"Now, childre," said he, "hadn't we betther have a dance, and afther that I'll play all your favourites. So now, childre, trim your heels for a dance. What's the world good for, if we don't take it aisy?" After playing the old bard's exquisite air, the youngsters, myself among the rest, joined in the dance. The punch being then introduced, a happy night was spent in chat, music, rich old legends, and traditions, principally furnished by Gaynor himself; who, in addition to his many social and amusing qualities, possessed in a high degree the free and fluent powers peculiar to the old Irish senachie. ture and habits of the animal world. Here we may find a source of rational and delightful interest, which can never fail us, so long as a bird is heard to sing upon the trees, or a butterfly is seen to sport among the flowers. I will not go the length of recommending to my young countrywomen to become collectors, either of animals or of insects; because, as in the case of translations from the best of ancient writers, this has already been done for them, better than they are likely to do it for themselves; and because I am not quite sure, that simply for own our amusement, and without Such is a very feeble and imperfect sketch of the any reference to serving the purpose of science, we Irish piper, a character whom his countrymen love have a right to make even a beetle struggle to death and respect, and in every instance treat with the kind-upon the point of a pin, or to crowd together boxes ness and cordiality due to a relation. Indeed, the musicians of Ireland are as harmless and inoffensive a class of persons as ever existed; and there can be no greater proof of this than the very striking fact, that, in the criminal statistics of the country, the name of an Irish piper or fiddler, &c., has scarcely, if ever, been known to appear. Perhaps, in future numbers, I may endeavour to give some of the fine old legends which, in my early life, I heard from Gaynor's lips. If I do, they shall at least have the advantage of being authentic as to locality, as well as in fidelity to the circumstances and facts of the tradition which hands them down. THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND. THE proper place of women in society, the education requisite for them, and the occupations which best suit their powers and position, form subjects of inquiry confessedly increasing every day in interest and importance. Female poets, lecturers, and politicians, are now becoming quite ordinary characters in the civilised world; and the question is, whether this is to be regarded as matter for gratulation or for regret. On this point great diversities of opinion exist. It is well, at least, that it should be fully and fairly discussed. In a new volume entitled "The Daughters of England," from the pen of Mrs Ellis, authoress of "The Women of England," and other popular works, we have the subject treated in most of its bearings, as is partly indicated by the headings of her chapters -Economy of Time," "Cleverness, Learning, Knowledge," "Music, Painting, Poetry," "Beauty, Health, and Temper," &c. Alluding, of course, to women generally, and not to individuals, Mrs Ellis believes, what some of her more ambitious sisters do not believe, that the sex has a sphere of duty and action peculiarly its own. Interpreting the word lore in a general and wide sense, she lays down the axiom that "to lore is woman's duty -to be beloved her reward." At the same time, her standard of female amiability is a very high one, involving the possession of many qualities both of head and heart. The love of distinction, merely for its own sake, Mrs Ellis conceives, can seldom lead, in the case of woman, to the great end of lifehappiness. We find her expressing herself strongly on the subject of female authorship, as if it were inconsistent with feminine delicacy, and attended with the unavoidable effect of separating a female from her own proper sphere in society; yet we cannot see how there should be any impropriety in a lady employing her pen in a moral and instructive literature, any more than in her exerting herself in any other walk of industry consistent with a modest course of life. We think we could point to a few instances in which ladies practise literature without any deterioration of their character as ornaments of the domestic circle; and we have little doubt that the present authoress is of their class. Mrs Ellis unavoidably devotes a large share of attention to accomplishments, and we are glad to find her advocating the propriety of a few of these being sacrificed for the sake of solid and useful knowledge. Regarding science, our authoress says "Women are too much accustomed to look at the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms, with eyes that may almost literally be said not to see. An insect is to them a little troublesome thing, which flies or creeps; a flower is a petty ornament, with a sweet perfume; and a mine of coal or copper, something which they read about in their geography, as belonging to Newcastle or Wales. I do not say that their actual knowledge is thus limited; but that they are too much in the habit of regarding these portions of the creation as such, and no more. Chemistry, too, is apt to be considered by young women as far too elaborate and masculine a study to engage their attention; and thus they are satisfied not only to go on through life unacquainted with those wonderful combinations and properties, which in some of the most familiar things would throw light upon their real nature and proper use, but also to remain unenlightened in that noblest school of knowledge, which teaches the sublime truth, that the wonder-working power of God has been employed upon all the familiar as well as the astonishing objects we perceive, and that the same power continues to be exemplified in their perpetual creation, their order, adaptation, and use. Chiefly, however, would I recommend to the attention of youth, an intimate acquaintance with the na * Fisher, Son, & Co., London. full of living creatures, who, in the agony of their pent-up sufferings, devour and destroy one another. Happily for us, there are ably-written books on these subjects, from which we can learn more than from our own observation, and museums accessible to all, where different specimens of insects and other animals are so arranged as materially to assist in understanding their nature and classification; and far more congenial it surely must be to the heart and mind of woman, to read all which able and enlightened men have told us of this world of wonder, and then to go forth into the fields, and see the busy and beautiful creatures by which it is inhabited, sporting in the joyous freedom of nature, unharmed, and unsuspicious of harm. Yes, there is an acquaintance with the animal creation, which might be cultivated, so as to do good to the heart both of the child and the philosopher-an acquaintance which seems to absolve these helpless creatures from the curse of estrangement from their sovereign, man-an acquaintance which brings them near to us in all their natural peculiarities, their amazing instincts, and in the voiceless and otherwise unintelligible secrets of their mysterious existence." Mrs Ellis then goes on eloquently to show how much pleasure is of necessity added to existence by even such a slight acquaintance with the sciences of natural history, botany, and geology, as enables one to recognise the commonest insects, flowers, and stones. In walking, the sight of these seems like the sight of familiar friends. Nor are public questions to be wholly overlooked by women, in Mrs Ellis's opinion. "I am perfectly aware that there are intricate questions brought before our senate, which it may require a masculine order of intellect fully to understand. But there are others which may and ought to engage the attention of every female mind, such as the extinction of slavery, the abolition of war in general, cruelty to animals, the punishment of death, temperance, and many more, on which neither to know nor to feel is almost equally disgraceful. I must again observe, it is by no means necessary that we should talk much on these subjects, even if we do understand them; but to listen attentively, and with real interest, when they are discussed by able and liberal-minded men, is an easy and agreeable method of enlarging our stock of valuable knowledge; and, by doing this when we are young, we shall go on with the tide of public events, so as to render ourselves intelligent companions in old age; and when the bloom of youth is gone, and even animal spirits decline, we shall have our conversation left, for the entertainment and the benefit of our friends." Mrs Ellis has a chapter on Selfishness, the chief form of which in women is, according to her, "a habit of making self at once the centre and limit of every consideration, which habit is far from being incompatible with liberality in giving." With the following remarks we fully concur:-"It is highly imPortant to begin early to think much of others, and to think of them kindly. We are all, when young, and especially those who believe themselves gifted with more than ordinary talent, tempted to think it both amusing and clever to find out the faults of others; and amongst the busy, the meddling, and the maliciously disposed, this habit does often unquestionably afford a more than lawful degree of amusement; while to her by whom it is indulged, it invariably proves in the end most destructive to genuine cheerfulness, good humour, and peace of mind; because its own nature being offensive, it raises up against her a host of enemies, by whom all that is wrong in her character is magnified, and all that is good is evil spoken of. At the same time, she will also find that this seeming cleverness is shared with the most vulgar-minded persons of both sexes and of every grade in society, because none are so low as to be incapable of seeing the faults of their neighbours. Could such young satirists be convinced how much real enjoyment they sacrifice for the sake of awakening a momentary interest in their conversation, they would surely pause before the habit should have become so far confirmed, as to have repelled their nearest friends, and set them apart from all the social sympathies and sweet charities of life; for such is inevitably the consequence of persevering indulgence in this habit, but especially with such as possess no real talent for amusing satire, and who, in their futile attempts to attain the unenviable distinction of being satirical, ascend no farther than to acquire a habit of speaking spitefully. It is almost needless to say, that such women are seldom loved, and seldom sought, in cases where a sympathising friend or kind assistant is required. When such individuals are overtaken by affliction, they then feel how different a thing it is to have wounded and repelled, from what it is to have soothed and conciliated. Happy for them if they begin to feel this before it is too late." Our authoress then traces some sad consequences from this "habit of trying to be striking and amusing in company, so that self may, by that means, be made an object of greater importance. In comparison," she adds, "with such behaviour, how beautiful is that of the simple-hearted young woman, who can be so absorbed in the conversation of others, as to forget that she has taken no part in it herself; but more especially admirable is the conduct of her, who looks only or chiefly for what is to be loved and commended in others, and who, though not insensible to the darker side of human nature, draws over it the veil of charity, because she considers all her fellowcreatures as heirs to the same sufferings and infirmities which she endures, yet as children of the same heavenly Father, and subject with herself to the same dispensation of mercy and forgiveness. The habit of thinking perpetually of self is always accompanied by its just and necessary punishmenta more than ordinary share of wounded feeling. The reason is a very obvious one-that persons whose thoughts are usually thus engaged, are apt to suppose themselves the subject of general observation, and scarcely can a whisper be heard in the same room, but they immediately settle it in their own minds that they are the subject of injurious remark. They are also keenly alive to every slight-such as not being known or noticed when they are met, not being invited to visit their friends, and a thousand other acts of omission, which an unselfish disposition would kindly attribute to some other cause than intentional disrespect. It is the result of selfishness, too, when we are so unreasonable as to expect that every body should love us; or when we are piqued and irritated when con vinced that some, upon whom we have but little claim, do not. Surely so unfair a demand upon the goodwill of society might be cured by asking, Do we love every body, do justice to every body, and deserve to be loved by every body? For, until this is the case, what title have we to universal affection? It might also tend, in some degree, to equalise the balance of requirement in favour of self, if we would recollect that the faults we most dislike in others may all the while be less offensive to us than ours are to them; and that not only for all the actual faults, but even for the objectionable peculiarities which society puts up with in us, we owe a repayment, which can only be made in kindness and forbearance to others. In the manners and appearance of persons accustomed to dwell much upon the slights they are subject to, and the injuries they receive from others, there is a restless uneasiness, and a tendency to groundless suspicion, as much at variance with peace of mind as with that charity which thinketh no evil.' Compare with such a state of mind and feeling the sunny calm which lives ever in the countenance of her who is at peace with all the human race; who finds in all, even the most humble, something either to admire or love; and who esteems whatever kindness she receives from others as more than her own merits would have entitled her to expect; and we see at once the advantage she enjoys over those with whom self. is the subject of paramount interest." We conclude with a few remarkably good observations on a point which we do not recollect ever before seeing treated:-"In order to act out the principles of integrity in all their dignity and all their purity, it is highly important that young women should begin in early life to entertain a scrupulous delicacy with regard to incurring pecuniary obligations; and especially never to throw themselves upon the politeness of gentlemen, to pay the minutest sum in the way of procuring for them gratification or indulgence. I do not say that they may not frequently be so circumstanced, as, with the utmost propriety, to receive such kindness from near relations, or even from elderly persons; but I speak of men in general, upon whom they have not the claim of kindred; and I have observed the carelessness with which some young ladies tax the politeness, nay, the purses of gentlemen, respecting which it would be difficult to say, whether it indicated most an absence of delicate feeling or an absence of integrity. I am aware that, in many cases, this unsatisfactory kind of obligation is most difficult to avoid, and sometimes even impossible; yet a prompt and serious effort should always be made, and made in such a way that you shall clearly be understood to have both the wish and the power to pay your own expenses. If the wish is wanting, I can have nothing to say in so humiliating a case; but if you have not the means of defraying your own charges, it is plain that you have no right to enjoy your pleasures at the expense of another. There are, however, different ways of proposing to discharge such debts; and there is sometimes a hesitancy in the alternate advance and retreat of the fair lady's purse, which would require extraordinary willingness on the part of the gentleman, were his object to obtain a repayment of his own money. It is the same in the settlement of all other debts. Delicacy ought seldom, if ever, to form a plea for their adjustment being neglected. Indeed, few persons feel their delicacy much wounded by having the right money paid to them at the right time, or, in other words, when it is due. The same remarks will apply to all giving of commissions. Never let such affairs stand on and on, for want of a suitable opportunity for arranging their settlement; especially, never let the payment of a debt be longer delayed because it is evidently forgotten by the party to whom it is owing." ADVENTURE OF THE SAMMONS. In the year 1780, while the war was still vigorously prosecuted between Great Britain and her North American colonies, a number of remarkable and painful occurrences, arising out of this unhappy dispute, took place on the borders of Canada and the revolted districts. Among these events, the following, which is abridged by a writer in the North American Review from Stone's Life of Brandt, may convey to our readers an idea of the sufferings to which a people are exposed during a period of civil war :- "Old Mr Sammons, with three sons and one or more daughters, lived upon the old Johnson estate, which had been sequestered. Sampson Sammons, the father, was a sturdy old Whig [American], and well known to the British commander, Sir John whom he often talked with about the rebellion. His sons, Frederick, Jacob, and Thomas, the youngest eighteen at the time of which we write, were much of the same mind and body; young Sampsons, knotty and fearless. Sir John, knowing their characters, thought he would catch them alive, and take them to Canada; so he sent his Indians out of the way, and by good management, captured the whole race early in the morning, without a blow. The old man and his boys were at once bound, and marched off in the direction of Canada, though but a little way. That night, the youngest boy, by the aid of the wife of a British officer, managed to escape; and the next morning, the father, having procured an interview with the Tory chief, read him such a lecture upon the ingratitude of thus treating one who had formerly stood by him, and upon the iniquity of his conduct generally, that he too was set free, and a span of his horses returned to him. But Frederick and Jacob were less fortunate, and were taken to the fortress of Chamblee, just within Canada, between Lake Champlain and the St Lawrence. At that post there were about seventy prisoners, and not a very strong garrison; so that the first thing to which the young Sammons made up their minds was an escape. Finding, however, their fellow-captives indisposed to do any thing for themselves, Jacob and Frederick determined to act without the rest; and, accordingly, the first time they were taken out of the fort together, to assist in some common service, they sprung from the ranks, at a concerted signal, and 'put,' as the phrase is in the west. The guards, startled, and less fleet of foot, could not catch them; and though Jacob fell and sprained his ankle, he managed, under cover of the smoke produced by the gun-shots made at them, to hide himself in a clump of bushes, which his pursuers did not think of searching. It had been agreed previously between the brothers, that, in case of separation, they were to meet at a known spot at ten o'clock at night. Jacob, the lame one, mistook the hour, and having gone to the spot and not finding his brother there, he left it, with the intention of getting as far from the fort as possible before daylight, his accident making time especially important to him. He accordingly pushed up the western bank of the Sorel river towards Lake Champlain, intending to swim it just below the lake, and then find his way along the eastern shore. Various events, however, occurred to prevent his doing this; but, after running great risk, by putting himself within the power of a Tory, whose chief excellence seems to have been the possession of a most kind and fearless wife, he was so lucky as to find a canoe, of which he took charge, and in which he made good headway towards home, until, in one of the narrow passes of Champlain, the British fortifications, on both sides, forced him to leave his vessel and take to the woods again. He was without shoes, food, or gun, and had to find his way to Albany, through an unknown wilderness, along the Vermont shore. For four days he lived on birch-bark. Then he caught a few fish, and managed also to secure a wild duck. The fish and duck he ate raw. Thus he laboured on during ten days. His feet, meanwhile, had become so badly cut, and so intolerably sore, that he could scarce crawl, and swarms of musquitoes made every moment of rest a moment of misery. While thus wretched and worn out, he was bitten upon the calf of the leg by a rattlesnake. And what did this young hero do, then? Yield and die? Not he. With one stroke of his jack-knife he laid his leg open, producing a plenteous flow of blood, and with another slew the poisonous reptile. And then came a day or two of such experience as few meet with in this life. Sammons, worn to a skeleton, with feet ragged from wear and tearhis leg wounded, and not a soul within twenty miles to help-lay there under the log where he had been bitten, a little fire burning by him, which he had kindled by the aid of a dry fungus, living on the rattlesnake which he had slain. He ate the heart and fat first, and felt strengthened by the repast. There he lay, under that log, for three days-patient and surgeon, sick man, hunter, cook, and nurse, all in one. On the third day his snake was nearly picked to the bones, and he was too weak to fetch wood to cook the remainder. Jacob made up his mind that death could not be postponed; and, having already shown how little division of labour was needed in such cases, determined to essay one more office, and with his His brother Frederick was less fortunate. He had since at an operative Conservative society in Lambeth, he voluntarily alluded to his origin. Sir Edward was formerly clerk to Mr Groom, the conveyancer. His admission to the bar was opposed, on the ground that he had been a clerk; and the opposition would have been successful, but for the strenuous exertions of that amiable and most learned person, the late Francis Harthe candidate's ability as displayed in his legal writings. grave, who contended for his admission on the ground of The father of Mr Platt, Queen's Counsel, one of the most eminent of the English Common-Law bar, was a clerk to the late Lord Ellenborough. Baron Gurney's mother kept a small shop for political pamphlets. Mr Petersdorff's father was a furrier. Lord Kenyon, who was successively Attorney-General (under Lord Rockingham's second administration), a Baronet, and Master of the Rolls in 1784, and in 1788 Lord Chief-Justice of the Queen's Bench (in succession to the Earl of Mansfield), and who died worth £300,000, was clerk to an attorney. Lord Hardwicke (who was Attorney-General in at Dover, who, according to some persons, was hanged the thirty-fourth year of his age), was son of an attorney for forgery. Lord Eldon was son of a coal-fitter at Newcastle-on-Tyne, and his brother (afterwards Lord Stowell) borrowed forty pounds in order to enable him to go his first circuit. Lord Tenterden's father was a barber at Canterbury. Lord Langdale was formerly an accoucheur. Lord Campbell, and Serjeants Talfourd and Spankie, were formerly reporters on the Morning Chronicle." THE ROMANCE OF EMIGRATION. About three weeks since, a pretty and interesting young woman, with two fine children, of the ages of one and three years, called at the office of our city clerk, inquiring for the mayor. That officer was absent, but her sorrowful demeanour spoke so affectingly in her behalf, intelligent and unassuming in her distress, that Mr Lacy, and although evidently in humble life, she seemed so the clerk, was led to ask the cause of her trouble, when she told him her brief story. Her husband, she said, was named Evans, and left his native place, Brecknock, in Wales, a year ago, to seek a new home for his family in America, leaving them to follow when he should have found the desired spot, and earned the means to enable them to make the journey. He finally settled at Oakhill, Jackson County, in the southern part of the state of Ohio, where he worked industriously at his trade, that of a tailor, until he had laid by thirty dollars for the passagemoney of his family. This amount he enclosed to his destination, which would be via Liverpool and New wife, with directions as to the best route to reach her York. She accordingly bade adieu to her birthplace, and started on her lone and distant voyage, cheered by the But Frederick's adventures were not yet ended; prospect of soon joining her husband in their new western for neither was his captivity over, nor his spirit broken. home. On arriving at the nearest seaport on the coast, In November 1781, he, with others, was transferred she was persuaded by the mercenary captain of a trading to an island above Montreal, in the rapids of the St vessel that it would be much easier to go by way of Lawrence. There, as a first step, he organised another Quebec, whither he was bound, and she therefore took plot for escape, which failed, and, as a second step, passage with him. It was two long months before the jumped, with a companion, from the island into the tardy craft reached port; and during this time, her stock rapids of the great river. Our hero and his comrade having been exhausted, she was compelled to purchase swam for four miles through those rapids, navigat-of herself and her children. The extortion to which her from the captain, at his own rates, a supply for the wants ing among the sharp rocks and fearful shoals with inexperience made her an easy prey, and the increased their best skill. Landing on the north side of the St Lawrence, they fought a club battle with a village-full taken, left her without a shilling on her arrival at Buffalo. expenses of the inconvenient route she had ignorantly of Canadian Frenchmen; conquered; killed a calf; She was still five hundred miles from her journey's end, and, seizing a canoe, tried to cross to the south side of without a friend or acquaintance, truly a helpless stranger the river. They were above the rapids of the Cedars, in a strange land, with her little children looking up to where no canoe can live long unguided, when their her for food. The energies of a woman's nature, so paddle broke in the mid-stream; and once more strikingly developed by necessity, did not leave her to destruction seemed certain. A fallen tree, in the despair. She obtained shelter for herself and her chilbranches of which they caught, saved them, however; dren in a cellar-room in the Trowbridge block, for which and, crossing the next day below the falls, they struck she had to pay five shillings a-week, and succeeded in into the forest to seek the Hudson. For twelve more procuring a little sewing from a clothing shop, which days they toiled on, living on roots, without shoes, barely realised as much money as paid for their gloomy without clothes, without hats, and reached Schenec lodging and coarse and scanty fare. She wrote a letter tady at last, in a plight that made Christian men give tute situation; but weeks wore away in cruel suspense, to her husband, informing him of their arrival and destiwhile she wrote again and again; and on the return of each post, learned, with a heavy heart, that it had brought no letter for her. At length her employer had no more work for her, and she was obliged to pledge articles of clothing to procure necessary food. This wretched reher extremity she thought of applying to the mayor for source now failed; several weeks' rent were due; and in advice and relief. The poor Welshwoman's simple statement touched the manly heart of Mr Lacy. He commenced a subscription; and Mr Williams, a countryphilanthropy, took Mrs Evans and her little ones into his man, a worthy mechanic residing here, with prompt house, when a discovery that his guest was born within half a mile of the old home he left twenty years before, and the family histories she related, amply repaid the kind Welshman for his hospitality. Another honest Welshman soon cheered her with his greeting. Fifteen dollars, the sum necessary to send her to Oakhill, were board the packet. But while hastening to redeem a soon raised, and Mrs Evans's passage was engaged on shawl, which, during the preparations for the start, she recollected still lay on the pawnbroker's shelves, the boat cast off. Lamenting her disappointment, she turned round, and her husband stood before her. He had been in the city ten days in search of her; had boarded at the United States' Hotel, just over the low and squalid apartment in which his little family were staying-he comfortably lodged, and living upon the luxuries of a well-served table, while they were famishing only a few feet distant. It was a joyful meeting; the dollars were returned to the good subscribers; and the re-united and happy family took boat the next day for their western home. From the Buffalo Advertiser. them a wide berth." HUMBLE ORIGIN OF EMINENT LAWYERS. severing industry, we quote the following passages from It is curious how sensitive lawyers are concerning their origin. As they grow into eminence-partly from the connexions which they form, and partly from the prejudices which they imbibe with a legal education they become aristocratic in their inclinations, and would fain persuade people that they are of the magnates of the land. Ask a successful lawyer any question rather than What was your father?" The number of persons who have risen by the law from low fortunes, to the very highest places in the state, is extraordinary; is the son of a saddler. The shop (known to sporting The present Attorney-General of England (Sir F. Pollock) characters) at Charing-Cross, now kept by the Messrs Cuff, belonged to Pollock père, who disposed of his business to its present proprietors. The father of Sir William Follett (Solicitor-General) still keeps a timber-yard near Exeter. Sir John Williams, of the Queen's Bench in England, is the son of a Yorkshire horse-dealer. The Chancellor of Ireland (Sugden) is the son of a barber. It is only fair to say, that this profound lawyer glories in his origin. At the Cambridge election, when Lord Mounteagle beat him by a majority of twenty-eight, Sir Edward was assailed, while speaking from the hustings, with a Sir Edward, not at all disconcerted, said at once, The cry from a Whig snarler, of Off! off! you barber's son difference between the person who thus assails me and myself is simply this--had he been born the son of a barber, he would have remained in the same condition during all his life; I was born one, and have risen from that humble sphere.' When presiding some few years LONDON: Published, with permission of the proprietors, by W. S. ORR, Paternoster Row. Printed by Bradbury and Evans, Whitefriars. DINBURGA CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE," "CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE," &c. NUMBER 530. ENEMY-MAKERS. THERE are some children who seem as if they could scarcely move a step without breaking or spoiling something. Whatever of a fragile nature they lift or handle, they are sure to let fall or knock over. Whatever they attempt to do, they do ill, so that it would have been far better let alone. If introduced into a garden, their feet find it quite impossible to keep off the parterres, and their fingers to abstain from plucking the flowers. In the parlour, they are perpetually raising unearthly screams from cats and dogs, on whose toes, tails, or feelings they have trampled, or setting up younger children thar themselves into squalling fits, in consequence of pinches, cuffs, and bruises which they inflict-to all appearance unconsciously. Wherever they go, their course is marked, like that of a hurricane, by the wreck and disorder which they leave behind. An ill luck seems to attend them in all positions and all circumstances, and so many and so bitter are the complaints which they give rise to, that one at length almost pities even while suffering from them. The enemy-makers are a class a good deal like this department of the juvenile world. I would define them as persons having an unfortunate aptitude, by word and deed, to give offence to their fellow-creatures, each of whom, so offended, becomes of course a deadly foe for life. Enemy-makers are often very meritorious persons. I have known them possessed of some of the most popular of the virtues, besides being clever and amusing. In their general conduct, and even in their general manners, there may be nothing exceptionable. But all this is of no avail against the leading peculiarity. Every now and then they commit some blunder or utter some speech, which throws one of their neighbours into irreconcilable hostility. This person becomes of course a focus or centre for the diffusion of unfavourable sentiments respecting the offender. He speaks ill himself, and engages as many of his friends to do likewise as possible. Thus, a single wry word will perhaps create a score of ill-speakers. It is needless to remark how these foci will at length become so numerous, as to absorb nearly the whole of the offender's neighbours, leaving him hardly one who is willing to keep on fair terms with him. SATURDAY, MARCH 26, 1842. him, until there were only two or three who would receive him into their houses, or meet him any where else. Ilis various agreeable qualities had been in a great measure lost to the circle in which he resided, and himself rendered a kind of Pariah, solely in consequence of a few trivial acts and a few trivial expressions. It is not to be supposed that the enemy-maker is necessarily an unhappy man. Some may have their moments of regret for the unpopularity into which they have fallen; but generally they are quite at their ease on the subject. This is owing to the peculiar constitution of mind by which they become enemymakers. The enemy-maker would be described by the phrenologist as a person with large self-esteem and small love of approbation; and such is at once a just and intelligible account of the leading features of his character. Perfectly satisfied about himself, he regards not what his neighbours may think of him. But the bulk of human beings are constituted differently, being liable to conceive great offence if they are not well thought of, or are treated disrespectfully. The enemy-maker, from his own want of this feeling, does not understand or sympathise with it. Himself insensible to both its agreeable and disagreeable affections, he acts very much as if there were no such thing in nature. Hence it is that he is so liable at every turn to come disagreeably across one person or another. But this defect of feeling makes him at the same time able to endure with equanimity the consequences of his unlucky tricks. He may sometimes be surprised at a cool reception from one whom he took for a friend, and think it rather odd that he has not got an invitation from some particular family for a twelvemonth; but he is not apt to be much or long discomposed by such circumstances, every thing being made up to him by the satisfaction which he habitually feels with himself. It is nevertheless a great misfortune to be an enemy-maker, and it would be well for any person who has a tendency to become one, to put himself on his guard against it by the means which his intellect supplies, thus bringing one part of his mental constitution to compensate for the defects of another. Let him be fully aware that, though he feels independent of the approbation of his fellow-creatures, and cannot imagine how any one should be otherwise, most are in reality otherwise, and therefore conceive great Let it be deeply impressed upon him that, in his intercourse with other parties, the most shining qualities will fail to maintain their attachment or respect, if he does not act delicately with regard to their amour propre. Here the flatterer may give him a lesson, if not an example. It is daily seen that a man of many bad qualities will keep a fair place in society by making himself agreeable to every body. Just as certainly will the most worthy man fail to do so, if he has a habit of putting his neighbours ill at ease with themselves by biting and undervaluing speeches. Lately visiting a friend in the country, I was much pleased with the intelligent, I might almost say bril-offence when this sentiment of theirs is wounded. liant, conversation of a gentleman who was asked to meet me at dinner. It seemed to me a piece of good fortune in the place, to have residing in it a man of a character so rarely met with out of great towns. I was surprised, however, in no small degree, when, afterwards conversing with various families, to find that my praises of this gentleman were not well received. In some instances, ladies faintly assented to them with a strained politeness; in others, met them with disdainful sneers and tossings of the head. One gentleman muttered something through his teeth, and another looked black in the face and said nothing. I met the man again, and liked him still better. He came and undertook to be my conductor through the curiosities of the district. We became great friends. It was incomprehensible how so pleasant and obliging a person should be unpopular. At length, I got a key to the mystery. My new acquaintance was an enemy-maker. He had, from a strange recklessness, allowed himself on various occasions to say sore things of sundry persons. He had treated one or two foolish and officious individuals with impatience, and allowed them to know wnat he thought of them. One after another, his neighbours had been thus offended by "What care I how fair she be, If she is not fair to me?" old Wither sings; and such is the very process of ideas which leads to the enemy-maker being so much scouted. There is nothing more common in literary circles or coteries, than to hear some writer of reputation denied every good attribute, or at least allowed the very faintest praise; the cause, when examined, proving to be that this writer has dropped a contemptuous, and probably unjust, expression respecting some favourite member of their set. A single offensive sentence blinds them to his whole merits. In❘ PRICE 1d. like manner, I have known a first-rate wit lose all character as such with one who had laughed a thousand times at his jokes, on his happening in one unlucky moment to give way to a jest, of which that person was the subject. From that moment, what had formerly been all very lively and amusing became intolerably low and coarse. In fact, the bulk of mankind are affected in their judgments of individuals, to a very great extent, by considerations affecting themselves; and if there be one particle of uneasiness in their own hearts about any one, it is sufficient to depress a saint into a hypocrite, and a philosopher into a fool. How often is merit denied where there is no knowledge of the person whatever, merely because his circumstances excite a little envy! Much more, of course, may this disagreeable affection be excited, if a positive offence be offered. If the enemy-maker would take these things into serious consideration, and endeavour to act with some degree of caution, he might train his judgment to keep him comparatively free of trouble, notwithstanding that he remained unconscious as before of the nature of the wounds which it is his unfortunate tendency to inflict. Enemy-making sometimes, but comparatively infrequently, arises from a certain want of self-control, rendering it impossible for the party to abstain from saying some smart thing, or acting upon some favourite plan. This is a most unfortunate variety of the tribe, for they are not necessarily insensible to the effects of their delinquencies. A joke-perhaps merely a whimsical association of a couple of words-occurs to their minds, and, though the alienation of a friend, and much consequent vexation, is the certain consequence, they can no more restrain themselves than can the sot when his fatal beverage is placed before him. They take a fancy for doing a particular thing, or following a certain course, probably of quite an indifferent nature, and, though it is sure to cause a swarm of hornets to come about their ears, they are equally incapable of abstaining from it. They always repent afterwards, but generally to little other purpose than to deepen the regret which they feel for their imprudence. To this class I would say, consider what a word or an action is. It may appear a passing thing of a moment, but yet carry the seeds of the events of future years. Let no one think a word a light or insubstantial matter. Words are things, as much as if they had the weight of lead or gold. While a word can express the ideas of one mind, and raise ideas and excite to actions in another, it can never be justly held as mere breath, as common thinkers are ready to term it. Let words, then, be used with caution. Retain an offensive one, as you would abstain from shooting a poisoned arrow at a multitude. Upon the shutting of the lips may depend the comfort of many days to come. Why, then, oh why should they, in such a case, be opened? The late Sir Walter Scott was remarkable for the example which he held up to all men, but particularly to his literary brethren, with regard to enemy-making. In his personal conduct, and in the numerous productions of his pen, he was singularly void of offence. He was not a bitter speaker; he answered all men civilly; he bore with his bores like an angel. Then, as he himself tells us, he had early seen the absurdity of such a course as that of Dryden and Pope, who made all their inferiors their bitter enemies, in consequence of satirising them, thus exposing themselves to an incessant storm of petty malice, which could not but be a source of constant torment to them. Scott wrote despitefully of no man, and, when any silly attack was made upon him, he took no notice, but let it "hum and buzz itself asleep." By this policy, he got through life with more kind regard from his fellow-men than ever before, perhaps, befell one who attained such eminence. We become particularly sensible how admirable his conduct was in this respect, when we contrast it with the paltry viperousnesses which some eminent literary men ever and anon allow to escape them, as if to show how compatible the best talents are with false taste and an essentially mean and vulgar nature. Enemy-makers of all kinds might be directed to study the character of Scott, as a lesson calculated to be of the greatest benefit in their peculiar case. After all, in as far as it may be impossible to effect a complete cure of the enemy-maker, I would call for his being regarded a little more gently by the world. He is an unfortunate being, whether as naturally defective in tact or self-control. Then his unlucky escapades expose him to so much inevitable obloquy, and act so injuriously, in most instances, on his fortune. Upon the whole, he is a more fit object of pity than of blame. When any ordinary person of the world experiences a shock from an enemy-maker, let him consider what an unhappy thing it is to have a tendency to act so as to excite hostility; let him reflect how fortunate he himself is in being free from such a peculiarity; and he will be disposed not so much to resent as to forgive. THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF COLERIDGE. SECOND ARTICLE. AT what precise period opium-drinking acquired a mastery over Coleridge it does not seem possible to determine, as he sedulously kept the matter secret from his friends. Mr Cottle, one of his oldest friends, did not become aware of his giving way to this habit till 1814, on which occasion he addressed to him an affectionate remonstrance, to which a reply of the most touchingly despondent character was sent by the delinquent. It was not a matter of doubt that at this period he drank from one pint a-day to two quarts of laudanum per week. On one occasion he was reported to have taken, within the twenty-four hours, one whole quart of laudanum. This exceeds the quantity taken by that literary impostor Psalmanazar, or, indeed, any other opium-consumer upon record. The following letter to Mr Wade of Bristol, dated June 1814, is most melancholy, but instructive, as evincing how absolute is the slavery of such a passion. "DEAR SIR-For I am unworthy to call any good man friend, much less you, whose hospitality and love I have abused; accept, however, my entreaties for your forgiveness and your prayers. Conceive a poor, miserable wretch, who for many years has been attempting to beat off pain by a constant recurrence to the vice that reproduces it. Con ceive a spirit in hell, employed in tracing out for others the road to that heaven from which his crimes exclude him. In short, conceive whatever is most wretched, helpless, and hopeless, and you will form as tolerable a notion of my state as it is possible for a good man to have. intervention of his friend, Sir Humphry Davy, to soul has more to demand of the appropriate excel- On June 1, 1809, appeared No. 1 of "The Friend." This was a single-sheet periodical, projected by our author, and published by him at Keswick when resident at Grassmere in Westmoreland. A more injudicious plan and place of publication could perhaps scarcely have been devised by the most perverse ingenuity. Its appearance was too frequently irregular as to date of publication, and its rambling character unattractive. After the publication of twentyeight numbers, it was given up; though afterwards, in happier times, enlarged, almost rewritten, and reprinted in three volumes. In "The Friend" appeared some of Coleridge's attempts at a system of political form as rather to perplex than enlighten as to his enphilosophy, but in so unconnected and irregular a tire views on this subject. Both in mental and political philosophy, Coleridge has declared that his object was to overthrow the ascendancy of Locke and Paley. How far he might have succeeded in this attempt, had more auspicious circumstances fostered his endeavours, we can only conjecture; certainly the efforts he actually made fell far short of the object. It was in "The Friend," too, that the fine "Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny" was published. Of this hymn, which consists of an apostrophe to Mont Blanc, we annex the greater portion :— "Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! We ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven, now become one of the most admired of Coleridge's minor poems. In the year 1816, Coleridge published his poem entitled "Christabel," which is in fact an unfinished and unfinishable romance of a mystic nature. Of a similar character was a ballad entitled the "Ancient Mariner," published amongst his earlier poems. There is a remarkable instance of alteration in the value of literary property connected with this ballad. It appeared originally in a small volume of ballads composed in very simple language, and partly after the model of the old English ballads. Most of them, with the exception of the " Ancient Mariner," were from the pen of Mr Wordsworth. The volume was loudly assailed with a burst of ridicule, amidst which it sunk out of public notice. The publisher of these ballads in their original form, in disposing of his copyrights to the Messrs Longman, found the copyright of this volume valued at "nothing." Upon his request it was In "The Friend," Coleridge thus spoke of the im- willingly returned to him at this value, and by him At the preprovement of the human race:-"A whole generation given to Mr Wordsworth at the same. I used to think the text in St James, that he who may appear even to sleep, or may be exasperated with sent period, perhaps, no portion of Mr Wordsworth's offended in one point, offends in all,' very harsh; but rage-they that compose it tearing each other to pieces poems have been more fully appreciated, being by I now feel the awful, the tremendous truth of it. In with more than brutal fury. It is enough for com- numerous readers as loudly applauded as they were once derided. Moreover, the "Ancient Mariner," the one crime of OPIUM, what crime have I not made placency and hope, that scattered and solitary minds are always labouring somewhere in the service of to the unintelligibility of which Mr Wordsworth myself guilty of! Ingratitude to my Maker; and to truth and virtue; and that by the sleep of the multi-principally attributed the failure of this volume, has my benefactors-injustice; and unnatural cruelty to tude the energy of the multitude may be prepared; my poor children; self-contempt for my repeated pro- and that by the fury of the people, the chains of the mise-breach, nay, too often actual falsehood. After people may be broken." He proceeds to unfold the During the years 1816, 1817, and 1818, were pubmy death, I earnestly entreat that a full and unqua-high requirements for the successful exercise of in- lished several of our author's works, the chief of tellectual powers, and adds-"Are we then to de- which were, "The Statesman's Manual; or, the Bible lified narration of my wretchedness, and of its guilty spond to retire from all contest-and to reconcile the Best Guide to Political Skill and Foresight;" and cause, may be made public, that at least some little ourselves at once to cares without generous hope, and the "Biographia Literaria," a rambling but exceedgood may be effected by the direful example. to efforts in which there is no more moral life than ingly interesting volume, before noticed, a large porMay God Almighty bless you, and have mercy on that which is found in the business and labour of the tion of which is devoted to the critical development your still affectionate, and in his heart grateful, unaspiring many? No!--but if the inquiry have not of the theory of poetic phraseology, in connexion S. T. COLERIDGE." refer confidently our youth to that nature of which been on just grounds satisfactorily answered, we may with Mr Wordsworth's poems. In 1825, appeared "Aids to Reflection, in the Formation of a Manly About this period he was in great distress for he deems himself an enthusiastic follower, and one Character, on the Several Grounds of Prudence, Momoney, notwithstanding that his regular expenses. We would tell him that there are paths which of a religious character, and based upon the author's who wishes to continue no less faithful and enthusias- rality, and Religion," &c. This work, which is mainly were not great, and that several friends were generous he has not trodden; recesses which he has not pene-distinctions between reason and understanding, has to him, Mr De Quincey giving him a present of L.300, trated; that there is a beauty which he has not seen, been more popular than might have been expected and Dr Fox of Bristol one of L.50, while the pension a pathos which he has not felt, a sublimity to which from its philosophical character. We have now the of the munificent Wedgwoods was still continued. he hath not been raised. If he have trembled because third edition in our hands, with a preface by an AmeHe declares in a letter that, if he had L.200 clear in there has occasionally taken place in him a lapse of rican gentleman, from an American edition. which he is conscious; if he foresee open or secret his possession, he would put himself into a private attacks, which he has had intimations that he will asylum for lunatics, in order to be cured of his fatal neither be strong enough to resist, nor watchful enough love of opium, his will being of no avail in the to elude, let him not hastily ascribe this weakness, case. Could there be a more affecting illustration of this deficiency, and the painful apprehensions accomthe dismal nature of this indulgence? It is grati-panying them, in any degree to the virtues or noble fying to reflect that Coleridge ultimately was emancipated from its thraldom. In 1808, he was invited, most probably through the qualities with which youth by nature is furnished; The last work, we believe, published by Coleridge himself, was a small volume sent forth in 1830, “On the Constitution of the Church and State, according to the idea of each," &c. It would appear, from the list of works that he has left as almost ready for the press, that his greatest performances were never delivered to the eyes of the public. In this list there are named four works on poetry and philosophy, "of which," says he, "I have already the written materials and contents, requiring only to be put together," &c. None of these have, however, been brought forward by his friends. The greatest disappointment has been excited in reference to what he calls his "great work" upon philosophy in relation to Christianity, to the preparation of which he himself tells us that he devoted twenty years of his life, and to which he considered all his other prose writings as only preparatory. He could probably have spoken the matter of this work in his private conversations, but he had not advanced far in preparing it for the press, and it is thus lost to us. Such of his posthumous works as have already been given to the public (and they are probably all that could or should be given) consist of mere scraps, often not very intelligible, but upon the whole valuable. Coleridge's mind was eminently projective. He proposed to write more works than most persons would read in a lifetime. Some of them were of vast import and labour, and a few were actually in progress; but it is quite a safe assertion that he seriously projected much more than he ever could have lived to complete at his rate of performance. In fact, he was known as a man who could never be relied upon to fulfil any engagement. When advertised to deliver lectures, he was the first to propose excuses for absence on several of the appointed days; nor could he be expected to complete his promised periodical publications, if any friend should unfortunately drop in and engage him in discourse upon the subject in hand. These circumstances, together with his unaccommodating and often offensive manners, render it not so remarkable that he was always poor, as that he found so many friends. As soon as he repulsed one of these, he seemed to gain another, in a remarkable manner, and this continued till the end of his life. Perhaps no man ever lived who might be held up so suitably as an example to be imitated in some points and shunned in others-to be admired and reprobated-loved and disregarded. That so little of what he has done, and what he has left, seems to realise, to any thing like its full extent, what is known of his powers, may prove an instructive chapter to posterity-to great equally with common minds. To the first it enforces the important truth that the highest intellectual powers, undirected by well-regulated habits of thought and action, will neither bring worldly happiness to their possessor nor secure him hereafter an enviable fame-while it tells the more humbly-gifted that a vigilant and welldirected exercise of their powers may bring them not only happiness, but secure them a place in the grateful hearts of thousands. For the last nineteen years of Coleridge's life he lived in serenity and comfort in the house of a friend at Highgate Grove, near London, lecturing sometimes at public institutions, and writing various scraps of poetry and prose, but chiefly displaying the extraor dinary powers of his mind, in a kind of self-sustained conversation; which he would pour out for hours at a time to a circle of admirers, astonishing all by the rich store of thought which he seemed to have at command. For many years before his death he was subject to acute sufferings of body and melancholy lassitude, but he contemplated his end with undisturbed serenity, and much of child-like piety. The last four lines of an epitaph which he wrote for himself are—"That he who many a year, with toil of breath, Found death in life, may here find life in death! Mercy for praise-to be forgiven for fame He ask'd, and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same." He expired on the 25th of July 1834, and on the 2d of August was privately buried at Highgate New Church, where a handsome marble tablet has been placed by his Highgate friends, graved with a beautiful inscription to his memory. In the above sketch, it is obvious that we could merely permit ourselves to glance at the most generally interesting features in the life and writings of Coleridge. Any thing approaching to a detailed appreciation of Coleridge's literary character and attainments, cannot be attempted in a popular miscellany like the present. The outline of his life, which we have here presented, may indicate, in a small degree, what he attempted. But of his metaphysics, which occupied so large a share of his contemplation and conversation, it would be injudicious here to attempt an explanation. They frequently transcend our grasp, and, we really believe, not seldom transcended his own. He had no system that was definable, and no practical result that was aimed at. He has been accused, latterly, of borrowing largely from the Germans in this department, although we think somewhat unjustly, at least as to extent. We confess he borrowed the groundwork of his speculations from them-that is, the starting posts for his intellectual excursions-but this he has acknowledged. The thread of the life of Coleridge is so indistinctly manifested by the literary remains and letters, &c., that have been published, that we have found the greatest difficulty in preserving the appearance of consecutiveness in this brief sketch. If our readers should feel a desire to know how he succeeded in bringing up and educating his family, we confess that we have been unable to discover any clue to the answer. It may, however, be unknown to some, that one son is now a judge, another a bishop, and a third a poet. The will of Coleridge is, though pleasingly affectionate, somewhat amusing, inasmuch as it is a specimen of a wordy bequeathment of next to nothing -nothing in pecuniary value. To kindred and friends he apportioned his various books and manuscripts, with a solemnity ill according with their value, except as mere testimonials of affection. THE PLACE AND THE MARRIAGE. ALTERED FROM A FRENCH FEUILLETON. FOUR travellers occupied the interior of the diligence passing betwixt Bordeaux and Paris. The customary call of the conductor, on leaving the former place, made out their names to be M. Dufour and Mademoiselle Amenaide Dufour, M. Raymond, and M. Bernard. The first of these was a man of fifty, with the air of a respectable, wealthy, good-natured merchant, and the lady, his daughter, was a very pretty and interesting girl of eighteen. The other two were young men, seemingly about thirty years of age, and were both of them favourable specimens, in looks and manner, of the educated classes of society. After the first few moments, M. Dufour opened up a conversation, taking, with wonted stage-coach caution, the weather as his subject; and by his address to M. Bernard, it became apparent that they were acquainted. However, though the discourse grew more general and more interesting in its cast, the reader will learn more of some of the parties by an account of a conversation betwixt the two young men, when they descended for a time to relax their limbs by walking. After offering his companion a cigar, Raymond remarked, "I ain going to Paris to solicit a provincial place, which I am almost certain of obtaining. No one yet knows of the vacancy, and no one is even likely to know for some short time." The other was also so far open in speech. "I will confess to you that it is Mademoiselle Amenaide who takes me now to Paris. They are going for the Carnival and Lent amusements. I met them in the country, and, though not an accepted suitor, I have not discovered any rival as yet." "The place is lucrative, and there is little to do-six thousand francs a-year," said Raymond. "A very charming girl," continued Bernard, " with a dowry of a hundred thousand franes, and twenty thousand livres a-year in prospect." Thus did the two young men keep up the fire on both sides, until it was time to return to the vehicle and its other passengers. It was somewhat odd that both the young men threw themselves into the corner of the diligence, and seemed alike disposed to silence after their return. The fact was, that M. Bernard was busied in mental cogitation on a point newly started to him. "A married man has need of a place, to give him consideration in the world," thought he; "and, as I am so very far below the Dufours in fortune, this place of six thousand francs a-year would help in every way to ensure me against rejection." Raymond had formerly been too much absorbed with meditations on his place to look much at Amenaide. "What a charining-looking girl!" he now said, as he glanced at her; he is not accepted, and she really may not like him; oh! how nicely such a wife and my place would suit." The consequence of Bernard's reflections was, that he set himself with art and diligence to draw out of Raymond the particulars relative to the vacant office, and secretly noted down the whole. Raymond, on the other hand, took up what was in itself a natural and pleasing task. He applied himself to the duty of playing the courteous cavalier to Mademoiselle Dufour. He soon noticed, however, that his chances of success seemed to be small. Bernard appeared to be respected by the father, and to stand reasonably well in the graces of the daughter. Raymond's good sense also satisfied him that they were not people to change friends for mere change's sake, and that, even if Amenaide was not prepossessed, he, a stranger in Paris, would have very little chance with Bernard, who was thoroughly fitted to be their daily cicerone there. After three days' travel, the party reached Paris, where the carnival or public masquerades, held during the holidays preceding Lent, were then in full blow. M. Dufour went to lodge in a respectable hotel. Bernard did not think it proper to go to the same abode, but accompanied Raymond to a neighbouring hotel. When they had got installed, "I hope you do not intend," says Bernard, "to spend your first days in business, in place of going about with us, and satisfying your curiosity in this new scene?" "I should like it of all things," answered Raymond; "but you must remember that my business will not allow of being deferred." "I think you said that you conceived yourself sure of some considerable advantage as to time," said Bernard; "you will take a week's amusement at least?" "I cannot,” replied the other; "that would compromise all." "Two or three days, then," said Bernard; "to-morrow, at all events, M. Dufour and Amenaide count upon you to walk and dine with them." "I did not hear them say so." "They charged me with the invitation; you cannot disappoint them." Raymond, who was too easy in disposition, could not resist the wily arguments of his companion, and said, "Well, since I might disappoint others, pleasure be it for to-morrow, at least!" On the morrow, the two young men accordingly accompanied the Dufours to the Museum. Bernard there directed them along the gallery of the Louvre; and, under the pretext of some little business, left them, recommending them to devote a quarter of an hour to each picture, as he had often done." He was absent three hours. In that time he had seen friends, bad put in operation various manoeuvres, and had made applications, all as Raymond had revealed his intent to do. In the mean time, Bernard was safe as regarded Amenaide, for, though the lady seemed very little chagrined by his absence, the honest Raymond had no intention of supplanting a suitor really favoured by her. After dinner, the party went to one of the theatres. Having afterwards seen M. Dufour and his daughter home, Bernard without much difficulty induced Raymond both to visit a café-table and a masquerade-ball at the opera. The inexperienced young provincialist paid a heavy penalty for these indulgences. While his wily friend escaped uninjured, Raymond was incapable of stirring from his pillow all the following day. Of this time Bernard made the best account, stirring actively to get the vacant place for himself. Raymond recovered somewhat from his sufferings, and rose in the evening; but though his perfidious friend tried to wile him abroad by a billet in a female hand, making a fictitious appointment at the masquerade balls, the young man had the good sense to keep his chamber, that he might ensure no neglect of business on the morrow. Next morning, accordingly, Raymond remarked to Bernard when they met, "Paris has many temptations. Hitherto I have been feeble, but now will I turn to business in reality." "Pooh!" said Bernard, afraid of a premature discovery, "what is the hurry?" "I will delay not a moment longer in making my applications." "Well, then, you must at least breakfast first, as those to whom you are going will also do; and, as I have engaged some other friends to breakfast with me this morning, come with me." Raymond saw no danger in a breakfast. However, it proved otherwise. One of the young men whom he met at the table took an occasion rudely to contradict him, and seemed desirous, in short, to fasten a quarrel upon him. Raymond was any thing but quarrelsome, yet tamely the insults given to him, and he made such no young man of common spirit could have borne retorts as brought on a challenge. According to the horrid customs of modern Paris, an immediate adjournment of the whole party to the wood of Vincennes took place, and, alinost ere Raymond could reflect seriously on his position, his hand was armed against a fellow-creature. The same hand was raised mechanically by the bewildered young man, but still the aim proved deadly. His opponent fell. The others rushed up, and the instant cry of all was, “lle is dead!" "Unhappy chance!" cried Bernard; "fly, fly, Raymond! The laws are now most severe on the duellist; fly to the country instantly. I will conceal myself here in a secure retreat, and communicate with you when the danger is over." The agitated Raymond returned accordingly to his hotel, to make arrangements for flight. Here, however, he met M. Dufour, who had come to ask for him, and the poor youth told the old merchant all. "Flight is the worst step possible, my poor boy," said Dufour; "it is like owning to the whole fault. I would advise you simply to conceal yourself for a short time. You may then appear or not as things are likely to turn out." "But where can I take refuge ?" said Raymond; "I know no one here." "Come with me," said the good merchant; "my own private apartment shall be your hiding-place for a day or two." Raymond was but too happy to accept of the proposition, and in the chamber of the old merchant he did find a refuge. When they were fully informed of the rude and cruel manner in which he had been hurried into the late affair, he had the satisfaction of receiving sympathy both from Amenaide and her father. After a consultation, M. Dufour went out on the following day, to make inquiries cautiously on the subject of the duel. To his surprise, he found that neither the police, nor the newspapers, nor the public, appeared to have the slightest knowledge of any such event. Another inquiry, at his own suggestion, M. Dufour also made. This was an inquiry at the office, where Raymond had intended to apply for the provincial post which was vacant. Here the startling information met him, that for the last three days, a M. Bernard, from Bordeaux, had been actively canvassing for the post, and was likely to procure it. M. Dufour went home bewildered. He then first communicated to Raymond and Amenaide the fact of the total silence existing as to the duel. Raymond started up. "Oh! thank Heaven!" he cried; "he may have recovered-I may be no shedder of blood." When Dufour proceeded to relate what had passed at the office, however, a different feeling found its way into the young man's mind. He sat thoughtfully for a few minutes. His face flushed, and he said, “I am no murderer, but I am a dupe. Pardon me," he continued, "I cannot now disclose to you, at least, my suspicions." But the suspicions of both M. Dufour and Amenaide were now also aroused, and, at their pressing request, he stated that, on looking back on all that had passed-on reflecting on his communications to Bernard, on the engagements and delays which had been forced on him by the latter, and on the circumstances of the duel-he suspected that deep treachery had been practised against him. man who has been guilty of it shall never be my sonin-law," cried Dufour. "The man who has been guilty of it shall never call me wife," said Amenaide, with even more emphasis. Raymond looked at her, and his look called up a blush. "The Raymond was so fully convinced of the perfidy of |