o'clock, and he promised to meet his father at the breakfast-table. I did not sleep that night. How could I? I walked restlessly about my room, longing for the morning to come, dreading its approach, and growing more and more anxious and alarmed as the clock warned me at intervals of

tion to the benevolent laws of nature; and further than this, pursued the theme, and drew the ready inference, that all are justified who obey the dictates of the passions; I did not express my indignation at the insidious and demoniac lore, and strike the tempter dumb upon the very threshold of his scheme. I have but feebly portrayed my first interview with the destroyer. I do not hope to convey to you the full impression of that short conference. I do not desire it. I have dwelt through many a weary hour upon this introduction into misery and guilt-for such it proved to be and I have found, the deeper I have pierced, the carefully strewed seed of all the aftergrowth of crime. I ask you to explain the reason why the unprotected and the orphan are the chosen victims of your fellow-men? Why are they so greedily pursued, so cruelly deprived of that small share of happiness that belongs to their condition?

James Temple knew me to be the most unfortunate of my sex, the most deserving of his pity and respect. He saw me for a moment, and resolved upon my ruin. His first well-calculated step I have described. For a season the second was delayed.

Oh,

The morning for my mother's funeral arrived. Stukely, my pen falters, and refuses to trace the narrative which it sickens me to recall. And yet it must be told. I have brought you to the climax of human wretchedness. Read and believe. I tell you that the strange tale is true-horrible it may be, it is and yet I have survived it. Who doubts its authenticity? Let him carry it to the drunkard's habitation, and call around him first the miserable wife, and then the sobbing children, and let him astound their ears with the history that is their own. think not for an instant that exaggeration deforms the unsightly picture. The ugliness surpasses not the truth. Would that both could strike the conscience of one domestic murderer with effectual sorrow and remorse. The morning of the funeral had come. Ten o'clock had struck, and my brother had not yet appeared. He had arrived from the school late on the preceding evening, and had retired immediately to rest. I had received him, for my father had gone to his bed some hours before, I told him that our breakfast hour was nine

its advance. At six o'clock I rose. Another sleeper in the house had been disturbed before me, and was already moving. This was my father. I found him in his library. He looked pale and wearied, and his usual tremor unhinged his whole frame. When I opened the door of the apartment, he started from his seat, and was frightened.

"Ah-yes," said he, recovering himself, “it is you; be seated, Emma. He has come, of course?"

"He has," I answered.

"Well-and he is well-disposed, is tranquil, as he should be on the sad occasion?"

"He has said little," I replied. "He has not yet risen. It was late last night when he reached home."

"Well, I shall see him soon. Does he return to-morrow?"

"It is his intention."

"Good. He will be soon provided for. I have obtained for him an appointment in India. Tell him so. It is better that he should pass the little time that he will remain in England away from home. It may save a

breach. I cannot brook contradiction. I do not wish to gall and irritate him. He is over-hasty, I have heard. But he seems peaceable, and disposed to keep so, I think you said?"

Early as it was, the wine-bottle was already on the table.

"Father," said I, pointing to it, "what is that?"

"Not another drop," he exclaimed impressively; "not a sup, as I am a living man. I should have shaken to pieces had I not appeased the nerves with one draught. But I have swallowed it, and I am quiet. I shall taste no more; take it away." At the very moment that he made this request, and as I approached the table to comply with it, he raised the decanter mechanically, and poured from its contents another glassful. Without a word or a sign, and as if unconscious of the act, he drank it off. To such an extent was he the slave of habit, that I am satisfied he was ignorant of having

transgressed the rule which he had laid down for himself the very second before.

"Father," I exclaimed, "for heaven's sake be cautious! Who shall answer for the effects of a single dram? Cease to be master of yourself, and I foresee the consequences. As sure as I am speaking, there will be mischief that never can be forgotten or repaired. Be warned in time, and avoid to-night the furious insensibility, from which you will wake to-morrow to imprecate yourself, and loathe the very light in which you walk. For your own sake be advised, and flee, for this one day at least, from the horrible temptation. "Oh, trust me!" answered my father, made uneasy by the terms in which I had ventured to address him, "trust me I will be wise. Heretake the key of the cellar. Let one bottle of wine remain for dinner.

Produce no more. If I ask for more, refuse it. You have me in your keep ing. It is for you to prevent the mischief that you dread."

I secured the key with eagerness, and taking him at his word, placed beyond his reach every means of gratifying the insatiable lust. Break

fast was announced, and Frederick still was absent. I could not eat. Food had never been acceptable to my father so early in the day. We sat in silence, and the cloth was removed untouched by either of us. Shortly afterwards, a rustling and a moving about were heard directly overhead, and subdued talking on the stairs. A chill shot through me. The men had come to prepare the body for its last short journey. I wept, and my father sat over the fire, looking into it, and thinking, it may be, on the eternity into which he had hurried the uncomplaining sufferer. What an eternity for him!-1 left his presence,

and stole to the busiest chamber in the house, desirous of another leavetaking. The coffin was already closed. One person only was in the room, and that was poor Frederick, weeping at the coffin's foot, with the uncontrollable fulness of a heart-broken child. I walked to his side, and placed my hand in his. He closed me in his arms, and we had not a word to say, until the heart had wrung its last tear through his drowned and quivering

-"tell me, Emma-did I not obey her?"

"You did," I answered. never disobeyed her.”

"You

"But did I not offer a hundred times to come to her rescue? Did she not forbid it ?"

"You have done your duty, Frederick. She was satisfied you had."

"If I thought otherwise, I could not live another hour. I am sure she was wrong; but I do not reproach myself for a strict compliance with her wishes."

"She is in heaven," I rejoined, "and smiles upon you for your filial love.”

"Where is he?" he asked, turning from the subject. "I have not met him yet."

"He has expected you for the last hour or two. Come to him. He desires to see you."

"No-not at present. I shall wait here until the ceremony compels me to endure his sight. We are better and safer asunder. We will follow her to the grave in company. That is all he can require of me: I am happier alone. I could not talk with him."

"You will do nothing harsh and cruel, will you?" I asked, imploringly.

"No good can come of it. I will not give you pain unnecessarily, dear Emma. Death is no punishment to such a man. Torture for years, such as he inflicted, he deserves. It cannot bring her to life again. Would that it might!"

I had many things to do on this eventful morning, and I was obliged to leave my brother sooner than I wished. My anxiety prompted me to be continually at his side; for, in spite of his assurances, I had little confidence in his power of forbearance. I knew that an angry word or look could overthrow a mountain of good resolutions, and render him as helpless as an infant in the hold, and at the mercy, of his excited and unfastened passions. I was aware, too, from many observations that had fallen from him, that his code of morality was lax, and justified to his mind acts that were criminal in themselves, and in the judgment of the world. His religious views had become fearfully dimmed, and he needed only the stimulus and the opportunity to become the sport and prey of notions

that lead only to destruction. On these accounts, I trembled for him, and begrudged every moment that I passed away from him. Ill. fortified he was to be alone in any place. Here, where he walked in the midst of danger and evil solicitation, he needed a hand ever present to guide him, and to warn him of the mine that one inconsiderate step would set thundering beneath his very feet.

At eleven o'clock, the small procession that constituted the ceremony of my mother's humble funeral was marshalled, and ready to proceed. My father and I were in the library, and waited for my brother. I heard his footstep on the stairs, and my heart beat painfully and quick. He descended slowly, and did not appear to delay or pause. In another moment he entered. I looked at my father, and he winced under the hard trial. He looked uneasily about him-cast his eyes upon the ground-towards me-to the attendants-anywhere but there where fear, shame, and acute vexation, all commingled, rendered one object intolerable to the sight. Frederick was very pale, but he looked subdued and placid. Perfectly collected, and in a distant manner, he bowed to his father, and the latter returned his greeting with a silent recognition, that betrayed at once the agitation of his mind, and the small ability that he possessed to check and hide the gnawing agony that seared his sinful soul. There was no warmer salutation. Not a word was spoken. The silence of death prevailed in the room, far more crushing, because inconsonant with the occasion, until my father was reminded that it was time to go forward. I saw them depart-I marked them, when they followed side by side the remains of the deceased through the long avenue that led to the churchyard. Still not a word was exchanged. A handkerchief was in the hand of my father-the mourner's ensign! Frederick was overcome, and wept aloud and violently; his sobs and moans were carried through the air, and conveyed to my own distressed and heaving heart. I closed the casement, and escaped them. I was alone. I knew not that it was a useless prayer that nature prompted me to offer up for the safety and welfare of the beloved's soul. Had I been told so, I would not have believed the chilling

tale. No sooner had I lost sight of the mournful retinue, than, overborne by an impulse of love, I fell upon my knees, and implored God to give comfort and repose to her whom He had taken to himself. I did not rise until sweet assurance calmed my spirit, and gave it boundless confidence and hope. I desire no arguments to prove my fabric an unsubstantial and aerial vision. The wise may smile at my credulity, or pity the ungrounded heresy. Reason, stern teacher as she is, must never take from me the hold that Feeling gives me on yon invisible world of beatific spirits, linking me in deep, ineffable communion with the loved of old, and sustaining me with intercourse that knows no break-that has no cloud.

It takes but a little time to separate for ever the living from the dead, to place the latter in the cold, cold earth, and to render them, as though they had never been, objects for the memory, subjects intangible but by the unbounded never-dying mind. The last office was performed, and father and brother were once more in the house together. I know not what had passed between them during their short absence. Certain it is they had spoken. The partition that had previously separated them was broken down, and communication, if not of the most friendly character, was, at least, unreserved. In spite of the evident attempts made by my father to appear at ease, awkwardness and anxiety were manifest in every word and movement. Once having addressed Frederick, he could not remain for an instant silent, but turned from one subject of discourse to another, regardless of connexion or relation, as if silence were impossible to bear, and the least repose brought with it peril and alarm. Frederick, on his part, was taken by surprise, and by degrees regarded his parent with a kindlier spirit than I had ever ventured to expect from the impassioned boy. He listened to his father's questionings, and he answered with respect. A ray of joy stole across my heart, and, for the moment, I flattered myself with years of unmolested happiness-of harmony and peace. Not a word was said of the sad occasion that brought us again together. That was avoided studiously. But Frederick's future prospects were spoken of, and the na

ture of his employment explained to him. He seemed pleased with the pursuit, and eager for active, profitable life. Notwithstanding, however, the favourable aspect which matters had assumed; notwithstanding the bright gleam that passed through our home, lighting it up with unaccustomed lustre, I did not lose my timidity, nor wholly rely upon the sudden and violent reaction. I lingered near father and son, and, as though filled with the presentiment of what was too soon to happen, could not for any interval lose sight of them without anxiety, and an oppressive dread of danger.

The dinner hour arrived. We had no visiters. My father, Frederick, and myself sat down to the meal, and the previous conversation gave place to heaviness and ungraceful silence. The solitary decanter of wine was on the table. My father drank from it sparingly, but Frederick emptied it with greediness. It was melancholy to behold the family sin taking possession of his soul so early in life; and I would gladly have persuaded myself that a desire to drown present grief, and no habitual vice, displayed itself in the eagerness with which he quaffed, glass after glass, the fatal liquor. Before the close of dinner, the bottle needed replenishing. My father looked at me enquiringly, but I did not heed him, for at the same time my eye was on my brother, and a glance enabled me to ascertain the heated and perilous condition towards which he was rapidly advancing. I took no notice of the hint. The repast was finished, and without a syllable I left the table. Against my own conviction, I forsook my guardianship, and only to avoid a greater evil. For two hours I remained in my own room. I would not have quitted it again that evening, had not the never absent and torment ing anxiousness that accompanied every hour of my brother's sojourn with us driven me back again to observe the progress of the new made reconciliation. I tripped confidently to the dining-room, opened the door, and was staggered, bewildered, and confounded by the view that I encountered there. Could I trust what my eyes presented to my waking mind? Or did I dream? Had I lost my recollection, my reason, in the conflict that my brain had undergone? The

first object that I perceived upon the table was a key! the duplicate of that which I possessed-the conductor to the wine-cellar. Wine of different kinds crowded the board, some in bottles, unopened; some in the like half emptied, and next to them vessels drained of their last drop. My father was transformed already into the wretched object that wine had ever rendered him. He had become wild, mad, and ignorant of his actshis words-his thoughts. Frederick himself had partaken of the fearful beverage until excitement glared in every feature of his disordered countenance, and his veins swelled with the hot and bounding blood that passed along them. It was an awful season. One inconsiderate word from either-one exclamation-one dangerous half whisper might be destruction to them both. Careless children were they at the mountain's edge, unconscious of danger, and ready to take the step that dashes them to pieces. Who should have courage to venture near, and drag them backward from the yawning breach? Who would risk life now for the chance of sparing it ? Oh, such a one was needed here to speak the word that might appease and save the helpless men who had ventured to the very brink of ruin! In my father's face, I could not trace mischief. Was it possible that fear had still controlling power, and still protected him when every other feeling had given way beneath the maddening drink? Would for his own sake that it might be so! Yes, drunken anility and not ferocity seemed to be the prevailing humour. How long it would endure depended on his companion and antagonist. Frederick had grown loquacious, his voice was thick, and it grew hoarse with exercise. There was spleen in every word he uttered, and anger, contempt, and bitterness. Ferocity, too, sparkled in his expressive eye, and corrupted every other feature. How he sat there, playing and trifling with his trembling prey, conscious of his power, and sharpening his appetite for mischief with the contemplation of his sacrifice! So might the young and bounding tiger, and so a human being with unbound passions, burning for revenge, and ripened even for murder, by the hateful and inciting juice. Neither of the men was disturbed at

busy The

my approach. Each was too with his own peculiar thoughts. chair of Frederick was drawn close to that of his father-his hand was upon his father's arm-his bloodshot eye was strained towards his father's sottish face. I remained at the door, fixed to the position in which my entrance had first placed me, and fearful of accelerating harm and evil by the progress of an inch.

"Tell me what you preach," exclaimed Frederick, laughing aloud and unmeaningly; "which side of the question do you espouse? They tell me you are a-what is it? a Calvinist.

Who is he? Did he love winedid he drink as jollily as we do? Oh, you are a rare old sinner! ha, ha, ha!" and he laughed on, and swallowed a glassful in the midst of it.

"Do not talk so wildly," said his father, endeavouring to escape from his side.

"And why not?" answered Frederick, rudely stopping him. "Who are you to order, and to say how a man is to speak or behave?"

"I do not wish to molest." "No, I'll take devilish good care you shan't," said my brother, interrupting him. "I say, parson, haven't you broken your heart in fretting after your son? Hasn't natural affection almost killed you? Why, what did you think had become of me? Do you believe in that black heart of yours, that you are really on the road to heaven? Come, no flinching! Answer me like a man. Here, take your glass, I'll drink to our better acquaint

ance.

We shall know one another better for the future."

My father writhed under his infliction. He had a character to sustain which he had never studied-for which he was but ill prepared. He burned to burst the chains by which he felt himself enthralled. The dread of consequences kept him as submissive as a beaten slave. Mine was the cruel lot to observe in silence and in horror. A bumper was quaffed in honour of the taunting toast, and Frederick was again pursuing his doomed victim.

"Look there," said he, pointing to me; "that's your daughter. I am told that you have behaved most lovingly to her. Look at her, man," he continued, seizing him by the wrist, "and see what a colour your kindness has

VOL. LII. NO. CCCXXV.

brought upon her cheek. Look-she is paler than the lily, and that we know is joy's own colour. You'll go to heaven for that too. Why, you are a noble fellow to preach and pray, and tell us what we ought to do! Look me in the face!"

My father shook with rising passion, and he bit his lips, and drew his breath with difficulty.

"Look me in the face," continued the infuriated Frederick, for he had lashed himself to rage—“ and let me see a pious monster-a religious fiend -a holy devil! Now, hear me. I have spent many an hour of my most miserable life-made miserable by you, in longing for this moment. I have looked forward to this interview till I have almost gone mad in waiting for it. I have walked for half a night listening to the wind screaming amongst trees, howling about tombstones, and over green graves, trying to keep down the horrible temptation that I have felt for years, to be your murderer. Hear, and understand me, I repeat it calmly-to be your murderer. I have seen the blooming and the young, without a crime, without the feathery burthen of an unconscious fault, cut down in beauty, and removed from the earth which they were just beginning to adorn and dignify— and I knew you, the tormentor of your kind, the vilest of your race, in whose atmosphere to live was to breathe pollution, and to suffer death -I knew you to be alive, glorying in your defilement, pouring sorrow, distress, and misery on all who came within your reach, and rendering life a curse to all who had connexion with you. Do you think, I ask you, that I could deem it wrong to remove for ever from the world the source of endless woe? One blow could do it. One blow, and in an instant, there was peace for the most deserving. I could have struck you down, I could have dealt the blow without remorse-without one aching thought. Why then came I not to give it? I will not tell you, but there was good reason for my absence. You were preserved not through my forbearance. The cause that interfered between me and my strong desire exists no longer. Now, I am free to act. Now I am here, and, monster, what prevents the accomplishment of what I have wished so long?"

2 T