CHAPTER IV.

It was, I think, about half a year from this period, that, in

returning late one evening from the neighbourhood of Russell Square,

where my father, during a short visit he was compelled to make to

town, had taken lodgings, I missed my way, and got entangled in the

intricacies of the numerous narrow streets and alleys that lie between

that quarter of London and the eastern end of Holborn. Intending to

avail myself of some of the public conveyances homewards, I had

attempted to shorten my passage to the great thoroughfares, and in

doing so had thus gone astray. As it was past ten o'clock I was

necessarily hurried, and yet the heat and heaviness of the night--it

was July--prevented me freeing myself as rapidly as I should otherwise

have done from the squalid and disagreeable avenues in which I had got

entangled. I was just pausing to enquire my way of a slatternly-looking

woman, who stood considerably in front of the door of a dirty-looking

house in one of the dirtiest lanes I had yet explored, and who, with an

apron thrown round her shoulders, to supply, it seemed to me, the absence

of their appropriate garments, appeared, from the direction of her looks,

to be awaiting some one's arrival, when a lad hastened up the opposite

side of the alley, and breathlessly announced to her, that "the docther

wouldn't come 'thout he first got his fee."

"Holy Mary, mother of ----! Oh, wisha, what _am_ I to do!" exclaimed

the woman in a strong Irish accent, with that elision of apostrophe

into complaint peculiar to her country.

"If she goes on this way till mornin', two men wouldn't hould her, let

alone one _colleen_.[1] Run, Micky, to the 'seer, an' let him get her

to the hospiddle, or my heart 'll be broke from her."

"How dove I know where the 'seer lives at this hour o' the night?"

expostulated the boy.

"There's a wake in Tim Reilly's second floor--can't you go there, and

they'll tell you--can't you?"

The messenger disappeared, and I now, before putting the question for

which I had stopped, asked the woman soothingly the cause of her

perturbation.

"Is it what's the matther, sir? Matther enough thin--a poor crethur of

a woman lodgin' with me is took very bad with the fever. She wasn't to

say so bad entirely till this evenin', when she begin to rave, and

'sist upon gettin' up; an' goin' on with terrible talk, that it would

frighten the heart o' you to hear her."

"How long," I said, "has she been ill?"

"Wisha, sir, she was never well since the day she darkened my dure;

but I think 'tis the heat o' the weather, an' her never stirrin' out,

an' the weakness entirely, an' the impression on her heart, that is

killin' her now."

"And has she had no advice?"

"Sorrow the 'vice--you'd think she'd go into fits when I mentioned a

docther to her; and as to a priest or a ministher--my dear life, I

might as well mention a blunderbush."

Well accustomed to hear of, and witness, such suffering as the woman

described, I was about to proceed in quest of a physician myself, if

she had paused in the first part of the sentence just finished. The

concluding remarks arrested me.

"I am a clergyman," I said; "will you let me see this poor person?"

"An' a thousand welcomes, sir. I know you're not the Revern' Misthur

Falvey, that I goes to a' Christmas an' Easther--nor the ministher

convenient here. Maybe you're"----

"I'm quite unknown here; but by allowing me to see your patient, I

shall be able to judge if she is in a fit state to be removed to an

hospital; or, if instantly necessary, I shall myself procure medical

advice for her."

The woman entered the house and I followed her, waiting, as she

requested me, in the dark entry, until she procured from the sick

chamber the only light that I presume was burning in the dwelling. She

then re-appeared at the head of the stairs, and requested me to

ascend.

Lighting me up four ruinous flights of steps, leading to rooms that

appeared to be tenanted by beings as miserable as herself, she ushered

me into an apartment of such large dimensions that the weak rushlight

she carried left its extremity in absolute darkness. It was wretchedly

furnished. At the farthest end from the door was a bed, by the side of

which stood a coarse-looking girl about fifteen, engaged in

preventing--now by soothing, now by forcible restraint--the invalid

who occupied it from attempting to rise.

"Not another moment--not one moment longer! I _must_ get up--he is

waiting for me! See! I am late already, for 'tis daybreak--though you

cannot see the dawn through that dismal rain. Let me go--wretch,

wretch!--let me go; he shall not stir one step that I won't be near

him to remind him of"----

Leaving the candle near the door, my guide approached the bed, and

beckoned me to follow. I advanced, and even through the misty shadows

that enveloped the place, I recognised, in the emaciated Form

struggling on the couch, her wild flashing eyes now wilder with fever

and insanity, the well-remembered wanderer who had so often excited my

interest in Walworth.

"Ha!" she continued, after stopping suddenly, as lunatics will do when

a stranger unexpectedly appears, and intently observing me for some

minutes. "Ha! I knew I was late--see there. _He_ has come to seek me,

for the first time, too, for seventeen--eighteen-oh! so many long

years. Ha, ha! all in black, too--Barnard--and you've brought your

wealthy bride"--and she glanced at the woman, who stood beside me;

"but, faugh, how her limbs rattle--not a whole bone," she said, with a

hysterical laugh, "in her beautiful body!"

In this way she continued to rave, during the short time I remained in

the apartment. I attempted to ask her a few questions, to ascertain,

if possible, how far the distraction of her mind was consequent upon

her disorder; but her only replies were mad and incoherent allusions

to past scenes and occurrences, that seemed entirely to engross her

attention. Finding my presence of no avail, I quitted the place, and

was about to deposit a small sum with the hostess for the sufferer's

use, when she very ingenuously informed me it was not at the moment

necessary, that person herself having always, in the payment of her

weekly rent, entrusted to her hands money sufficient to supply the

wants of several ensuing days.

"An' though we're sometimes bad enough off, sir, when the boys don't

get the work at Mr Cubitt's, still, shure, if I was to wrong a poor

sickly crethur like that of her thrifle of change, 'twould melt away

the weight o' myself in goold if I had it."

I could not help smiling at this unwonted display of honesty in so

unexpected a quarter, and promising her that such care and attention

to her sick tenant should not go unrewarded, I departed, escorted by

"Micky," who had returned to say that no intelligence of the 'seer was

to be obtained at Tim Reilly's. On making our way into Holborn, I

called at the nearest surgeon's, and, giving him my address, I

dispatched him back with the boy, directing him, at the same time, not

to allow the woman to be removed unless her disorder was a contagious

one, (which, I was persuaded, it was not,) and requesting, should the

aid of a physician be necessary, he would at once procure it, for

which, with all other expenses, I would be answerable. Touching this

latter point, the lad had informed me as we came along, that he did

not think their lodger was at all at a loss for money, as she procured

it about once a-month, he thought, (the only time she ever went

abroad,) from some "gentleman's office in the coorts."

Although living at such a distance, I contrived to see the unfortunate

invalid several times in the following week. I found I was right as to

the nature of her disorder. An eminent physician had been called in

once or twice during its most violent paroxysms, and stated, that it

was likely her malady was not the cause, but the consequence, of some

extraordinary mental excitement. Under the judicious treatment he

pointed out, the fever gradually subsided, and for a short time there

was an appearance in the patient of returning convalescence. But her

physical energies were exhausted, and it was evident that a very short

period would terminate her existence. Reason, too, never wholly

resumed its functions, if indeed it had ever of late years exercised

them in that wearied brain. Her ideas assumed a certain degree of

coherency. She was able to converse occasionally with calmness, to

recognise faces familiar to her, and appeared sensible of and even

grateful for my visits, and the assiduity with which I sought to

awaken her to some preparation for the great approaching change; but

"the delicate chain

Of thought, once tangled, never clear'd again:"

never _wholly_ cleared. The lightning of insanity flashed continually

from the heavy cloud that hung upon her soul. The allusions, too, she

was in the habit of making to some transactions of bygone years, were

of so startling a nature, that I was fully confirmed in my early

impression she had been at one time of her life implicated in some

wonderful, nay, heinous occurrence. Upon this point it was my

intention, if possible, to win her gradually to confide to me the

secret of her guilt or wrongs, hoping by this means to relieve her

spirit by seeming to share in its burdens and distress.

With the quick perception of persons labouring like her under mental

aberration, she seemed to anticipate my purpose. I was one morning

sitting by her bedside, when she suddenly began--

"You asked me yesterday if I remembered having ever seen you before

this illness--this late attack--and I said no. It was false. I spoke

as I thought at the time; but, in looking at you now, I recollect you

were one of those people I often met at Walworth. I even think you

once attempted to get into _his_ confidence--(now, do not interrupt

me.) You likewise desired to know why one like me, who appears

superior in mind and language to the wretched class amongst whom you

find her, should have led the life----Stay! send for a sheriff's

officer, and I will tell you."

I assured her I saw no necessity at that moment for the presence of

such a person; and, as she appeared somewhat more excited than I had

seen her for several days, I endeavoured to lead her away from the

subject that occupied her, by turning the conversation to some

indifferent topic. But it would not do. She still reverted to the

point at which she had broken off; and I was at length obliged to let

her pursue the course of her own thoughts as she pleased.

"Did you ever think me handsome? Many once thought me so; but that is

long ago. My father was still handsomer. He was the younger of two

brothers, both wealthy. They were plain Devonshire farmers--each, too,

was a widower, with each a daughter. So far for their likeness to one

another. Now for the contrast. My father spent his wealth, died, and

left me a beggar. _Her's_ (my pretty cousin Martha's) saved it, and

left his child an heiress--a Temptation--a prize for all the bumpkins

and graziers about us. I was glad to live with her. We kept house

together. We were both of an age--young, handsome, lively, and for our

station, or rather for a higher one, well educated. Here again ceased

the resemblance. Like my father, I was open, guileless,

unsuspecting--and it destroyed me. She was mean, cunning, treacherous,

and would--but HELL was too strong for her--have triumphed. My cousin

had numerous offers of marriage. I had none. Among several young men

who frequented our society, was a substantial farmer named Barnard.

You have seen him. When you first beheld him he was little altered. He

had ever that cursed look of Cain upon his forehead, though I branded

it a little deeper. Do not thus stop me!--breath!--I have breath

enough. Barnard was gay, smooth, agreeable--what was more, he was _my_

suitor--the only one amid throngs that was attentive, kind, obliging

to me. I felt first grateful, and next loved him--you shall hear HOW

WELL.

"Our match began to be talked of. Martha from some whim disapproved of

it. He ceased to visit at the house--but I would not give him up; and

while he contemplated, as I thought, arrangements for our marriage, we

often met alone. Judgment is over with him now--mine is at hand, and I

will not load him with guilt that, after all, may not be his. He was

the only being that cared for me on earth, and I clung to him with a

tenfold affection. How do I know but it was this mad confidence that

first awoke the villain in his soul? That wine"--

I held the glass to her lips; and, while I wiped the damp drops of

agony from her brow, I besought her to defer the sequel of her story

until she was more capable of pursuing it.

"No," she said; "it must be now, or not at all. I am stronger than I

have been for months to-day. Where was I?--Stealing back day after day

to Martha's, a trampled, but not an unhoping spirit; for I still

looked forward to _his_ fulfilling his promise. He once more was a

visitor at our house. I did not know why--I did not care--he was

there, and I was satisfied: I had no eyes for any thing else. But the

blow was coming. It fell--it smote us all to dust.

"I was one morning occupied alone in some domestic duty, when I heard

Barnard's name pronounced by two female servants of our farm, who were

employed in the next apartment. I listened--poor souls! they were

merely agreeing 'how natural it was for Mr Barnard to have jilted

Miss--(but let my very name be unpronounced)--and taken up with Miss

Martha, who had all the fortune.' Was it not a natural remark? So

natural, that every being in the country had already made it but her

whose heart it broke to hear it. I rushed from the spot, a mist

spreading before my eyes as I hastened on. I sought out Barnard; I

found him, and alone. I told him of the report I had overheard. He

said it was not new to him. I charged him with perfidy--he avowed it.

Half-dreaming, I attempted to catch his hand. He coolly withdrew it. I

knelt before him--I clasped his knees--I wept, and prayed he would

bless me by treading me to death beneath his feet. He extricated

himself with a laugh, bid me not be a fool, and left me.

"Before I rose from the spot where I had fallen, a dreadful shadow

passed, as it were, suddenly across me, and some black passion I had

never known till then took possession of my spirit. It was JEALOUSY.

I returned home, and hastened to have an interview with Martha.

Hitherto I had been of a quiet, timid disposition--I was now bold from

frenzy and betrayed affection. I upbraided my cousin with duplicity,

with meanness in receiving the addresses of the man betrothed to her

relative. She retorted by drawing comparisons between our attractions,

personal as well as pecuniary. At these I smiled--bitterly perhaps,

but still I smiled. She scoffed at my pleas that Barnard was my

affianced husband, declared her intention of marrying him, and ended

by insinuating that I had lost him by the very unguardedness of my

affection. I never smiled again.

"I was mad from that day forward. My whole existence changed. I was a

dissembler--a liar--for my life was a long lie--and, come near--I _am_

a murderer. I lived blindly on--a day was fixed for their

marriage--but, though I knew not _how it was to be_--I knew another

would never stand at the altar as his bride.

"She and I had apparently been reconciled--I saw Barnard no more, save

in her presence--I lulled them both into a belief that I was a poor,

trodden, and stingless thing.

"The Sunday preceding the wedding-day arrived. It was a lovely evening

in summer, and Martha and he and I wandered far away into the

fields--they to taste the freshness of nature, I, to wonder the

flowers did not wither beneath our tread; for we were all alike evil

and abandoned. In our way, we visited a mill that was soon to become

the property of Barnard in right of his bride. In passing through the

different lofts into which it was divided, we paused in one to admire

the immense and complicated machinery connected with the great wheel

that worked the manufactory. Martha, ever capricious and perverse,

wished to see the engine set in motion. But there was not a

servant--not a creature, save ourselves--within a mile of the spot at

the moment. Barnard, however, volunteered to go to the mill-dam

outside, and, on a signal from us, to undo the wicket that kept back

the waters from the wheel. I watched him from the window till he took

his station at the spot. Just then Martha, who, with perverse

inquisitiveness, had been standing caged within the iron framework of

the engines, in hastening to leave it missed her footing, and stumbled

backward again within its circle. A streak as of fire flashed through

the place. I waved my hand; there was the sudden rush of tumbling

water, a faint shriek, and then the roar and thunder of the enormous

wheels hurrying on, grinding and tearing her to pieces. And then came

the horrorstruck look of Him, crying out to Heaven in his vain

impotency, and my own mad laughter, ringing high over it all!

"His consternation and despair--his wild attempts to stay the progress

of the crashing machinery--his wrath at my exultation--only raised me

to a higher state of frenzy--that frenzy of heart and brain that never

went from me more. I hollowed in his ear how I had done it--and when

he flung himself on the ground in a passion of remorse and grief, I

danced round him, proclaiming my hate and guilt, and summoning him to

give me up to justice. It was now his turn to quiver under the lash of

conscience. He accused himself of the ruin I had wrought--acknowledged

his falsehood--cried aloud for mercy--and still I exulted with a

fiercer laughter, with a louder demand that he would give me to the

gibbet. He endeavored to fly from the spot. I pursued him. I NEVER

LEFT HIM AGAIN. There was a long illness--a blot upon my memory. I

cannot tell you any thing of its duration. _Her_ remains were

found--there was an enquiry--he was the only witness--he kept _our

secret_. On my recovery, I found he had sold his property, and

departed to some distant quarter in the north of England. I tracked

him there. I had vowed to haunt his soul with the memory of my crime,

until he surrendered me to justice. He sought to shun me, by changing

his name and removing from one place of residence to another; but in

vain. My revenge was as hard and cruel as his own look on the morning,

in his orchard, when he spurned me fainting from his feet. Go where he

would, I pursued. At last he settled near London--in that place where

you first beheld us. You know the rest of our career. If guilt can be

atoned for by _human_ suffering--the wrath of years--the raging

wind--the scorching sun--ruined youth--premature age--privation,

misery, madness, and hate, have well atoned for ours. You shake your

head. It is not so? Well, you were the first to teach me to vent my

burning thoughts in prayer. Pray with me now. I seem to have lived all

my evil passions over again in this last hour. Do not leave me yet,

but--pray!"

* * * * *

Such was the disastrous tale imparted to me in almost the last

interview I had with its hapless narrator. Either the recollections

she had lived through, as she said, in so short a space, or the

exertions caused by its recital, were too much for her enfeebled

intellect. Delirium shortly after returned, and continued to within a

few hours of her dissolution, which occurred on the evening of the

following day. I was present when she expired. She instructed me where

to find the agent, who paid her a small stipend derived from a distant

relative, (to whom, by her uncle's will, his property descended,) that

I might apprise him of her death. She was quite sensible at the awful

moment; and there is still a hope mingled with the melancholy

remembrance that her last entreaty to me was--to "PRAY!"

INJURED IRELAND.

The miseries of the Irish people, and the oppressions under which they

groan, form the topics of conversation in every quarter of the

globe--you hear of them at Rome and at Constantinople--they are

discussed on the prairies of Texas and in the wilds of the Oregon--in

Paris and at Vienna you are bored by their constant repetition. The

"smart" American contributes his dollars, and the "pious Belgian"[2]

his prayers, to effect their redress; and they have fairly driven from

the field of compassion all sympathy for the plundered Jews and

persecuted Poles. The restless Frenchman speculates on them as the

certain means by which England may be humiliated; and impatiently

awaits the moment when, under the guidance of the young De Joinville,

fifty thousand of "les braves" may be thrown on the coast of Ireland,

and take advantage of the national disaffection, for the double

purpose of mortally wounding his ancient enemy, and of giving, as a

boon to its oppressed inhabitants, that liberty of which he talks so

much and knows so little. Doubtless the sufferings of this _patient_

people have, before now, drawn tears from the sensitive eyes of "the

brother of the sun;" and the "sagacious and enlightened Lin" has

already suggested to his celestial master the propriety of dispatching

some of his invincible war-junks to effect the liberation of the

degraded slaves of the "red and blue devils" who have so cruelly

annoyed him. Every one has heard, and every one talks, of Irish

grievances; but no one seems to know exactly what those grievances

are: their existence appears to be so unquestionable, that to dispute

it is not only useless but almost disreputable; and yet if one venture

to enquire of those who declaim most loudly against them wherein they

consist, they limit themselves to generalities, and quote the admitted

state of the country as proof positive of English injustice and Saxon

misrule.

That the inhabitants of distant countries should believe what they

hear so constantly asserted, cannot be a matter of much surprise; nor

that the enemies of England and of order should credit what it suits

their inclinations to believe; but that those who live close to the

scene of such grievous inflictions--that those who are the

fellow-subjects of the oppressed, and who may be said to be the

instruments whereby those enormities are perpetrated--should take for

granted all they hear stated, without endeavouring to discover the

truth of those assertions or the extent of their own culpability, does

seem to us almost incredible. Yet so it is. Irish grievances are now

in fashion. The most glaring fabrications are swallowed with anxiety

if they only profess to be recitals of Irish sufferings; and the

British people seem ready to yield to the clamours of mendacious and

designing demagogues, measures not only detrimental to the interests

of the country for whose welfare they profess so much anxiety, but

absolutely ruinous to the glory and the power of their own.

We will not stop here to discuss the benefits which we are told would

accrue to the Irish nation from the success of a measure which never

can be carried while Ireland holds loyal subjects, or Britain has an

arm to wield; but we shall at once proceed to ascertain if those

glaring injustices, which make us the world's table-talk, really

exist, and if the admitted misery of the Irish people can, with truth,

be attributed to the unjust or partial legislation of the British

Parliament.

We do not seek to deny, that the interests of Ireland have not been

neglected or unfairly dealt by, in former times. With that we have

nothing now to do; we take the existing state of things, and we

maintain, and will, we trust, convince our readers, that instead of

being oppressed or wronged by legislative enactments, Ireland is (as

matters are at present managed) greatly favoured, and that instead of

complaining of injustice, her inhabitants should be most grateful for

the exemptions which are granted them, and for the fostering care

which a Conservative government has extended, and is still anxious to

extend to them.

In supporting our view of the case, we shall appeal to facts--facts

which, if untrue, can easily be refuted; and first, we shall apply

ourselves to the amount of taxation imposed on Ireland by the Imperial

Parliament. _The Irish people are exempt from every species of direct

taxation!_ and their indirect taxes are not more than those to which

the inhabitants of England and Scotland are subject. Thus, while the

English and Scotch gentleman is taxed for his servants, his carriages,

his horses, his dogs, and his armorial bearings--and, in addition,

pays, in common with the trading and operative classes, his

window-tax--the Irish gentleman and tradesman are totally free from

all such imposts. And though, at first sight, this exemption would

seem to benefit only the wealthier classes, still when we find, as is

certainly the case, that it enables the Irish gentry to keep much

larger establishments than men of similar fortune could attempt to do

in this country; that consequently more persons are employed as

servants; that it enhances the value of horses by increasing the

demand for them; that it also greatly adds to the number of carriages

used, and, of course, to the employment of the artisan--we must admit

that it has no slight influence on the condition both of the tradesman

and the agriculturist.

Ireland pays no income-tax! (at least no Irishman need pay it if he

choose to reside at home;) for the Minister and the Parliament, _so

hostile_ to Irish interests, have only subjected the absentees to its

operation; and we find, that in the year ending the 10th October

1844--

England and Scotland paid by assessed

taxes, L4,204,855

By income-tax, 5,158,470

----------

Total, L9,363,325

While under those two heads, "_injured, persecuted Ireland_" paid not

one shilling!

Thus we see, that a sum of over nine millions is annually levied from

off the inhabitants of the "_favoured_" portions of the British

empire, towards which "_oppressed Ireland_" is not called upon to

contribute sixpence!

It may be said, those taxes only affect the wealthy, and it is not

their grievances which call so loudly for redress; it is the burdens

imposed on the poor landholders which demand our attention.

We have, in a former Number of this Magazine, see Vol. lv. p. 638,

shown that the rents paid for land in Ireland are at least one-third

less than the rents paid in England; (but were it even otherwise, the

right to dispose of property to the best advantage could not be by law

interfered with.) In that article we stated, that in addition to his

rent, the English occupier is subject by law to the payment of tithes,

which in many instances amount to more than the entire rent imposed on

the Irish tenant; and that by recent enactments, the payment of the

Protestant church has been transferred from the Irish tenantry to the

landlords, nine-tenths of whom are Protestants; that the English

tenant pays _all_ the poor-rates, while the Irish tenant is only

called on to pay the _half_; and that while the former is subject to

county and parochial rates, in addition to turnpikes, which are a

heavy burden, the latter pays only the county cess, the amount of

which depends very much on his own conduct. We cannot, then, discover

that the Irish peasantry are subject to any pecuniary grievances which

legislation has inflicted, or could remove; neither can we perceive

any neglect of their interests evinced by the British Minister or the

Saxon Parliament; but, on the contrary, we see that they have been

specially protected by particular enactments against the payment of

charges to which the occupiers of the other portions of the United

Kingdom are still subject. If the Irish farmers set their faces

against the commission of crime, instead of tacitly, if not openly,

affording protection to the greatest delinquents, it is clear that the

amount of the county cess, _the only tax the tenant pays_, might be

greatly diminished; the constabulary force might be, under more

favourable circumstances, reduced from nine thousand men (its present

strength) to half that number; and if the people abstained from

houghing the cattle or burning the houses of those who are obnoxious

to them, the county rates would not amount to more than one-third of

the sum at present levied. Thus, then, the amount of the only direct

tax the peasantry have to pay, is mainly dependent on the peaceable

condition of the country: if the people be orderly and obedient to the

laws, its amount is reduced; if otherwise, and they have heavy

assessments to pay, to reimburse those they have injured, no one is to

blame for it but themselves. We would, then, ask any candid man, if it

would be possible for any government to act more leniently towards

Ireland as regards taxation? She is exempt from her proportion of the

nine millions levied from the other portions of the United Kingdom;

and many of the local assessments to which her inhabitants are

subject, were, by special enactments, removed from the shoulders of

the occupiers of the soil, and placed on those of the proprietors.

Thus, then, under the head of taxation, no injustice can be said to be

committed.

The extent of the Irish representation, and the laws regulating the

elective franchise, both in the cities and counties, form a prominent

portion of Irish grievances; yet if the efficiency of the

representation is to be judged by the influence which it exercises on

the councils of the empire, or the registration laws be tested by the

results which they have produced, the Irish have little reason to

complain of either. The very exemption from taxation to the amount we

have already stated, proves one of two things--either that the British

minister and British representation are peculiarly partial to the

interests of Ireland, (which would destroy the favourite doctrine of

"English hatred and Saxon oppression;") or that the Irish

representation is powerful enough not only to protect their

constituents from injustice, but to secure them peculiar advantages.

That the amount of representation already enjoyed by Ireland is _at

least_ sufficient for all constitutional purposes, cannot be doubted;

for every one knows that by the Radical portion of it alone, an

administration odious to the people of Great Britain, and rejected by

their representatives, was for years kept in office, and that through

its instrumentality both Whig and Tory ministers have been compelled

to abandon measures which they believed to be beneficial, and which

they brought forward in a spirit of good feeling, and with a desire

to promote the best interests of the country.

In the first Parliament elected under the Reform Bill, and after the

system of registration now complained of came into operation, the

Irish representation consisted of

Liberals, 74

Conservatives, 31

Now, when it is borne in mind, that beyond all question at least

nine-tenths of the landed property of Ireland is possessed by the

Conservative party, and that that party was able to secure to itself

little more than a fourth of the representation, it must be admitted

that numbers told, and that the mass was represented in a ratio beyond

what the constitution contemplates. So far, then, as relates to the

laws regulating the elective franchise, if they are to be judged of by

the results which they produced, the Liberal party have nothing to

complain of, and the Roman Catholics still less; of the Radical

majority, they numbered thirty-five, or nearly one-half; and if

eligible men could be had of their body, or if their leaders wished

it, undoubtedly persons of their profession might have been returned

in every instance in which liberal Protestants were seated. They had

the power to effect this: if they abstained from using it, influenced

either by good taste or motives of prudence, they still have no reason

to complain of the law--it placed the power in their hands; their own

discretion alone restrained its exercise.

The agitators proclaim that their number in Parliament has diminished,

and that they have lost cities and counties, because the constituency

has decreased under the "emaciating influence of the registration

law." It is true the Irish constituency has diminished, and that the

Destructives have lost many places; but the diminution in the

constituency has not been caused by the state of the law--and this

they know full well--but by the disinclination of the respectable

portion of the people to make themselves any longer their tools! Under

the law when first called into operation, the Radicals had an

overwhelming majority. The same men who registered and voted in 1832

and in 1837, are generally still in existence--the same tenures under

which they registered still continue--the same assistant barristers

before whom they registered (or ones more favourable to their

interests) still preside; it is clear, therefore, that if the people

were inclined to claim the franchise, they have only to take the

necessary steps to secure it--but they won't. They were persecuted

between the priests and their landlords--they see the hollowness of

the agitators, who used them for their own purposes, and then left

them to ruin; and, as the surest way to avoid trouble, they don't

register at all; the landlords not having any influence over their

votes, and not wishing to quarrel with them, don't induce them to do

so--and they have hitherto resisted the efforts of the country agents

of the Corn Exchange. What man of sense would put himself upon the

register, when he well knows that any deviation from the path pointed

out to him by the priest, would not only entail curses and

persecutions on himself, but insult and outrage on the innocent

members of his family? Who would establish his right to vote, when he

would be called on to exercise that right with _his grave dug before

his dwelling_, and _the_ DEATH'S HEAD AND CROSS-BONES AFFIXED TO HIS

DOOR!!

The assertions of the agitators, that they have lost ground _because_

the constituencies have been diminished by the operation of the laws

regulating the possession of the elective franchise, is of a piece

with all their other reckless falsehoods; but fortunately it is more

easy of disproof. It does appear by parliamentary returns, that the

Irish constituency has decreased, _on the whole_, in small degree; but

it is rather curious and unfortunate for those truth-loving gentlemen,

that, in every instance in which _they_ have been beaten, the

constituencies have greatly increased, and that they have only

diminished in those counties in which their interest is

all-powerful.[3] For instance, Antrim, in 1832, (when a Liberal was

returned,) had on the register 3487 electors; and, in 1837, when a

Conservative was seated, 4079.[4]

Belfast, in 1832, when two Liberals were returned, had 1650; in 1841,

when two Conservatives were elected, 4334.

Carlow, in 1832, when two Liberals were returned, had 1246; and in

1841, when the Tories beat O'Connell's own son, 1757.

Down had in 1832, when a Liberal was returned, 3130; and in 1837, when

a Tory was substituted, 3305.

Dublin County had in 1832, when two Liberals were returned, 2025; and

in 1841, when two Tories displaced them, 2820.

Dublin City had in 1832, when O'Connell was triumphantly returned,

7008; and in 1841, when he was beaten, 12,290.

Longford had in 1832, when two Liberals were returned, 1294; and in

1841, when one of them was displaced by a Tory, 1388.

Queen's County had in 1832, when one Liberal was returned, 1471; and

in 1835, when two Conservatives were elected, 1673.

Thus we see, by unquestionable proof, that instead of being benefited

by an increase of the constituencies, the cause of the Destructives

has invariably suffered by their enlargement; and yet sure we are,

that most persons on this side the water believe in the truth of the

Liberator's lamentations, and suppose that those patriots who have

been rejected by the votes of the most independent electors and

largest constituencies in Ireland, have lost their seats solely

because the names on the register had been greatly diminished, and the

Liberal portion of the people deprived of their rights, by the

"emaciating influence" of a bad law.

But if there be defects in the registry laws, who are to blame for

their continuance? The "great grievance" connected with them of which

Mr O'Connell complained, was, "that from the ambiguous wording of the

act, some assistant barristers adopted _the solvent tenant test_,"

instead of "_the beneficial interest test_,"[5] which he and those who

acted with him thought to be its legitimate construction. This

unquestionably would make a vast difference to the claimant; and so

thought Sir Robert Peel. He brought in a bill clearly establishing

"the beneficial interest test." And to remedy another objection

founded on the fact of tenants at will in England having the right to

vote, while the Irish law debarred persons similarly circumstanced, he

proposed to give the franchise to all occupiers of certain quantities

of land, merely from the fact of possession;[6] and yet Mr O'Connell

was the first to denounce the measure! The agitators complain of

defects in the law, and the minister agrees to amend them; the

patriots claim for the Irish a full equality in the registration law

granted to England, and more is conceded. When headed by their "august

leader," they denounce the redress of those injustices of which they

complained as "An additional insult," and they raise such a clamour

because what they formerly asked for was about to be granted, that the

minister was compelled to succumb, and the bill was withdrawn.

The next item in the catalogue of grievances is the municipal law.

None has been more frequently or more forcibly dwelt on; its

injustice, and tendency to exclude the "Liberal" inhabitants of the

towns and cities of Ireland from local influence and political power,

form prominent topics in the speeches of every patriot orator. Let us

see with what justice.

It must be admitted that there is considerable Conservative property

and respectability in the Irish corporate towns; and yet what has been

the result of the elections under this municipal law so loudly

declaimed against?--There are thirty-three corporations in Ireland,

all of which, with _one solitary exception_, (that of Belfast,) are

not only Liberal but downright Revolutionary. The number of the

friends of order in the town-councils is so small, that they can

accomplish nothing. Overwhelming majorities have voted addresses to

the "convicted conspirators," and their mayors formed a deputation to

present them, and proceeded in state to the "dungeon of the martyrs;"

and yet this law, which lays the corporations of Ireland at the feet

of O'Connell, forms "one of the greatest oppressions under which his

devoted country groans." He has unlimited influence in all. What more

would he have? what more could any law give him?

Men ought to have a little modesty; but the "Liberator" has gained so

much by reckless assertion that he is justified in persevering in its

practice. He has often said, that "he never knew any statement tell,

or any argument, however powerful, attain the desired end, if only

once repeated;" and on this principle he acts. He repeats and repeats

again, in the teeth of contradiction and disproof, what he wishes to

have believed; and the result shows the wisdom of his proceeding.

Those who contradict soon get tired, while, by perseverance, he is

left in full possession of the field.

It has been said that the Irish Roman Catholics have been debarred, by

the unfair exercise of political patronage, from the attainment of

those offices at the bar and in the administration to which they were

rendered eligible by the Emancipation Act. The Whigs promoted three

Roman Catholics--Mr Shiel, Mr Wyse, and Mr O'Ferrall; these gentlemen

retired with their party, and if Sir Robert Peel offered them place

to-morrow, they would, as a matter of course, refuse it. These are the

only persons of their religion _unpledged_ to "Repeal of the Union" at

present in the House, who would have any claim on the score of

abilities to official station; it surely cannot be expected that a

Conservative minister would give power to men pledged to the

dismemberment of the British empire, and the supporters of a measure

which he has so unequivocally denounced; neither can it be supposed

that any man would be such a fool as to place red-hot Repealers in the

important office of stipendiary magistrate, when the wishes of the

government might be thwarted and the safety of the country compromised

by their partisanship.

The Repealers admit their determination to accomplish the destruction

of "Saxon rule" in Ireland, and at the same time _modestly_ declaim

against the Saxon government, because they will not give them power or

confidential employment, by means of which they might more securely

carry out their intentions. Sir Robert Peel has taken every occasion,

to the great detriment and dissatisfaction of his steadfast

supporters, to give place to such of the Roman Catholic party as were

at all eligible; if the number of such persons be limited, the Roman

Catholics themselves, and not the minister, are to blame.

As to the bar, the list of Roman Catholics was run out before he came

to power. There was no one amongst them whose standing in his

profession would have at all justified the minister in placing him on

the bench; and he had men of his own party, distinguished for their

acquirements, whose interests he could not overlook, whose claims were

recognised even by Mr O'Connell himself, and whose conduct, since

their promotion, has been unimpeachable.

The agitators cannot, in justice, blame him for having recourse to the

Conservative bar, for when in trouble they sought protection from its

ranks themselves. Except Mr Shiel, who was merely employed to make a

speech, and whose legal knowledge was never insisted on by his

friends; and Mr _Precursor_ Pigott, who was retained lest a slur

should be thrown on the Whigs--all the leading lawyers who conducted

the defence in the "monster trial" were Protestants and Conservatives

of the highest order.

But what has this much-abused minister done to conciliate Ireland

since he came to office? He has nearly trebled the grant for national

education, and still continues the system adopted by the Whigs and

patronised by the priests, in opposition to a powerful and influential

portion of his own supporters;--he found a board of charitable

bequests composed altogether of Protestants, and seeing, as he stated,

"that two-thirds of the property they had to administer was Roman

Catholic," he dissolved that board and constituted another, in which

the Roman Catholics have an equality, and may under certain

circumstances have a majority;[7]--he found the mortmain laws in

existence, and he repealed them; now any man who wishes may endow the

Roman Catholic church to any extent he pleases. Yet these last

concessions have been denounced by priests and bishops as an

additional insult, as an unjustifiable and tyrannical interference

with their rights. And why? Because Sir Robert Peel clogged the

measure with the condition, that any testator so leaving property

should have his will made and registered three months before his

death. Because he wishes to protect the interests of the Roman

Catholic laity, by securing them against the interference of the

clergy when their relatives are at the point of death, he stirs the

bile and rouses the indignation of ravenous and pelf-seeking

ecclesiastics. He brought in a bill to remedy what was said to be the

great defect in the registration laws, and it was not his fault that

it was not carried; he proposed to extend the franchise, and he was

denounced for doing so by the advocates of universal suffrage; he has

promoted the formation of railways; he has issued a commission to

enquire into the oppressions said to be perpetrated on their tenantry

by the Irish landlords; and he has subjected Irish absentees to the

payment of the property tax.

Whig promises "in favour of Ireland" were used by Mr O'Connell as

arguments to procure the abatement of the Repeal agitation; although

no man knew better than he did, that if his "base, brutal, and bloody"

friends had even the inclination, they had not the power, to carry out

their intentions. Tory promises of a still more conciliatory nature

are used as a stimulus to its extension; although Mr O'Connell

equally well knows that what Sir Robert Peel promises, his influence

with the English people may probably enable him to accomplish. Ay, but

that is just what the sagacious demagogue wishes to prevent. If his

grievances were removed, the pretence for agitation would be

destroyed. If there be real grievances, and if Mr O'Connell wished to

have then redressed, why not attempt to do so? The ministry are

willing to assist him--the public feeling and the opinion of

Parliament are decidedly in his favour; yet what measures have he or

his followers proposed for the adoption of the legislature? The truth

is, nothing annoys him more than the desire manifested by the premier

and the Parliament to remove all just grounds of complaint, and

therefore it is that he has fixed on "repeal of the union," which he

knows to be impracticable. A man's own interest must be considered,

and "the Liberator" is well aware that, if agitation ceased, the

_twenty thousand a-year_ paid him by the "starving people" as a

recompense for having patriotically rejected an office worth but

_five_, would cease also.

We have alluded to the amount of taxation imposed on Ireland, to prove

that injustice is not perpetrated upon her under that most touching

head;--we have exposed the fictitious grievances, and recounted the

measures passed and promised by Sir Robert Peel, to show how

groundless the complaints of the agitators are, and that if there be

wrongs, there is, on his part, a sincere desire to redress them;--and

we have adverted to the manner in which those beneficent acts and

promises, so favourable to their views and injurious to his

administration, have been received by those who profess to be the

friends, and are the leaders, of the people for whose welfare they are

intended--to convince the British minister and the British people of

the absolute impossibility of satisfying men, whose own selfish

interest lies at the bottom of all their actions, and who fabricate

grievances that, under the pretence of seeking their redress, they may

be afforded opportunities of inculcating treason.

What more is there which can be effected by Parliament which would

better the state of the Irish peasantry, _while_ they suffer

themselves to be made the dupes of every headless demagogue, and while

they, by their own atrocities, drive from amongst them every person

who is willing or able to afford them employment? The existing laws

cannot repress the cruel outrages which they commit. Can an act of

Parliament humanize their minds, or impart mercy to their hearts? The

law cannot fix a maximum for rent; and if it could, it would be only

to increase their turbulence, without any mitigating comforts. Extend

the franchise, it will only enable them to accomplish more political

mischief--for they reject as nothing all measures, however beneficial,

which do not tend to the dismemberment of the empire; endow their

church, and they accuse you of corrupting it; truckle to them, and you

but make them more exacting; coerce them, and you benefit themselves

and save the country.

That Ireland does labour under evils, no man can doubt; but they are

evils which have grown up under an exploded system, which all modern

legislation has tended to remedy, but which no legislation can at once

remove. The education of the people, heretofore altogether neglected,

is now being attended to; but years will have passed before any

favourable change can be effected through its instrumentality; and if

things be suffered to progress as they have lately done, evil instead

of good must result from the enlightenment of the people by means of a

system which imparts knowledge without inculcating religion. If you

extend their information, and still leave them under the political

sway of those who induce the more ignorant by the most monstrous

promises, and compel the more instructed and better disposed by

unchecked intimidation, to follow in their wake, it is clear that you

but endow the demagogues with more power, and render the enemies of

order more capable of effecting their designs. The memorable

expressions of one who was the champion of a people's privileges and

the victim of their ferocity, are most true, that "to inform a people

of their rights before instructing them and making them familiar with

their duties, leads naturally to the abuse of liberty and the

usurpation of individuals; it is like opening a passage for the

torrent before a channel has been prepared to receive, or banks to

direct it."[8]

Yes, Ireland is afflicted by evils, but those evils are created not so

much by the defects of the law, or by the neglect and tyranny of the

better classes, as by the total demoralization of the lower. The Irish

peasant, naturally brave, generous, and faithful, is, by the system

under which he is brought up, rendered cruel, merciless, and

deceitful. There may be, and probably are, hardships inflicted by some

of the landlords; but they are produced in most instances by criminal

and precedent acts on the part of the people. In no country in the

world are the rights of property so ill understood or so recklessly

violated: the industrious man fears to surround his cottage with a

garden, because his fruit and vegetables would be carried off by his

lazy and dishonest neighbours; and he is deterred from growing

turnips, which would add to his wealth, from the certain knowledge

that his utmost care cannot preserve them. Amongst no people on the

face of the earth are the obligations of an oath or the discharge of

the moral duties so utterly disregarded: any man, the greatest

culprit, can find persons to prove an _alibi_; the most atrocious

assassin has but to seek protection to obtain it. Where in the

civilized world, but in Ireland, can you find a "sliding-scale" of

fees for the perpetration of murder?

And why is this so? Because the religious instruction of the people

has been totally neglected; because their priests have become

politicians, and stopping at nothing to accomplish their objects, they

teach the peasantry by private precept and example to disrespect and

disregard those doctrines which they publicly inculcate; because their

bishops, pitchforked from the potatoe-basket to the palace, become

drunk with the incense offered to their vulgar vanity, and the

patronage granted in return for their unprincipled political support,

instead of checking the misconduct of the subordinates, stimulate them

to still further violence,[9] and stop at nothing which can forward

their objects; because the opinions of the people are formed on the

statements and advice of mendicant agitators who have but one object

in view, their own pecuniary aggrandizement; because a rabid and

revolutionary press, concealing its ultimate designs under the

praiseworthy and proper motive of affording protection to the weak,

seeks to overturn all law and order, and pandering to the worst

passions of an ignorant and ferocious populace, goads them, by the

most unfounded and mischievous statements, to the commission of crime,

and then adduces the atrocity of their acts as a proof of the

injustice of their treatment. Every murder is palliated, _because_ it

arises from "the occupation of land." Every brutal assassination is

paraded as "a fact" for Lord Devon, and is recommended to that

nobleman's attention; not that the helpless and unoffending family of

the victim may be afforded redress, but that the executioner of their

parent may obtain commiseration. No matter what the conduct of the

tenant may have been--no matter what arrears of rent he may have

owed--to evict him is a crime, which, in the eyes of those

unprincipled journalists, seems to justify an immediate recourse to

"the wild justice of revenge." The rights of property are said to be

guaranteed by the law--while the exercise of those rights is rendered

impossible by the combination of unprincipled men, and the force of a

_morbid_ public opinion. He who would think it "monstrous" that a

merchant should be debarred from the right of issuing execution

against his creditor, shudders with horror at the idea of a landlord

distraining for his unpaid rent. And the individual who delights in

the metropolitan improvements, and glories in the opening of St

Giles's, though it drive thousands of "the suffering poor" at once and

unrecompensed from their miserable abodes, considers the improvement

of an Irish estate as too dearly purchased, if effected by the

expulsion of one ill-conditioned and remunerated ruffian.

But this morbid public opinion only feels for the lawless, the idle,

and overholding tenant; for the landlord it has no sympathy--_he_ may

be robbed of his rights, he may be unable to educate or support his

family, because he cannot obtain his rents, but his sufferings create

no feeling in his favour; his case forms no fact for Lord Devon. The

accomplished, the well-born, and the good, may be driven from the

homes of their ancestors, and reduced to beggary, because the

dishonest occupiers will neither pay their engagements nor surrender

their lands, and no one laments their fate. The gentleman may be

forced to emigrate, and be sent into exile by his necessities, without

any notice being taken of such an event. But let a tenant who has been

profligate, dishonest, and reduced to poverty by his own misconduct,

be dispossessed of the smallest portion of ground on which he eked out

a wretched existence, and which, if he had it in fee, would not be

sufficient to support his family--let such an one be but dispossessed,

and, even though he be afforded the means of emigrating to countries

where land is plenty and wages remunerative, the "Liberal press" will

teem with "the horrors and the cruelties" of "the Irish system!"

Doubtless it would be most desirable that every man should be

possessed of a sufficiency of land, and that he should (if you will)

have it in fee; but how is this to be accomplished? The Irish

population is too dense to be comfortably supported on the extent of

soil which the country possesses, _without_ the assistance of

manufactures; and the conduct of the people, under the guidance of

their leaders, effectually prevents their establishment. There is but

one way, under existing circumstances, by means of which this happy

state could be produced, and that is by following the example of the

French revolutionists, by cutting the throats or otherwise disposing

of the present proprietors, and then selling to the peasantry at the

moderate prices which were formerly fixed on by the Convention.

The Irish gentleman is held up to public disapprobation because he has

a lawless and pauper tenantry; and if he attempt to improve their

moral and social condition, by removing the worst conducted, and

enlarging the holdings of the others, so as to enable them to live in

comfort, his conduct is considered still more odious, even though he

send the dispossessed at his own expense to those colonies to which

thousands of the best disposed of the people voluntarily emigrate.

What, in God's name, is he to do? While all remain, it is an absolute

impossibility that good can be effected for any. The evil is

sedulously pointed out, and the only practicable remedy is resisted by

the same persons--the friends, "par excellence," of the people!

This moral disorganization, and the total disrespect for the rights of

property by which it is accompanied, creates other evils as its

necessary consequences; it produces hostility and ill feeling between

the higher and the lower classes, augments absenteeism, and deprives

the peasantry of the personal superintendence of those who would

really have their interests at heart, and by whose example they would

be benefited. Nor can we be surprised that any person whose

circumstances enables him to do so should reside out of Ireland; when

we see every man of rank and fortune who relinquishes the pleasures of

the capital, and the enjoyments of society, for the purpose of

settling on his estates, and performing his duties, subjected to the

abuse of every scurrilous priest, and the insults of every penniless

agitator. Landlords naturally wish to reside at home where their

possessions, in a wholesome state of society, would secure them local

influence and respect; but unless the Irish gentleman bows to the

dictates of every local representative of the "august leader," he is

deprived of both, and risks his personal safety into the bargain. No

men profess to lament absenteeism more than the priests and agitators.

But how do they act? They declare against the non-residence of the

proprietors; but their sole object in doing so is to rouse the

feelings of their auditors, and thus prepare them for the performance

of what they wish them to effect. What encouragement do they or their

creatures afford to such as do return? We like facts. The Marquis of

Waterford, a bold and daring sportsman, boundless in his charities,

frank and cordial in his manners, not obnoxious on account of his

politics, and admitted on all hands to be one of the very best

landlords in Ireland--in fact, just such a character as the Irish

would admire--he comes to reside and spend his eighty thousand a-year

in the country, and how is he treated? He gets up a splendid sporting

establishment in Tipperary; _his hounds and horses were twice

poisoned_; and this not being found sufficient to drive him from the

neighbourhood, in which he was affording amusement and spending money,

_his offices were fired_, and his servants with difficulty saved their

lives. Compelled to abandon Tipperary, he betakes himself to his

family mansion in Waterford; and how is he received there? Why, in his

own town and within his hearing, we find the "meek and Christian

priest" addressing his tenants and labourers, the men whom he employs

and supports, after the following fashion:--"Men of Portlan! you were

the leading men who put down the Beresford in '26, (_the marquis's

father_.) I call on you now, having put down one set of tyrants, to

put down another set of tyrants," (_the marquis himself_.)[10] Does

such conduct (and this is but one instance of many which we could

adduce) evince a desire, on the part of the "pastors of the people,"

to encourage the residence of the gentry, or a wish to procure for the

peasantry those blessings which they paint in such glowing terms as

sure to ensue from their landlords living and spending their incomes

amongst them? Much as the priests and agitators declaim against

absenteeism, nothing would be more contrary to their wishes than that

the absentees should return. They have no desire to share their

influence with others; and hence it is that an excuse is always made

for quarrelling with every resident who cannot be made subservient to

their wishes; and while they steadily persevere in their system of

annoyance and offence, they as lustily reiterate their lamentations on

a state of things which their own conduct tends to produce.

That we are justified in attributing the poverty, the misery, and the

crimes of the Roman Catholic peasantry to the constant state of

agitation and excitement in which they are kept by their leaders, and

the bad example set them by their religious instructors, and not to

any pecuniary burdens (legislative or local) imposed upon them, we can

easily prove, by a reference to the condition of that portion of the

Irish people who are not subject to their control or corrupted by

their influence. It is well known that in the province of Ulster land

fetches at least one-third more rent than in either of the other

provinces, although the quality of the soil is by no means so good.

Yet what is the condition of the people? what their habits? what the

appearance of the country in this less favoured district? We shall let

an authority often quoted by Mr O'Connell answer our question.

Mr Kohl[11] tells us, that "the main root of Irish misery is to be

sought in the indolence, levity, extravagance, and want of energy of

the national character." And again, in passing from that portion of

the country where the majority of the inhabitants profess the Roman

Catholic religion, to that in which the great bulk of the population

are Protestants, or Presbyterians, the same writer says--"On the other

side of these miserable hills, whose inhabitants are years before they

can afford to get the holes mended in their potato-kettles--the most

indispensable and important article of furniture in an Irish

cabin--the territory of Leinster ends, and that of Ulster begins. The

coach rattled over the boundary line, and all at once we seemed to

have entered a new world. I am not in the slightest degree

exaggerating when I say, that every thing was as suddenly changed as

if by an enchanter's wand. The dirty cabins by the road-side were

succeeded by neat, pretty, cheerful-looking cottages; regular

plantations, well cultivated fields, pleasant little cottage-gardens,

and shady lines of trees, met the eye on every side. At first I could

scarcely believe my own eyes, and thought that at all events the

change must be merely local and temporary, caused by the better

management of that particular estate. No counter change, however,

appeared; the improvement lasted the whole way to Newry; and, from

Newry to Belfast, every thing continued to show me that I had entered

the country of a totally different people--namely, the district of the

Scottish settlers, the active and industrious Presbyterians."

Nor can we be surprised at the condition of this unhappy country when

we see the Executive looking quietly on, when the public press has

become the apologist of crime, and public sympathy is enlisted on the

side of the evil-doers.

_Four murders_ have, within the last month, been perpetrated in

Tipperary, which were all but justified by the local papers, _because_

they were supposed to have been the acts of tenants dispossessed _for

non-payment of rent_. _They_ excited no horror. A _fifth_ was added to

the bloody catalogue, which roused the indignation of the virtuous

_Vindicator_;[12] and why? _Solely because_ it was the result of a

private quarrel.

_"We own,"_ says this respectable guardian of public morality, "_that

such a system of murderous aggression_ AS THIS, _remote from any of

those agrarian causes which may account for crime, is calculated to

fill every mind with indignation._"[13] Are we not justified in

demanding of the government how long this state of things is to be

permitted to continue? how long the lives and properties of the

respectable and loyal inhabitants of Ireland are to be left at the

mercy and the disposal of a ferocious and bloodstained populace? how

much further open and undisguised treason is to be allowed to proceed?

The Taleian policy will not answer. Mr O'Connell may abandon his

plans, falsify his promises, and break his most solemn engagements--but

there will be no relief; he will still be supported so long as his

agitation is unchecked--so long as the people think that through the

instrumentality of _his_ measures _their_ designs may be accomplished.

And if, after a further period of excitement, after a still increasing

belief in their own ability to attain the avowed object of their

wishes, "the free possession of the land," the peasantry should be

deserted or betrayed by their leaders, the best that could then be

expected would be the horrors of an unsuccessful servile war. Mean time

the enemies of Great Britain are openly apprised of the disaffection of

the Irish people, who but bide their time and wait their opportunity.

SINGULAR PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A RUSSIAN OFFICER.

During a twelvemonth's residence in a continental city, I became

acquainted with a Russian officer, whom I will designate by the name

of Adrian. He was a man still in the prime of life, but who had

endured much sorrow and calamity, which had imparted a tinge of

melancholy to his character, and rendered him apparently indifferent

to most of the enjoyments that men usually seek. He was no longer in

the Russian service, did not appear to be rich, kept two horses, upon

which he used to take long solitary rides, that constituted apparently

his only pleasure. He had seen much of the world, and his life had

evidently been an adventurous one; but he was not communicative on

matters regarding himself, although on general subjects he would

sometimes converse willingly, and when he did so, his conversation was

highly interesting. He was one of those persons with whom it is

difficult to become intimate beyond a certain point; and although I

had reason to believe that he liked me, and for nearly a year we

passed a portion of each day together, he never laid aside a degree of

reserve, or approached in any way to a confidential intercourse.

I was one day reading in my room, when Adrian's servant came in all

haste to summon me to his master, who had been thrown from his horse,

and was not expected to survive the injuries he had received. I

hurried to the hotel, and found my unfortunate friend suffering

greatly, but perfectly calm and collected. Two medical men, who had

been called in, had already informed him that his end was rapidly

approaching. He had appeared little moved by the intelligence. I

approached his bedside; he took my hand, and pressed it kindly. I was

deeply grieved at the sad state in which I found him; but time was too

short to be wasted in expressions of sympathy and sorrow, and I

thought I should better show the regard I really felt for him, by

offering to be of any service in my power with respect to the

arrangement of his affairs, or the execution of such wishes as he

might form.

"My affairs are all in order," he said; "my will, and the address of

my nearest surviving relative, are in yonder writing-desk. I have no

debts, and whatever sum is derived from the sale of my personal

effects, I wish to be given to the hospitals of the town."

He drew a ring, set with an antique cameo, from his finger.

"Accept this," he said to me, "as a slight memorial of our

acquaintance, which has been productive of much pleasure to me."

He paused, exhausted by the exertion he had made to speak. After a few

moments, he resumed. "You have at times seemed to wish to hear

something of my past life," said he, with a faint smile. "Amongst my

papers is a small leathern portfolio, which I give to you, with the

manuscript it contains. These gentlemen," added he, looking at the

physicians, "will bear witness to the bequest."

At this moment the Roman Catholic priest, who had been sent for,

entered the room, and Adrian expressed a wish to be left alone with

him. That same evening he expired.

I had no difficulty in obtaining possession of the portfolio

bequeathed to me. In the papers it contained were recorded a series of

incidents so extraordinary, that I am still in doubt whether to

consider them as having really happened, or as being the invention of

a fantastical and overstrained imagination. I kept the MS. by me for

some time, but have finally resolved to translate and publish it,

merely substituting fictitious names for those set down in the

original. The narrative is in some respects incomplete, but whether in

consequence of Adrian's sudden death, or because no further

circumstances connected with it came to his knowledge, I am of course

unable to say. It is as follows:--

I am by birth a Russian, but my childhood and youth were passed at

Hamburg. Owing to the early age at which I lost my father, my

recollections of him are necessarily but imperfect. I remember him as

a tall handsome man, somewhat careworn, constantly engaged in the

correspondence rendered necessary by his numerous commercial

speculations, and frequently absent from home upon journeys or voyages

of greater or less duration. His life had been an anxious one, and his

success by no means constant; but he still persevered, led on by a

sanguine temperament, to hope for that fortune which had hitherto

constantly eluded his grasp.

It was shortly after my tenth birth-day, and we were anxiously

expecting my father's return from a voyage to the East Indies. Before

his departure he had promised my mother, that if he succeeded in the

objects of this distance expedition, he would retire from business,

and settle down quietly to pass the rest of his days in the country.

The letters received from him led her to believe that the result of

his voyage had been satisfactory, and she was therefore anticipating

his return with double pleasure. At last, one evening news was brought

that the ship in which he had taken his passage was come into port,

and just as my mother and myself were leaving the house to go and

welcome the wanderer, my father made his appearance. I will pass over

the transports of joy with which he was received. So soon as they had

a little subsided, he presented to us, under the name of the Signor

Manucci, a dark fine-looking man, who accompanied him, and whom he had

invited to sup with him. I say with _him_, because, to our great

surprise and disappointment, neither my mother nor myself were

admitted to partake of the meal. Hitherto my father's return from his

voyages had been celebrated as a sort of festival. A large table was

laid out, and our friends came in to welcome him, to ask him

innumerable questions, and tell him all that had occurred during his

absence. On this occasion, however, things were arranged very

differently. My father, instead of joining his family and friends at

supper, caused the meal to be served in a separate room for himself

and the Italian; and long after they had done eating, I could hear

them, as I lay in bed, walking up and down the apartment, and

discoursing earnestly together in a foreign tongue. My bed had been

made for that night upon a sofa in one of the sitting-rooms which

adjoined my father's apartment. My usual sleeping-room was given up to

the stranger, who was to pass the night at our house.

My temperament was naturally a nervous one, and my father's return had

so excited me that I found it impossible to sleep, but lay tossing

about till long after every body in the house had apparently retired

to rest. The strong smell of sea-water proceeding from my father's

cloak, which was lying on a chair near my bed, perhaps also

contributed to keep me awake; and when I at last began to doze, I

fancied myself on board ship, and every thing around me seemed

tumbling and rolling about as in a storm. After lying for some time in

this dreamy state, I at last fell into an uneasy feverish slumber. For

long after that night, I was unable to decide whether what then

occurred was a frightful dream or a still more frightful reality. It

was only by connecting subsequent circumstances and discoveries with

my indistinct recollections, that some years afterwards I became

convinced of the reality of what I that night witnessed.

I had scarcely fallen asleep, as it seemed to me, when I was awakened

by the creaking of the door leading into my father's room. It was

hastily opened, and the stranger appeared, bearing a lamp in his hand,

and apparently much agitated. He walked several times up and down both

rooms, as if one had been too small for him in his then excited state.

At last he began to speak to himself in broken sentences, some of

which reached my ear. "I leave to-morrow," he said; "when I return,

all will be over--all--the fool!" Then he took another turn through

the room, and paused suddenly before a large mirror. "Do I look like a

murderer?" he exclaimed wildly, and with a ghastly rolling of his

eyes. Then suddenly tearing off a black wig and whiskers which he

wore, he stood before me an old and greyheaded man. At this moment he

for the first time noticed my temporary bed.

"Ha!" he muttered, with a start, "how imprudent!" He immediately

replaced his wig, and with noiseless steps approached my couch.

Terrified as I was, I had yet sufficient presence of mind to

counterfeit sleep; and the stranger, after standing a minute or two

beside me, went softly into my father's room, the door of which he

shut behind him.

When I awoke the next morning, and thought of this strange incident,

it assumed so vague and indefinite a form, that I set it down as the

illusion of a dream. Every thing was as usual in the house; my father,

it is true, seemed thoughtful and grave, but that was nothing uncommon

with him. He spoke kindly to me, and apologised to my mother for his

seclusion of the preceding evening; but said that he had been

compelled to discuss matters of the greatest importance with the

Signor Manucci, who was then sitting beside him at breakfast. My

mother was too delighted at her husband's return to be very

implacable; and if the evening had been clouded by disappointment, our

morning meal was, to make amends, a picture of harmony and perfect

happiness.

About noon, Manucci took an affectionate leave of my father, and

departed; not, however, till he had promised that he would shortly

renew his visit. The day passed without incident. My father had

planned an excursion into the country for the following morning, to

visit an old friend who resided a few leagues from Hamburg. I was

awakened at an early hour, in order to get ready to accompany him and

my mother. I hastily dressed myself, and went down into the parlour.

What was my surprise, when on entering the room I saw my father lying

pale and suffering upon a sofa, while my mother was sitting beside him

in tears, anxiously awaiting the arrival of a physician who had been

sent for, and who presently made his appearance. He felt my father's

pulse, enquired the symptoms, and finally pronounced him to be in a

state of considerable danger. Each successive half hour increased the

sick man's sufferings, and before the afternoon he was speechless.

In sadness and anxiety we were surrounding my father's couch, when

suddenly a carriage stopped at the house door, and the next instant

Manucci entered the apartment. He expressed the utmost grief and

sympathy upon learning my father's illness, sat down beside the dying

man, for such he now was, and took his hand. My father beckoned his

friend to stoop down, that he might whisper something to him; but

although his lips moved, an inarticulate muttering was all that he

could utter. He then, with an expression of almost despairing grief

upon his countenance, took my hand and that of Manucci, joined them

together in his, which were already damp and chill with the approach

of death, and pressed them to his heart with a deep sigh. The next

instant there was a convulsive movement of his limbs--a rattle in his

throat. My father was dead.

I shall never forget that moment. It was with some difficulty that

Manucci and myself withdrew our hands from those of my father, which

clutched them tightly in the agony of death. It was the first corpse I

had ever looked upon, and although of a parent whom I dearly loved, I

yet recoiled from it with an irrepressible shudder. The stranger, too,

inspired me with an invincible repugnance. I could not forget my

dream, or vision, or whatever it was, when I had seen him changed into

a grey repulsive-looking old man, and the mysterious words--"Do I look

like a murderer?" rang ever in my ears.

My mother's grief at her sudden bereavement was boundless. She was

incapable of arranging or ordering any thing; and as my tender years

prevented me from being of any use, Manucci took upon himself the

management of every thing. Through his exertions, the arrangements for

the funeral were rapidly completed; and I followed to the grave the

body of my unfortunate father, who had died, so said the doctor, of a

stroke of apoplexy. Child as I was, I was greatly struck by the

coincidence between this sudden death, and the singular dream I had

had not forty-eight hours previous to it. I said nothing, however;

for I feared Manucci, and should not have thought my life safe had he

heard that I related my dream to any one. In after years, when I was

better able to form a judgment on these matters, I thought it useless

to renew the grief of my poor mother, then becoming old and infirm, by

a communication of what I had witnessed on that memorable night, or by

inspiring her with doubts as to the real cause of her husband's death.

Meanwhile Manucci busied himself in the arrangement of my father's

affairs, concerning which he appeared perfectly well informed. In the

course of their liquidation, he became acquainted with many of the

chief people in Hamburg, who all spoke very highly of his talents, and

seemed captivated by his agreeable conversation and varied

acquirements. In an incredibly short time he had made himself numerous

friends, who courted his society and invited him to their houses.

Nobody knew any thing more of him than what he himself chose to say,

which was very little. It was rumoured, however, that he belonged to a

religious fraternity--but whether of the Jesuits, or some other order,

no one knew, nor was it possible to trace the origin of the report.

Manucci himself, the object of all these conjectures, seemed perfectly

unconscious of, or indifferent to them. He took a house at a short

distance from the town, close to a small country residence to which my

mother had retired; and in conformity with my father's last and mutely

expressed wish, showed a most friendly disposition towards me,

interesting himself in my studies, and to a certain extent

superintending my education. He visited us very frequently, and

gradually I became accustomed to his presence, and my aversion to him

diminished. The remembrance of my dream grew fainter and fainter, and

the guilty agitation and strange appearance of Manucci on the night of

his arrival at Hamburg, lost the sharp distinctness of outline with

which they had at first been engraved upon my memory. I regarded all

that I had seen that night as a dream, and nothing more.

The house inhabited by Manucci was of handsome exterior, and situated

in the middle of a large garden. The door was rarely opened to

visitors, and, besides the Italian, an old servant-maid was its only

inmate. I myself was never admitted within its walls till I had

attained my seventeenth year; but when I was, the curious arrangements

of the dwelling made a strong impression upon my fancy. The whole of

the ground floor was one large hall, of which the ceiling was

supported by pillars, and whence a staircase led to three apartments,

one used as a sitting-room, another as bed-chamber, and the third,

which was kept constantly shut, as a study. The sitting-room, instead

of doors, had green silk curtains in the doorways. Eight chandeliers

were fixed in pairs upon the wall, and between them were four black

marble tablets, on which were engraved in golden letters, the

words:--Watch! Pray! Labour! Love! In a recess was a sort of altar,

above which was suspended a valuable painting from the hand of one of

the old masters. Behind a folding screen in the sleeping-room, stood

the bed, which was surrounded by sabres, daggers, stilettoes, and

pistols of various calibre; and from this room a strong door, clenched

and bound with iron, led into the study, the interior of which I never

saw. Altogether, the house made such a strange and unpleasant

impression upon me, that I felt no wish to repeat my visit.

Manucci had now been residing seven years amongst us, leading a

peaceful and quiet life, a frequent visitor at our house, well looked

upon and liked by all who knew him. Although there was certainly a

degree of mystery attaching to him, yet no one was suspicious of him,

nor had the voice of scandal ever been lifted up to his prejudice. He

was friendly and attentive to my mother, kind to me, courteous to

every one, seemed perfectly contented with his mode of life, and never

talked of changing it. Our astonishment was consequently so much the

greater, when one morning we learnt his sudden disappearance from the

neighbourhood. Enquiries were made in every direction, but none had

seen him depart. His shrivelled old housekeeper was also nowhere to be

found.

It was within a few weeks after this strange disappearance, that I

obtained the first insight into the character of the mysterious

Italian. After my father's death, and the winding up of his affairs,

his papers and letters had been put in boxes and locked up in a

closet. I one day took it into my head to rummage these papers. There

were vast numbers of bills of lading and exchange, insurance papers

and the like, all matters of no interest to me; but at last, upon

untying a bundle of miscellaneous documents, a small packet fell out

which seemed likely to reward my search. It consisted of fragments of

letters, much damaged by fire, and which, to judge from the size of

the half-burned envelope that contained them, and that had apparently

been originally used for a much larger parcel, probably formed only a

small part of a collection of letters that had been accidentally or

intentionally destroyed by the flames.

Here are some of these fragments of letters.

"... The society of a man whose acquaintance I have made since my

arrival here, becomes each day more agreeable to me. He has seen

a vast deal of the world, and his mind is stored with the most

varied knowledge, to such a degree that it sometimes appears to

me as if the longest life would be insufficient to acquire all

that he has learned. Our acquaintance was made in an odd place

enough--a gambling-house, to which I had gone as a matter of

curiosity. He was sitting away from the tables, and addressed

some trifling remark to me, to which I replied. He then, as if he

had known who and what I was, began talking of the commerce in

which I am engaged, and displayed an intimate acquaintance with

mercantile affairs. Our conversation had already become animated

and interesting, when it was interrupted by a noise and bustle in

the play-room; and several persons came up to my new

acquaintance, and congratulated him. It appeared that he had

staked sum equivalent to the whole amount there was in the bank,

and it was while the game was being played that we had entered

into conversation. He now went to the table, and received his

winnings from the disconcerted bankers with an appearance of

perfect indifference, returning them at the same time, a handsome

sum--that they might have, as he said, a chance of recovering

what he had won from them! Then, after giving me his address, and

inviting me to call on him, he left the house" ...

"... The diamonds ... enormous value ... excellent bargain ...

twenty thousand pounds sterling" ...

(This letter had been nearly destroyed by the fire.)

"... It is some days since I have seen my new friend, although

his agreeable conversation and manners render his society more

pleasing to me at every interview. I am embarrassed about this

purchase of diamonds, which I an very desirous of making, but

find myself without sufficient funds for the purpose. If M----

would join me in the speculation, his recent winnings would be

more than is wanted to make up the deficiency. I must propose it

to him ...

"... I have just returned from a visit to M----. It appears that

he is an Italian by birth, although speaking several languages as

well as a native, and that he is travelling for the affairs of an

important association of which he is a member. He has travelled a

great deal in Germany, and will probably return thither shortly.

To-day he told me that he was glad to have won the large sum to

which I alluded in a former letter; that he had much need of it

for a great object he had in view, but for which he was still

afraid it would scarcely suffice. Upon hearing this, I resolved

to say nothing to him about the partnership in the diamond

speculation ...

"... It is impossible for me to describe to you the fascination

which this man exercises over me. You know that I do not usually

exaggerate, although inclined to the mystical and romantic. I

have lived too little on land, however, for any ideas of that

nature to have taken much hold upon my mind. At sea, the movement

of the winds and waves, the unintermitting intercourse with one's

fellow-men--the whole life of a mariner, in short, leaves little

leisure for such fancies. But here, in this tropical clime, where

the heavens are of so deep a blue, and the leaves of so bright a

green, where the imagination is worked upon by Oriental scenery

and magnificence, and the very air one breathes is laden with

perfumes from the flower-fields and spice-groves of Araby the

Blest, here is the land of fiction and reverie, and here I at

times think that my new and most agreeable friend has laid me

under a spell equally pleasant and potent in its effects--a spell

from which I have neither wish nor ability to emancipate myself.

Yet why should I wish to escape an influence exercised only for

my good, and by which I must benefit? My greatest happiness is in

the friendship of this man, my greatest trust and reliance are in

his counsels. Stern is he, bold, almost rash in his actions, but

ever successful; and when he has an end to gain, nothing can

withstand him, no obstacle bar him from its attainment....

"... in the kindest manner lent me the sum I wanted to complete

the purchase-money of the diamonds, but obstinately refuses to

share the profits which, on my return to Europe, are sure to

accrue from this speculation. What generosity! M----is assuredly

the most disinterested and the truest of friends. We are becoming

each day more attached to each other. He has formed a project to

come and settle near Hamburg, and there we shall pass the rest of

our days together. He is a most singular and interesting person.

I shall weary you, perhaps, by all these details; but every thing

that relates to him interests me. Only think, the other day I

found in a cabinet in his apartment, a mask, which he told me he

had himself made. I never saw such a masterpiece. It was of wax,

imitating perfectly a human countenance, of an expression

eminently attractive, although sad. He was not in the room when I

found it, in seeking for a book he had promised to lend me. He

came in when I had just taken it out of the drawer in which it

was, and an angry exclamation" ...

These disjointed but significant fragments were all of any interest

that the flames had spared. From them, however, I acquired a moral

certainty that Manucci was my father's murderer. In order to obtain

possession of the diamonds, of which no trace had been found after my

father's death, the perfidious Italian had doubtless administered to

him some deadly poison. This must have been so skilfully prepared as

not to take effect till the murderer had left the house a sufficiently

long time to prevent any risk of suspicion attaching to him.

Burning to avenge my unfortunate parent, I now set to work with the

utmost energy to discover what had become of Manucci. I caused

enquiries to be made in every direction, and resorted to every means I

could devise to find out the assassin; but for a long time all was in

vain. It was not till several years after my mother's death that we

again met--a meeting which, like our first, was to me fraught with

bitter sorrow.

I had been for some time in the Russian service, and the regiment to

which I belonged was quartered at a village a few leagues from Warsaw.

At the period I speak of, a country house in the neighbourhood of the

village belonged to, and was occupied by, General Count Gutzkoff, a

nobleman of ancient descent and great wealth, and who had an only

daughter called Natalie, the perfection of feminine grace and beauty.

The villa had been christened Natalina, after his daughter, and no

expense had been spared to render it and the grounds attached to it

worthy of their lovely sponsor. Amongst other embellishments, a large

portion of the park had been laid out in miniature imitation of Swiss

scenery, with chalets, and waterfalls, and artificial mountains, that

must have taken a vast time and labour to construct. There was an

excellent house in this part of the grounds, inhabited by a sort of

intendant or steward, and in this house rooms were assigned to me, I

having been quartered upon General Gutzkoff. I had thus many

opportunities of seeing Natalie, whose charms soon inspired me with a

passion which, to my inexpressible joy, I after a time found to be

reciprocated by her. I am not writing a romance, but a plain

narrative of some of the strangest incidents in my life; I will,

therefore, pass over the rise and progress of our attachment, of the

existence of which the general at length became aware. He was a proud

and ambitious man, and my small fortune and lieutenant's epaulette by

no means qualified me in his eyes to become his son-in-law. Natalie

was threatened with a convent, and I was requested to discontinue my

visits to the house. About the same time, I heard it rumoured that a

rich cousin, then stopping with the general, was the intended husband

of the young countess.

For some days I found it impossible to obtain a meeting with Natalie,

although I put every stratagem in practice, and sought every

opportunity of meeting her in her walks. After the general's positive,

although courteous prohibition, I of course could not think of

returning to his house. It was therefore with much anxiety that I

looked forward to a ball which was to be given by a rich old Smyrniot,

who lived at Warsaw. He was acquainted with the officers of my

regiment, and to console us, as he said, for the dulness of our

country quarters, he proposed to give a fete sufficiently splendid to

attract the ladies of the capital to the village where we were

stationed. He was intimate with General Gutzkoff, who lent him for the

occasion the part of his domain called the Swiss park, and there the

fete was to be held. I made sure of meeting Natalie there, and perhaps

even of finding an opportunity of speaking to her unobserved by her

father.

The much wished-for evening came, and a numerous and brilliant company

was assembled in the gardens. The long alleys of trees were rendered

light as day by a profusion of lamps, of which the globes of painted

crystal were suspended by wires from tree to tree, and appeared to

float unsupported upon the air. Under two large pavilions of various

colours, flooring had been laid down, and chalked in fanciful devices.

These were for the dancers. Several bands of music were placed in

different parts of the grounds; and in the various cottages and Swiss

dairies tables were laid out, covered with the most exquisite

refreshments and delicate wines. On either side of the principal

fountains were transparencies, with emblems and mottoes complimentary

to the guests and to the noble owner of the park; and, finally, that

nothing might be wanting to the gratification of every taste, a

crimson tent, richly decorated, contained a faro-table, upon which a

large bank in gold was placed. Crowds of officers, and of beautiful

women splendidly attired, thronged the dancing rooms or rambled

through the illuminated walks. Natalie was there, but accompanied by

her father and cousin, so that I could not venture to accost her. She

looked sad, I thought, but more lovely than ever; and when at last she

sat down in one of the summer-houses, I approached as near as I could

without being myself seen, in order at least to have the pleasure of

gazing on her sweet countenance. I was leaning against a tree, cursing

the cruel fate that separated me from the object of my love, when one

of my comrades came up and asked me if I would not go to the

faro-room. There was a man there, he said playing with the most

wonderful luck that had ever been seen. He had already broken two

banks, and seemed likely to do the same with a third that had been put

down. I was in no humour to take interest in such matters, and should

have declined my brother officer's invitation, had I not just then

seen Natalie and her companions get up and take the direction of the

gambling tent. I followed with my friend. The play that was going on

had, however, no attraction for me; I had no eyes for any one but

Natalie, and was almost unaware of what was passing around me. After

standing for a short time near the table, the general turned aside to

talk with the colonel of my regiment, and his cousin went to speak

with some ladies who had just entered. The moment was favourable for

exchanging a few words with Natalie. I was about to approach her, when

there was a sudden bustle and loud exclamations round the table.

"See there!" exclaimed my comrade, "he has won again."

I glanced hastily at the fortunate player, and then started back

petrified by surprise. It was Manucci.

My first impulse upon beholding the man whom I had been so long

seeking, and whom I held for my father's murderer, was instantly to

seize him and tax him with his crime. An instant's reflection,

however, suggested to me the impropriety of such a course. What

evidence had I to offer before a court of law in support of my

accusation? The tale I had to tell was far too extraordinary a one to

be believed on the unsupported testimony of an accuser. This man

seemed well known to several of the guests who stood near him; he wore

the decorations of two or three foreign orders, and appeared to be a

person of some mark. Might I not even be deceived by a strong

resemblance? At any rate, it was sufficient if I kept him in sight

till I had an opportunity of making enquiries concerning him. If it

were Manucci, I was determined he should not escape me.

I was still gazing hard at the stranger, and becoming each moment more

and more convinced of his identity with Manucci, when, to my great

surprise, I saw him leave the table and approach Natalie. She seemed

to know him; they exchanged a few sentences, and then, passing through

a door, they left the tent together. I hurried after them as fast as

the crowd of persons through which I had to make my way would allow

me. On getting out of the tent I saw no signs either of Natalie or the

stranger. They could not be far--they must have turned down one of the

numerous sidepaths; and I darted in quest of them down the first I

came to. I had run and walked over nearly half the grounds without

finding them, when I met the general and his cousin, who, with looks

of some suspicion, asked me if I had seen Natalie. I told them with

whom I had last seen her; but my description of the stranger, although

minute and accurate, did not enable the general to recognise in him

any one of his acquaintance; and separating, we resumed our search in

different directions with increased anxiety and redoubled care.

While thus engaged, loud cries were suddenly heard proceeding from the

upper floor of one of the chalets or ornamental cottages near which I

was then passing, and of which the lower part only was used for the

purposes of the fete. I hastened thither, rushed up the staircase,

and, in so doing, ran against an officer who was carrying down Natalie

in his arms. She was senseless. At that moment her father arrived and

took charge of her. Above stairs, all was confusion and alarm, and a

number of the guests were seeking the villain who had dared to insult

or ill-treat the young countess. But he was nowhere to be found, and

it was supposed that he had jumped out of the window, and, favoured by

the darkness, had made his escape. Natalie, when she recovered from

her swoon, was still too weak and too terrified to give any

explanation concerning the matter. She was conveyed to her father's

house, the fete was broken up, and the guests took their departure. My

brother officers and myself mounted our horses, and rode in every

direction to endeavour to find the offender. All our researches,

however, were fruitless.

Strange to say, this singular incident excited much less attention,

and was much more rapidly forgotten, than could possibly have been

expected, especially when the rank and importance of the offended

party were considered. After the first day, few efforts seemed to be

made for the discovery of the stranger except by myself; and all that

I did towards that end was unsuccessful. The murderer of my father,

the spoiler of my inheritance, the vile insulter of the woman I loved,

had for this time eluded my vengeance.

About a fortnight after the fete, it became publicly rumoured that any

project of marriage which might have been contemplated by General

Gutzkoff between his daughter and her cousin, was at an end, and that

Natalie was to take the veil. It was known that, before the death of

the late countess, who was an exceedingly religious woman, it had been

in agitation to devote Natalie to a religious life; but when the

general became a widower, nothing more had been heard of the plan. It

now almost seemed as if its revival and contemplated execution were

in some way consequent on the strange incident at the ball. The

matter, however, was far too delicate for any one to question

concerning it those who alone could have given information. At the

appointed time Natalie entered as novice a convent of Ursulines,

situated at about a league from her father's villa.

The first news of this event was a terrible shock to me. In spite of

the small favour with which the general regarded my attachment to his

daughter, I had still hoped that time or circumstances might bring

about some change in his sentiments. But the cloister opposed a yet

stronger bar to my wishes than the will of a parent, and the vows once

pronounced, which at the end of one short year Natalie would have to

utter, I might bid farewell to hope. Our separation would then be

irrevocable and eternal in this world. It was necessary, therefore, to

make the best use of the short space of her noviciate, in order to put

in execution one of the numerous plans which I devised for freeing her

from the state of holy bondage which I was certain she had only

through compulsion been induced to enter. Day and night I hovered

about the convent, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Natalie, or of

finding an opportunity of giving her a letter, in which I strenuously

urged her to accept a plan of escape that I proposed to her. At last

an opportunity occurred. She was walking in the convent garden with

another novice, who left her for an instant to gather some flowers. I

was watching all their movements, and at this moment I threw my letter

at Natalie's feet. She took it up, retired into a shrubbery walk to

read it, and presently returned.

"To-morrow," said she, "the answer--here."

With what anxious impatience did I look forward to her reply, and with

what despairing feelings did it fill me when I received it! In it

Natalie spoke of her approaching death as of an event of the

occurrence of which she was thoroughly persuaded, and besought me to

give up all hopes of again seeing her.

At this period of the year the nuns of the Ursuline convent inhabited

their summer cells, which were a row of buildings situated in the

convent garden. Natalie had the last cell, which was separated by

several empty ones from those of the other sisters. It was on the

second day after I received her letter that the nuns were surprised by

her not opening her door at the usual hour. They waited some time for

her appearance, but in vain. They knocked; there was no answer. At

last the door was forced open and Natalie was found lying dead upon

the floor of the cell. She had evidently been dragged out of bed with

great violence; her features were distorted with pain and struggling,

and in her left breast was a wound which had been the cause of her

death. The murderer had broken in through the roof of the cell.

The news of this horrible occurrence flew with lightning swiftness

through the neighbourhood and to Warsaw. Nobody doubted that there was

some connexion between the crime and the singular occurrence at the

ball, although it was impossible to say what that connexion was. Every

attempt to discover and apprehend the murderer proved unavailing.

In order to see Natalie for the last time, I repaired to the convent

church, in which, according to custom, her corpse was laid out. With

faltering and uncertain steps I passed through the aisle, and reached

the chapel where the remains of her I had so fondly loved were lying.

I stepped up to the bier, but the next instant turned away my face. I

lacked courage to look upon the cold corpse of my adored mistress. A

violent dizziness seized me, the pillars around me seemed to turn and

twist about, and the roof of the church to shake. I sank senseless

upon a chair.

How long I may have remained in that state I am unable to say. It was

night when consciousness returned, and the moon was shedding its cold,

clear light through the high Gothic windows. I felt heated and

excited; all manner of strange fancies passed through my head, the

predominant one being to go at once and wander about the world, till I

should discover the fiend to whom the misery I now suffered was

attributable. Before doing so, however, I must see my Natalie once

more. I stepped up to the coffin. Natalie lay there in her nun's

garments, a crucifix upon her breast, and a veil surrounding her face,

which, to my inexpressible astonishment and horror, I now saw was

covered with a mask.

I was at first unable to explain this singular circumstance, but then

it occurred to me that her lovely features had been said to be much

distorted in death, and doubtless her friends had taken this means of

concealing them from the gaze of vulgar curiosity. I would see her

though, I thought; I would kiss those lips, once so warm and

love-breathing, now so pale and chilled. The better if, in her

death-like embrace, I found an end to my life and suffering. I

stretched out my hand to detach the mask, which was by no means

unpleasing in its appearance. It reminded me of the one spoken of by

my father in one of his letters; and as I stood looking at it, I

little by little persuaded myself it must be the same. The lips curved

into a mournful smile, an attractive expression on the features; only

the sockets for the eyes were empty, and through them shone the glazed

orbs of the departed.

Whilst given up to these reflections, I suddenly heard a slight

rustling noise near me. I looked round, and saw a muffled figure

sitting at a short distance off, in which I thought I recognized some

old nun keeping her drowsy vigil by the dead. I took no heed of her,

but stretched out my hand to tear the mask from Natalie's face, when

suddenly the figure rose, and with three long, noiseless strides,

stood close beside me. The robe in which it was muffled opened, and I

beheld--Manucci! not the Manucci I had seen at the faro-table, nor yet

he who had lived for years near my mother's house, but the grey old

man who had appeared to me on the night of my father's arrival, and

had said, "Do I look like a murderer?"

"Thou here, villain!" I exclaimed, on beholding this unexpected

apparition. "The hand of heaven is in this!"

I stretched forth my arm to seize the murderer, who thus braved me

beside the corpse of his last victim; but as I did so I experienced a

strange stunning sensation, and fell, as though struck by a

thunderbolt, lifeless to the ground. The first persons who entered the

church upon the following morning found me in this state, and carried

me to the nearest house, where I lay for weeks in a raging fever,

during which time Natalie was buried, and the flowers that sprang up

on her grave were withered by the frosts and snows of winter. When I

at last became convalescent, and re-appeared amongst men, Natalie was

forgotten; and the strange circumstances that had occurred to me in

the church would have obtained no credence, or at most would have been

considered as the precursors of fever, the visions resulting from a

heated imagination and exhausted frame. Indeed my memory was in so

confused a state, and the weeks I had passed in the unconsciousness of

delirium, caused every thing that had previously happened to appear so

remote and indistinct, that I was myself almost unable to give any

clear and definite form to the occurrences that preceded my illness.

My health was greatly shaken, and I was no longer equal to any

occupation that required sustained exertion and application. I

resigned my commission, therefore, and formed a plan to divide my life

amongst the various large cities of Europe, changing from time to

time, and constantly endeavouring to seize again the thread that had

escaped me, and if possible to discover and unmask the vile impostor

who had destroyed my life's happiness. I may, perhaps, some day write

down the various and strange adventures that I have met with during

these researches, and in my wandering course of life. In this

portfolio, however, I will put nothing but what relates to any further

discoveries I may make concerning the base Italian and his

machinations.

* * * * *

Here Adrian's manuscript ended; but between the two following blank

leaves I found a letter dated from St Petersburg, written in a

different hand, and that seemed to form a sort of appendix or

continuation to the preceding narrative. This letter, from the

different dates scattered through it, appeared to have been continued

from time to time, several weeks elapsing between its commencement and

the period at which it was sent off. The envelope was wanting, and

there was no address; but, from its contents, it appeared that it had

not been written to Adrian, but to a friend of his who had handed it

to him. At the end came a dozen lines in Adrian's handwriting, leaving

off somewhat abruptly. Here follows the letter:--

_St Petersburg, 12th June._

My dear Augustus,--Of all the wealthy and distinguished

foreigners whom this gay season has brought together in St

Petersburg, not any attract so much attention as the Marchese

d'Emiliano and his daughter. The father is as remarkable for his

learning and talents as the daughter is for her innumerable

graces and accomplishments, which draw all eyes upon her. She has

only one extraordinary peculiarity, which is--but stay, I will

first describe her to you, so that this singularity, when I tell

you of it, may appear the more striking. Picture to yourself a

brunette, slender and perfectly formed, possessing the exact and

beautiful proportions of a Grecian statue--a foot smaller and

better shaped than I ever yet beheld--an exquisite hand, slender

and tapering, not one of those short fleshy hands with dimpled

fingers, which it is now the fashion to admire, but for which no

precedent is to be found in the Medicean goddess or in any other

standard of beauty. A magnificent bust, an arm like alabaster, a

profusion of dark flowing hair, grace in every movement. But--now

comes the wonder, my friend--instead of a face corresponding in

beauty with this perfect form, there is--a mask. Can you imagine

a greater absurdity? and yet they are people who, in every other

respect, show extreme good taste.

From the lips of this mask proceeds a voice which, for melody and

sweetness, I have never heard equaled. In speaking, its tones are

of silver, but when she sings one forgets mask and every thing

else to give one's-self up to an ecstacy of perfect enjoyment.

She knows a vast deal of Italian, French, and Spanish music,

languages that she speaks with the utmost purity, and she

accompanies herself alternately on piano, guitar, or mandoline,

of which instruments she is a perfect mistress. Her dancing is no

less admirable than her singing; and, at every ball to which she

goes, crowds collect around her to watch the sylph-like grace

with which she glides through the dance. In short, she unites

every womanly accomplishment, and yet this heavenly creature

persists in concealing her face under that vile mask, which fits

so closely that not the smallest portion of her countenance can

be perceived. However hideous the latter may be, it would be

preferable to this horrid covering. Not that the mask is ugly; on

the contrary, it is the handsomest I ever saw, and in itself has

nothing disagreeable. It is formed of wax, and has a mournful

expression which is quite attractive, at least when its owner

sits still; but when she moves or speaks, the dead look of the

mask has an indescribably unpleasant effect. Several persons have

indirectly questioned the Marchese on this subject, but he evades

or turns off their enquiries with all the tact of a consummate

man of the world. Of course it would be indelicate, if not

unfeeling, to ask her about it. Meantime the public amuses itself

with all sorts of absurd suppositions. First it is a vow; then

she has got a pig's face; then her waiting-maid had said that she

had once caught her unmasked, and that her face was covered with

feathers and had a beak in the middle of it. Then, again, it is a

stratagem, to try the man whom she shall marry, and to see if he

will love her for something besides her appearance, and on her

wedding-day she will take off the mask and disclose features of

perfect beauty. All this is of course mere gossip; for nobody

knows any thing about these Italians, except that the Marchese is

enormously rich, and that his daughter, in spite of her mask, is

the most amiable and fascinating of women. Amongst other

absurdities, a report was spread that the marquis was no other

than the celebrated St Germains, who, as is well known, was

himself no other than the Wandering Jew. It is ridiculous to hear

the extraordinary things they tell of him. Only the other day it

was asserted that he had been met in a distant country, where he

passed under another name, and was remarkable for his constant

and almost suspicious success in gambling. I should be very

curious to trace all these reports to their source. Their

inventors can at least have no lack of imagination. The fact is,

that there is unquestionably something strange and mysterious

about the old man--but what does it amount to after all? He is an

old Italian marquis, his foreign manners and appearance, and

imposing title, work upon the imagination of us northerns, and at

once make us suspect an adventurer in this worthy old nobleman.

The mere presence of Natalie (that is his daughter's name) is

sufficient to refute such a suspicion. She is the incarnation of

all that is pure and beautiful; and I confess to you, my friend,

that I am each day becoming more and more the slave of her

attractions. If in society she exhibits her varied

accomplishments, on the other hand, when we are alone, she is the

simple and unsophisticated girl. During our _tete-a-tetes_,

however, it has not escaped me that she is frequently melancholy;

a something seems at times to weigh upon her spirits; and,

although she evidently struggles to hide this, she has been

unable to conceal it from my close and interested observation.

Yes, my friend, interested, for deeply interested I am in all

that concerns Natalie; and, I own to you, that in spite of her

mask, in spite of the mystery that surrounds her, nothing would

make me so happy as to call her mine.

_27th June._--A week ago it was Natalie's birth-day. She had felt

herself somewhat indisposed, and had begged the Marchese not to

invite any guests. Nevertheless, when I called to offer my good

wishes on the occasion, they kept me there till evening. We then

walked out in the garden--Natalie and myself, that is to say--and

sat down upon a rustic seat, amidst a cluster of flowering shrubs

that perfumed the air around us. I know not of what we spoke,

but, after a short time, I found myself with my arm round

Natalie's waist, her hand clasped in mine, her mask--alas! that I

cannot say her face--resting upon my shoulder. It was one of

those sweet moments with which past and future have nought to do,

but during which one lives upon the present. Gradually my lips

drew nearer and nearer to her waxen ones, but, half-jesting, she

turned her head away. I became more persevering, and without

saying any thing to her I raised my arm gently till my hand

touched her hair, amongst which the fastenings of the mask were

apparently concealed. In another moment the mystery would be

solved, and I should gaze doubtless on the most lovely

countenance that ever blessed a lover's sight. At that very

instant she uttered a sort of shriek, and sprang from my embrace.

In vain did I entreat and supplicate her to suffer me to remove

that envious mask. She was inexorable, and just then, attracted

perhaps by Natalie's cry, the Marchese appeared.

"What!" said he in a distant and somewhat angry tone and manner,

"nearly midnight, and you are still here?"

The time had indeed passed rapidly. The hint was too direct for

me to do otherwise than apologize and depart.

Since that evening they have treated me with some coolness, nor

can I wonder at it. My constant visits to their house have become

the talk of all St Petersburg; and it is evident that I must

either declare myself the suitor of Natalie or avoid her

altogether. Avoid her! How can I do it? Do not blame me,

Augustus, when I tell you that I have decided to go this day to

the Marquis and ask his daughter's hand. Rank, fortune, every

thing in short, is suitable. Only that mystery--but I will not

think of it. I lay down my pen, and go instantly to execute my

intention.

_30th June._--You will set me down as a fool when you read what I

last wrote. I should perhaps say the same of you, were our

positions reversed; and yet, were you not my old friend and

comrade, I should feel disposed to be angry with you for saying

it of me on this occasion. She is mine, Augustus--mine by her

own and her father's promise. My friend, I am unutterably happy.

I am not able to look forward with any thing like coolness to the

moment when she shall remove that odious mask, and disclose the

lovely countenance which I am persuaded it conceals.

_8th July._--I cannot understand Natalie. She seems happy at the

prospect of becoming my wife; and yet that same melancholy which

I have before noticed, hangs about her, and seems impossible to

be dissipated. Can she have had some previous attachment, some

disappointed affection, which has left its lingering regrets, and

which her present engagement recalls more vividly to her

recollection? And yet, why torment myself thus? She loves

me--that I cannot doubt; and surely her approaching change of

condition, and the separation from her father which it must

sooner or later entail, are sufficient to account for an

occasional pensiveness on the part of a young and susceptible

girl. In vain do I seek for any other probable cause of her

melancholy. At times I fancy that she has some disclosure or

confession to make to me, which she has difficulty in repressing.

_23d July._--The secret is out. Natalie is ugly. You laugh

already at the poor dupe. But beware of laughing too soon: for he

can be no dupe who becomes the husband of Natalie; should her

face prove as hideous as that of Medusa. You will perceive from

this that I have not yet seen it, nor, truth to tell, am I now so

anxious to do so. She has been tormenting herself with the fear

that I should cease to love her when I once saw her unmasked, and

has reproached herself innumerable times for having encouraged my

passion. She has decided what to do. On her marriage-day, before

I lead her to the altar, I am to see her without her mask.

To-morrow is that day; and although I am prepared for the very

worst, yet my uneasiness increases with every hour that brings me

nearer to the decisive moment. My regrets are infinite that she

has persisted so long in her disguise. If at the commencement of

our attachment she had had the courage to remove that fatal mask,

I must still have loved her; no deformity of feature would have

been sufficient to neutralize the effect of her other charms and

accomplishments. But now, at the moment that I have been looking

forward to as the happiest of my life, to have my bliss disturbed

by such a revelation--it is cruel! Yet how can I blame her for

conduct so natural in a woman who loves? She feared to see my

growing affection turned into aversion, and delayed to the utmost

the much dreaded disclosure. Enough for to-day. I send off this

letter. After my marriage you shall hear from me again. Ever

yours,

Paul S----.

What a ray of light thrown upon my dark uncertainties! "To St

Petersburg, instantly! The trace is found!"

Such was my exclamation after reading the above letter, which was

communicated to me at Vienna by an old and tried friend. In an

incredibly short time I had reached the Russian capital. What I there

learned was as follows:--

On the day appointed for the marriage of Natalie d'Emiliano and the

young Swedish count, Paul S----, when all were in readiness to proceed

to the church, and the guests were only waiting the appearance of the

bride and bridegroom, a piercing cry was suddenly heard in a room

adjoining that in which the bridal party was assembled. The company

hurried, in the direction of the sound, and there found the Count

lying apparently lifeless on the floor, while the bride was hastily

securing the fastenings of her mask. The guests thronged round the

former, and tried every means of recovering him from the death-like

swoon into which he had fallen. After much trouble they were

successful. The Marchese and Natalie were then sought for, but both

had disappeared; and neither of them were ever afterwards seen or

heard of in St Petersburg. The bridegroom could never be induced to

tell what it was that the mask concealed.

TRADITIONS AND TALES OF UPPER LUSATIA.

No. IV.

THE MOOR MAIDEN.

"Wildernesses and heaths are not the only spots that boast of their

_Fata Morgana_," said Woldemar, in a society of torch-bearers which

regularly assembled in the old castle on Christmas night.

"The vision appears in a hundred places, in shapes answering to the

peculiarity of soil and country in which she rises. Here she is an

apparition of the air, beaming with splendour; there she unfolds

herself in glittering mist. On the unbounded plain, you behold her in

the form of an enchanted city--a paradise of leafy loveliness, or it

may be simply as a fantastic Erl-King, a giddy dazzling vapour. Let

her appear, however, where and how she will, she is ever seductive,

mysterious, and beautiful, and attended with the awe of a strange

nameless delight.

"You know the high table-land, strewed with countless blocks of

granite, between C---- and K----. Inclosed upon two sides by mountains

and thick groves of beech, it would be a perfect desert but for the

clear crystal brook which purls its way along the glistening stones.

This labyrinthine brook, indeed, fills the barren spot with animation,

whilst it creates too that singular power of attraction which we

cannot explain to ourselves, but which, nevertheless, becomes our

unfailing companion in regions with which the heart of the people has

intimately associated itself by tales of wonder and tradition.

"The Tradition touching this very table-land is dim and shapeless,

like the thick mist of a sultry summer's day, hanging over hill and

valley. It is most convenient to the common working mind to retain and

hold fast in a history only so much as is needful for the great

catastrophe. The people are content to abide by the beginning and end

of things, not concerning themselves with the important connecting

links. All that lies between is left to the imagination of the more

inquisitive to fill up. A tradition of this order occurs to me this

moment, and, by your leave, I will do my best to complete it:--

"A mysterious curse lay upon the noble house of Gottmar. No male scion

was suffered to perpetuate the race. The bride of his selection died

on her wedding-day, and he himself was doomed to follow quickly after.

The rich possessions passed to the nearest relative, who, by virtue of

an ancient law, assumed the name of Gottmar. The family was very

ancient. It traced its origin back to the Sclavonian priests, the

sacrificers to the God Mahr, and bore in its armorial ensigns a

sacrificial axe and a blood channel, in shape like that which at this

day is found cut into the granite-blocks of the high mountain that

bears the name of Gottmar. The later descendants of this powerful and

widely-ramified house could no longer explain the cause of their cruel

condition. It had been deemed advisable by their ancestors to

exterminate every record of it, hoping thereby perhaps to weaken, in

the course of time, the curse itself. The precaution was fruitless. No

alteration whatever took place in the fate of the doomed family, which

at length was regarded, no less by itself than by the world, as the

outlawed of heaven.

"The last living representative of the house of Gottmar entered upon

the family inheritance upon the death of his cousin. Bolko was a mild

yet enthusiastic youth, glowing with deep, ripe feeling, and needy of

human love. He had little joy in the acquisition of what, in other

circumstances, might have been considered his enviable fortune. He

thought only of the miserable destiny that sentenced him to celibacy

or death. His immediate predecessor, riding across a heath to take a

last farewell of his bride, had been struck dead by lightning, and the

maiden herself had been hurled from life at the edge of a precipice.

Bolko, attired in mourning, sat at the window of his lofty castle, and

surveyed the lovely prospect before him, bathed as it was in the

golden light of evening. Here were rich forests, there teeming fields;

in the depths of the valleys prosperous labouring villages; and in the

far distance, towering above all, the blue crests and jagged peaks of

a mountain region.

"'And all has become mine!' he exclaimed, resting his forehead

dejectedly upon his hand; 'to pass quickly away again, and unenjoyed!

And I, in ignorance, why! To be a sinner, a criminal, and not

conscious of one criminal aspiration. Yet, to be punished for

crime--to be killed for crime. Oh, it is hard! And heaven, sweet and

fair as she appears, is crueler than I could have believed.'

"His preceptor, confessor and friend stepped into the apartment.

Hubert was an aged man, learned and pious, and well skilled, it was

believed, in cabalistic science. He had buried three Gottmars, and

received their last confessions. From these he had drawn conjectures

and conclusions which induced him to investigate the traditions

current amongst the people respecting his unhappy patrons; and out of

all, he was able at last to form a picture of probability, to the

completeness of which some demonstrative evidence of its truth was

wanting. At the period of which I speak--it was still before the

Reformation--books were held in slender esteem. Nevertheless, there

was a library in Gottmar castle, consisting of numerous manuscripts,

the production of monks, and chiefly on religious subjects. The lords

of the castle, engaged in the chase, in fishing, and other knightly

pastimes, had not, from time out of mind, disturbed the repose of

their written treasures. They lay piled one upon another, covered with

dust, mildewed, and worm-eaten. Hubert, in the prosecution of his

purpose, did not fail to examine the neglected documents; and he had

reason to rejoice at his labours, when he found amongst the rolls a

learned treatise on astrology, a science which he himself had studied

with unwearied industry and ardour. His joy and astonishment, however,

were not complete, until he found himself master of a decaying

parchment, which, in almost obsolete characters, expounded to his

eager senses the mysterious destiny of the house of Gottmar. He hugged

the knowledge to his soul, deciphered the ancient syllables in his own

quiet cell, and waited for the proper hour to communicate the

marvellous secret to his lord and pupil. He heard the complainings of

the youthful Bolko, and he recognised in them a hint from heaven. He

now approached him with tenderness, and pressed his pupil's hand.