Here the heart agonized,

Hid from the glance;

Pierced with ingratitude

Worse than the lance!

Here his soul parted--

Break not, my heart!

Oh! what a deadly hurt,

Sinning, thou art.

Here the feet turn to thee;

Press them, my lips!

While a love-agony

Through my heart creeps!

RICHARD STORRS WILLIS.

MARY STUART.

It is at once a remarkable fact and a striking exemplification of the

vitality of poetic justice in history that, from among modern Scotch

Puritans, from the spiritual descendants of John Knox, should have

come three of the noblest and most effective modern vindications of

Mary Stuart.

We refer to the work by Mr. Hosack noticed in our last number, to

that which we make the subject of the present article,[37] and to

the poem of Bothwell,[38] one of the finest in the entire range of

English literature. Professor Aytoun's poem is accompanied by a

body of historical notes, which are in themselves a model of legal

argument and dialectic power, covering the entire period of the

history of Mary Stuart in Scotland. And yet these three writers are

very far from being looked upon by their countrymen as the holders

of singular opinions. It may be news to many persons, but it is,

nevertheless, the fact that they merely reflect the prevailing

feeling in Scotland concerning its unfortunate queen of three

centuries agone, murdered in an English prison. The sentiment of

the great body of the Scotch people, gentle and simple, Puritan and

Catholic, is to this day decidedly in her favor, and the superficial

reader who, trusting to a superficial Froude, sneers at Mary Stuart,

is safer from reproof in New York than in Edinburgh.

Mr. Caird's work, of which the second edition was published last

year, appears to be made up of the material of a series of lectures

delivered by him in some of the Scotch cities, and, like Mr. Hosack's

work, is marked with evidences of great research, ability, and a

thorough knowledge of the country, the people, and the times under

discussion.

Like Mr. Hosack, Mr. Caird convicts the late English historian,

Froude, of numerous disgraceful blunders, and several--well we can

find no term properly to describe the performance but--palpable

falsehoods. Mr. Caird does not undertake to write a full and

connected history of Mary Stuart or of her reign in Scotland. He

seeks mainly to unravel the mystery of the intrigues, plots, and

conspirations by which that unfortunate queen was surrounded and

pursued from the moment she set foot in her kingdom. And he does

it successfully. In all history, there is no record of a band of

greater villains than the nobles who surrounded Mary's throne, or of

more devilish abettors than their English allies. The time is not

far off when, in spite of falsified history, Mary Stuart must be

held innocent of the crimes of which her very accusers themselves

were alone guilty. Mr. Caird enters gracefully on his subject. Three

centuries ago, a French fleet sailed up the Frith of Clyde, and cast

anchor at Dumbarton. It took on board a little girl, six years of

age--a merry creature who had not a care in the world--hoisted the

flag of Scotland, and bore her away to the coast of France. There

passed with her in the same ship a stripling of seventeen, her

illegitimate brother, (afterward known as the Earl of Murray,) who,

though incapable of inheritance, was brought up in the most intimate

family intercourse with her; young enough to engage the sisterly

affection of her warm heart, old enough to be already her trusted

counsellor and guide. His life was to be a continued betrayal of her

confidence. But whatever wild thoughts may have passed through his

busy brain, neither of them could have dreamed in those early days

of the frightful tragedies in which they were to become the chief

actors. In the yet distant future he was to usurp her place and

power, she to become his miserable prisoner; and it was all to end

at last in his being shot down, without law, at the summit of his

greatness, and in her being doomed to die, under the forms of law,

on an English scaffold. Yet, though their hearts were light on this

summer voyage, it was not without its dangers.

Twelve years later, a fleet sailed from sunny France, again bearing

the same girl, now budding toward womanhood. It steered for the

Frith of Forth. There is no laughter now. Her first great sorrow

has come upon her early. She is deeply clothed in mourning--a widow

at eighteen. Again an English fleet watched to intercept her. Again

she escaped narrowly, losing one of her vessels. She has been queen

of France. One blow has deprived her of a husband and a crown. She

claims to be queen of England. That claim rests on strong grounds of

law. It is to be the dream of her life, and she is never to realize

it. She is the acknowledged queen of Scotland; but she lands on her

native shore with sad forebodings and a heavy heart. No one has

ever charged her with having misconducted herself before that time;

yet such was the distracted state of her country, such the weakness

of her authority, that she said before she set out on this voyage,

"Perhaps it were better for me to die than to live."

Less than six busy years of troubled government and we see her

again--on the Frith of Solway. She has been despoiled of her Scottish

crown. She is flying for her life in a fishing-boat. "For ninety

miles," she writes, "I rode across the country without lighting or

drawing bridle; slept on the bare floor; no food but oatmeal; without

the company of a female; not daring to travel except by stealth at

night." And now the die is cast, and, in spite of many warnings, she

this time throws herself on the generosity of England.

Then follow nineteen years of bitter captivity:

"Now blooms the lily by the bank,

The primrose on the brae;

The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

And milk-white is the slae;

The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove their sweets amang;

But I, the Queen o' a' Scotland,

Maun lie in prison strang."

At last we see a long hall in the old castle of Fotheringay; a

platform laid with black--the actors and spectators all clothed in

black. There comes in, unsupported, to die, a lady of noble presence.

She has been wickedly denied the aid of her spiritual comforter,

and, alone with God, has administered to herself the last sacrament

of her religion, without the blessing or counsel of a minister. Even

her latest moments are disturbed by theological dispute. But she is

calm, and resigned to God's will. She lays her head on the block.

The executioner strikes and makes a ghastly wound. She does not even

stir. He strikes again, but his work is incomplete; and with a third

blow the life and sorrows of Mary Stuart are brought to an end.

It is one of the great problems of history, says Mr. Caird, whether

these terrible calamities were brought upon her by her own wickedness

or by the contrivance of others.

We have reason to believe that the child is now living who, as man

or woman, will hear and see the last mention in history of _Good

Queen Bess_.

Of all the humbugs of history, the reputation manufactured for

Elizabeth, the daughter of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn, is at once

the most insolent and the most disgusting. We do not care to give a

personal opinion of this woman, and will accept, for the present,

her character as mildly described by the historian Robertson, which

is to the effect that she was an habitual and mean liar, a peevish,

bad-tempered, vacillating, untrustworthy sovereign, whose parsimony,

and variableness, and small economy would have ruined herself and

her kingdom but for the fact that she had a great statesman by her,

and that good luck continually picked her out of the imbroglios into

which she had fallen. She was a vain, bad-tempered, irresolute,

deceitful old woman. And this is as lenient a view of Elizabeth as

could be taken of her with the historic lights possessed by Robertson.

But, compared with what we now know her to have been from the results

of modern discoveries among official and state paper records,

Robertson has here painted an angel of loveliness.

And just in proportion as Elizabeth has fallen on the historic

page, Mary Stuart is elevated by every fresh discovery of original

documentary evidence. She was, indeed, as Mr. Caird writes, a

winning, gentle-hearted woman, and the correspondence of her own

time, before men's hearts were hardened against her by passion, bears

much testimony to her virtues.

Throckmorton, the English ambassador in France, even during her war

with England, wrote of "her great wisdom for her years, her modesty,

her judgment in the wise handling of herself and her matters." And

another of the English ambassadors, who became one of her deadliest

enemies, says of her only a few months before her grievous

calamities were brought upon her, "There is one cheer and one

countenance always on the queen." Even after she was imprisoned in

Lochleven, Throckmorton wrote of her to Elizabeth, "The lords speak

of the queen with respect and reverence." Lord Scrope said, "She has

an eloquent tongue and a discreet head, stout courage, and a liberal

heart." And Sir Francis Knollys reported of her, "She desireth much

to hear of hardiness and valiancy, commending by name all approved

hardy men of her country, although her enemies, and she concealeth no

cowardness, even in her friends." Lethington wrote of her soon after

her return to Scotland, "She doth declare a wisdom far exceeding her

age."

After she was uncrowned, Murray and his council recorded of her, that

"God had endowed her with many good and excellent gifts and virtues;"

and he spoke of her in the same way in private.

The Earl of Shrewsbury, after having had the custody of the Queen

of Scots during fifteen years of her imprisonment in England, was

consulted by Elizabeth on the subject of a treaty for her liberation.

She desired especially to know from him for her guidance, whether

Mary's promises could be relied on if she were free. Shrewsbury's

answer was, "I believe that if the Queen of Scots promises any thing,

she will not break her word."

Her frequent and earnest pleadings with foreign powers for justice

and mercy to her subjects cannot be read without interest and

admiration. Her letters have been gathered from every corner of the

earth, and every page of them marks the elegance and simplicity

of her thoughts. If any man who has a prejudice against her will

sit down and read that correspondence, in which she treats of

all the incidents of life, he will rise from the perusal with a

different notion, not of her mind only, but her heart. These are

the records which we can read now, exactly as they dropped from her

pen, untainted by the bitterness of party, as so little else which

concerns her was permitted to be. And we can see her there as she

disclosed herself to her most confidential friends, whether in the

highest business of state or in the trivial affairs of daily life.

Mr. Caird's plan does not embrace a connected narrative of Mary's

reign, and we regret that he has found it necessary to omit a

narrative of the treacherous manner in which the destruction of the

Earl of Huntly was brought about. On Mary's arrival in Scotland,

every one was surprised that Mary should select for her chief state

councillor her half-brother, the Lord James, instead of the Earl of

Huntly. No one knew that Mary had been craftily persuaded by James

that Huntly was not loyal. The plan of her brother was as wicked as

it was deep. It was at once to deprive Mary of a loyal adviser and a

powerful friend, and to raise his own fortunes on Huntly's ruin. It

is curious to see how all this affair is ingeniously misrepresented

by Mr. Froude in his so-called history. Yielding to James's

solicitations, begun years before, Mary, after creating him Earl of

Mar, created him Earl of Murray. But this latter title he did not

wish to assert until he could obtain the lands appertaining to the

title, which he had procured while living in ostensible friendship

with the man he had doomed to ruin. The lands were in Huntly's

possession, and Murray made up his mind to have them. "But Huntly,"

says Mr. Froude, "had refused to part with them." Who was Huntly? He

was earl chancellor of the kingdom, a man aged fifty-two, a powerful

Catholic nobleman, who could bring twenty thousand spears into

the field. He had done good service for Mary's mother against the

English. English gold had not stained his palm. He was a man marked

for saying that he liked not the "manner of Henry VIII.'s wooing."

He had wanted Mary to land at Aberdeen, was at the head of the loyal

party on Mary's arrival, and had sought to warn her of her brother's

craft and ambition. Mr. Froude thus describes him, (vol. vii. p. 454:)

"Of all the reactionary noblemen in Scotland the most powerful

and dangerous[39] was notoriously the Earl of Huntly. It was

Huntly who had proposed the landing at Aberdeen. In his own

house the chief of the house of Gordon had never so much as

affected to comply with the change of religion," etc.

What depravity! Would not change his religion, nor even have the

decency _to affect to comply_! Positively an atrocious character!

Nevertheless, so perfect is the command of a philosophical historian

over his feelings that these dreadful facts are recorded without

comment. It is evident that the lands of such a wretch as Huntly

ought to be given to one so "God-fearing" as Murray. "A number of

causes combined at this moment to draw attention to Huntly." But,

all counted, the number is just two--one of them utterly frivolous,

and the other, "he had refused to give up the lands." Mr. Froude

is now candid, and tells us that Murray "resolved to anticipate

attack, (none was dreamed of,) to carry the queen with him to visit

the recusant lord in his own stronghold, and either to drive him

into a premature rebellion or force him to submit to the existing

government."

"Murray's reasons for such a step," continues Mr. Froude, "are

intelligible." Perfectly. "It is less easy," he continues, "to

understand why Mary Stuart consented to it." And then Mr. Froude

proceeds to wonder over it with John Knox's guesses, and his own

"if," "perhaps," and "may be." Less easy indeed! It is utterly

impossible, unless one consents to look at Mary Stuart as she

was--a young woman easily influenced through her affections, and

with a sincere sisterly attachment for the man in whom she failed

to recognize her worst enemy. Difficult indeed to understand the

suicidal measure of ruining the most powerful Catholic nobleman

in Scotland, and strengthening the hands of the most powerful

Protestant leader. "Huntly's family," says Mr. Froude, "affirmed that

the trouble which happened to the Gordons was for the sincere and

loyal affection which they had to the queen's preservation," (vii.

456.) And they were right. We leave Mr. Froude to speculate on the

malicious motive Mary Stuart must have had for thus lopping off her

right hand. Murray now manages to draw the queen and her attendants

over moor and mountain two hundred and fifty miles to Tarnway, within

the lands of the earldom of Murray. She was entirely guided by him,

and he used her authority to compass his personal ends and weaken her

throne.

Alexander Gordon at first refused to open the gates of Inverness

Castle to the queen, but complied the next day, on the order of

Huntly. Murray had Gordon immediately hung, and his head set on the

castle wall. Mr. Froude describes this brutal murder as "strangling

a wolf-cub in the heart of the den," (vol. vii. p. 457,) all that

Murray does being of course lovely. Mary was now surrounded by Murray

and his friends, who poisoned her mind against the Huntlys with

stories that the earl meant to force her into a marriage with his

son, and had other designs against her person and royal authority;

and Mary believed them. "Whereupon," writes Randolph to Cecil--for

Murray had brought his English friend, Elizabeth's servant, along

with him--"whereupon there was good pastime." Huntly yielded all that

was demanded of him. His castles and houses were seized, plundered,

stripped, and he was a ruined man. Lady Huntly spoke sad truth when,

leading Murray's messenger into the chapel of the house, she said to

him before the altar, "Good friend, you see here the envy that is

borne unto my husband; would he have forsaken God and his religion,

as those that are now about the queen, my husband would never have

been put as he now is," (vol. vii. p. 458.) Mr. Froude reports this

incident, and very properly spoils its effect by the statement that

Lady Huntly was "reported by the Protestants to be a witch." Huntly

was driven to take up arms. "Swift as lightning," says Mr. Froude,

with yellow-cover tinge of phrase, "Murray was on his track." And now

"swift as lightning"--sure sign of mischief meant--Mr. Froude moves

on with his narrative, omitting essential facts, but not omitting

a characteristic piece of handiwork. News came from the south that

Bothwell had escaped out of Edinburgh Castle; "not," glides in our

philosophic historian--"not, it was supposed, without the queen's

knowledge," (vol. vii. p. 459.) After a wonderful victory of his two

thousand men over Huntly's five hundred--a mere slaughter--Murray

brought the queen certain letters of the Earl of Sutherland, found,

he said, in the pockets of the dead Earl of Huntly, and showing

treasonable correspondence. They were forgeries; but they answered

his purpose. "Lord John, (Huntly's son,) after a full confession, was

beheaded in the market-place at Aberdeen," (vol. vii. p. 459.) There

was no confession but that which _Murray told the queen_ he made,

and Mr. Froude forgets to tell us that Murray caused young Gordon's

scaffold to be erected in front of the queen's lodging, and had her

placed in a chair of state at an open window, deluding her with some

specious reason as to the necessity of her presence.

When the noble young man was brought out to die, Mary burst into a

flood of tears; and when the headsman did his work, she swooned and

was borne off insensible. Here is Mr. Froude's short version of these

facts: "Her brother read her a cruel lesson by compelling her to be

present at the execution." Mr. Froude also forgets to tell us that

Murray had six gentlemen of the house of Gordon hung at Aberdeen

on the same day. But a few pages further on, he has the insolent

coolness to tell us of a prize that Mary "trusted to have purchased

with Huntly's blood"! (vol. vii. p. 463.) After all, you thus

perceive that it was not Murray, but Mary, who wrought all this ruin.

THE RICCIO MURDER.

Mr. Caird presents with great force the result of modern discoveries

in the State Paper Office touching the details of the Riccio

conspiracy, and shows conclusively that Murray was its real head,

and also the chief organ of communication between the conspirators

and the English government. The previous knowledge of the intent to

murder Riccio, and the probable danger to Mary's life, is brought

home to Elizabeth. She could not have been accounted guiltless,

even if she had remained passive, merely concealing from her royal

sister the bloody tragedy which was being prepared for her with

the knowledge of her agent in Scotland. This agent (Randolph)

she supported vehemently, protected the assassins, negotiated and

trafficked until she got them restored, supplied Murray with large

sums of money immediately before and immediately after Riccio's

death, and took the first opportunity to gratify her vindictiveness

against Darnley by open insult.

In the conspiracy for the murder of Riccio, no one was more deeply

implicated than Darnley. He had allowed himself to be flattered and

tempted by Murray, Maitland, and the rest with the prospect of a

royal crown. But while these crafty men used him in this way for

their own ends, they had not the slightest idea of allowing him to

be more than a puppet in their hands. The knowledge of Darnley's

complicity in the murder had wrung Mary's heart; but after the first

burst of grief, she saw clearly that he was the dupe and tool of

others. Her respect for him could not be otherwise than shaken; but

her affection preserved him from the punishment which he richly

merited. And for his sake she spared his father (Lenox) also, whom

she justly blamed most; but she never permitted _him_ to enter her

presence again. Considering that she had released him from the

consequences of treason only twelve months before, and that he had

now repeated the offence under such aggravated circumstances, and

had beguiled his son into the same evil course, bringing misery upon

her household, her forbearance can be attributed only to surviving

tenderness for her husband.

Mr. Caird places in a very clear light the development of the

contempt and hatred of the conspirators for Darnley, which gradually

hardened and intensified into the conspiracy to murder him; and as we

watch its growth, it is sad to witness the suffering, sacrifices, and

self-denial of a noble-hearted woman all wasted in vain, and upon

a most unworthy object. And yet more sad is it when we see, in such

falsifiers of history as Mr. Froude, the very clearest and highest

proofs of womanly goodness and wifely devotion wrenched and perverted

into evidence of crime and murder.

In connection with this subject, Mr. Caird draws attention to the

record of the Scotch Privy Council--an account the more valuable

because the very men composing the council attempted at a later

period to cast discredit on the queen. Here is their testimony: "So

far as things could come to their knowledge, the king (Darnley)

had no ground of complaints; but, on the contrary, that he had

reason to look upon himself as one of the most fortunate princes

in Christendom, could he but know his own happiness." And they

added, "That although they who did perpetrate the murder of her

faithful servant had entered her chamber with his knowledge, having

followed him close at the back, and had named him the chief of their

enterprise, yet would she never accuse him thereof, but did always

excuse him, and willed to appear as if she believed it not; and so

far was she from ministering to him occasion of discontent, that, on

the contrary, he had all the reason in the world to thank God for

giving him so wise and virtuous a person as she had showed herself in

all her actions."

There are few points in the history of this period on which writers

are so thoroughly agreed as the utter worthlessness and incapacity

of Darnley, and there are also few cases which so completely as that

of Darnley exemplify the too common weakness of the superior woman

for the inferior man who possesses her affection. Trafficking on her

affection, and seeking to wring from her a consent to his demands,

he came very tardily to what was by all supposed to be her dying-bed

at Jedburg. His bearing shocked all beholders. It was at this time

Mary made her will, the inventory attached to which is a modern

discovery. She left Darnley twenty-five jewels of great value, and

opposite one cherished ring wrote with her own hand, "It is the ring

with which I was betrothed. I leave it to the king who gave it to

me." And yet Mr. James Anthony Froude informs us that Mary was then

planning this husband's murder!

The most admirable chapters of Mr. Caird's work are those which treat

of

THE MURDER OF DARNLEY.

The author shows conclusively, from an array of original testimony

which cannot be disputed, the precise nature, extent, and composition

of the conspiracy to effect this assassination, and presents the

whole question in an entirely new light.

As revealed by Mr. Caird, the conspiracy, by the time the moment was

reached for execution, had trebled itself. That is to say, there were

in the field on the eventful night of the murder, three separate

and independent bands of assassins, one of which most certainly

acted independently of the other two. Bothwell and his party, thrust

forward to do the work by associates quite as guilty as he, but

possessed of more brains, were, materially, innocent of Darnley's

killing, although fully guilty in intent. They blew up the house at

Kirk o' Field, supposing that Darnley went with it. There can now

be but little doubt that when the explosion took place Darnley was

already a dead man, smothered or _burked_ by a special band.

For some hours after the explosion, no trace of Darnley's body

could be found; but as morning dawned, it was discovered in a garden

eighty yards from the house. The attendant who slept in the room

with him was lying dead at a short distance further away. Each had

on a night-shirt. There was not a fracture, contusion, or livid

mark, nor any trace of fire on their bodies, and the king's clothes

were lying folded beside him. A fur pelisse, open as if dropped, was

lying near him. Now, if we are to suppose that Darnley was blown up

in the air, we must believe it possible that a human body could be

thrown a distance of eighty yards without any marks of violence; that

another body was thrown the same distance with the same results;

and--stranger than all--that Darnley's fur pelisse and slippers were

also blown uninjured to his side by the explosion, while five other

inmates of the house were buried in the ruins.

ELIZABETH'S GUILTY KNOWLEDGE.

One fact of equal importance and interest is well established by

modern investigation. It is the guilty knowledge, and actual or

implied association of Queen Elizabeth of England in all the secret

plots set on foot by the nobility of Scotland against Mary and her

interests.

She was fully advised of the murder of Riccio three weeks before it

took place, and Mr. Caird establishes, we think, conclusively, that

she was quite as well advised concerning the Darnley murder.

Fourteen years after the occurrence, one of the first acts of King

James, on his freedom from tutelage, was to commit the Earl of Morton

to the Castle of Edinburgh, charged with the murder of Darnley.

Morton was one of the very few surviving conspirators. Bothwell was

dead in exile; Maitland had poisoned himself, and Murray had been

shot down in the streets of Linlithgow.

As soon as Queen Elizabeth heard of Morton's arrest, she made the

most frantic efforts to prevent his trial. She endeavored to stir up

insurrection in Scotland; she threatened war; she moved an army to

the frontier; she sent back to Scotland as her ambassador, Randolph,

so thoroughly familiar with all its murderous plots. Leicester, her

lover, wrote to Randolph with a suggestion scantily veiled that the

young king might follow his father--"He will not long tarry in that

soil. Let the fate of his predecessor be his warning." And close on

the heels of that, came official notice that Elizabeth would assist

and maintain the Scots in protection of Morton. But James owed a debt

to the memory of his murdered father, to the name of his captive

mother, who was then pining in her English prison, and, in spite of

Elizabeth's threats and violence, Morton was brought to trial, found

guilty, and sentenced to death. Mr. Caird cites and refers to a mass

of dispatches connected with Elizabeth's movements in this Morton

matter which we have never seen elsewhere alluded to, and adds Queen

Elizabeth's violence before Morton's trial and execution was not more

remarkable than her sudden attitude of acquiescence as soon as his

mouth was shut. "Did he hold some terrible secret whose disclosure

she feared?"

The murder of Darnley occurred on the 10th of February, 1567. A full

fortnight before, Mary's ambassador in Paris wrote to her that he had

received a hint from the Spanish ambassador that the queen should

take heed to herself, for there was a plot on foot to her injury. The

letter reached Mary twelve hours too late to be of any service as a

warning. But even if she had received it, to whom could she have

turned for aid or information? All the lords were in the plot, and

she was surrounded by conspirators. The question is asked, Why did

she not bring to justice the murderers of Darnley? Her situation was

such that it was simply impossible for her to get at the knowledge

of any fact dangerous to the conspirators. Denunciatory placards

were issued in Edinburgh. But if shown, she would there find herself

charged with being an accomplice with Bothwell and others in the

murder. Knowing this to be an outrageous slander on herself, she

would naturally conclude that it was equally so on them. And if

herself innocent, Bothwell was the very last of her lords whom she

could suspect of having cause of quarrel with the king. He was almost

the only man who had supported Darnley, and it is certain he was not

of those to whom Darnley had demonstrated antipathy. The wild scheme

of ambition which Bothwell afterward pursued had probably not clearly

developed itself even in his own mind till after Darnley's death.

Dreams he may have had. But the scheme which he finally executed

seems to have been the growth of opportunity.

After the murder, Mary shut herself up in a dark chamber, and kept

it until her physicians compelled her to go to Seaton. A month after

the murder, when Killigrew, the English ambassador, saw her, she

was still in a dark chamber, and seemed in profound grief. Two such

tragedies as had befallen her within a twelve-month were more than

enough to shatter the nerves of any woman.

And now came a fresh warning from Paris that some new plot was in

progress. The Spanish ambassador, by whom the warning of the Darnley

murder had been given, said,

"Apprise her majesty that I am informed, by the same means as

I was before, that there is still some notable enterprise in

hand against her, whereof I wish her to beware in time."

No explanation was given, and the poor queen was of course

bewildered. She had heart and nerve enough for her own risk; but she

at once took precautions for the safety of her child, the heir to

the crown. She at once placed him in charge of the Earl of Mar, and

lodged him in the strong castle of Stirling. And this fact is more

than answer to the assertion that Mary was at this time under the

influence of Bothwell. If any such influence had existed, he would

not have permitted the disposition that was made of the child. His

first effort on coming to power was to get the young prince into his

hands. The Earl of Mar justified Mary's confidence, and withstood the

efforts not only of Bothwell, but of Murray, to get possession of the

child.

Then came the distribution of the crown lands among the conspirators

by the ratification of parliament.

This matter was at once the main cause of Darnley's murder and the

bond of union among the murderers. On the evening of the adjournment

of parliament, its members were entertained at a supper by Bothwell.

After the feast, a bond was produced by Sir James Balfour, by which

they bound themselves to sustain Bothwell's acquittal, recommended

him as the fittest husband for the queen, and engaged to support

him with their whole power, and to hold as enemies any who should

presume to hinder the marriage. They all signed but one, the Earl

of Eglinton. It was at this time that Bothwell began to manifest

his intentions to Mary, and a letter of hers relates that he tried

"if he might by humble suit purchase our good-will, but found our

answer nothing correspondent to his desire." Mary then went to

Stirling to visit her child. She probably wished, says Mr. Caird,

by leaving Edinburgh at this juncture, to indicate to Bothwell that

her rejection of his approaches was decisive; and he acted as if he

thought so. His next step was that of a _desperate man_.

BOTHWELL CARRIES OFF THE QUEEN.

On her return from Stirling, three days later, he suddenly met her

on the road with a large armed force, seized her, made her escort

prisoners, and carried her off to his castle at Dunbar. He kept her

there for eleven or twelve days. When she resisted his insolence,

he produced the bond granted to him by the nobility, and she there

found the signatures of every man from whom she could have expected

help. Not one moved a finger in her defence. Huntly and Lethington,

who were there with Bothwell, would not fail to remind her of the

calamities which she had brought upon herself by opposing the policy

of her nobles in her former marriage. Day after day she held out,

but no help came. Sir James Melville, who had been taken prisoner

with her, records that such violence was at last used that she no

longer had a choice. Bothwell, in his dying confession, said that

he accomplished his purpose "by the use of sweet waters." Morton's

proclamations charged him with using violence to the queen, "and

other more unleisum means." It seems not unlikely, therefore, that he

employed some sweetened potion. Mary herself says that "in the end,

when she saw no hope to be ridd of him, never man in Scotland ance

making a mint for her deliverance, she was driven to the conclusion,

from their hand-writes and silence, that he had won them all."

He partly extorted and partly obtained her consent to marriage.

Bothwell then conveyed the heart-broken queen, surrounded by a great

force, to the Castle of Edinburgh. He next carried her before the

judges, after lining the streets and crowding the courts and passages

with his armed retainers. She there submitted to make a declaration

that she "forgave him of all hatred conceived by her for taking and

imprisoning her;" and also that she was now at liberty. The necessity

for such a declaration implies previous coercion. Mr. Caird explains

that, under the then existing law, Bothwell had committed an offence

punishable with death if he had not obtained this declaration.

A marriage was formally solemnized, and so little was her will

consulted that it was in the Protestant form. Fettered by their bond,

the nobles all looked on and lent no aid. One honest man there was,

though, the Protestant minister Craig, who boldly told Bothwell that

he objected to the marriage because he (Bothwell) had forced the

queen. Called upon to proclaim the banns, Craig denounced it from the

pulpit, and afterward publicly testified in the next general assembly

that he was alone in opposing the marriage, and that "the best part

of the realm did approve it, either by flattery or by their silence."

The SILVER CASKET LETTERS are treated by Mr. Caird as they must be

by every fair-minded man. He says, "These letters, in truth, were as

gross and clumsy fabrications as ever were put forward." His thorough

analysis of the longest letter--a love-letter of fourteen quarto

pages of print--is the most successful we have seen.

Mr. Caird closes his work with two scenes so effectively portrayed

that our readers will thank us for transcribing them:

"After much earthly glory, and a long reign, the time came

at last when the great Queen Elizabeth must die. Wealth,

grandeur, power which none might question--all were hers. But

a cold hand was on her heart. The shadow of death was creeping

over her--slow, very slow, but deepening every hour. There

was not one left who loved her, or whom she could love. Her

most trusted servants trembled at her passions, and longed

for a change. Hume tells us she rejected all consolation. She

refused food. She threw herself on the floor. She remained

sullen and immovable, feeding her thoughts on her afflictions,

and declaring her existence an insufferable burden. Few words

she uttered, and they were all expressive of some inward grief

which she did not reveal; but sighs and groans were the chief

vent of her despondency, which discovered her sorrows without

assuaging them.

"Oh! the long and unutterable agony of such a time. What is

there on earth that could bribe one to bear it willingly? How

bitterly she must have realized the words addressed to her by

Mary Stuart on the eve of her execution:

"'Think me not presumptuous, madam, that now, bidding farewell

to this world, and preparing for a better, I remind you that

you also must die and account to God for your stewardship as

well as those who have been sent before you. Your sister and

cousin, prisoner of wrong,'

MARIE R.

"Ten days and nights Queen Elizabeth lay thus upon the carpet;

then her voice left her, her senses failed, and so she died."

Mary Stuart had gone long before, destroyed and done to death by this

woman; sent to the scaffold in a land where she had been wrongfully

kept a prisoner, to whose law she owed no allegiance, and by virtue

of a law which was passed to compass her death. On her way to

execution, she was met by her old servant, Andrew Melville. He threw

himself on his knees before her, wringing his hands in uncontrollable

agony.

"Woe is me," he cried, "that it should be my hard hap to carry back

such tidings to Scotland!"

"Weep not, Melville, my good and faithful servant," she replied;

"thou shouldst rather rejoice to see the end of the long troubles

of Mary Stuart. This world is vanity, and full of sorrows. I am

Catholic, thou Protestant; but as there is but one Christ, I charge

thee in his name to bear witness that I die firm in my religion.

Commend me to my dearest son. May God forgive them that have thirsted

for my blood."

She then passed to the scaffold. She surveyed it, the block, the axe,

the executioners, and spectators undauntedly as she advanced. She

prayed to God to pardon her sins and forgive her enemies.

The two executioners knelt and prayed her forgiveness.

"I forgive you and all the world with all my heart; for I hope this

death will give an end to all my troubles." She then knelt down and

commended her spirit into God's hands, and the executioners did their

work.

The sad tale is told. All the actors have been nearly three centuries

in their graves; but their story shall stir the hearts of men till

the world's end.

FOOTNOTES:

[37] _Mary Stuart. Her Guilt or Innocence. An Inquiry into the Secret

History of her Times._ By Alexander McNeel Caird. Edinburgh: Adam &

Charles Black. 1869.

[38] _Bothwell: A Poem in Six Parts._ By W. Edmonstoune Aytoun,

D.C.L. Author of _Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers_, _Bon Gaultier's

Ballads_, etc. Boston: Ticknor & Fields.

[39] Mr. Froude, by "reactionary," means that he was not a disciple

of John Knox; by "dangerous," that he was a man who would defend his

religion.

A BRIDEMAID'S STORY.

A bridemaid! I had become a necessity. A sense of such importance was

novel to me. It was a pleasant awakening to a consciousness that I

had attained womanhood. To have been a bride would not have filled me

with such unmingled joy; for then I might have been thinking over the

possibilities of the future. Now I had only to play my part in the

bright and bewildering present.

That there had been bridemaids before my time, of the loftiest and

of the lowliest degree, from the jewelled princess to the humble

dairy-maid, rendered my position none the less novel and refreshing.

Then, too, the circumstances of the case were not to be lightly

passed over--I had been chosen from among so many whose claims to

consideration were far above mine.

An imaginative child always seeks and finds some object in which to

concentrate its thoughts and its loves; something real to serve as an

embodiment of its ideal fancies. Hence, all the wealth of my fervent

nature had centred on Marian Howard.

From earliest childhood I had watched and wondered at her rare and

high-born beauty. Every feature in her face seemed to have a distinct

and separate fascination, while every adornment of dress that could

enhance her varied charms was brought into requisition. To look upon

her was a feast of pleasure to my eyes.

The quiet dignity of her manner kept a distance between us, so that

she was a sort of far-off idol, after all. In her company we never

gave way to our outgushing school-girl nature. I sometimes thought

she would be happier if she were only more like us, or if we should

welcome her with a girl's free and fervent greeting. But who dared

try the experiment?

As we grew older, our paths in life diverged. Soon after leaving

school, Marian went to live and to love in a foreign land, while I

returned to the quiet pleasures of a rural home.

Four years passed, and then the fine old house which had so long

remained silent again showed signs of life. They had returned--the

widowed aunt and her beautiful niece.

The preparations for the wedding were immediately commenced, and

Marian repaid my early devotion by offering me the highest mark of

her confidence and regard.

The old tenderness came rushing back when I again beheld her more

stately and more beautiful than ever. She told me it would be a

quiet wedding--only a few friends, and I her only bridemaid. My

arrangements were soon completed, and I awaited anxiously the

appointed time. Soon it was the day before the marriage. I went over

to assist in the final preparations, and was to spend the night with

Marian. The morrow would witness, in the case of my friend, the great

event of a woman's life--to be given away in marriage. I say of a

woman's life, because marriage can hardly have the same significance

for men; they are not given away.

The distinguished stranger who was so soon to call Marian his wife

was certainly unlike any of the men I had ever known; but I had known

so few, and my knowledge of the world was so limited, that I did not

feel competent to pass judgment on him. Then there were such method,

such calmness and system about the man, about the unbending aunt,

about Marian, and about the whole house, that I felt cold with a

chilling sense of not being able to get warm again, though it was a

lovely summer afternoon. More of nature and less of art, I thought,

might have warmed the approaching festivities.

The evening shadows were falling. We had just finished arranging and

rearranging the costly bridal gifts, when Marian was summoned to

attend her aunt.

Among the other presents was that grand conception, Gustave Doré's

_Wandering Jew_. This work of human genius seemed a strange companion

for the rare articles of luxury that surrounded it.

I took up the book and went out upon the balcony. The softly-fading

twilight, the subdued spirit of the house, the reflective turn my own

mind had taken, prepared me for impressions of the awful and sublime.

It is said that "real genius always rises, and in rising it

finds God." Surely the force and truth of this thought were here

exemplified; for who could look upon these scenes, so truthful and

intense, without a feeling of awe and reverence?

I was thus occupied, I know not how long, when suddenly Mr. Gaston

recalled me to myself. "How absorbed you are, Miss Heartly! I have

been watching you with much interest. Pray, has the book any bearing

upon the coming events of to-morrow? Court beauties, I suppose," he

continued carelessly, as he came toward me.

"Why!" said I, "you have returned early, Mr. Gaston. You cannot have

taken that delightful drive Marian proposed to you?"

"No," he answered; "I have no inclination for solitude; but you

ladies are so occupied with these time-killing nothings, these

endless little arrangements so indispensable to your happiness, that

we lonely mortals are entirely ignored and forgotten."

"I think, sir, that calamity seldom befalls you," I replied, thus

adding, perhaps, to vanity already sufficiently great.

"But the book?" he continued, opening it listlessly. "Oh! the old

fable in a new dress. It is strange how women cling to the marvellous

and impossible. They seem to have but two absorbing ideas--love and

religion. Extremes in either usually lead to the same pernicious

result. I suppose an idol is a necessity to them, and it matters

little in which they find it."

"I do not understand you," I replied. "Are you in jest, or are you

seriously denouncing revealed religion?"

"Revealed religion!" he repeated. "Is it possible that, at this stage

of the world's advancement, _you_ still cling to that antiquated idea

of Christianity?"

The modern methods of fashioning a god to suit the impious desires of

vain and conceited mortals was then unknown to me. I looked at the

man with wonder and distrust. He read my confusion and hastened to

explain himself.

"Religion," he said, "as you accept it, makes us cowards instead of

men. My reason is _my_ religion; I acknowledge no other guide."

"Ah! then," I exclaimed, "how often must you stumble by the way."

I turned to the most effective picture in the book. "Here is an

instance of the vanity of human pride. Here we can see the end of

man's boasted strength--the anguish of a lost soul hopelessly looking

for repose and peace."

"An imposing fable," he replied, "wanting only a woman's faith to

give it substance and reality."

I was rising to put an end to this unprofitable and distasteful

conversation, when Marian joined us. My disturbed manner plainly

annoyed her, and she evidently suspected its cause; for she addressed

Mr. Gaston in German quite earnestly. Soon turning to me he said,

"Pray, excuse me, Miss Heartly; I was not aware that you were a

Catholic. I know your people feel most keenly what they profess. Of

course you have already stamped me a condemned heretic."

"It is not for me to pass judgment on you," I replied; "and if I did,

my opinion could be of very little value."

"Come, come!" said Marian, "this is a most unapt and gloomy subject

for my marriage eve; and the sun, too, has gone down sullenly. I hope

there is nothing prophetic in all this."

"What! growing serious now?" I said, as I drew her arm within mine,

and we went to look for the fiftieth time at the final arrangements

for the morrow's festivities.

I could not, however, throw off the feeling of uneasiness that my

interview with Mr. Gaston had left. He had a way of cheapening one,

so that, without knowing why, you fell immeasurably in your own

estimation. This is never a comfortable condition to find one's self

in, and it takes a good deal of nice logic to bring one back to one's

normal state.

Perhaps it was the loftiness of his style that awed me; for he

had a magnificent way of carelessly throwing the world behind him

and walking forth in a sort of solitary dignity. "His manners are

courtly," Marian's aunt said, and certainly they possessed all the

cold stiffness that characterized her particular circle; still, I

felt I had no real grounds for this feeling of distrust and aversion

to Mr. Gaston, and I began to think it was rather ungenerous to

hold him in so unfavorable a light. I could not shake off, however,

an undefined dread of the approaching marriage. The apathy and

indifference which had always been peculiar to my young friend did

not forsake her even now, when apparently on the very threshold of

happiness. I thought that intensity of feeling perhaps kept her thus

silent, for overpowering happiness has this effect sometimes. The

delusion was, however, speedily dispelled.

That night a sealed chapter in Marian's life was laid open to me, and

I saw her as I had never seen or thought of her before.

After locking the chamber-door, she seated herself by my side, and

said, "This is the first time in my life that I have known perfect

freedom; I mean a liberty to do and say what I like with a feeling of

security.

"You remember the 'Greek Slave.' Well, I am not unlike that delicate

girl chained in the market-place. Every inclination of my heart has

been chained down and locked, and my aunt has kept the key.

"I was an uncomplaining, passionless child. In my cradle I received

my first lessons in self-control. As I grew older, I learned

another lesson, too unnatural for even a thoughtful child like me

to understand. I was not needed here; I was considered only as a

desirable ornament for this great house. I might as well have been

placed upon a pinnacle and petrified at once, for all the childhood

that was allowed to take root within me.

"My aunt's domestic misfortunes had embittered her, and she had no

children to soften the natural austerity of her soul. My mother, who

was her only sister, had, contrary to my aunt's wishes, married where

her heart inclined. This was never forgiven or forgotten until she

lay dead, and I was a wailing infant at her side.

"My father soon afterward perished at sea, and my aunt took me to

her home.

"She was not designedly cruel; but she knew nothing of a child's

requirements. The freezing system seemed to her the most effectual

method of crushing out a young, impulsive nature. There was danger I

might become rebellious, and hence she required the utmost meekness

and submission.

"As soon as I came to understand the power of beauty, I saw that

it was to mine I owed food and raiment; for it fed the exhaustless

vanity of my aunt, with whom display was then, and still is, the

moving spring of her existence.

"I was a drawing-room child, kept for exhibition at stated intervals.

The tiny jewels on my neck and arms were hateful to me. My

embroidered robe was a costly thing. I had given a young life for it.

"I had a mortal fear of losing my beauty. Our gardener's daughter--a

comely, cheerful-looking girl, whom I was always glad to see, for she

made the morning brighter with her fresh young face--had caught that

loathsome disease, the small-pox. When she recovered, the change that

had come upon her so terrified me, that I was seized with a sensation

as of coming danger. I shrank from the girl, as if she would be the

cause of some future misery to me.

"She had a mother to whom she seemed infinitely more dear now than

she had ever been. But I, a lonely waif, what would become of me if I

should be transformed like her?

"It was not altogether for my own gratification that I desired to

retain this beauty. It was not my own beauty. It belonged to my aunt,

and was all I had to give her in return for what she gave me.

"I was not a child that saw angels in the skies, or that expected

manna to come down from heaven to feed me.

"Artificial and unsatisfying as my life has always been, I have a

clinging desire to remain with it.

"At times I have had a vaguely conceived notion of one day getting

away from it and of being free; but the bending and breaking system

has so subdued me that I might lose myself if left to the guidance of

my own free-will.

"Marriage is a solemn thing. Would you like to change places with me

to-night, Mary?"

I could not say yes, and I dared not say no; for I saw that she was

losing courage, and beginning to hesitate about the important event

so soon to transpire.

"That is a strange question, Marian dear," I replied. "To-morrow

ought to be, and I hope will be, the happiest day of your life.

Surely you must love this man when you have promised to be his wife?"

"Oh! yes," said she, "as well as I understand what it is to love. I

sometimes tremble for fear I have not the qualities that make woman

lovable and attractive. You forget how little I know of Edward Gaston.

"Our acquaintance began in a little German town, where he was

stopping, for the purpose of establishing his claims to a disputed

inheritance. He is an American by birth and education. He soon became

a constant visitor with us. My aunt and he were on the best of terms.

My own interest in him had never passed beyond the civilities of an

ordinary acquaintance until he again joined us at Naples, where he

lost no time in making known the state of his feelings.

"My aunt seemed to have had some previous knowledge of his

preference; but its announcement was to me a complete surprise.

"She was proud of her nice discrimination in the selection of

her friends, and Mr. Gaston had come into our circle labelled and

indorsed a gentleman.

"Her gracious consideration, however, of his offer, in no wise

obscured her caution. Satisfied as to his worldly affairs, and well

assured of his position at home, there was nothing wanting but my

consent, which was really the most trifling part of the arrangement.

I accepted this marriage engagement as I would have accepted any

other condition so mapped out for me.

"Business of a pressing nature which could be delayed no longer,

called Mr. Gaston to America, and I did not see him again until our

return a month ago.

"You see how little I know of him. Can you wonder that I am

constrained in his presence? Of course, every thing will be different

when I come to know him better.

"But I have one cause of feverish anxiety. I am not above the petty

subterfuges almost incidental to a life like mine. A desire to hide

mistakes committed through childish ignorance made me unscrupulous,

as any member of a household who is watched and suspected must

naturally be. Habit may have made these little irregularities almost

a second nature, but my blood recoils from a wilful and deliberate

deception. I am afraid Edward is misled with regard to my aunt's

pecuniary condition.

"This life of seeming affluence, which has become as necessary to her

as the air she breathes, drains heavily on her slender resources.

Such portion of her time as is not spent in her handsome carriage, or

in drawing-room entertainments, is passed in a most frugal and even

parsimonious mode of living, and it is only by an economy painful to

contemplate that she has kept things floating thus far.

"I cannot acquaint Edward with my aunt's existing embarrassments.

She is my only kinswoman; and misguided as she is, I have a tender

affection for her. I hope to be able to offer her a home with us,

when, as soon must be the case, the last act in this miserable farce

shall have been played.

"Now, perhaps, you can understand why I thus passively submit to a

marriage that I would turn from if I could. I cannot openly say to

Mr. Gaston, 'I have no fortune, I hope you expect none;' even to

covertly approach the subject would be to impugn his motives, and I

certainly have no right to suspect him of harboring mercenary ones.

Still, I wish he were acquainted with the truth; for the world, you

know, looks upon me as sole heiress of my rich aunt.

"I have no knowledge of what passed between Edward and my aunt at

Naples, when our marriage was agreed upon; but I have a constant

dread least he may have been deceived. I once mentioned to him, in

conversation, that he would claim a portionless bride; but he seemed

to take no notice of what I said, and I fear he still thinks my

aunt's circumstances to be in reality what they seem."

"In giving way," I replied, "to such groundless fears, dear Marian,

you underrate your own worth. Think how many noble and honorable

men would be proud to call you wife, and in giving you a life of

happiness make amends for the past." Yet as I looked in the silver

starlight upon that lovely face, which had so attracted me in my

childhood, I could not but regret deeply and sadly that she was not

of my faith; for then she might receive wiser counsel than I could

give from one of those whom Christ in his mercy has ordained to be a

guide and a staff to weak and wavering souls.

The wedding breakfast was all that even Marian's fastidious aunt

could have desired. The few favored guests were of the most approved

type. It would seem as if a judicious instructor had given each

of them a select number of words, which they used with exemplary

caution, and then retired to the contemplation of their own

individual greatness.

As to Marian, the despondency of the night before had quite left

her, and there was a high and noble resolve in her manner that made

me truly happy to behold, while it calmed, if it did not entirely

dispel, my own gloomy forebodings. The serene expression of her sweet

face would have drawn me nearer to her, if that were possible.

How I loved her, as she stood before me, beautiful in the purity

of her white robe, and infinitely more beautiful in the chastened

security of her firm and lofty purpose--to be a true and honorable

wife to Edward Gaston; to meet the conditions of her new life,

whatever they might be, with a woman's trust and confidence, and

better still, with a woman's hope in the never-failing reward of duty

faithfully performed.

I could have been positively gay through desire to sustain Marian,

and to let her know, without telling her in words, how thoroughly I

appreciated and how heartily I approved her noble intentions, her

courage and confidence; but as measured words and actions alone were

allowed, I had to restrain myself. Still, the cooling process did not

diminish my ardor, and when I got Marian all to myself, in her room,

I kissed her so approvingly, and was so extravagant in the expression

of all that I felt, that she folded me with loving tenderness to her

breast, and kept me there so long that I felt with the quick beating

of her warm heart she was giving me some of her own newly-found

courage.

"Whatever happens to me, Mary dear, in the extremity of any darkness

that may come upon me, I shall always know that you are true to me,

that you are still my friend."

The tears that fell upon her hand as she gently raised my head, were

my only answer, and she accepted them in the spirit in which they

were shed.

In returning to my ordinary duties, I had much to reflect upon, much

that made me still uneasy for Marian and her future, where so many

doubts and fears seemed hanging on the will of one human being.

Vague rumors of Mr. Gaston had reached us, that he was a man wholly

without fortune, drifting on the surface of events; darker things,

too, were whispered with an indirectness which gave them an uncertain

coloring. In my love for Marian, and in my fear for her, I could

not credit these suspicions; yet my anxiety to again see her, and

discover for myself the truth or fallacy of these reports, was

intense. Indeed, my state of anxious doubt was becoming intolerable

when I received a letter from Marian, telling me she was already

tired of travelling, and would return soon to make a last visit to

her old home before leaving for her future and distant one.

It was agreed that they should spend the day after their arrival with

us. I was so happy and so occupied in preparing for their reception,

that I had almost forgotten my previous anxiety in my present desire

to have every thing ready and in perfect order.

The pleasure I felt in the prospect of having my darling with me

so soon was dreadfully toned down by the consciousness of my own

inability to satisfy her aunt's critical taste. I trembled as I

thought of her scrutinizing glance; but I had a never-failing source

of hope in my mother. Her good-natured hospitality was of such a

melting kind that I dared hope that even the rigid aunt might thaw

under it, which she really did, greatly to my relief and comfort.

The dinner passed off creditably. My tranquillity was now entirely

restored, and I had time to devote to Marian.

Up to this moment I had viewed her through the medium of my excited

condition; now I was calmed, and, so far as the affairs of the day

went, contented.

Marian's manner was restless and uneasy. My perception was keenly

alive to the slightest difference between what she did and said now

and to what she did and said formerly. So solicitous was I, that I

think the most trifling modulation in her voice had a significance

for me.

Much as I had looked forward to this reunion, much as I had desired

it, now that Marian was with me, I shrank from being alone with her.

I think if we had been that summer evening even in the solitude of a

mountain fastness, an intuitive delicacy would have kept both of us

from speaking one word upon the only subject that filled our hearts.

My mother's humanizing influence was having its effect on the stately

old lady. She was captured without knowing it. Mr. Gaston had gone

out for a walk; so Marian and I were left alone. I tried to talk

about her new home, and repeated some things Mr. Gaston had told me

before the wedding.

"Edward has changed his mind," said Marian, "and has found it

necessary to make some different arrangements; so I really cannot

tell much about our home. It is very far away; don't you think so,

Mary?" I saw that her feelings were beginning to get the upper

hand, and I did not dare trust myself to reply. I turned from her

immediately on the pretext of having forgotten some household duty.

She strolled out to the garden in a spiritless way.

Every thing was revolving itself in my mind, and I was beginning to

reproach myself; perhaps if I had encouraged her to speak, it might

have lifted the load from her heart; another opportunity might not

be permitted us; and yet, bowed down as the poor girl was, it would

not have raised her in my esteem had she even with me disparaged her

husband. To cover him with a wife's forbearance was now one of her

hard but imperative duties, and I knew she would not shrink from

it. This must be a check to our confidence, a bridge over which my

kindliest sympathy must never pass.

Unmistakable evidences of a storm close at hand made me run to

the arbor where I had last seen Marian. She was not there. While

deliberating where I should next go, I heard Mr. Gaston's impatient

tread. He stopped by a clump of trees near me, and in tones of

suppressed anger commenced upbraiding his defenceless wife.

"What did you mean by suggesting such a thing as that?" he began;

"have you any right to dispense hospitalities, to propose or consider

them in that grand style of yours?"

"In expressing the wish," replied Marian, "that my aunt would be

able to spend the winter with us, I had no intention of doing any

thing beyond a natural act of gratitude; and I was not aware, Edward,

that your feelings had so changed toward her. I am sure she has done

nothing to merit your displeasure."

"Nothing to merit my displeasure? You are a most creditable disciple!

She has made you like herself, truly. Is it nothing in your eyes

that she has always lived a life of nicely-arranged deception? Your

accomplished aunt has conducted a forlorn hope with a woman's tact,

and the victims of her trickery are expected to bow to her superior

sagacity. In a burst of universal sympathy you propose to take this

wreck of decayed grandeur to my house. This was a part of the plot, I

suppose."

"Edward," interrupted Marian, "how dare you speak in this way of

my aunt, who has shown you so many marks of sincere regard? That

she has not husbanded her resources, I grant; but that misfortune

rests entirely with her, she is the only sufferer. She made you no

promises, gave you no reason to expect a fortune with me; this I have

learned since our marriage. Have no fear of the incumbrance. Dear as

she is to me, I would rather let her beg from door to door than see

her a recipient of your bounty!"

"Oh! you are proud now," he replied in a voice of withering scorn.

"Take care," he continued; "you have not seen the end yet. Make

yourself ready to depart. I want to leave this house instantly."

"Edward," she said, "however you choose to afflict me, whatever

tortures you have in store for me, do not, I beseech you, subject me

just yet to the pity of those I love, of those who love me. These

people are my truest friends. I would not make them sharers of my

misery. Spare me a little longer."

"Your fine speeches and these people are alike objects of

indifference to me. Make yourself ready; I am going."

She made a movement to obey him; but turning round again, she said,

"Edward"--the voice and tone I shall never forget; it was as if all

she had ever valued in life had whispered a last farewell--"Edward,

as I had hoped to give you a wife's unfailing duty, to be trustful,

loving, and true; so I had hoped you would give me a husband's

protection, and perhaps a husband's love."

"I am not fond of scenes," he interrupted; "your requirements are

of so nice and delicate a nature that I would be quite incapable of

gratifying them; so I shall not trouble myself to make the attempt;

and for the future, spare yourself any unnecessary display of

sentiment."

I could not have left the arbor without being seen. Marian passed

by slowly, not to the house, but in an opposite direction, and Mr.

Gaston started for the lower end of the garden. I caught a glimpse of

him as he turned an angle of the walk. A wicked look had settled on

his handsome face, as if dark spirits were urging him on.

A peal of thunder, prolonged and terrible, startled me. I ran to the

house. The lightning was truly awful, and peal following peal of

thunder made one shudder and long for human companionship. I had lost

Marian in the gloom and darkness. She was not in the house; I did not

see her in the garden. I went out into the storm in search of her.

I found her standing quite alone in sad and listless silence. Can

it be, I thought, that death has no terrors for one so gifted and

so young? She seemed imploring that doom which the most abject and

miserable would flee from if they could. I knew then, as well as I

knew afterward, that she would have welcomed death that night without

one single regret.

"Marian, dear," I said, approaching her, "how can you remain alone,

and exposed in this manner, when every thing about you is quaking

with fear?"

"I do not heed the storm," she answered; "I like it, it is so

wonderful."

"Come, come, darling! Why, the rain has drenched you," I replied,

putting my arm about her and leading her to the house.

The storm had set in furiously. There was no leaving the house that

night. I resolved that Marian should sleep with me; so I went to Mr.

Gaston and told him I regretted our limited accommodations obliged me

to offer him a temporary bed in the parlor.

When I told Marian of this arrangement, she seemed relieved. "I am

glad to spend the night here and with you, Mary," she said. "All is

so quiet and peaceful."

Quiet and peaceful! The greater storm in her own breast made her

forget the contending elements without.

My aversion to Mr. Gaston was, I believe, heartily reciprocated, and

he must have chafed at my influence over Marian. He took her away

from her home, never to return, on the very next day. They sailed for

Cuba shortly afterward.

The crisis Marian had feared for her aunt soon came, and she went,

with the remnant of her fortune, to live in some western town.

Seven years had rolled by since all this, and Marian was fast passing

into the shadows we like to call up when the world is hushed around

us and, we are thinking--thinking.

I was married, and laughing children were crowding out these earlier

remembrances.

An affection of the throat, from which my husband was suffering,

rendered the best medical advice necessary. I accompanied him to New

York, where I found--let me pause in telling it, to do reverence to

the unseen hand that led me there--Marian.

In this lonely stranger how little do I behold of my childhood's

earliest pride!

"From Clifton?" said the physician thoughtfully, after examining my

husband's case. "I have a patient, a strange case; she is paralyzed,

and her mental faculties are stunned. A Cuban family brought her

here and placed her under my care. Her husband had committed a

forgery, and had fled the country to escape arrest. She is an

accomplished lady, I should judge. She was left in Havana quite poor

and friendless. I have been led to speak to you about her because she

is always writing two words--Mary and Clifton. The Spanish lady who

brought her here knew nothing of her former history."

I was silent during this recital, and so white that the doctor

offered me water. I thanked him, and expressed a wish to go to my

friend immediately.

"I cannot return to the hospital this morning," he said; "but I will

give you my card, which will admit you to the lady at once."

There I found her, a silent, faded figure, sitting still, and for all

purposes of life quite dead.

I was awed as I stood before her. I sat down and took her poor,

neglected hand in mine. She looked at me and made a feeble attempt

to gather back her hair which had fallen in great disorder about

her shoulders. I rose to do this for her. It was still glossy and

beautiful as ever. I began to arrange it in the fashion she had worn

it seven years before. She took my hand from her head, laid it in

her lap, chafed it, then reverently raised it to her lips. I could

restrain my tears no longer, and I hid my face in the folds of her

faded dress. She turned me toward her and wiped the tears from my

cheek.

"You are going home with me, Marian darling," I said; "to live always

in our own old home."

"I know it," she whispered; "I have been waiting for you so long, so

very long."

This was the first time she had spoken to me. The nurse had told me

that she spoke occasionally, but always in an absent and incoherent

manner.

Sea-bathing was recommended; but the doctor was of the opinion that

her mind would never recover its original vigor.

I would like him to see her as she left me this morning, calm and

beautiful, when the bell of the convent, where she is teaching

German, summoned attendance.

My religion is no longer strange to her. She has accepted it as the

crowning blessing of her life, and with a thankful spirit she speaks

of the chastening hand that led her to this security and peace.

EXULTENT SION FILIÆ.

"Who is this that cometh from the desert, flowing with

delights, leaning on the arm of her Beloved?"

CANTICLES viii. 5.

Who is this from the wilderness coming,

From the desert so arid and bare,

On her own most Beloved One leaning--

Who is this so chaste and so fair?

Yes, out of a wilderness coming,

A desert of darkness and sin;

Lo! the Bridegroom, the promised, the glorious,

Lo! a Queen who is holy within!

See! her veil is thrown back from her features,

Arrayed in the lustre of light,

Like silver clean washed from the dross of the mine,

Like a lily she dawns on the sight--

Like a lily whose fair leaves encompass her stalk,

With an odor so piercing and sweet,

That the world, overpowered, feels ashamed of its pride,

And vanquished kneels down at her feet.

In the desert had tarried the Bridegroom of old

Forty days, forty nights, in his love,

Alone, while she who was dearest to him

In grief like a silver-winged dove,

Hid away in the deep, secret clefts of the rock,

Wailed his absence, and brooded so long,

And pined for his countenance, pined for his voice

To answer again to her song--

"Now winter is past, the rain over and gone;"

The flowers, too, have their banners unfurled,

While she waits for his promise; she knows he will come;

And he comes--the Light of the world!

To lead back each wandering sheep to his fold,

Who had waited so long in the porch;

To bring back to the dim world his darling, his rose,

His bride in her beauty, the church;

To open her gates that all may go in,

Not a wanderer left out in the cold,

The supper awaiting, the King's marriage feast,

With its Host and its chalice of gold.

SOPHIA MAY ECKLEY.

MR. GLADSTONE AND THE IRISH FARMERS.

The long-expected bill for the settlement of the land question in

Ireland was introduced into the British Parliament a short time

ago by Mr. Gladstone in an explanatory speech of rare perspicuity

and methodical statement. So fascinating, indeed, is the premier's

eloquence, so candid his confessions of the injustice of English law

as at present existing in Ireland, and of the baleful consequences

which have flowed from its operations in the agricultural interests

of the people of the sister island, that for the time we forget how

far short are the measures he now proposes, in the form of an act of

parliament, of the necessities of the case before him, and to which

all his logic, rhetoric, and pathos form but the graceful prelude.

Turning from the speech and carefully looking over the sixty-eight

clauses of the proposed act, we are forcibly struck by the inadequacy

of the proposed remedy for the terrible and manifold evils which have

so long afflicted the tillers of Irish soil; and if, as Mr. Gladstone

asserts, his object is not only to do justice to this long-oppressed

people, but to silence for ever the clamors and pacify at once the

almost chronic discontent of the country, it requires very little

acumen to foresee that his scheme, even if not modified for the worse

in its passage through either house, will be a failure, particularly

as regards the latter results.

The head of the British cabinet, with all that ability and knowledge

of public affairs which justly entitle him to be ranked foremost

among living English statesmen, seems to have failed alike to

comprehend the magnitude of the abuses he would correct and to

appreciate the wishes and expectations of the great majority of the

Irish people. Whether through that obliquity of mental vision which

has always characterized English public men when attempting to deal

with Irish grievances, or from a dread of failure if he attempted to

inaugurate a more radical change in the present relations between

landlord and tenant--and from a remark in his late speech, the latter

cause would seem to be the most probable--he has been led into a

course of policy which, while gaining him no allies in the opposition

ranks, will undoubtedly lessen his influence with a large portion of

the liberal party in both kingdoms. "By fixity of tenure," says Dr.

Taylor, "is now clearly understood, in Ireland, that the right of the

tenant to his land is to continue as long as the rent is paid, and

that the rent is to be adjusted at fixed periods, according to the

average price of produce;" a statement fully indorsed by the Irish

press and reiterated by the people at their recent numerous public

meetings. But the present bill contemplates no such thing, either in

expression or by implication; and lest it might so be understood, the

premier in his speech devoted much of his time to demonstrate the

fallacy and danger of such doctrines.

"As I understand it," he says, "the thing itself amounts to

this--that every occupier, as long as he pays the rent that

he is now paying, or a rent to be fixed by a public tribunal

of valuation, is to be assured, for himself and his heirs, an

occupation of the land that he holds without limit of time,

subject only to this condition, that with a variation in the

value of produce--somewhat in the nature of the commutation of

title act--the rent may vary somewhat slightly and at somewhat

distant periods. The effect of that is that the landlord would

become a pensioner and rent-charger upon his own estate.

The legislature has a perfect right to reduce him to that

condition, giving him proper compensation for any loss he may

sustain in money; the state has a perfect right to deal with

his social status, and to reduce him to that condition, if it

thinks fit. But then it is bound not to think fit unless it can

be shown that this is for the public good. Now, is it for the

public good that the landlords of Ireland, in a body, should be

reduced by an act of parliament to the condition, practically,

of fund-holders, entitled to apply on a certain day from year

to year for a certain sum of money, but entitled to nothing

more? Are you prepared to denude them of their interest in the

land? Are you prepared to absolve them from their duties with

regard to the land? I for one confess that I am not; nor is

that the sentiment of my colleagues."

Here then is the issue at once raised, and as Mr. Gladstone's

views will receive the sanction of Parliament, we apprehend that

the proposed act, no matter how impartially executed, will fail to

satisfy the popular wants in Ireland. It cannot be denied that the

great underlying principle of the tenant-right agitation is the

conviction among the masses of the farmers and peasants of that

country that the soil whereon they expend their labor, that others

may reap the profits, was and is rightfully their own; that it was

forcibly and treacherously wrested from their ancestors by a foreign

and hostile faction, whose descendants now claim to possess it, and

who wring from them the fruits of their toil, justly belonging to

the cultivators and their families. They do not, however, desire

a reconfiscation of this property; but they do demand a guarantee

from the laws, under which they are content to live, that as long as

they pay a fair rent they shall not be disturbed in their holdings.

The question of leases for a term of years and compensation for

improvements, though very important in itself, is merely secondary to

fixity of tenure. That once guaranteed, in the Irish and not in Mr.

Gladstone's sense, the impetus which would be given to the farming

industry of the country would be so great that time and economy only

would be required to establish a large class of small land _owners_

in fee, thus virtually undoing the spoliations of former days, and

dividing up the large estates now devoted principally to pleasure or

pasturage, and held by a few persons who neither reside in, know,

or care for the nation from which they draw such exorbitant rents.

The entire land of Ireland consists of nearly sixteen million acres

of arable land, and five millions more susceptible of cultivation,

owned absolutely by less than six thousand persons, thus giving to

each proprietary an average of thirty-five hundred acres, independent

of mountain, bog, and riparian lands, all more or less useful for

the sustenance of human life. Then the majority of those owners,

including the representatives of the very large estates almost

without exception, are absentees who in the aggregate draw from the

soil an annual revenue estimated at forty millions of dollars; not a

tithe of it is ever returned to the country in any manner, except in

the form of receipts. We find that the tenants from whom this large

foreign tribute is exacted number over six hundred thousand heads of

families, representing at least three and a half million of souls,

only one in thirty of whom holds a lease of any sort, the remainder

being entirely dependent politically and socially on the will of

the landlord, or his agents and bailiffs. This anomalous state of

affairs in a country supposed to be at least comparatively free is

heightened by the fact that the views and aims of the landlord class

and those of the tenantry, which ought to coincide on all matters

affecting the national good, are decidedly the reverse of each other.

As a whole, the religion, politics, and traditions of the owners of

the soil have always placed them in opposition to their tenants and

dependents; so firmly, indeed, that even the demands of patriotism

and the allurements of pecuniary gain, powerful for most men, have

failed to swerve the Irish landlord from his blind and bigoted

purpose of repressing the laudable enterprise, and of ignoring the

commonest rights, of the people from whom he derives his wealth and

position. In countries like Belgium, Scotland, or Switzerland, where

manufactures are encouraged and capital is abundant, this slavish

relationship between landlord and tenant would be a secondary

grievance; but in Ireland, which is essentially an agricultural

country, the enormity of the evil cannot well be over-estimated.

"About two thirds of the population of England," said the late W.

Smith O'Brien, "are dependent on manufactures and commerce, directly

or indirectly. In this country (Ireland) about nine tenths of the

population are dependent on agriculture, directly or indirectly." "An

ancient vassal," said Van Raumer, a distinguished German traveller,

who some years ago visited Ireland, "is a lord compared with the

present tenant at will, to whom the law affords no defence;" and a

recent decision in chancery declares that "if a tenant holding from

year to year makes permanent improvements in the lands which he

holds, this raises no equity as against the landlord, though he may

have looked on and not have given any warning to the tenant."

But we have a more recent authority on the condition of the Irish

farmers of to-day in the person of the special commissioner of the

_London Times_, who certainly cannot be accused of over-partiality

in describing the condition of that much oppressed class. Writing

from Mullingar under date September 14th, 1869, he says, "By far the

largest portion of the country is still occupied by small farmers,

who legally are merely tenants at will, though they have added much

to the value of the soil by building, draining, fencing, and tillage,

and though they have purchased their interests in numerous instances,

and it is probable they will long maintain their ground, though the

area they hold is being diminished. The existing law is not a rule

of right to this body of men in their actual position; it exposes

what in truth is their property, the benefits they have added to the

land, to be confiscated by a summary process; it sets at naught the

equitable right acquired by a transfer for value with the assent of

the landlord." From Cork, after a month's further investigation, he

again writes, "As for the landed system of the country as a whole,

it is, in its broadest outlines, essentially the same as that which

I have so often described, except that its vices are very prominent.

Speaking generally, the same religious differences divide the owner

and the occupier of the soil; the absenteeism is too prevalent; there

is the same wide-spread insecurity of tenure; the law in the same way

upholds the power of the landlord, and disregards the just claims of

the tenant; there is the same creation of vast rights of property

in the form of improvements, by the peasantry, unprotected by the

least legal sanction, and liable, nay, exposed to confiscation;

vague usage similarly is the only safeguard against frequent and

intolerable injustice." Conceding to Mr. Gladstone and his colleagues

the greatest honesty of intention in the introduction of the present

bill, and aware of the powerful and not over-scrupulous opposition

which any remedial measure advocated by them must encounter from the

tory and landed classes, yet in view of such patent abuses as stated,

as well as from the assurances of Mr. Bright and others--supposed

to be in the confidence of the ministry, we had a right to expect a

measure more general, emphatic, and sweeping in its reforms. Still,

as the bill will be passed substantially as presented, with perhaps

the addition of a few unimportant amendments likely to be offered

by the Irish members, it is important to examine in detail its main

features as far as they relate to what is defined in the preamble as

"security of tenure."

The first subdivision of the bill provides for the loaning of

public moneys to landlords and tenants on the following conditions:

Where the landlord is willing to sell and the tenant to purchase a

particular farm, then in his actual occupancy, at a price agreed

upon between the parties, the government will advance the tenant

the necessary funds; and when the landlord is only willing to part

with his estate in bulk, the actual occupiers of four fifths, and

any person or persons not occupiers joined with them, may become

purchasers of the whole, and a similar advance will be made. In

other words, the government takes the place of the selling landlord,

pays him indirectly the price agreed upon, and reimburses itself by

annual instalments from the tenant, now become the owner, until the

entire purchase money is paid off. This seems favorable enough for

the enterprising tenant, and to any other than Irish landlords would

offer strong inducements to dispose of a portion, at least, of their

unwieldy and often heavily encumbered estates, and would promote the

multiplication of moderate sized and better cultivated farms; but

as we are aware of the hostility of that unpatriotic class to every

thing tending to the elevation of their tenantry to a position of

comparative equality, we have little hope of the efficacy of this

provision. Indeed, Mr. Gladstone seems also of this opinion; for

in his late speech in allusion to the subject, he says, "I myself

have not been one of those who have been disposed to take the most

sanguine view of the extent to which a provision of that kind would

operate." Purchasers of reclaimed land not occupied are to have

the same privileges as occupiers of cultivated lands. The landlord

likewise is to have his share of the public money for the purpose of

reclaiming waste lands adjoining his estate, and in some instances,

for paying off the compensation claims of his out-going tenant. All

these loans, securities, repayments, and annuities are to be under

the direction of the Irish Board of Works at Dublin.

The legal machinery for carrying these and subsequent clauses of

the bill into effect will consist of two classes of courts. One of

arbitration, consisting of appointees of the parties interested,

whose decision shall have all the force of law, and from which there

shall be no appeal. The other will be a regular court of law, with

very extensive equity jurisdiction, composed, in the first instance,

of a civil bill court, presided over by an assistant barrister of

sessions; an appeal court, composed of two judges of assize, who may

reserve important cases for trial before the court for land cess in

Dublin. Taking into consideration the relative wealth and personal

influence of the parties litigant, we might hope for a less expensive

and complicated mode of procedure; but as the law's delays are still

as proverbial on the other side of the Atlantic as on this, it is

perhaps the least objectionable plan that could be devised. Much

certainly will depend on the independence and humanity of the courts;

for while they will be bound by the principles laid down in the bill,

it is authorized--

"On hearing of any dispute between landlord and tenant in

respect of compensation under this act, either party may make

any claim, urge any objection to the claims of the other, or

plead any set-off such party may see fit, and the court shall

take into consideration any such claim, objection, or set-off,

and also any such default or unreasonable conduct of either

party as may appear to the court to affect any matter in

dispute between the parties," etc., and give judgment on the

equities of the same.

The bill then proceeds to secure and define the tenure of all holders

of agricultural land, dividing them into four classes: holders by

the custom of Ulster, by customs analogous to that of Ulster in

the other provinces, tenants from year to year and at will, and

lease-holders generally.

The custom of Ulster, derived strangely enough from the terms

of James I.'s charter to the undertakers in 1613,[40] as well

as from traditional usage, consists mainly of the right of the

out-going tenant to compensation from his landlord for all permanent

improvements he may have made on the land, or that he has actually

paid for to his predecessor, whether with or without the consent

of his landlord; or the tenant may elect to sell the same with his

good-will of the farm to the best purchaser. This custom, covering

about a moiety of the 3,400,000 acres of Ulster, is to be formally

recognized as law only in that portion of the country, and in each

individual case where it now actually exists. But when "the landlord

has, by a deliberate and formal arrangement with an occupier, bought

up the Ulster tenant right, it shall not be pleaded against him;"

and where the tenant has so sold to the landlord or to the incoming

tenant his right, he shall be debarred from all other compensation

under the act. The value of this custom, though heretofore only

partially recognized, will be perceived from the fact that, though

Ulster is by no means the most fertile section, the average annual

value of its lands is from four to four and a half dollars per acre

greater than the other portions of the country. Why this custom, so

manifestly beneficial to all classes, should only be made general in

Ulster, but not throughout the island, it is difficult to determine.

There are also customs in other parts of the country which have

become traditional, and are said to resemble somewhat that of Ulster;

but to what extent they prevail, or of their exact nature, we are

not informed. They are commonly supposed to include the right of

compensation for improvements of a certain sort, and the sale of the

good-will by the out-going tenant. These, however, are not regarded

with the same degree of fairness; for they can only be pleaded when

the landlord by his own act severs the relation between himself and

tenant; and when pleaded, all arrears of rent or damages to the farm

may be claimed as an off-set; they are forfeited by ejectment for

non-payment of rent, or by sub-letting or subdividing the holding,

and are extinguished by the acceptance of a lease of thirty-one years

or upward. This is the first attempt we notice in the bill to induce

the landlords to grant leases, and we regret to find that throughout

its entire length, with the exception of one clause, there is nothing

at all prohibitory in its provisions. What good reason can exist for

the preservation of the custom of Ulster under a lease, while those

of the other three sections are bartered away for that privilege? Is

this not another evidence of the partiality of a reform which should

be as comprehensive as the evils to be eradicated are wide-spread?

The most important part of the bill is that which relates to the

yearly tenant and tenant at will; for it affects by far the largest

and most defenceless class of Irish farmers. Out of six hundred

thousand heads of families who derive their existence directly from

the soil, five hundred and eighty thousand, or nearly ninety-seven

per centum of the whole, are of this class, and are liable at any

time to be thrown on the charity of the world by the edict of a

landlord or his agent, deprived not only of their sole means of

livelihood, but of whatever benefits they may have conferred on their

little holdings by their hard labor and well-earned money. It is

useless now to dwell on the horrible calamities which have resulted

from the wholesale evictions of these unfortunate people, or on what

famine, pestilence, death, and too frequently agrarian crime, have

year after year flowed from the uncontrolled barbarities practised

on them by Irish landlords, armed with the terrors of law. The

wailings and maledictions of the homeless and expatriated have so

long resounded through both hemispheres, that their very echoes have

startled the ears of their persecutors into something like attention.

"We have," says Mr. Gladstone from his place in the House of Commons,

"simplified the law against him, [the tenant,] and made ejectment

cheap and easy."[41] This large class, therefore, if not receiving

that adequate protection to which they are justly entitled, will,

under the operation of the proposed act, have their interests placed

beyond jeopardy in such a manner as, compared with their present

practical outlawry, will commend Mr. Gladstone to their gratitude.

Having no custom to plead, and consequently very little probability

of obtaining leases, the landlord can still eject them; but he must

do so on a year's notice, duly stamped and dated from the previous

gale day, and for proper cause, such as non-payment of rent or the

refusal of the tenant to accept another holding equal in value to

the one desired by the landlord. If the landlord acts without such

cause, the tenant will be entitled to damages against him at the

discretion of the court, exclusive of compensation for improvements

and reclamation of land. The maximum measure of damages for wanton

ejectment is set down in the bill as follows:

Holdings valued at £10 7 years' rent.

" " £10 to £50 5 " "

" " £50 to £100 3 " "

" " £100 and upward 2 " "

In any case the tenant upon ejectment will be entitled to

compensation for improvements, from which arrears of rent may be

deducted. It is the wise and beneficent intent of the bill to place

this helpless class under the special protection of the court, and

make it the object of large equity jurisdiction conferred; and

it even holds out a release to the landlord of these penalties,

providing he gives to his yearly tenant a lease of at least

twenty-one years' duration.

The regulation of the tenure of lease-holders generally is most

judicious, and the only compulsory one in the bill. In future all

leases shall be submitted to, and the terms, as regards rents and

covenants, approved by, the court, before their validity will be

recognized. Heretofore, Irish leases have been made exclusively

for the benefit of one party, and the ingenuity of the lower grade

of the legal profession seems to have been taxed to the utmost to

devise restrictions on husbandry. We have copies of several of those

instruments of recent execution before us, and they certainly smack

more of the pre-_magna-charta_ era than of the present enlightened

century. A petition presented to the House of Commons at its last

session, from the inhabitants of the parish of Clonard, county of

Meath, set forth that tenants there "are charged with a penalty of £5

for every tree, and every perch of hedge cut, injured, or destroyed;"

they are to break no land without permission of the landlord,

and even then only such land and in such manner as the landlord

specified; a fine of £10 is exacted for "each acre or part of acre

assigned, let, underlet, or let in con-acre or otherwise, or meadowed

without formal written permission;" they are not to remove or cause

to be removed any top-dressing, compost, or manure of any sort, nor

any hay, straw, corn in the straw, holm, or fodder of any sort, nor

any turnips, mangel-wurzel, or other green crop of any kind, under

penalty of £5 per load or part of load; and the top-dressing, manure,

etc., are to remain on the land at the termination of the tenancy,

and are to be the property of the landlord. The Earl of Leitrim, a

very large landed proprietor in the north, probably not considering

the above restrictions sufficiently onerous, has had inserted in

his numerous leases clauses whereby the tenants are required to

preserve his fish and game; and without his permission in writing

they are not to make any new roads, fences, or drains, nor to build

up or alter houses or buildings, nor to grow two white grain crops

in succession, nor to have beyond a certain maximum of tillage, nor

to break up permanent grass-fields, nor to set potatoes where there

has been grass the year before,[42] nor to cut turf, etc.; and to

surrender their leases at _any time_ at six months' notice, or in

case any of them be imprisoned by any civil or criminal process for

a term exceeding fourteen days! But Edward Henry Cooper, who is

supposed sometimes to honor Markie Castle with his presence, requires

not only the observance of all the above conditions on the part

of his serfs, but binds them to become informers and prosecutors

in their _own names_ against any poachers who may be found in the

leaseholds; and they are also to _procure evidence_ (how is not

stated) against their neighbors who might kill a hare or spear a

salmon on their premises. The farmers who have the happiness of

living under this philanthropist are required "to submit all disputes

and differences touching trespass or measuring to, and abide by the

final award of"--Edward Henry Cooper or his agents; a very impartial

tribunal, no doubt! The above extracts may be taken as specimens

of the restrictions which surround even the most favored class of

Irish farmers of the present day, and which, being made with all

the forms of law, backed by the certainty of the strict enforcement

of the penalties, must have a direct and ruinous tendency to check

improvement and limit the scope of improved cultivation of lands.

The term improvements, so frequently met with in the bill, is defined

to mean such as are suitable to the character of the holding and add

to its letting value, such as buildings, reclaimed land, manures, and

tillage, and the old rule of law, which presumed all improvements

made by the landlord unless proved to the contrary, is reversed in

favor of the tenant. No existing improvement will be paid for if not

made within twenty years previous to the passage of the act, except

permanent buildings and reclaimed land, nor where by the terms of a

lease the holder agreed to make the improvements at his own expense.

In the future no claim will be allowed for improvements made contrary

to the terms of the letting, or for such as are not required for

the due cultivation of the farm, nor when the landlord agrees to

make them and does not neglect to do so, nor where the tenant, as

part of the consideration of the lease, agrees to do them at his

own charge. But whatever the tenant pays to the out-going tenant

for compensation, with the sanction of his landlord, he shall be

reimbursed on the termination of his tenancy.

Such, in brief, is an outline of the law under which the farmers of

Ireland will have to live for some years to come. Although not all

they demand and have a right to expect, it is nevertheless a great

improvement on the present system, if system it may be called, under

which they have so long tried to exist. Whatever is valuable in the

local customs will be substantially preserved and legalized; the

tenant will have some remote prospect of becoming a purchaser, and

the tenant at will, a leaseholder. Compensation for improvements is

guaranteed to every one capable of paying his rent, and the luxury of

evictions, if not destroyed, is made an expensive one for landlords.

We cannot expect that this measure, if passed in its best form, will

wholly stop agitation in Ireland, but we trust and believe that it

will largely conduce to the wealth and industry of her people.

FOOTNOTES:

[40] The said undertakers shall not devise or lease any part of their

lands at will, but shall make certain estates for years, for life, in

tail or in fee simple.--_Art._ 12th, _charter_ of A.D. 1613.