiued in the books and accounts of the parties implicated. Among these documents, one of the witnesses, denominated Walter Scott, writer to the signet, produces the ship book, apparently the same which some of the witnesses more descriptively call the kidnapping book. It is needless to say whose father it was who pos- sessed this curious document. The investigation occurred in 1762nine years before the birth of Sir Walter; and it was perhaps one of the last ideas that would have ever occurred to his respecta- ble parent, that it was worth while communicating to his offspring any information from a mere mer- chants account book, which had been placed in his hands in the usual routine of his business, and probably afterwards forgotten. Yet what a lively history might have been woven out of its dry ma- terials, had it remained among the other lumber in George Square, to be rummaged out by the lame boy! Mr. Scott was the agent for the kid- nappers. It is satisfactory to observe that he ap- pears to have been too honest an agent for their purposes; for we find that he transmitted to them this book by post, in order that it might be exhib- ited in the course of the arbitration, to which we shall hereafter allude; but his employers knew their own interest too well to produce it, until they were subsequently compelled to do so. The extracts from the books transferred to the papers before us, are of course those only which have some reference to the case of Peter William- son; thus Jan. 8, 1743. To a pair of stockings to Peter Williamson To a woollen cap to ditto. 13, To five days of ditto s. d. 06 05 13 And a more emphatical entry To the man that brought Williamson.. . . 1 6 Listing appears to have been the slang, or, more properly speaking, the business term for kid- napping, arid the price of the operation passes through a scale of sums, graduated probably to the difficulty of the task. Thus, while Williamson was procured for is. 6d., there is an entry To a Serjeant for listing Mackie, 5s. ; while on the SCOTTISH KIDNAPPING. other hand, there is only is. 4~d. to Lighton and a soldier for listing Robert Patersun. There is one sweeping charge of a guinea, to Maclean, sent to the country to list servantsamount of business done not stated, but it must have been considerable, as there are occasional entries of cash sent to the country to Maclean. Some- times sums are entered as paid to the parties them- selvesas 5s. to Margaret Robertson, when listed ; yet this can scarcely have been a voluntary operation on Margarets part, as the immediately succeeding item is is. Gd. to the wright on board and one of the boys for listing her. Five shil- lings are entered as to two soldiers for listing Allardyce. He must have been a difficult boy to catch, as there is a further entry of 2s., as cash they spent with him. This item introduces us to a dark feature in the expenditure of the kidnappersthe sums that ap- pear to have been spent by them in vicious indul- gences to their young captives, to prevent the te- dium of their imprisonment from driving them to desperate efforts for their escape. We have thus to the boys to play at cards, is. ; and in another place, to the boys to drink when put in the workhouse, is.; to six packs of cards to them, 9d. It is almost a relief, in the perusal of these heartless, business-like columnsevery red line of which has the hard outline of premeditated crueltyto read of is. Gd. being paid to the piper for playing in the workhouse two days. But in the neighborhood of this, there are some entries which we dare not copy. There is a can- did explicitness about these accounts, which we must confess we have not sufficient virtuous cour- age to imitate, by transferring to our columns some charges of which we would yet fain give our readers an idea. The person who kept the books no doubt called a spade a spade ; and, indeed, he bestowed o.n many other things their ordinary vulgar nomenclature. We tremble in approaching his most explicit declarations; we almost fear re- proach in offering to the reader an extract of an item in which he has been very decorous, consid- ering the subject ; but, such an item who shall explain its meaning I Here it is To Colonel Hursie for his concubine, Li ! Some entries referring to the boys in the Tol- booth, or, more briefly, the prisoners, remind us, were this necessary, that these accounts re- lated to persons kept in bondage. Other parts in- dicate the comprehensive nature of the business dune in the servant trade. Thus, on the 12th of I\Iay, there is a charge of 7s. Gd. to three days board of ten servants from the Tolbooth ; and on the same day, to five days board of thirty-four servants, 2, 2s. Gd. The latter num- ber is frequently repeated in the account, and pruhahly represents the stock of one considerable holder. It was estimated by the witnesses that sixty-nine were transported in one cargo in i743; and when, says a writer already alluded to, it is considered that the. trade was carried on to an equal extent for nearly six years, it is impos sible to estimate the number of unhappy beings carried off at less than six hundred.* We have endeavored in our account of these transactions to be sternly and rigidly prosaic perhaps our readers may think we have no great merit in accomplishing such a resolution, but we also take merit for having adhered to the facts at- tested with impartial accuracy. To afford some relief to the plainness of our detail, we shall wind it up by treating the reader to a part of the eloquent and denunciatory exordium of Williamson s coun- sel, Maclaurin, brother of the great mathema- tician. Persons of every character, sex, and age, were kidnappedmen, women, half-grown lads, and in- fants, some of them not above six years old. The whole country was in terror and consternation, afraid to let their children go near Aberdeen, and trembling for fear of a kidnapping excursion from that place. The unfortunate creatures that had been wheedled or pressed into the service, were at first confined in a barn or workhouse, where they had a piper to play to them, and cards allowed them, in order to hinder them to think, or meditate their es- cape; but that they soon attempted, and one or two of them with success ; upon which the rest were shut up in the Tolbooth. During their confinement, the parents and other relations of those who had been enticed or forced away, flocked to Aberdeen in hopes of effectuating their releasehopes which they would never have entertained had they reflected that the town-clerk and one of the bailies were deeply interested to thwart them. Accordingly, no entreaties or solici- tations availed; and those who seemed too impor- tunate, were threatened themselves with banish- ment, incarceration, and other distress. It will readily occur that it is much easier to imagine than describe the scenes which it is in proof ensued; for nothin, more piteous and moving can well be fig- ured than to see fathers and mothers running fran- tic through the streets, crowding to the doors and windows where their children were imprisoned, there giving them their blessing, taking farewell of them forever, and departing in anguish and de- spair, imprecating curses upon those who were the authors of their misery. So much for the first stepthe catching of the prey. We have some further testimony to the judicious strictness with which the worshipful merchants protected their property after it was stowed away; but we do not hear that their cargo of young lads, as one of them calls it in a confidential let- ter, was insured. William Wilson, one of the sailors, testified, however that there were sev- eral men in the ship besides the sailors, and also several boys and girls; that he saw these boys and girls put on board; that they were brought to the ship in a boat, and were guarded by a number of porters from Aberdeen, who continued to guard them all night till the ship sailed, going home al- ways in the morning and returning at night; that during the day they were guarded by the ships crew, the one half of whom did the duty of the ship, and the other half took care of the boys and * Book of Ron Accord, 90. 85 SCOTTISH KIDNAPPING. girls, notwithstanding whereof two of them made their escape. Some of these boys appeared to the deponent to be about fourteen years of age, some to be about sixteen or eighteen, and others not to exceed ten or twelve years of age; that after the boys were put on board, the hatches of the ship were put