If (PRE £8 DEC 1948 THE MONTHLY MAGAZINE, OF POLITICS, LITERATURE, AND BELLES LETTRES. VOL. XXII. JULY, 1836. No. 127. Page 1 Scenes in the House of Com- mons - _ . - a 2 Mr. Sergeant Talfourd's Tra- gedy 8 3 The Manse and its Inmates 1 7 4 Misadventures of a Lover - 26 5 English Sonnets - - 36 6 The Rivals - 42 7 The Bridal of Maworth - 50 8 On the Comparative Happi- ness of the Sexes - - 56 9 Half Hours - - 60 10 A Dream - - - - 64 11 The Watch-Tower of Koat- Veu - - - - 65 12 The Klingel Chapel (by Mrs. Richardson) ... 73 13 MONTHLY REVIEW OF LI- TERATURE— Historical Re- collections of Hyde Park- Rhymes for the Romantic Page and the Chivalrous — A Sketch of the Medical Mo- nopolies, with a Plan of Reform — A Dissertation, Practical and Consolatory — Tales of Fashion and Reality — Library of Anecdote — Remarks on the British Re- lations with China — The Metropolitan Journal, Part II. — Proposals for 'an Intel- lectual Franchise — Schloss Hainfeld, or a Winter in Lower Syria — The Cotton Manufactures of Great Bri- tain - 14 Theatrical Intelligence 15 Fine Arts - 16 Varieties - 17 Literary Intelligence -, 75 94 98 99 100 LONDON: SHERWOOD, GILBERT, AND PIPER, PATERNOSTER ROW. TO CORRESPONDENTS. We have received our Bedford friend's communication, and Recollection, of Poverty. Lines by T. D., and M. M. I., lie at the Office, Warwick Square. ERRATA. Page 555 of the June Number,/or Zogaro Vouni, read Zagaro Vouni. SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. THE two Houses of Parliament still continue in collision. The Commons refuse to accede to the amendments of the Lords, on the Irish Corporation Bill; while the Lords are understood, up to this date (the 27th), to be resolute in their determination to make no con- cessions to the Commons. We are not without hopes, however, that the Peers, when the question is regularly brought before them, will see the folly and the danger of holding out any longer, and that rather than let the existence of their order be exposed to the most imminent peril, and the country convulsed from one extremity to another, they will yet approach the Commons in a spirit of conciliation. We have, in the Monthly Magazine for April, May, and June, dis- cussed the question of a collision between the two branches of the legislature so as to leave nothing new to be said. Before the ap- pearance of our August number the question will be either finally set at rest by a peaceful adjustment of the differences between the parties, or the country will be in the agony of a crisis of unparalleled importance. Nothing of any special interest has occurred in either House of of Parliament during the past month. No great measure has been brought before either the Lords or the Commons ; and, as the session is now drawing to a close, nothing of great importance is to be expected to take place for the remainder of it, other than the debates and decisions relative to the measure of Corporation Reform for Ireland. In the Lower House, the only things which now seem to attract attention are the private squabbles between Members, which have of late become of such frequent occurrence. One of these alike discreditable to the parties engaged in them, and to a House which tolerates them, took place on Tuesday the 14th. Mr. O'Connell had been attacking Mr. Walter, the Member for Berkshire, in his capacity of a proprietor of the Times newspaper, when the following scene occurred: — Mr. WALTER and Mr. KEARSLEY rose to order. In reply to the general call of the House, Mr. KEARSLEY proceeded to address the House. Sir, said h to keep off the dust, and a rhododendron in the middle, to show that they did not like any thing common, and long slips of gardens behind, with currant-bushes nailed against the walls, and the middle cut up into a great many little gravel walks and little flower beds, bordered with box; and she was unreasonable enough to tire of these too! poor ttuth! Every year Mrs. Hurst and her daughters spent six weeks, during the pleasantest part of the autumn, at a watering place ; they generally chose Margate, as being the most bustling. This year, luckily for Ruth, Priscy not being very well, and her husband, Mr. Prescott, really having the good taste to prefer Ramsgate, the Hursts and Prescotts took a house there in Effingham Place ; while the Dow- lings, &c , accommodated themselves at Margate. Ruth had visited Ramsgate before with her kind friend Mrs. Somerive, who frequently spent the Midsummer vacation there ; and so little was her company desired at home that notwithstanding every attention she received was looked upon with jealousy, and her superior good luck made a subject of reproach, as if it was an injury to Isabella, still she dared not have refused an invitation, even had it been disagreeable to her to accept it, because she never went home that, before the holidays were expired, she was not made to feel her being there as an expense and an intrusion. Though Mrs. Hurst was as despotic in the Isle of Thanet as in the city of London, her regulations were much more agreeable ; all les- sons were forbidden — it was Harriot and Charlotte's holidays. Thev walked and bathed before breakfast, and Ruth being acquainted with the localities often directed their perambulations, — by the fields to Broad stairs, through the pleasant village of Dumpton, — to Peg- well Bay, where they procured shrimps, — toManson wood and cave, — to St. Peter's, in one of the fields leading to which they found a neat small farm-house, where, on several fine evenings afterwards, they carried tea and sugar, and regaled themselves with country cream, bread, and butter. On ih« right hand of the public road to Margate they were attracted by the appearance of trees, and they found a de- lightful shady walk arid a pleasant little hamlet called Norlhwood. These and many others were their morning excursions, not forget- ting the fine sands, the east cliff, and the noble pier. With Mrs. Hurst they lounged in the libraries, saw the fine views from the North Foreland lighthouse arid the church of St. Peters, and took drives, not merely to Broadstairs, Kingsgate, and Margate, but to Sandwich, Deal, Dover, and Canterbury. They attended all the balls, went two or three times to the theatre at Margate, and had several donkey expeditions. Ruth was very sorry when the six weeks came to an e d ; and very sorry also that they were not to return, as they went, by water ; but she willingly conceded that Mrs. Hurst was ri^ht, when she saw the beauty of the road ; and, staying two days at Rochester, visited the " Lines" at Chatham and Broinplon, and took a delightful sail as far as Sheerness, admiring as they went Upnor, Gillingham, &c., so beautifully situated on the banks of the beautiful Medvvay. THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES. Fortunately it was a fine day, and Sheerness itself looked pleasant, while the bold sea-view to the Nore — the very name of which calls up associations so interesting to all who love the naval glory of Bri- tain— was never seen in greater beauty. It can scarcely be necessary to state that Mrs. Hurst did not quit Rochester without visiting the castle, the cathedral, and the oyster-beds. At Gravesend and Greenhithe they tried to find something re- markable, but were not very successful. At Erith they were more fortunate: Lord Eardley's fine seat occupied them two hours. They gave a passing notice to the church and the steeple at Dartford, vi- sited the model of Sevemdroog, or, as the people in the neighbour- hood somewhat irreverently termed it, " Lady James's Folly, " on Shooters' Hill, went through the whole of the arsenal at Wool- wich (it was with some difficulty that Mrs. Hurst was dissuaded from visiting the convict ship, as she was informed that it was com- manded by a captain of the navy whose family resided on board with him), dined at the Green Man at Blackheath, and reached Lincoln's Inn Fields at a late hour on a fine evening in October. Kind as were Mrs. Somerive's intentions, and excellent as was her judgment, she had, in sending Ruth to Mrs. Hurst, placed her in a situation of great danger. It is true that to a disposition like hers, quiet, serious, and reflective, such a course of life was naturally div- tasteful ; but she was also timid in the extreme, accustomed all her life to pay implicit obedience, grateful for kindness, and unwilling to give pain, with good dispositions to influence rather than fixed prin- ciples to guide her. Such being the case, had she remained in this family three or four years she would probably have fallen into their habits, and lost all taste or inclination for better things, or have become nervous, sullen, and discontented. As it was, she was for a considerable time stupefied and bewil- dered ; she felt herself under a yoke which it was impossible to shake off or even to question. Her mind was equally a stranger to exer- tion or repose. She felt herself becoming a mere machine; things were done because they must not be left undone, and, perfectly mis- tress of all she had engaged to teach, the business of instruction was performed with the most mechanical regularity. She wished to think, but she had neither time nor power ; and often at night, when she stretched her exhausted frame on the bed and laid her wearied head upon her pillow, while readv tears flowed from her eyes, "at least I was thankful for my blessings while I had them," was all of complaint or consolation that her lips could utter before lips and eyes were equally closed in the heavy slumber of over-exerted powers. She had been about three months in Lincoln's Inn Fields when a Scotch baronet, for whom Mr. Hurst had been professionally em- ployed, paid a visit to London, for the purpose of closing the pro- ceedings of a successful, and not unreasonably long, suit in Chancery. The solicitor was in high favour, the client in high good humour, and Mr. Hurst honourably seized the occasion to acquit himself of his promise to Mrs. Somerive. Sir Kenneth Maitland had two little daughters, then under the care of a respectable preparatory governess ; but as he resided constantly \~> 2 20 THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES. on his own estate, disliking large cities, Edinburgh almost as much as London, and never going to either whenjie could possibly avoid doing so, it was his own wish, and that of Lady Maitland, whose health was delicate, to procure the services of some accomplished, well-edu- cated, and well-principled woman to take the entire charge of them. Sir Kenneth accepted an invitation to dine at Mr. Hurst's, and was much pleased with Ruth's appearance and manners. He waited upon Mrs. Somerive, who not only stated her recommendation ver- bally, but gave it in writing; and it was not till after this statement had been transmitted to Lady Maitland, and her perfect approval of it received, with an urgent entreaty to have the matter settled im- mediately, that the subject was named to Ruth. She had known so few people in her life and had lived so exclusively with them that she could not contemplate a residence among strangers and at so great a distance without fear, and considering it as a sort of banishment ; but when Sir Kenneth, anxious to prevent her being deceived, and consequently dissatisfied, explained to her, with the elaborate earnest- ness of conscientious rectitude, how constantly they resided in the country, how quiet and uniform a life they led, and how entirely Flora and Diana would be confided to her charge, her reluctance vanished, and before Sir Kenneth quitted London it was settled that, having completed her twelvemonths engagement in Lincoln's Inn Field's and given a few weeks to Mrs. Somerive and other friends, that she should proceed to Scotland and enter upon her new duties. Ruth felt as if she was about to quit the " house of bondage '' for the land of liberty, a hard taskmistress for a haven of rest ; and so great was her exultation, that her grateful and affectionate nature soon checked her transports, as unbecoming and unworthy, though they had been entirely confined to her own bosom. She was ashamed of being so delighted at the idea of leaving people who, if they did not stop to enquire what was her way of being happy, were always desirous of rendering her so in theirs. No reasoning or feeling could make her life with them agreeable, but it became advantageous as a mental discipline. She still felt the want of leisure for reflec- tion, but she acquired habits of observation, by means of which she Ipid up in her memory a mass of materials for future meditation. She was, now that she knew to a certainty the precise period at which she should cease to suffer from it, sometimes inclined to ad- mire and sometimes to be amused at the restless activity of Mrs. Hurst. That lady, with her husband and the two principal clerks, always breakfasted at nine o'clock, but she was regularly down stairs at eight. Between that hour and twelve she arranged every article, even to the most minute, of her domestic economy, and made her own marketing. Mrs. Hurst kept no superfluous servants, but she took care that every thing was properly done, without exacting more labour than was justly due from each, and of this she was an excel- lent judge, with strong and healthy people. She could not be so safely depended upon for persons of a delicate constitution, and for regulating the labours and pursuits of the mind she was totally unfit. She was strictly economical, but her economy had no taint of mean- THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES. 21 ness; while she forbade all waste she allowed no want, and her table was liberally, handsomely, and even tastefully furnished ; yet she kept no housekeeper, and only what is called a " good plain cook." Mrs. Hurst was the centre of her own circle, the governing- prin- ciple of her own system, and her influencing power was sufficiently manifested, though in softened characters, in her daughters — Penny and Priscy had been Hatty and Shatty, and would be Dolly and Dosy, while all six were, in proper gradations, approximating to their mamma. ft was at the close of the Christinas vacation that Ruth had entered upon her engagement with the Hursts, and it was at the beginning of March in the following year that she took possession of her place in the heavy coach for the purpose of proceeding to " Caledonia bleak and wild ! " Larch Hills, the seat of Sir Kenneth Maitland, was situated in one of the most southern counties of Scotland,*and there still existed in the country and inhabitants many signs of barbarism and want of culti- vation, sufficient to show that border civilization proceeded but slowly. The Larch Hills' carriage met her at the post-town, and, for the con- venience of her luggage, empty. She had a solitary drive of about eleven miles, principally through muirland ; and when she entered the leafless avenue and stopped before the entrance of the large stone mansion, on a dreary cheerless afternoon in March, about five o'clock, she felt a sense of desolation such as she had never experienced before. It was little to be wondered at. Ruth Watson was still a cockney ; she had been to school at Wandsworth, where there are many rural walks, especially Dunsford Lane, leading from Wandsworth Common to the delightful village of Merton (rendered so interesting by having been the residence of the immortal Nelson), by the skirts of Wimbleton Park, the beautiful seat of Earl Spencer, where at certain seasons of the year one can hardly walk ten yards without starting a pheasant to surprise you in its turn with the noise and bustle of its apparently laborious and undesired rise, or look towards an open space without seeing half a dozen hares gamboling. She had resided eighteen months in a small town in Essex, where she saw only the said smalltown and turnpike roads leading to and from it, as she walked in procession with the children of the school, when they took their dull, formal, periodical, prome- nades. Brompton, with its neighbourhood, dressed like gardens and pleasure-grounds, and the Isle of Thanet, one cultivated corn coun- try, were equally ill adapted to prepare her for what she now saw, and poor Ruth descended the steps of the carriage very much with the feelings of one who had come to the end of the world. Sir Kenneth was engaged with his factor, and Lady Maitland and her daughters, not expecting her to arrive so soon, had retired to their rooms to dress for dinner, there being company in the house. The housekeeper ran upstairs to attend Miss Watson, but she would have thought it derogating from her dignity to have advanced out- side of the door. As soon as Ruth appeared in the entrance hall 22 THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES. she respectfully tendered her services, and ushered her to her apart- ments. With the opening- of the first door Ruth's feelings changed; she was no longer strange and uncomfortable. A spacious bed- chamber, handsomely and commodiously furnished, with a large fire burning in the ample grate, opened into a neat dressing closet, which the housekeeper informed her communicated with the school-room, and that again with the young ladies' sleeping-apartment. Before Ruth could have thought it possible, her trunks were, brought in, freed from the soil of travel, uncorded, and the cords neatly coiled up and laid beside them; nor was it long before a gentle tap at the door and soft voice requesting admission, introduced Lady Maitland herself, in her dressing-gown, anxious to see that her new inmate had been provided with every necessary accommodation, and to ex- plain that any little deficiency was to be imputed to the absence of Christy, the girl who attended the governess and young ladies, she having obtained permission to be present at the wedding of a friend. Having ascertained that there was a good fire, plenty of water, &c., Lady Maitland departed to complete her own toilette, and when lluth had nearly finished hers other gentle taps were heard at the door, which was immediately opened, and, blushino and smiling, Lady Maitland's very pretty daughters asked if they could fasten Miss Watson'a dress, as Christy was not at home, and show her the way to the drawing-room, as she did not know it herself. Ruth availed herself of their kind attentions, and had a short conversation with Lady Maitland before the gentlemen assembled for dinner. From Sir Kenneth she received the frank, cordial, hospitable, welcome of his country ; and who that has experienced the genial hospitality of a Scottish gentleman's mansion in the country could wish for more or imagine more possible ? There were no lady-visitors at that time staying at Larch Hills, and those who were there were merely friends or relations passing a few days in their way to or from London. But when, in addition to Sir Kenneth and Lady Maitland, Ruth found herself seated at the dinner-table with a duke, a marquis, two earls and an admiral, she was very thankful that her residence at Mr. Hurst's had rendered her familiar with the routine of the table. Ruth was modest, in her character even timid, but, as I have before observed, not destitute of self-possession. She was rather pretty than otherwise, with a neat figure and pleasing manners ; and, notwith- standing the fatigue of her journey, gratified her hearers by some excellent music, played a capital Scotch reel for Sir Kenneth, his daughters, and the duke to dance to, and went to bed happier than she had ever done in her life, excepting during the happiest period of her residence at Erlsburgh House. It is not to be supposed that on this night sleep exercised its empire very early, or that Ruth desired that it should be so: novelty has al- ways its excitement, and excitement is always agreeable to young and ardent rninds. Her character, quiet and gentle as it was, had nothing of lameness, and its latent enthusiasm was not the less glowing be- t-ausc its heat never burst forth into any flaming; exhibition.1 She had much in the last few hours to look back upon with pleasure THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES. 23 not altogether unmixed with surprise. She wondered that she had never felt like a stranger, that she had been enabled, not only during the evening but even at dinner, to answer without embarrassment all the observations and questions of the company; but she soon recol- lected how easy this had been, and understood the benevolent polite- ness vvhicli had led the conversation upon subjects connected with her journey and other little matters easily discussed, as well as the value of that good breeding which secured to her, as a female, how- ever humble in herself, at the table of Sir Kenneth Maitland the respect and attention of gentlemen of rank and high birth. Ruth had lived more than four years with people of intelligence n rid. knowledge of the world, and many of her pupils at Erlsburgh House were the daughters of noblemen; but it was the first time in the domestic circle that she had come into actual contact with nobility, and without any vulgar admiration of rank, or still more vulgar affec- tation of despising it, she had imagined it to be something more aw- ful than she found it. From the contemplation of herself her thoughts passed to the individuals of the party. The gentle softness of Lady Maitland had a winning charm which went to the heart of Ruth ; the unchecked but not boisterous hilarity of Flora and Diana, the high spirits] of Sir Kenneth and the duke, the chess-board of the two earls, and the political discussion of the admiral and marquis, all interested her in some degree, and she closed her eyes at last with confused images of the whole floating in her imagination. Her happiness continued, and before she had resided at Larch Hills a fortnight she wrote to Mrs. Somerive for her instrument and the rest of poor Miss Crofts' valuable and useful legacy, which, with many articles of her own acquisition, had remained at Erlsburgh House, owing to her scanty accommodations at Lincoln's Inn Fields. It was here that, after a domestication of two months, Ruth first saw her future husband, the Rev. David M'Neil, as the tutor of Mr. John Maitland (the only surviving son of Sir Kenneth), and already nominated to the church of Kirkfillan, whenever the present aged in- cumbent should be gathered to his fathers. Sir Kenneth and Lady Maitland had been the parents of another and an elder son., to whom Mr. M'Neil had many years conscien- tiously performed the duties of a tutor; but painful in the extreme was the return he met with; a lo\e of low company and vulgar dis- sipation led to habits of early depravity, in the wretched gratifica- tions of which health and respectability were equally sacrificed, and a brief and degraded existence was suddenly and distressingly termi- nated while travelling on the continent with Mr. M'Neil. There were not wanting people who thought to flatter and console the -afflicted parents by imputing the vices and their consequences to neglect or incapacity on the part of the tutor; but Sir Kenneth and Lady Maitland knew better, and they effectually silenced the calum- niators by the course they pursued. The body of Edward Maitland was brought home and interred in the family vault, his brother John took his place as the pupil of Mr. M'Neil, to whom the reversion of the church of Kirkfillan was secured. The improvement in Ruth's mode of life was soon abundantly 24 THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES. visible in her improved bloom, light elastic step, and almost sportive gaiety. Larch Hills taught her a lesson of which the bare possi- bility had never entered her imagination — that she could like any place better than Erlsburgh House. So however it was. With only two pupils, and those intelligent girls of thirteen and fourteen, the progress of instruction assumed a more intellectual, interesting, and endearing form than classes in a school admit of, and which she had never felt to be the case with Harriot and Charlotte Hurst. Warm advocates for air and exercise, Sir Kenneth and Lady Maitland objected to any lessons before breakfast, and as the first bell, warning the family of the approach of that meal, did not ring until half past nine, there was sufficient time, even early as was the sea- son when Ruth arrived at Larch Hills, for long and delightful walks. Then three little sure-footed ponies were kept for their use, and, with the example of the Misses Maitland and the instruction of the old coachman, Ruth so far improved upon her feats of donkey eques- trianism at Ramsgate as heartily to enjoy not only a canter but a gallop. Flora and Diana had been so accustomed to accompany their brother and his tutor on their rambles, and to take an interest in their pursuits, that they had insensibly acquired, not merely a taste for botany, but a considerable degree of knowledge on the subject ; nor was it long before they had rendered Ruth mistress of all they knew themselves, and imparted to her the same desire to know more ; so that she likewise learned to look forward to the time when the break- ing up of the winter classes should set the young student and his tutor free from their attendance upon college, and Edinburgh be ex- changed for Larch Hills. The time at length arrived, and Lady Maitland was so kindly at- tentive to their gratification as to request Mr. M'Neil to allow her daughters and Miss Watson to be sharers in his instructions, when not inconvenient to himself or likely to interfere with the improve- ment of her son. Mr. M'Neil readily consented, and many a morning and evening ramble was devoted to botany and mineralogy. Mr. M'Neil was a good deal older than Ruth, for he was five-and- thirty when she first became acquainted with him ; and, confined as she had in a great measure been to the society of her own sex, a less highly gifted person might perhaps have gained her esteem and admiration, but upon him she soon looked as the first of human beings. He inherited from nature a refined taste and a strong un- derstanding— qualities not always united. His education had been of a very superior order; and, though the church was his own choice, having determined to see something of the world before he under- took the charge of a parish, he had spent several years on the conti- nent as a travelling tutor, and had had under his care some young men of the first families in Scotland. His own family was good, and, having never known any but good society, he had the manners as well as the mind of a gentleman. Such a man could scarcely reside in the same house with a young xvoman so amiable and agreeable as Ruth Watson \vithout feeling THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES. 25 and appreciating her worth. He certainly would have preferred that a greater share of literary attainments had placed her more upon an equality with himself as a companion; but he liked her so well that when he quitted Larch Hills for Edinburgh with Mr. Maitland, in November, it was a settled thing, and understood by all the family that when he took possession of the manse of Kirkfillan she stood pledged to become his wife. When this event took place Ruth had about half completed her twenty-sixth year, and, as the session already mentioned was the last that Mr. Maitland attended in Edinburgh, both she and Mr. M'Neil had ample time to ascertain whether continued domestic association was likely to increase or diminish their regard for each other. With so much real excellence on both sides the latter was scarcely to be apprehended ; and Ruth's meek and affectionate disposition soon led her to pay as much deference to the tastes and opinions of her future husband as if he already held that character. Nor had Mr. M'Neil the want of sense to hold her cheap on that account ; he honoured alike the purity that thought not of concealment and the confidence that was above suspecting misconstruction. The living of Kirkfillan was worth something more than three hundred a year, and Mr. M'Neil was possessed of the sum of one thousand pounds advantageously invested, which he was able to leave untouched, because Ruth wa* mistress of three hundred pounds, which she was anxious should be employed in furnishing the marine, a neat and commodious dwelling-house, though neither spacious nor mo- dern. And how became Ruth possessed of this sum ? for, though she en- joyed at Larch Hills the liberal salary of one hundred guineas per annum, her whole receipts during the seven years and a half in which she had relied upon her own exertions did not amount to four hun- dred pounds. By economy, Miss Crofts' legacy, and the active kind- nesss of Mrs. Somerive. That lady had soon penetrated the charac- ters and understood the conduct of the Watsons ; and, stating that she had sometimes opportunities of employing money to advantage, had offered to take the management of Ruth's savings, and to be answer- able for their security. No objection could be openly made to such an offer, and it was accordingly acted upon. Lady Maitland took her daughters and Ruth to Edinburgh for a fortnight, where the latter procured the few additions she thought necessary to her wardrobe, and purchased such articles of furniture as could be better or more reasonably procured there than at the county town. The young ladies stocked her poultry-yard, and their mamma her linen-press. Mrs. Somerive sent a dinner and tea set, and her parents a silver coffee-pot. The Hursts contributed many little articles, more ornamental perhaps than useful, but showing good will. Mr. Maitland presented his tutor with an excellent horse, and Sir Kenneth made valuable additions to his library. The warm and well-merited attachment of Flora and Diana to their governess was not to be satisfied with the little offering already mentioned ; and it was equally demonstrative of the strength of their regard and the delicacy of their feelings that at their instigation it MISADVENTURES Of A LOVKK. was proposed that she should be succeeded by her sister. Ruth was not without her misgivings ; but she knew little of Isabella, and how- ever probable it might be that there had been some want of patience and forbearance, she never doubted her having been unfortunate in her situations. Isabella and her parents had no fears, and she reached Larch Hills a week before the wedding, in high spirits, with as many gay clothes as the shortness of the notice had allowed her to collect, and a substan- tial proof of the favour in which her succession was viewed in Throg- morton Street, in the shape of a silver tea-pot, cream-ewer, and sugar-bason, in addition to the parental present before mentioned. The venerable father of Mr. M'Neil left his distant Highland home, on what he felt would be his last earthly pilgrimage, to perform the holy rite which was to unite an only and beloved son to the woman he had chosen as the partner of his life, bringing with him his young and amiable daughter. All was delightful anticipation at Larch Hills. " John,'' said Diana Maitland, the evening before the wedding, "you are to be best man!" " Yes. Who is to be best maid?* It is time I should enquire,'' replied John, looking involuntarily at the beautiful Grace M'Neil. " Oh ! all of us." " Indeed !" said John, bowing profoundly, " four superlatives ! four times more fortunate than 1 supposed myself to be. How shall I quarter my devotions? Miss M'Neil, will you instruct me ?" " Nonsense, John, four bride's maids, which of us would you be so cruel as to leave out?" asked Flora. The day arrived. — Half an hour before dinner the solemn ordi- nance was performed in the drawing-room at Larch Hills. Ruth sat down to dinner Mrs. M'Neil, took possession of the manse in the evening, two days afterwards received her venerable father-in-law and the lovely Grace as her visitors for a week, at the end of which time they returned to the Highlands; she entered upon her domestic and Isabella upon her didactic duties. (To be continued.') MISADVENTURES OF A LOVER. CHAP. II. (Continued from page 551 of vol. xx.) THE only daughter of Sir Robert S , arrived on the 16th April, 182 — , at the principal inn in one of the neighbouring towns. By chance I learnt several particulars respecting the young lady; and I ascertained, moreover, that her father was on the continent at the time, and that she had no other biped accompaniment than an ancient aunt. Report spoke of the baronet's daughter as a perfect beauty ; as being heiress of an immense fortune ; and as being withal remark- * Best man, beat maid — Scottish terms for bridegrooms man, bride's maid. MISADVENTURES OF A LOVER. 27 ably affable and of easy access. Though the attribute of beauty had hitherto appeared to my mind as an essential ingredient in the cup of matrimonial bliss, I never thought the worse of any young lady be- cause she had money. Indeed, as hinted in Chapter I., I had been so far lessoned in days that were past, as to the value of money, that I deemed a certain quantity of the circulating medium of paramount importance in journeying through life. On both accounts, therefore, I was most anxious to see the baronet's daughter, determined, in the event of my opinion according with the public report of her attrac- tions, &c., to have a meeting with her by some means or other. I had read the week before "a full, true, and particular account" of the stratagems by which Edward Gibbon Wakefield contrived to get married to Miss Turner, and by which he gained an inestimable prize. (There was no word then of the prosecution and punishment which followed.) I meditated something of the same kind. In or- der, however, that there might be no hazard of being gulled touching her personal charms and prospective finances, I thought it best, be- fore decoying her into a carriage, to have the evidence of my eyes its to the first point, and make under-hand enquiries as to the second. I knew there was no person in the inn who was acquainted with me. I therefore concluded I might without the least risk of detection as- sume any title, and play off any airs I pleased. Accordingly, I hired a horse and gig*, and procured a confidential acquaintance, moving in a rather humbler sphere than myself, to whom I revealed my plans and views. He pronounced them " excellent,'' " spirited," and so forth, and at once agreed to personate the character of my body-ser- vant. I took to myself the high-sounding title of Lord A , think- ing I would by that means have a greater chance of attracting the attention of the baronet's daughter. My servant and I entered the gig, which I drove with the spirit characteristic of the majority of young noblemen. In due time we arrived at the destined inn. We alighted — my servant first, who with infinite tact handed me down. I entered the inn, announcing my name as Lord A . The intel- ligence that a nobleman had arrived spread through the house like wild-fire. Bows, curtsies, and every mark of obsequious respect were showered on me at every step. My servant once committed himself, and was likely to have committed me, by saying "Eh !" in- stead of " my lord." " Sirrah," said I, as there were several persons present, " I will teach you manners;" and so saying, I applied my cane with considerable apparent force to his person, but in reality very gently. He submitted to the physical correction with perfect equanimity, saying, with a tact which exceeds all praise, " I beg your pardon, my Lord." I had not been many minutes upstairs when I learned that the heiress was " out" seeing some of the beautiful scenery with which the district abounds ; but she was expected to return in a few hours. Lest our incognito should be discovered by some officious chance- person putting up at the inn, who knew me, I thought it advisable, instead -of vegetating in the hotel, to go out an airing. I immedi- ately commanded the hostler to get my horse and gig ready. The order was no sooner given than obeyed. In a second, self and ser- MISADVENTURES OF A LOVER. vant were driving out of town. When we proceeded two miles, we came in sight of K — Abbey, an old venerable ruin. To have gone to it by the usual circuitous route would have been a distance of three miles : by crossing one or two intervening fields of grass, the dis- tance would not have been a mile and a half. I have always hated round-about roads. I therefore decided in favour of driving through the fields. We had not proceeded above a quarter of a mile when, owing I suppose to too rapid and careless driving, we upset the gi interrupting my in- formant in the midst of his narrative. " To a neighbouring farmer, Sir," was the answer. •' And pray what is the unfortunate's name ?" I continued, feeling my curiosity to know the history of this young woman by this time wound up to the highest pitch. "It is Matilda Gordon, Sir," answered my informant. The words fell on my ears with a power I cannot describe — I felt as if a thunder-bolt had alighted on me ; and, utteringVwild sort of exclamation, I fell back on a bank beside which I was standing1, and for a few moments was unconscious of my existence. On partially re- covering myself I arose and proceeded to my .father's residence — feel- ing my joy at meeting with all my relations in perfectly good health strangely commingled with sorrow at what 1 had a few minutes previ- ously seen and heard. In answer to the interrogatories I could not, though so long absent from them, help putting to my friends in relation to the recent history of Matilda, they informed me that the awful visi- tation which had bereft her of reason occurred about six weeks sub- sequent to the date of their last letter to me; That she had been married to my old acquaintance and class-fellow, Joseph Bennett ; that some hours after the nuptial ceremony had been performed, and while the sound of charming music was delighting every ear, and all present at the marriage were pledging many a glass to the future happiness of the united pair, a person, wrapped in a cloak which covered the whole of his person excepting his face, and riding on a steed, knocked at the door of the house in which the solemn ritual had so recently been performed, and desired to speak for a moment with the bridegroom. A servant in waiting delivered the message, the bridegroom went to the door, when the stranger on horseback, without uttering a single word, plunged a dagger into his bosom, THE RIVALS. 49 and galloped off with the utmost speed. The bridegroom fell back on the ground; his groans were heard; a surgeon was sent for, but his skill was of no avail, the unfortunate man expired in five minutes after. The assassin had not then been discovered nor even so much as suspected. On hearing of the dreadful occurrence the bride fell into a swoon, in which she continued for several minutes, at the end of which time returning consciousness once more visited her. It was only, how- ever, to render her aware of the full extent of the calamity which had happened. The sun shone into her bed-chamber on the following morning, but ere his rays had alighted on the earth a dark cloud had enveloped the mind of the lovely bride — her intellects were deranged, her reason was gone. The murdered bridegroom was- interred iti the parish church-yard; it was on his grave, the grave of her lover — the grave of her husband — that the unhappy Matilda was strewing wild flowers and grass as I passed it that day. When the agitation produced in my mind by the narration of the above facts had somewhat subsided, I made enquiry respecting my former most intimate acquaintances, and among the rest I enquired with peculiar solicitude what had become of my other associate and class-fellow, David Alshar. I was told by my friends that it was not in their power to give me any particular information in regard to him, that he had suddenly left his native village more than three months since, and that his relations neither knew the cause of his disappearance nor the place to which he had repaired. This intelli- gence gave me additional uneasiness of mind, and made me still more anxious to know something more of his mysterious history ; but no one in the neighbourhood could furnish me^with the desired informa- tion. In about three weeks thereafter I read with horror in the Irish newspapers an account of the trial and execution of David Alshar, a native of the village of Ardmore, in the west of Scotland, for an atro- cious murder committed by him and another individual, an Irishman, on a specified day in the neighbourhood of Romney, county of Li- merick. The former of these murderers, I need not apprise the reader, was none other than the last survivor of the two bosom com- panions of my early life. The same Journal in which I first perused this horrible intelligence contained also a report of the confessions he had made to his jailor, on the night prior to his execution. It was by his hand that his and my early companion and friend, Joseph Bennett, had fallen. He had been prompted to the perpetration of the murderous deed when in a paroxysm of rage, produced in his mind by a mingled feeling of mortification .and envy. He had solicited the hand of Matilda in marriage ; she refused on the ground that she was already pledged to another. He felt so chagrined at the circum- stance that in a few days thereafter he left the place, unknown to any body. On hearing — how he had been apprised of the fact does not appear — that she was to be married on a given day to Joseph Bennett, he made his appearance at the time, and the place, and in the manner referred to, and imbrued his hands in the blood of hig rival friend. M.M.— No. 1. D 50 THE BRIDAL OF MAWORTH. He made his escape to Ireland, and had only been in that country a few days when he fell into company of the most profligate descrip- tion. By these companions he was led on from one stage of crimi- nality]to another, until he and another individual committed the mur- der for which he was tried, convicted, and executed. Such, I learnt on my return front America, was the fate of the three companions and bosom friends of my early life. I shall not attempt to describe the effect which the melancholy statement of their late history produced in my mind. Suffice it to say that, though a considerable period has elapsed since the occurrences in question took place, I have not yet recovered — and I fear never shall recover — from the shock my feelings have received. J. G. THE BRIDAL OF MAWORTH. [We are enabled to present our readers with the following extracts from an unpub- lished poem under the name of " The Bridal of Maworth." When the work makes its appearance we shall call attention to its merits. The story is founded on historical truth, to which, however, the author had no regard in his catastrophe..— ED.] THE chase is o'er, the stately hart lies low, And far in silence weeps the widow'd doe ; Loudly, and long, triumphant bugles ring, Hills call to hills, and woods to valleys sing ; The merry huntsmen, clad in sylvan garb, Wind up the glade, and each on wearied barb. All glorious to the west, declining day, Effulgent rolls the tide of light away ; The flood of radiance on all nature breaks, On streams, and mountains, towers, and craggy peaks, Gilds the brown forests, beautifies the waste, Tints the gray rock, and lingers there the last. Thrice happy man ! for whom all beauties shine, Attun'd in mystic harmony divine : Whose kindling spirit, with externals finds Perfected concord, in harmonious minds : The filmy cloud which floats in azure space, Pure as a spirit, with a spirit's grace ; The varying blush of eve, the mountain's glow, The long perspective sweetly spread below ; The songs of vocal groves, the peace which flows From sounds of falling waves, and whisp'ring boughs, Soft as the notes which murmuring caves prolong, When gentle gales sigh forth their evening song ; These touch the soul ; responsive to the hand, Joy o'er its chords extends her magic wand ; To Nature's hand responsive ; she alone Thrills with a charm peculiarly her own, Whose hand with chords melodious fill'd the breast, She best can sound them, for she knows them best. Is there, whose harsh, unorganized mind, Acts but in discords ? Such, alas ! we find : From earth's primordial, to the now which is, The crimes of man have cancell'd half his bliss. THE BRIDAL OF MAWORTII. 51 The chase is o'er, the stately hart lies low, And homeward turn'd the weary hunters go ; They stop ! What quarry opens on their view ? What means that cry ? Oh ! not the loud hallo ! But shrill and wild, from mountain cave to cave, Black Horror shouts, and shakes the stern and brave : Slow issuing from a fearful gorge, they bore Two mangled corses ! lost in wounds and gore : In rude chamois, despoiled of every grace, They knew their best companion in the chase, Gils Beuth, whose skill and courage in the field, Left age behind, and taught the bold to yield. Close by his side his faithful squire they found, Stripp'd of attire, and gash'd with many a wound. Fast flew the tale, and soon an armed train Mix'd with the group; the vassals of the slain : They came, all burning for revenge, prepared For that wild draught, to leave no deed undar'd ; Each maddening heart to double fierceness wrought, Thus to behold the chieftain whom they sought, He ! the bright hope of an illustrious race, Their youthful leader through the fight and chase, Whose glowing ardour in the hour of strife Scorn'd nature's bounds, disdaining thoughts of life ; And made age young, while warriors stood amaz'd, And young hearts leap'd to manhood as they gaz'd. Nor dreaded more than lov'd ; for he had won The common mind by feats of valour done ; And the frank bearing of an open soul Had gain'd him those who seldom brook'd control : And well to-day's unwonted stir has shown, Who work'd his death, have cause to dread their own. And whose the crime ? Unknown that fearful vale, But those around had told full many a tale Of horrid import ; deeds of that wild hand, The outlaw'd serf, and his night-scaring band : Him, they denounce, — no proofs are needed there, The foe too hated, and revenge too dear ; Enough to know, in that detested glen, The robber's haunt, perchance his secret den, Was found their murder'd lord : — a trail of blood Led to the spot where gush'd in one full flood The warm life from his breast : around them lay The signs of desp'rate, but unequal fray. From thence, a wintry torrent's craggy bed, To beaten paths, and op'ner country led ; And it would seem, his steps had been beguil'd, By that rude track, too far into the wild. The steeds away, the arms and vesture gone, Alone betray'd "what hands the deed had done. High heav'd each burning breast, and words of flame Burst wildly forth, all utt'ring Ranulph's name. ****** * As falls and rises ocean's azure breast, When only inward sorrows break her rest, 52 THE BRIDAL OF MAWORTH. In gentle undulation, slow and long, Wave blends with wave, then sinks amid the throng, Absorbing and absorb'd ; each melts and dies Like summer clouds in bright Ausonian skies : So mov'd the notes, whose ceaseless changes grew, To ears a spell, as ocean to the view ; Still reaching higher sweetness as they rose, And gath'ring deeper pathos at each close, Till dying off in low and plaintive wail, More sweet than song of dove or nightingale, Or Memnon's airy harpings to the day, The last soft strain in music pass'd away : Like the last wave which heaves upon the shore, When the sunk pebble moves the stream no more. The voice was mute> the music ceas'd to sound, The heavn's were still, 'twas stillness all around, The silent night-dew beauty's flower was sleeping, The zephyr's slept ; the happy lake lay sleeping ; Calm was the mountain ; quiet was the vale ; Hush'd were the woods ; and echo told no tale ; Sweet Peace sat list'ning in her lone alcove ; And gaz'd, and mus'd, her ev'ry musing love : List'ning, she seem'd the breathless calm to hear, Or sounds so faint they reach'd no ruder ear. Array'd in beauty, sat within her bower, The young enchantress of that pleasing hour : Lovely as that half-heav'nly form, whose eyes First smil'd at light in holy paradise. Oh ! who could look on Ada's eyes of blue, Nor think of heav'n, from whence their light they drew ; Oh ! who could gaze upon the bright blue skies, Nor turn once more to look on Ada's eyes. Pure as young Innocence, whose vision greets With heav'nly light each gentle flow'r it meets : A soul, alas! so buoyant in its gladness, One trifling sorrow could o'erwhelm with sadness. With head upon her bended arm declining, With fond blue eye in dewy moisture shining, She gaz'd upon her lover-chief, who sate With folded arms, and looks disconsolate ; Thoughtful he seem'd, and, gath'ring o'er his brow, Rose marks of feeling, deep'ning into woe : And as she gaz'd the pearly drops which hung Beneath each silken lash more faintly clung, And, trembling, like two silver stars they fell, And told the tale such meteors ever tell. They fell unheeded ; in her hand she took Her harp once more, and joy ilium'd her look, And o'er its chords her fairy hand was flung, As thus in happier strains her simple lay she sung. And Ada turns to meet her lover's smile, Unmov'd, and clouded, he had sat the while; THE BUIDAV OF MAWORTII. 53 And not a word, or look, or whisper'd tone, Of his, assures her he is still her own : And scarce forbears he — why she cannot tell, To half avert the face she loves so well ; She kneels before him, and her glance is rais'd To meet his own, as thoughtful down it gaz'd ; And o'er his brows her snowy fingers play, Like sunbeams chasing darkest clouds away : What ! still no smile ! Oh, thou some grief hast got, Too long conceal'd, since Ada knows it not ; But I must know it — dars't thou to refuse, Thou shalt not — come— thy own — thy Ada sues. In vain : — whate'er his gloominess of heart, It haunts him still, nor will again depart. She rose — one moment viewed him as he sate, She could no more — her heart was desolate ; Fast beat that heart, and quicker moved that breast, Nor heeded more, whose much-lov'd hands caressed, But in her robes she hid her deep distress, And sobb'd aloud her bosom's bitterness. " Ada ! my own lov'd Ada ! " — but her grief Flows uncontrolled, nor will admit relief, And fades to paleness now the rosy hue Which late o'er face and heaving bosom flew, And o'er her bends, with anguish on his brow, The gloomy chief, — her anxious lover now : " My love — my Ada — dearest — Oh, forgive The sullen gloom which thus could make thee grieve. So much these bold marauders have perplex'd My hours of late, my harassed soul was vex'd, And brooding how to rid me of the pest, I scarce remembered I was Ada's guest. Oh ! Speak ! — I would thy tongue had learn'd to chide, That I might sit in penance by thy side. Nay, cease to weep ! — my soul's solicitude Would make atonement for an act so rude. Thou know'st, my love, how prone I yet have been To hear the sadder voice of every scene ; Full oft thy playful fondness has beguiled Thoughts dark as these, till grief in mirth has smiled ; And thou hast said, when such my mood of yore, My melancholy made thee love me more. My heart, like some dark rock, hath stood alone, Thou the pale flower beneath its shadow grown, The only verdure on a spot so bare, But oh ! how loved by him who finds thee there : 'Tis strange such tender purity should cling To the drear rock, which chills each hardier thing. Oh ! smile ! — it were the darkest of my doom, To blast thy fair young beauties with my gloom." He rais'd her drooping form — their mutual glance Is beaming gladness in its happy trance. Away, away, dark world of fears and cares, Nor mar the one blest moment which is theirs. And Ada smiles again like some bright stream When fled the cloud which had obscured the beam : 54 THE BRIDAL OF MA WORTH. " Nay, blame me not — I saw such sorrows sweep Across thy brow,, I could not choose but weep ; And much I strove to soothe — but all in vain, It would not be — thy sadness came again ; And then I thought — in sooth, a simple thought, Twas fancy's dream — that thou didst love me not : But thou dost love me ? I could never live Didst thou not love me — silly 'twas to grieve. But oh ! such care seem'd gathered on thy brow, I knew not then — 'twas strange — I wonder now. More sorrow than their wont thy features wore, And looks I had not learn'd as thine before ; And then I deem'd thee angry ; but I know 'Twas not with me, for thou hast told me so. But we are happy now — doubt not thy hand Shall soon disperse the daring outlaw's band, And soon in triumph shall my conqu'ror come, And captive bring their fetter'd leader home; And I will sit upon my turret's height The livelong day, to see thee come at night, And vengeance shall to thee and Heaven be given On him ! the excommunicate of Heaven, Accurst 1 who slew — but why that sudden start ? So much thou dost abhor him in thy heart — Who slew thy guest, nay more, thy friend approved, For still the brave are by the brave beloved." ****** Slowly, and stately o'er his form he threw His sable cloak, and thoughtful thence withdrew. The Squire's approach announced that ready wait His num'rous escort mounted at the gate. They ask his will. " For Maworth," briefly said. In silence onward moved the cavalcade, And soon around its echoing court-yard rung The clang of hoofs and arms, as warriors flung Themselves from horse. He bade his troops be drawn In ready order with the earliest dawn ; Then once again retired, but not to rest. Alas ! repose was not for such a breast. Around the faggot's cheerful blaze in swarms The summoned foll'wers furbish various arms. Or in carouse or converse wile away The hours which part them from the coming day, When hue and cry, and horn, and hound, and spear Must hunt to slay the outlawed Borderer. Far through the window, in the dusky night, Is seen the balefires' melancholy light : Apart, in groups, recounting many a tale Of Ranulph, some sit, mutt'ring low, and pale ; The bold deride the weakness which would throw Mystery o'er deeds themselves had power to do. The curicus wondering still of what none knew, With added surmise, proved conjecture true. " 'Twas strange — what meant the gloom their chieftain wore, Why liv'd he more retired than heretofore ? His halls were silent, and but seldom guest Partook of cheer his coldness slightly press'd : THE BRIDAL OF MAWORTH. 55 Ne'er altered much his fixed and constant gaze, Save when remembrance changed it to amaze. Why knelt he long, with arms in suppliance crossed, Before the shrine in beauteous Lanercost ? Why had his hand such lavish wealth bestowed To rear those walls so sumptuously endowed ? Alone he passed the solitary day, Or with some holy priest retired to pray ; And nightly sought his chapel's dreary aisle, Where rows of dead in ghastly sculpture smile. There were who knew, but would with caution tell, Lest that was proved which not to know was well. But, on the night young Beuth was lost, the clang Of clashing arms within the castle rang, And through the gates, locked trebly fast and barred, Dusk figures glided by the trembling guard. Nay more, a body, dripping with its blood, Two murd'rers bore away into the wood. 'Twas strange! — and then for these portents a cause, Ranulph could long defy the warden laws When Scotland's David and Earl Hen'ry came Against their lord, to urge the Saxon's claim, Gils Beuth's, whose sudden death had brought such change As now they witnessed, — 'twas to them most strange." Thus circling on the busy whisper sped. " But what to them what meddling Saxon bled? Lord Robert sure his pleasure's will might do, If not on friends, at least upon a foe ; They were his vassals, and whate'er his will Twas theirs to honour with submission still." Such were the tales with which suspicion chained His servants' ears, and long in pairs detained. More darkly certain from each tongue they grew, And repetition proved them wholly true. First a stray word, with skilful bias sent Wide of the mark, but true to the intent. Then half a hint, but, lest revealed too plain, With dext'rous double home it runs again : Then more direct. " Strange words had struck an ear Which chance intruded on his walks too near." Thus plain, all's told, they wonder it should strike Others the same — " how strange ! all thought alike ! " What long had shocked some individual breast, Told but to one, electrifies the rest ; And, since no hearer wishes to refute His own belief, 'tis placed beyond dispute. ON THE COMPARATIVE HAPPINESS OF THE SEXES. THE question has been repeatedly propounded for discussion whether the greatest proportion of human happiness falls to the lot of man or woman, taking each of the sexes in the aggregate. Our conviction is, that the male enjoys a greater measure of happiness than the female portion of mankind. In enumerating a few of the grounds on which we rest our hypo- thesis, we shall advert to both sexes in the two great divisions of human life — the single and the married. An unmarried woman, when mingling in society, invariably ap- pears in an assumed character. She is bound hand and foot by those arbitrary laws of propriety which pass current in society. If she venture to express her indignation in ordinary terms at any real or supposed unjust usage she has received, she is looked on as a virago, and is pronounced a second Xantippe. She is restrained in the in- finite majority of cases from divulging to any of her acquaintances those feelings which most powerfully actuate her bosom, lest in so doing she should be reposing confidence in a treacherous friend. Even in the ordinary matters of eating and drinking she frequently labours under an unpleasant restraint. The cravings of nature must be im- molated on the shrine of a misnamed propriety. And when she con- stitutes one of a party for whose enjoyment the toddy bowl is placed on the table, or any kind of ardent spirits are to be quaffed, it is doubly necessary she should be on her guard, lest by gratifying her taste she should violate the rules which society has established on such occasions ; and one slight abrogation of these rules in the instance in question. In other words, were she to evince the least'symptom of intoxication, it would prove ruinous of her character and utterly de- structive of her prospects in life ; no extenuating plea would be ad- mitted on her behalf. Girls are duly aware of all this ; and hence are in a state of perpetuaKfear of falling into such error, and conse- quently must feel so unremitting an attempt to conduct themselves in consonance with the regulations of society a work at once of great difficulty and of much unpleasantness. From these sources of unhappiness men are comparatively ex empted. A man does not in any sensible degree lower himself in the estima- tion of society by expressing himself in any company with perfect freedom, provided there be nothing exceptionable in the terms them- selves which he makes use of, respecting any actual or imagined just treatment he may have received at the hands of another. Nor does he endure a twentieth part of the infelicity which falls to the lot of the other sex from misplaced confidence, or from being obliged to conceal in his own mind what it would have afforded him relief to have revealed to a friend or acquaintance ; for, in the first place, he has not a twentieth part of the secrets to communicate which woman Ijias; nor, secondly, when he does make a confidant of another, is the ON THE COMPARATIVE HAPPINESS OF THE SEXEST. 57 trust he reposes in such acquaintance so often betrayed as in the case of the other sex. In the article of victualling or banquetting, again, it is not necessary that he should subject himself to restraint, provided he be not a glutton altogether. The demands of nature and the views of propriety established in society are in this case, in so far as he is concerned, precisely the same. And as it respects drinking — to use the term in most common parlance — it is scarcely looked on as dishonourable in man, however great may be the devotedness witlTwhich he does homage to the bottle. Nay, the man who gets thoroughly inebriated six if not seven times a week, can hold up his head — such are the absurd rules and regulations on the subject of morals and manners among us — as boldly and unblushingly as he who never in this regard allowed his " reason to be taken prisoner/' There is another most fruitful source of infelicity to females, whether single or married, but particularly in the former case, namely, in the prevalence of calumny among them. Although it be a failing, to characterise it by no harsher name, in almost every fe- male to indulge occasionally in sly insinuations, and sometimes to make unequivocal averments respecting the conduct of her acquaint- ances, all of them are most sensitively alive to any such remarks when made on themselves. Every one, in short, who knows any thing of the history of women, must be aware that, to use a homely but expressive phrase, they are almost constantly in a state of "hot water" in consequence of these derogatory remarks in perpetual circulation among them. Men, in this regard, also enjoy a great advantage over the sex. It is seldom indeed, speaking comparatively, that they deal to any extent in scandal; nor do those of them in respect to whom deroga- tory observations are made feel an equally keen sensibility with wo- men to such observations. There is nothing more generally taken for granted by those who look only at the superficies of things, than that unmarried females de- rive much happiness from their dress. This is a grievous mistake. Notwithstanding the intense interest they obviously feel in every thing that relates to apparel, and the many hours they spend at the toilette, none of themselves who have any regard to the truth will pretend that their dress, on the whole, is a source of felicity to them. It does, on the contrary, in most cases essentially contribute towards the embittering of their existence. The most trivial disarrangement in their dress is of itself sufficient to neutralise all the pleasures of the ball-room or the party. Our sex pay comparatively little attention to the apparelling of themselves, and consequently are proportionally less liable to be an- noyed by any disconcertion of their attire. Add to which that from the very form and nature of their dress it is infinitely less susceptible of being soiled or disarranged. But it is more especially in " affairs of the heart" that man has the advantage over the other sex. The tender passion, it is acknowledged on all hands, finds a much more congenial soil in the breast of woman than in that of man. From the time indeed at which she has attained the middle of her teens until she has reached the unfortunate side 58 ON THE COMPARATIVE HAPPINESS OF THE SEXES. of forty, her entire history is one of love. She generally centres her most affectionate regards on one object, and is doomed, from the etiquette of society to cherish her loves in the solitude of her own bo- som, carefully concealed, not from the world merely, but from him also on whom her affections are placed — unless it should so happen that he had previously fixed his regards on her, and had seriously apprised her of the fact. And little, indeed, does the male world know, and less does it sympathetically think of the miserable existence which many a beautiful, amiable, and accomplished female is fated to drag out in consequence of cherishing emotions of ardent love towards some object, but which, though luxuriating in her own heart, she dare not either disclose to the object loved or to the world. Nay, so far from unequivocally'developing to the idol of [her soul the ascend- ancy he has obtained over her, she cannot even venture to convey to him an intimation that she is particularly partial to his company, and thus secure to herself even a distant chance that his heart also may be impressed with a conviction of her good mental qualities or her* personal attractions. No : she must trust to the tender mercies of Fate whether she shall ever be even on a footing of intimacy with him she loves ; and, even if this should be her good fortune, she can do nothing by words or actions herself; but must leave it entirely to his own ca- price or fancy, or whatever else it may be termed, whether their ac- quaintance together shall ripen into love and be consummated at the Hymeneal altar. Were our sex more intimately conversant than they are with the history of the other, they would not need to be told that there are thousands of the best and most beautiful of womankind who brood over in the sanctuary of their own bosoms unrevealed and unre- quited love, until the vitals of the constitution are impaired, and they have prepared for themselves a premature gave. Yes, indeed, it occurs with a painful frequency that a lovely female sacrifices by an invisible, but not less real process, her own life to the ardency and constancy of her regards to one who was perfectly ignorant that he had ever been the subject of one single thought of hers. How different is the case with man when he has fixed his affec- tions on any individual member of " the fairest of creation's works! " Though not hitherto on terms of intimacy with her, he can have no difficulty, provided there be no striking disparity between their re- spective stations in society, of forming a familiar acquaintanceship with her. And then it is his province to develope to her the estima- tion in which she is held by him, and thus by disclosing his love to her, most probably beget on her part a similar feeling towards him- self. Or should it so happen that her heart had been previously gained by another, or that for any other reason she felt indisposed to encourage the attentions of the supposed suitor, then there is an end at once to the matter, his suspense is removed, and, instead of long ruminating over the disappointment, he will transfer his affections to some other object. Witness again the advantages which the male possesses over the female sex in the most important of all human transactions — that of marriage. Man alone has the privilege of choosing who shall be his partner in life. He ran ratine through the whole circle of his female ON THE COMPARATIVE HAPPINESS OF THE SEXES. 59 acquaintances, and then solicit the hand of her who to his mind is the beau ideal of what a wife ought to be ; and, in the event of her re- jection of the tender, he can make the same offer to the next one deepest in his affections. With a female the case is the very reverse. She is debarred from making any proposal to our sex in regard to marriage. She must wait until some such proposal is made to her- self before she can utter a word on the subject ; and then it is seldom indeed that she has sufficient time allowed her to come to an enlight- ened and judicious conclusion in regard to the matter. An imme- diate answer — one of acceptance or rejection — is in the vast majority of cases insisted on ; so that the very haste in which she must decide as to the most momentous step of her life renders it probable that the decision will be a wrong one. If she have serious objections to the individual who proffers her his hand, those objections are often overlooked, lest by assigning them their due weight and rejecting the suitor, she deprive herself of the only opportunity which will be ever furnished her of entering into that state into which all of the female sex are most solicitous to enter. It often happens, on the other hand, that a young girl rejects the addresses of one lover under the erroneous impression that she will by and by be asked by another towards whom she feels a greater partiality ; and thus declines the only such offer — it may be a valuable one — ever made to her at all. And the remorse and misery which such a female must experience when she learns either that he on whom she had confided has united himself to another, or that from other causes she has nothing but Old Maidship in prospect, will be better conceived than it were possible to describe them. And if we contemplate the two sexes in the married state, we perceive abundant reason to adopt the conclusion that in it also the male sex is happier than the other. Women are pent up at home, and doomed to endure the same domestic monotony day after day — to prepare the food of the family and superintend a thousand other concerns connected with the house. Men, on the other hand, are always moving about and witnessing an agreeable variety in the affairs of the world. They have only, in most cases, to sit down at the table and masticate their victuals and then depart again without feeling the slightest concern, comparatively speaking, in domestic matters. And, in the event of the married pair having children, almost all the trouble of bringing up these falls to the lot of the poor wife. It is hers to administer to their thousand little necessities, to hear their cries, and to sympathize with their distresses. She is, in short, the victim, if we may so express ourselves, of domestic duties. To all this it should be added, that there are many circumstances of a physical nature which contribute in a great measure to the un- happiness of woman from which man is exempted. On the grounds therefore to which we have slightly adverted, we rest our hypothesis that, taken in the aggregate, the male are much rriore happy than the female sex. What then are the practical inferences which should be deduced from such a fact? Assuredly that, since Nature and circumstances 60 HALF HOURS. have conspired together to make women's existence in this world less happy than that of man, it is out duty to become the counseller and protector of the sex, and t© exert ourselves to the utmost of our power to render their journey through life as smooth and agree- able as possible. But, alas ! how often instead of this do we, by our unfeeling and reckless conduct towards woman, add immeasur- ably to those woes which Nature, and circumstances over which human agency has no control, ordained as her earthly portion. t t HALF HOURS. f We are indebted for the Series of papers of which this is the commencement to a writer of distinguished reputation. We regret, for the sake of the readers of the Monthly ', that our Contributor wishes in this instance to preserve the anonymous. — Ed.] A GREAT deal of time is lost in considering and contriving how we shall employ the present half hour — that is to say, it seems hardly worth thinking about ; therefore we are very apt to put it to no other use. The illustrious Peer who gave us a specimen of his "Hours of Idleness," has left on record no example concerning Half Hours, save what may be gathered in the way of moral, and by converse, from his later works, some of which plainly indicate that he had no very distinct sense of the fractional value of time. The half hours, the odds and ends of life, are manifestly the most difficult portions to manage, for you never knew a man yet in the habit of saying, "I will be with you in half an hour," or "I will do it in half a minute," who kept to his time. "Take care of your pence, and your pounds will take care of themselves," is a maxim full of wisdom. Hours are round and respectable sums, which we feel and know are not to be neglected with impunity. The laziest man living will not engage in broad day-light, and wide awake, to sit still doing nothing for an hour — conscience will not permit him ! The "present hour" is, indeed, according to the moralists, even apt to hold too high a place in our estimation ; but the present half hour, no one has hitherto, I think, taken into due account, nor written very strenuously either for or against, It seems to be considered too insignificant for mighty efforts, too short for completeness — the very term is a damper to enterprise ; so we resign ourselves to vague speculations about it, and it slips away before we have made up our minds. Goethe, in his "Wilhelm Meister," recommends that a man should first "make himself acquainted with his own aims, and then fix, and persevere in them ;'' on first reading which, it struck me to be something very odd and pleasant to suppose that any man did not know his own aims, or that this might possibly be a mistranslation of the German sage (whose language I was not acquainted with), having heard that foreign books are sometimes paged into English, dictionary-fashion, without the drudgery of an apprenticeship to grammars and idioms ; but a somewhat painful examination into the history of half hours, as will be explained hereafter, has convinced me that Goethe knew what he said, and that his translator knew HALF HOURS. 16 1 what he meant, with or without a German grammar. Never tell me that a man knows his own aims, that he has any one predomi- nating interest in view, who can spend more than fifteen minutes contriving what he is to do flext !^I have known several very good natured well-meaning persons who invariably happened to do precisely what they did not intend to do; and, upon comparing notes with them (from some passages in my own life of a like enigmatical character), I became satisfied that they owed their mistakes, firstly, to not knowing their own aims, and, secondly, to employing too long time in endeavouring to find them out; whereby resolution became drowsy, and they stumbled the wrong way. The author of the "Sorrows of Werter,'' provides, too, for this dilemma, by advising that we should always do the work first that lies nearest at hand, which of course would put an end to the debate about precedency. The neglect of this rule is indeed a fertile source of confusion in the winding up of accounts ; and I think it will be found that a great deal of unnecessary fatigue may be traced to this neglect, besides the squandering of innumerable half hours — inasmuch as a straight- forward path conducts sooner to your journey's end than a zig-zag one. The German philosopher doubtless gave his advice in both instances from experience, and wrote feelingly. He would not have been in early life the advocate of suicide, and his hero weary of all things under the sun, especially as he was himself a passionate admirer of physical nature, if he had then been in possession of these valuable rules ! With transcendent powers of intellect, and a tolerable gift of moral sensibility, he ranged the "mystery of the universe" (as Madame de Stael has it), during seventy years — sentimentalist, deist, atheist, dramatist, demonologist, theologist, every sort of ist, before he fixed upon the work nearest at hand — the knowledge of himself — and it was not till he found himself approaching the brink, towards the solution of his own share in "the mystery,1' that he began seriously to examine what might be his own peculiar and individual concern in the responsibilities of time, and to settle his aims with reference to something to come beyond it. To be sure, Lord Byron and Goethe were both tremendous idlers of half hours, and utterly ignorant of their own aims, long after their minority ! But it is beyond my grasp and purpose to analyse their gigantic eccentricities — as well might I pretend to acquaintance with the comet's path. Prudently retreating from "criticisms and comparisons," be it my humbler aim to draw wisdom from their experience, and to adopt forthwith the lesson afforded me by the latter. Years, not half hours, have I spent in considering what I should. do next, without having either the genius or the variety of knowledge of those illustrious men to puzzle my choice. My own aims I am pretty sure about, though "persevering" in them I have found to be a difficulty; but I have always been haunted with an uneasy notion that idleness is a vice. Cotton Mather says it is "the most violent of all our passions/' I am determined that it shall no longer lay hands on my half hours ; and as I may not have many remaining, and can never et back the thousand and one I have expended in ruminating upon ints for tragedies, skeletons of fashionable life, novels, segments of g h 62 HALF HOURS. „ systems, theories concerning the origin of evil, and more especially a favourite glimpse I once-had of a scheme for demonstrating justice to be the one supreme and inalienable principle, — something in the way of Leslie's " Short Method," but which I found too long to be written, as well as reflected upon, in half an hour, it is my intention henceforward to employ those much-neglected fragments of time, whenever they come upon me suitors, for employment, or, in other words, whenever I am at a loss what to do with them, in writing down the story or the cogitations of the half hour last past, which I hold to come within Goethe's rule, being unquestionably as near at hand as the half hour just entered upon, and better secured against accidents. This plan of redeeming time will certainly, if any thing can, insure me against being " half an hour too late," a peril which has been well illustrated by a contemporary writer, one of ihefew, I believe, who have touched upon half hours — but I regret that, owing to a defective memory, I am unable to thank the sprightly individual by name to whom I am indebted for the salutary warning which I met with the other day when skimming the pages of fourteen of the little books called Annuals, a class numerous and volatile as the swal- low tribe, with which they have several points of resemblance besides the term designating their periodical visitation ; but these I need not point out to their ten millions of industrious readers. Eli Bates, for whose good sense, eloquence, and piety I entertain sincere venera- tion, has the only other written mention I can recollect concerning the half hour. In this truly Christian, philosophical treatise, entitled "Rural Retirement," which, I have the candour to acknowledge, those who are induced to look into my pages for instruction would have a chance of being still more edified by turning to, he has the following passage, which, as I long ago copied it into'my common- place book, I can take upon me distinctly to quote. — " Men in general had rather read twenty volumes, and hear many more sermons, than sit down half an hour to close solitary meditation." This remark does not indeed exalt the importance of the half hour, though it shows plainly the estimation in which it is generally held, by exhibiting it antithetically as the very minimum of man's idleness (I was directed to the meaning of this learned word by a laugh in the House of Commons the other day, which I mention because I do not profess learning, and therefore like to give my authorities), nevertheless, I am happy to quote an opinion bearing reference to the subject of my patronage from so excellent and plain-dealing a writer, inasmuch as it likewise includes the best apology I can offer for the loss to the world of letters of the thousand and one half hours aforesaid. All my life long have I been wishing and intending to immortalize myself by my pen, but was constantly deterred from performance by some ill- timed recurrence of the notion that close solitary meditation was a pre-requisite, — the above affirmed difficulty of which was heightened, in my instance, by my active and gregarious pursuits as a votary of fashion ! " Solitary " was out of the question ; and " close medita- tion" disagreed with the peculiar tone and with the autocratic re- volutivenes of my imaginative faculty, which, to own the truth, bore in times past too lively a resemblance to the volatile and fly-feeding HALF HOURS. 63 tribe elsewhere alluded to, I mean no pun, which I detest, when I say that a passionate love of letters made me eagerly acquaint my- self with the initials of every thing that came in my way ; but I never could chain myself down to study ; so that I can solemnly and conscientiously affirm my progress in drawing upon the wisdom of others has not been such as can reasonably endanger my claims to originality in any one department of literature, now that I have come to the resolution of setting up for myself. But under the delusion that study was necessary, and half hours insufficient for the maturing of wisdom, I should probably never have arrived at this resolution if it had been my lot to live in any other than the present " talented " era, in which I am mightily encouraged by example, seeing it to be morally impossible for much time or deep study to have been ex- pended by many of our most popular writers, whose leaves outnum- ber Valambrosas, and that every body capable of handling a pen — and who is not? — takes to writing (as Madame de Sevigne says her daughter's country neighbours loved virtue) as naturally as horses trot. It may perhaps be hinted, when writers thus abound, that my lucubrations, so long delayed, could the better be spared ; but as it was long ago agreed that no man was fit to depart this life who had not either performed some action worthy of being recorded, or written something deserving of being read, I hope I may be par- doned for presuming upon numerical authority, that between the horns of this dilemma the latter alternative has been concluded upon to be the easiest, and the best suited to the exigencies of this our day. It is quite evident, however, that nothing can be done where nothing is attempted. That man had a just respect for hu- man nature, and I dare say no undue appreciation of his own powers, whose only doubt concerning his capability of playing upon the violin arose from his never having tried it. The reproach I have so many years laboured under of doing every thing by halves will be appropriately and gloriously atoned if, before I go hence, I can succeed in rearing a beacon for other ge- niuses— the persons most apt to soar into miscalculations respecting the uses of times and things present, by calling their attention to this homely adage, that " half resolves, half measures, and half per- formances invariably mark the man who makes light of half hours." A DREAM. OUR dreams — they are the ministers of some mysterious power To prove that our most hidden thoughts have one unguarded hour ; They raise dead memories from the grave ;' they mingle time and space ; They haunt us with strange auguries whose source we may not trace. We know them false, yet leave they oft some heaviness behind, So swift and yet so life-like floats the vision o'er the mind, So strangely in our slumber the heart's jarring strings agree, My life, my love, my Adelheid, last night I dreamt of thee. I stood within a thronged saloon — a rich and gorgeous scene — Thyself, 'midst star, and gem, and plume didst shine, that revel's queen- No bidden guest was I — a spell upon my heart was laid ; I stood, unheard, unseen by all — a spirit and a shade. A stranger stood beside thee there — was it his sparkling eye That made a thousand glittering forms sweep all unheeded by ? To the low murmur of his tone did the rich music fail? Was it the flushing of his cheek that made thine own so pale ? Ah me! how writhed my captive heart beneath its strange control! The chain which bound that hated sleep upon my struggling soul. I could not speak — I could not move — I could but inly pray That from my spirit the dark dream might quickly pass away. He stood, and, bending, whispered thee, by all but me unheard, So close, thy bright locks waved aside in the breath of each low word- He led thee from the wassail throng — perchance it did appear Too many gay ones hovered round his traitor's tale to hear. He led thee where the myrtle wove a dim and green arcade, Sweetly — oh, sweetly on the ear the distant music played ; And there he told of lordly towers, and lands the rich and broad, And crowding vassals who would hail the princess of their lord. His voice grew soft — he spoke of shades beyond the southern sea, His native shades — the green, the fair, where only love might be. And then I heard thee swear, in tones I knew and loved too well, To seek that far and quiet home, with love and him to dwell. And he did clasp thee — serpent-like his hated arm was twined Around that white and heaving breast that once on mine reclined ; But then the weary dream was o'er — the chain in sunder flew — I woke — I saw this token — and I felt that thou wert true. W. H. S. THE-WATCH TOWKR OF KOAT-VEU A TALE OF THE SEA. PREFACE. THIS novel has gained considerable popularity in France; and in a philoso- phic sense it may be deserving of its favour. — It is one of several by the same author, written expressly for the purpose of exposing the state of scepticism at present prevailing amongsi-a large proportion of the French people. In his preface he explains his vie,ws very, distinctly in a single paragraph : be says, " Every age having its peculiar expression and indelible character, it appeared to me that the most prominent and decisive feature of the present age is un des enchantement profond et amer, which has its source in the thou- sand social and political deceptions by which we have been mocked, a spirit incontestibly proved by the organic and constituent materialism of our epoch." Again, in stating that the present age has been characterized by the majority of writers as a " siecle positif," he continues, " According to the acceptation which the liberal, progressive,, and philosophic party give to this word, it ap- pears to me that siecle positif et materialists, or desenchante et athee, is one and the same." All the characters have been carefully drawn under a full impres- sion of the wretchedness of mind produced by religious scepticism, and with a view to prove satisfactorily the existence of a future state. If, therefore, it should be objected that the continuity and uniformity of the story is occasionally broken, English readers will understand that the object of the author has been rather to pourtray character and evolve results than to follow the plan of a consecutive story which is more familiar to them. CHAPTER I. TOWARDS the close of the month of September, 1780, a lady on horseback, followed by her esquire, appearing- to quit the margin of of the ocean, and make her way inwards towards the country, clam- bered the mountain of Fal-Goet, which is situated near the little town of St. Renan, on the coast of Brittany. Having reached the summit of the mountain, the lady reined in her steed, as if to enjoy the majestic picture which spread before her view. In the west the sun was setting behind the rocky isles, half veiled in the vapoury mists of evening, and streaked with long crests of crimson the light waves as they broke playfully upon the coast. On the north rose the turrets of the castle of Kervan, Its tall spires, glittering in the last rays of departing day, towered over the dense masses of green foliage of the forest of Ar-Toel-Cout, already darkening in the shade. On the east were verdant meadows di- vided by luxuriant hedgerows of hawthorn, which serve as fences to all the fields of Brittany, and these spangled by a thousand flowerets, were encompassed by the mountains of Arres, whose heather slopes bristled with the forms of yews and pines. And on the south, SL M. M.— No. 1. F 66 THE WATCH-TOWER OF KOAT-VEU. Renan, with its Gothic spire and rugged steeple of gray stone, was already mantled by the evening dusk and by a light mist that hovered over the little river of Hell-Arr, whose cool and limpid waters flowed through the bosom of the valley. The lady of whom we speak was dressed after the English fashion in a black riding-habit, which displayed a tall person. By a move- ment which she made in throwing aside the veil which surrounded her hat, her face was seen to be youthful, beautiful, pale, and of a dark complexion. Withdrawing one of her gloves, she passed a delicate and taper hand over her black tresses, smooth and unpowdered, upon her fore- head, then held it above her finely arched brows, doubtless to screen her eyes from the dazzling rays of the setting sun. It could hardly be conceived how much this last golden reflection of the sun, spreading upon this pale and beautiful face, gave to it life and brilliancy, how much the warm rays of this glowing light har- monized with the energetic character of these features ; one would have taken it for a noble portrait of M urillo, whose powerful effect alone displays itself in all its splendour beneath the fires of a Spa- nish sun. After the lady had looked several minutes with great attention to- wards the north-west, a ^kind of signal, a white streamer, waved for an instant upon the summit of a ruined tower built upon the rocks very near the shore, and then disappeared. At sight of this the lady's eyes brightened, her brow was suffused with crimson, her cheeks empurpled, and she pressed her hands with force upon her lips, as if to send a kiss of love, when, knitting her dark brows and drawing down her veil, she gave a smart switch to her horse and galloped down the side of Fal-Goet with fearful ra- idity. " Her grace the duchess does not consider/' exclaimed the squire, approaching his mistress a little nearer than he had hitherto done, " Coronella has good legs — but this road is frightful." This was said in pure Castillian, with that tone of respectful re- monstrance which is sometimes taken by an old and faithful servant. " Silence, Perez," answered the duchess in the same language, as she urged still faster, if it were possible, the speed of her palfrey. The old esquire was hushed ; but it was easy to perceive the in- terest which he took in his mistress by the uneasy and painful attention with which he followed every movement of Coronella, without pay- ing any regard to his own horse. As the old man had said, Coronella had good legs, so that in spite of the inequalities, the hollows, and the channels which furrow all the roads in Lower Brittany, she made not a single false step. Perez, nevertheless, did not breathe freely until he saw his mistress, having reached the foot of the mountain, follow a deep avenue which led to the castle of Kervan. Perez appeared to be about fifty years of age. He was thin and of a tawny complexion, like a Spaniard of the south. A flat three- cornered nat, with rolled brim, ornamented with a red cockade, covered his rolled and powdered hair. He was dressed in a black THE WATCH-TOWER OF KOAT-YEU. 07 coat and waistcoat, white leather breeches, and high loose boots, which sat tight round the knee. The only sign of servitude which he bore was an armorial plate which secured a belt of green and red fringed with gold, in which was hung a hunting-knife ; the same crest was also seen upon the studs of the bridle and upon the black pummel of the saddle. His horse was followed by an enormous shaggy greyhound. When the duchess was within a short distance of the gate Perez gave the rein to his courser, raised his hat on passing by the side of his mis- tress, and hastened to announce her arrival to the servants. Her servants were clad in mourning, and bore upon the left shoulder an epaulette of green and red ribbons fringed with gold. The old esquire gave up the horses to the charge of the grooms, but went himself to the stables to see] that Coronella was carefully attended to. When he had satisfied himself that nothing was neglected for the well-being of his favourite palfrey he returned, aud rested near the bridge which separates the grand court-yard from the outer court. " God save you, Donna Juanna," said the esquire to a woman about his'own agejdressed in the Spanish costume — mantle, petticoat, and monillo of black cloth. " Good day, Perez. What news?" " None." u Ever at yon rock?" enquired Juanna, stretching her hand to- wards the west. " For ever. — The duchess alights from her horse behind a huge mound, follows a narrow path between the rocks, and disappears. — I wait an hour, sometimes two; but, by St. James, never so long as to-day." «' God bless us! Perez, I believe you, for I too suffered a mortal anxiety. But what can mean these solitary walks on the sea-coast ? Her grace had not this taste before the day when " You know, Juanna," replied the old man, interrupting his wife, somewhat impatiently, I conceal nothing that concerns myself from you, but the secret of mistress is not mine ; indeed I do not possess it, and though it needed merely to turn my head to know all I would not do it." " St. Viergi ! I believe you. Ever since we have been married, Perez, you have never trusted me with a single confidence ; and no more about his late grace the duke — '* Than you have me of her grace the duchess — isn't that it Juanna ?" added the old man. So we combine our double silence to keep sacred the secrets of the house of Almeda — if the house of Alm6da have any secrets," added he suddenly, after a pause* And, offering his arm to Juanna, they reached the castle, for the night was dark and gloomy. " I will return to you presently, Perez,** said Juanna/as she quitted her husband to cross the gallery, " I must prepare for the retirement