CHAMBERS' EDINBURGH JOURNAL

 CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF 'CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE, ' 'CHAMBERS'S EDUCATIONAL COURSE, ' &c. 

 No. 450. NEW SERIES. SATURDAY, AUGUST 14, 1852. PRICE 1-1/2_d. _

HINTS ON THE USEFUL-KNOWLEDGE MOVEMENT. 

The advocates of the diffusion of useful knowledge among the greatbody of the people, found one of their greatest difficulties to lie inan inability on the part of the people themselves to see what benefitthey were to derive from the knowledge proposed to be imparted. Thisknowledge consisted of such a huge mass of facts of all kinds, thatfew could overcome a sense of hopelessness as attending everyendeavour to acquire it. Take botany alone, it was said. You have ahundred thousand species of plants to become acquainted with--to learntheir names, and to what genera and orders they belong, besideseverything like a knowledge of their habitats, their properties, andtheir physiology. Seeing that this is but one of the sciences, theremight well be a pause before admitting that the moral and intellectualregeneration of our people was to be brought about by theuseful-knowledge movement. 

There was here, however, a mistake on both hands, and one which we areonly now beginning to appreciate. It was not observed at first, thatthere is a great distinction to be drawn between the relations ofscience to its cultivators or investigators, and those which it bearsto the community at large. It is most important that a scientificzoologist like Mr Waterhouse, or a profound physiologist likeProfessor Owen, should determine and describe every species with theminutest care, even to the slightest peculiarities in the markings ofa shell or the arrangements of a joint, because that exactness ofdescription is necessary in the foundations of the science. But it isnot necessary that every member of the public should follow the man ofscience into all these minutiæ. It is not required of him, that heshould have the names of even the seventy families of plants at hisfinger-ends, though that is not beyond the reach of most people. Somesummation of the facts, some adroit generalisation, if such beattainable, is enough for him. The man of science is, as it were, aworkman employed in rearing up a structure for the man of the world tolook at or live in. The latter has no more necessary concern with theprocesses of investigation and compilation, than a gentleman has withthe making of the mortar and hewing of the stones used in a housewhich he has ordered to be built for his residence. 

Were the facts of science thus generalised, it is surprising howcomprehensive a knowledge of the whole system of the universe everyperson might have. Only generalise enough, and no one need to beignorant. Just in proportion as a man has little time to bestow onlearning, condense the more what you wish to impart, and the result, where there is any fair degree of preparedness, will be all thebetter. In the very last degree of exigency, explain that nature is asystem of fixed method and order, standing in a beneficial relation tous, but requiring a harmonious conformity on our part, in order thatgood may be realised and evil avoided, and you have taken your pupilby one flight to the very summit of practical wisdom. The mostillustrious _savant_, while knowing some of the intermediate steps bywhich that wisdom was attained, and having many delightful subjects ofreflection in the various phenomena involved in the generalisation, cannot go an inch further. 

This is putting the matter in its extreme form. We are entitled tosuppose that the bulk of mankind have some time to spend on theacquirement of a knowledge of the natural system of things into whichtheir Maker has thrown them. Grant a little time to such a science, for example, as botany; we would never attempt impressing a vastnomenclature upon them. We would give them at once more pleasure andmore instruction in shewing some of the phenomena of vegetablephysiology: fundamental and profoundly interesting matters, of whichspecific distinctions and external characters of all kinds are onlyaccidental results--that is, results determined by the outer phenomenaaffecting the existence of plants. A single lesson on the profoundwonders of morphology would go further, we verily believe, in makingour pupil a man of science, than the committing of the whole Linnæansystem to memory. In zoology, again, we would leave the endlessdetails of minute description to the tomes of the scientificnaturalist, and be content to sketch animals in broad masses--first, in regard to grades of organisation; and, second, in regard to familytypes. The Feline Animal, we say, is one idea of the Creator--adestructive creature of wonderful strength in comparison with itsbulk--of immense agility, furtive in its movements, furnished withgreat powers for the destruction of others. Lion, tiger, panther, ounce, lynx, jaguar, cat, are all essentially one creature--not theslightest difference can be traced in their osteological structure, hardly any in their habits. Why dwell, then, on minutiæ of externalappearances, if time presses, and there be much of more importance tobe learned? So, also, is the Cirrhopode one idea of the author ofnature. You may find a very respectable quarto account of the family, tracing them in all their varieties; but a page might inform you ofall that is essential about the barnacle, curious as its history hasbeen, and you need not ponder on the quarto unless you have someparticular curiosity to gratify. The Types of nature, both in hervegetable and animal departments are, after all, few. Describe eachcomprehensively, group them all in correct relations to each other, and display their various destinies and connections with the rest ofcreation, and you enable your pupil to learn in a few weeks more thanPliny mastered in a lifetime. 

It appears to us that the reason why science is so coldly received inordinary society is, that either by reason of its unripeness forgeneralisation, or of the tendency of its cultivators to keepcontinually analysing and multiplying facts, it has not in generalbeen presented in propositions which the ordinary mind can comprehendor make use of. We should be loath to urge it into generalisations forwhich it was not prepared; but while this is duly avoided, we wouldhave it to be somewhat more vigilant than it usually is, in takingopportunities of proceeding with those synthetical clumpings of factswhich we conceive to be so essential, on mere grounds of convenience, to its success with the multitude. Better be a little dogmatical, thaninsupportably tedious. Better have your knowledge in some order, though not perhaps beyond correction, than in no order at all. It isto be feared, however, that the thing wanting is not the sufficiencyof particulars out of which to make general or comprehensive truths, but that of the requisite intellectual power and habit on the part ofthe men of science. The constant working towards separate facts seemsto disqualify the mind for grouping or clustering them. Hundreds candetect a new sphinx or butterfly in the fauna of a country or acounty, and are content with such small results, for one who can lay afew facts together, and make one truth out of all. One could almostbelieve, that there is a greater want of comprehensive intellect inthe walks of science, than in some other fields of labour which makeless pretension to an exertion of the mental faculties: for example, merchandise. And does not that very appearance of continual peddlingamongst trifles, in some degree prevent the highest kind of minds fromgoing into the fields of science? There is here, it appears to us, agreat error to be corrected. 

Another cause why science makes little way with the multitude is, thatthere is too little connection to be observed between the ordinaryproceedings of the scientific and learned, and the practical good ofthe community. The British Association meets, and has its week ofnotoriety, and when we look into the resulting volume, what do wefind? Doubtless, many ingenious speculations and many curiousinvestigations, which may in the long-run prove beneficial in someindirect way. But it must be admitted, that there is hardly anythingbearing directly upon the great interests of contemporary humanity. The crying social evils of our time and country obtain no notice fromthe recognised students of science. To all appearance, the politicalerror which legitimated scarcity would have never been put an end toby them. The sanitary evils which press so severely upon the healthand morals of the common people, would apparently go on for ever, foranything that philosophers have to say to the contrary. What concernhave they taken in the question of education, either in promoting itsextension to the masses, or improving its quality? Our nationalcouncils, and every deliberative public body throughout the country, spend one half their time in wrangling about the most contemptiblepuerilities, without drawing one word of indignant comment, or oneeffort at correction, from the learned. The studious are like stars, and dwell apart. Busying themselves in a world of their own, exercising no visible influence on the current of ordinary things, isit to be wondered at that the common people of the world put them andtheir pursuits almost as entirely out of account as they do theproceedings at Melton Mowbray? We grant it is not desirable that the_cui bono_ should be the ruling consideration in matters of science;but we at the same time feel, that it would be well for it if it gavea little more attention to the social and moral questions affectingliving interests, or at least endeavoured to bring its results toaccount in practical improvements of general utility. [1]

We must recur after all to the maxim which it is mainly the object ofthis paper to impress--that judicious generalisation is theindispensable pre-requisite to a more general diffusion of knowledge. To bring it to an apothegm--Let the man of science in seeking toenlighten himself, pursue analysis; in seeking to enlighten the outerpublic, he has no chance but in synthesis. 

FOOTNOTES:

[1] We have much pleasure in acknowledging one instance of a movementin the right direction, in connection with the Museum of EconomicGeology in London. While nothing can exceed the beauty of thearrangements in that institution, for enabling everybody that choosesto study the science from the actual objects, the professors have, during the last winter, come forward with supererogatory zeal to teachthe working-classes, and to illustrate in every possible way thebearings of the subject upon the arts and economy of life. 

THE FALSE HAIR:

A TALE. 

'Pray remember, Monsieur Lagnier, that I wish particularly to go outthis morning. It is now past one o'clock, and if you continueendeavouring to do what is quite impossible, my hair will never bedressed. You had much better plait it as usual. '

Adelaide de Varenne pronounced these words in a tone of pettishnessvery unusual with her, as, giving vent to a long sigh of impatienceand weariness, she glanced hastily at the mirror on her toilet-table, and saw there reflected the busy fingers of M. Lagnier, thehairdresser, deliberately unfastening her hair, and preparing oncemore to attempt the arrangement, which repeated failures had declaredto be an impossibility. He looked up, however, as he did so, andseemed to read the expression of her features, for a comic mixture ofastonishment and dismay immediately overspread his own. 

'Fifteen years, ' he exclaimed, 'I have had the honour of dailyattending mademoiselle, and she never was angry with me before! Whatcan I have done to offend her?'

'Oh, nothing very serious, ' replied the young girl, good-naturedly;'but really I wish you would not dally so long. It is of very littleconsequence, I think, how one's hair is worn. '

'Why, certainly every style is equally becoming to mademoiselle, ' wasthe old man's polite reply. 'Nevertheless, I had set my heart uponarranging it to-day according to the last fashion: it would suitmademoiselle _à ravir_. ' Adelaide laughed. 

'But you see it is impossible, ' she said. 'I have so very little hair;and I am sure it is not my fault--nor, ' she added archly, 'the faultof all those infallible pomades and essences recommended to me bysomebody I know. ' M. Lagnier looked embarrassed. 

'Mademoiselle is so gay, she finds amusement in everything, ' hereplied. '_I_ cannot laugh upon so serious a subject. ' Adelaidelaughed again more heartily than before, and M. Lagnier continued, indignantly: 'Mademoiselle does not care for the loss of her beauty, then?'

'Oh, I did not know there was any question of that!' and the younggirl suddenly resumed an expression of gravity, which completelyimposed upon the simple old man. 

'You see, mademoiselle, ' he continued earnestly, 'I have beenconsidering a long time what is best to be done. It is evident that mypomades, usually so successful, have no effect upon _your_ hair;owing, I suppose, to--to---- I can't say exactly what it is owing to. It is very strange. I never knew them to fail before. Wouldmademoiselle object to wearing a slight addition of false hair?' heasked anxiously, after a moment's pause. 

'Indeed, I should not like it, ' was the reply. 'Besides, MonsieurLagnier, you have often told me that, in all Paris, it was impossibleto obtain any of the same shade as mine. '

'Ah, but I have succeeded at last!' exclaimed he; and as he spoke, hedrew triumphantly from his pocket a small packet, in which wascarefully enveloped a long lock of soft golden hair. 

'How beautiful!' Adelaide involuntarily exclaimed. 'Oh, MonsieurLagnier, that is far finer and brighter than mine. '

'The difference is very slight indeed; it would be imperceptible whenboth were braided together, ' returned the hairdresser. 'Do, pray, allow me, mademoiselle, to shew you the effect;' and without waitingfor a reply, he commenced the operation. In a few moments it wascompleted, and the old man's delight was extreme. 'There!' heexclaimed in ecstasy. 'I knew the style would suit you exactly. Oh, mademoiselle, pray allow it to remain so; I should be _au désespoir_were I obliged to unfasten it now. '

Adelaide hesitated: it was, however, no conscientious scruple whichoccasioned her hesitation. She was a Frenchwoman, a beauty, and alittle--a very little--of a coquette. To add to her attractions by theslight _supercheries_ of the toilet was, she thought, a very venialsin; it was a thing which, in the society that surrounded her, waslooked upon as necessary, and sometimes even considered as a virtue. She was a strange girl, a dreamer, an enthusiast, with a warm heart, and a lively, but perhaps too easily-excited imagination. From herinfancy, she had been accustomed to reflect, to question, and toreason; but left almost entirely to her own unguided judgment, thehabit was not in every respect favourable to the formation of hercharacter. It was, however, but little injured by it. She was one ofthose favoured beings whom no prosperity can spoil, no educationentirely mislead, and whose very faults arise from the overflowings ofa good and generous nature. The thought which agitated her now was oneworthy of her gentle heart. 

'Monsieur Lagnier, ' she said earnestly, 'such beautiful hair couldonly have belonged to a young person. She must have been in greatdistress to part with it. Do you know her? Did she sell it to you?What is her name? I cannot bear to wear it: I shall be thinking of hercontinually. '

'Ah, Mademoiselle Adelaide, that is so like you! Why, I have providedhalf the young ladies in Paris with false tresses, and not one hasever asked me the slightest question as to how or where they wereobtained. Indeed, I should not often have been able to reply. In thiscase, however, it is different. I bought it myself, and consequentlycan give you a little information respecting it. Yesterday evening, Iwas standing at my door in the Rue St Honoré, when a young girl, attracted no doubt by the general appearance of my window, stopped toadmire the various articles exhibited there. She had a pretty face, but I scarcely looked at that; I only saw her hair, her beautiful, rich, golden hair. It was pushed carelessly behind her ears, and halfconcealed beneath a little white cap. "Mademoiselle, " I said, accosting her--for I could not bear that she should pass the door--"isthere anything that you would like to buy? a pair of combs, forinstance. I have some very cheap; although, " I added, with a sigh, asshe appeared about to move on, "such lovely hair as yours requires noornament. " At these words, she returned quickly, and looking into myface, exclaimed: "Will you buy my hair, monsieur?" "Willingly, mychild, " I replied; and in another instant she was seated in my shop, and the bright scissors were gleaming above her head. Then my heartfailed me, and I felt half inclined to refuse the offer. "Are you notsorry, child, to part with your hair?" I asked. "No, " she answeredabruptly; and gathering it all together in her hand, she put it intomine. The temptation was too great; besides, I saw that she herselfwas unwilling that we should break the contract. Her countenance neverchanged once during the whole time, and when all was over, shestooped, and picking up a lock which had fallen upon the ground, askedin an unfaltering voice: "May I keep this, monsieur?" I said yes, andpaid her; and then she went away, smiling, and looking quite happy, poor little thing. After all, mademoiselle, what is the use of beautyto girls in her class of life? She is better without it. '

'And her name--did you not ask her name?' inquired Adelaidereproachfully. 

'Why, yes, mademoiselle, I did. She told me that it was LucilleDelmont, and that she was by trade a _fleuriste_. It was all theinformation she would give me. '

'What could she have wanted with the money? Perhaps she was starving:there is so much misery in Paris!' continued Mademoiselle de Varenne, after a pause. 

'She was very pale and thin, ' said the hairdresser; 'but then so arethe generality of our young citizens. Do not make yourself unhappyabout it, mademoiselle; I shall see her again, probably, and shallendeavour to find out every circumstance respecting her. ' With thesewords, M. Lagnier respectfully took leave, having by one moreexpressive glance testified his delighted approval of the alterationwhich had taken place in the young lady's appearance. 

Adelaide, having summoned her maid, continued her toilet in a listlessand absent manner. Her thoughts were fixed upon the young girl whosebeauty had been sacrificed for hers, and an unconquerable desire tolearn her fate took possession of her mind. Her intended disposal ofthe morning seemed quite to be forgotten; and she was on the point offorming new plans, very different from the first, when the lady towhose care she had been confided during the absence of her father fromtown, entered the apartment, and aroused her from her reverie byexclaiming: 'Ah, you naughty girl! I have been waiting for you thishalf hour. Was not the carriage ordered to take us to the Tuileries?'

'Yes, indeed, it was; but I hope you will excuse me: I had almostforgotten it. ' And Adelaide immediately related to her friend thecircumstance which had occurred, and begged her aid in the discoveryof Lucille. Madame d'Héranville laughed--reasoned, but in vain; and, finding Adelaide resolved, she at length consented to accompany herupon the search, expressing as she did so her entire conviction thatit would prove useless and unsatisfactory. 

The day was spent in visits to the principal _modistes_ of Paris; butfrom none could any information be gained concerning the youngflower-girl. None had ever even heard her name. Adelaide was returninghome, disappointed, but not discouraged. Still resolved to continueher endeavours, she had just announced to Madame d'Héranville herintention of visiting upon the following day the shops of an inferiorclass, when the carriage was suddenly arrested in its course by thecrowd of vehicles which surrounded it, and they found themselvesexactly before the door of a small warehouse of the description shealluded to. She was about to express a wish to enter, it being stillearly, when her attention was attracted by two persons who stoodconversing near the door, and whose voices, slightly raised, weredistinctly audible. They had excited the interest and curiosity ofboth Adelaide and her companion by the earnestness of their manner, and by the expression of sorrow depicted upon the countenance of theelder speaker, a young man of about twenty-five years of age, who, from his costume, as well as accent, appeared to be a stranger inParis. 

'I have promised--will you not trust me?' he said in ahalf-reproachful tone; and Adelaide bent eagerly forward to catch aglimpse of the young girl to whom these words were addressed; but herface was turned away, and the large hood of a woollen cloak was drawnover her head, almost completely concealing her features. 

'I do trust you, ' she said in reply to the young man's words--'I doindeed. And now, good-by, dear André; we shall meet again soon--in ourown beautiful Normandie. ' And she held out her hand, which he took andheld for an instant without speaking. 

'May I not conduct you home?' he asked at length. 

'No, André; it is better that we should part here. We must not trusttoo much to our courage, it has failed us so often already. ' And asshe spoke, she raised her head, and looked up tearfully at hercompanion, disclosing as she did so a face of striking beauty, although worn and pallid to a painful degree, and appearing even moreso than it really was from the total absence of her hair. The tearssprang to Adelaide's eyes. In the careworn countenance before her sheread a bitter tale. Almost instinctively, she drew forth her purse, and leaning over the side of the carriage, called 'Lucille! Lucille!'But the young girl did not hear her; she had already turned, and washastening rapidly away, while André stood gazing after her, as ifuncertain of the reality of what had just occurred. He was so deeplyengrossed in his reflections, that he did not hear his name repeatedlypronounced by both Adelaide and her friend. The latter at lengthdirected the servant to accost him, and the footman was alighting forthat purpose, when two men turned quickly the corner of the street, and perceiving André, stopped suddenly, and one of them exclaimed:'Ah, good-evening, Bernard; you are just the very fellow we want;' andtaking André by the arm, he drew him under the shade of a _portecochère_, and continued, as he placed a small morocco case in hishand: 'Take care of this for me, André, till I return: I shall be atyour lodgings in an hour. Giraud and I are going to the Cité, and asthis pocket-book contains valuables, we are afraid of losing it. _Aurevoir_!'

André made no reply. He placed the pocket-book carelessly in hisbosom, and his two friends continued hastily their way. He was himselfpreparing to depart, when the footman touched him gently on theshoulder, and told him of Mademoiselle de Varenne's wish to speak tohim. André approached the carriage, surprised and half abashed at theunlooked-for honour; then taking off his cap, waited respectfully forone of the ladies to address him. At the same instant, apolice-officer seized him roughly by the arm, and exclaimed: 'Here isone of them! I saw them all three together not two hours ago!' Andcalling to a comrade who stood near, he was about to lead André away. At first, the young man made no resistance; but his face grew deadlypale, and his lip trembled violently. 

'What do you want? What have I done?' he demanded at length, turningsuddenly round to face his accuser; but the latter only replied by alaugh, and an assurance that he would know all about it presently. Aslight struggle ensued, in the midst of which the pocket-book fell tothe ground, and a considerable number of bank-notes bestrewed thepavement. At this sight, André seemed suddenly to understand the causeof his arrest; he stood for an instant gazing at the notes with acountenance of horror; then, with an almost gigantic effort, he brokefrom the grasp which held him, and darted away in the direction whichhad before been taken by the young girl. He was immediately followedby the police; but although Adelaide and her friend remained for sometime watching eagerly the pursuit, they were unable to ascertainwhether he had succeeded in effecting his escape. 

'I am sure I hope so, poor fellow!' murmured Adelaide as they drovehomewards--'for Lucille's sake, as well as for his. '

'You have quite made up your mind, then, as to its being Lucille thatwe saw?' said Madame d'Héranville with a smile. 'If it was, ' sheadded, more gravely, 'I think she can scarcely merit all the troubleyou are giving yourself on her account. Her friendship for André doesnot speak much in her favour. '

'Why not? Surely you do not think _he_ stole the pocket-book?' askedAdelaide, in undisguised dismay. 

'Perhaps not; but his intimacy with those who did, leads one tosuppose that he is not unaccustomed to such scenes. You remember theold proverb: "Dis moi qui tu hantes, je te dirai qui tu es. "'

'Do you not think we should give information respecting what we saw?He was certainly unconscious of its contents?' asked Adelaide again, after a short silence. 

'He appeared so, ' returned Madame d'Héranville; 'and I shall writeto-morrow to the police-office. Perhaps our evidence may be useful tohim. '

'To-morrow!' thought Adelaide; but she did not speak her thoughtsaloud. 'And to-night he must endure all the agonies of suspense!' Andthen she looked earnestly at her companion's face, and wondered if, when hers, like it, was pale and faded, her heart should also be ascold. A strange, sad feeling crept over her, and she continued quitesilent during the remainder of the drive. Her thoughts were still busyin the formation of another plan for the discovery of Lucille, when, upon her arrival at home, she was informed that M. Lagnier desiredanxiously to see her, having something to communicate. 

'Mademoiselle, I have not been idle, ' he exclaimed, immediately uponentering the apartment. 'Here is Lucille's address, and I have seenher mother. Poor things!' he added, 'they are indeed in want. Theirroom is on the sixth floor, and one miserable bed and a broken chairare all the furniture. For ornament, there was a rose-tree, in aflower-pot, upon the window-seat: it was withered, like its youngmistress!'

'They are not Parisians?' inquired Adelaide. 

'No, no, mademoiselle. From what the mother said, I picked up quite alittle romance concerning them. The husband died two years ago, leaving them a pretty farm, and a comfortable home in Normandie. Lucille was very beautiful. All the neighbours said so, and MrsDelmont was proud of her child. She could not bear her to become apeasant's wife, and brought her here, hoping that her beauty mightsecure to her a better fate. The young girl had learned a trade, andwith the assistance of that, and the money they had obtained uponselling the farm, they contrived to manage very well during the firstyear. Lucille made no complaint, and her mother thought she was happy. A Parisian paid her attention, and asked her to become his wife. Sherefused; but as he appeared rich, the mother would not hear ofdeclining the offer. She encouraged him to visit them as much aspossible, and hoped at length to overcome Lucille's dislike to themarriage. One evening, however, as they were all seated together, ayoung man entered the room. He had been an old lover of Lucille's--aneighbour's son, and an early playmate. She sprang forward eagerly tomeet him, and the rich pretender left the place in a fit of jealousanger, and they have not seen him since. Then troubles came, onefollowing another, until at last they fell into the state ofdestitution in which I found them. André Bernard, who had quarrelledwith his parents in order to follow them, could find no work, andevery sou that Lucille gained was given to him, to save him, as shesaid, from ruin or from sin. Last week she sold her hair, to enablehim to return home. She had made him promise that he would do so, andto night he is to leave Paris. '

'It is he, then, whom we saw arrested!' exclaimed Adelaide; 'and hewill not be able to return home. Oh, let us go to Lucille at once! Do, pray, come with me, Madame d'Héranville!' and turning to her friend, she pleaded so earnestly, and the large tears stood so imploringly inher eyes, that it was impossible to resist. Madame d'Héranvillerefastened her cloak, and soon afterwards, with Adelaide and M. Lagnier, found herself ascending the steep and dilapidated staircaseof the house inhabited by the Delmonts. Adelaide seated herself uponthe highest step, to await the arrival of her friend, whose agility inmounting was not quite equal to her own. As she did so, a loud andangry voice was heard proceeding from the apartment to which thisstaircase led. It was followed by a sound as of a young girl weeping, and then a few low, half-broken sentences were uttered in a voice ofheart-broken distress. 

'Mother, dear mother, ' were the words, 'do not torture me. I am soill--so wretched, I wish I were dead. '

'Ill! wretched! ungrateful girl!' was the reply. 'And whose fault isit that you are so? Not mine! Blame yourself, if you will, and him, your darling André. What will he do now that you have no more to give?nothing even that you can sell, to supply him with the means ofgratifying his extravagance. You will soon see how sincere he is inhis affection, and how grateful he feels for all the sacrifices thatyou have made--sacrifices, Lucille, that you would not have made forme. '

'Mother, ' murmured the poor girl in a tone of heart-broken reproach, 'I have given my beauty for him; but I have given my life for you. 'Adelaide listened no more. Shocked beyond measure at the miseryexpressed in the low, earnest voice of Lucille, she knocked at thedoor of the apartment, and scarcely waiting for permission, lifted thelatch and entered hurriedly. 

Lucille was seated at a window working, or seeming at least to do so;for her head was bent over a wreath of artificial flowers, throughwhich her emaciated fingers passed with a quick convulsive motion. Itneeded not, however, a very nice observation to discover that the workprogressed but slowly. The very anxiety with which she exertedherself, seemed to impede her movements, and the tears which fell fromtime to time upon the leaves obscured her sight, and often completelyarrested her hand. She did not raise her head as Adelaide entered; toodeeply engrossed in her own sadness, she had not heard the opening ofthe door, or her mother's exclamation of surprise, and Mademoiselle deVarenne was at her side before she was in the least conscious of herpresence. Adelaide touched her gently on the arm. 

'What is the matter, Lucille?' she asked. 'Tell me: I will do all Ican to help you. ' At these words the mother interposed, and saidsoftly: 'I am sure, madame, you are very kind to speak so to her. I amafraid you will find her an ungrateful girl; if you had heard herwords to me just now--to me, her own mother!'

'I did hear them, ' returned Adelaide. 'She said she had given her lifefor you. What did she mean? What did you mean, Lucille?' she asked, gently addressing the young girl, whose face was buried in her hands. 

'Forgive me, mother; I was wrong, ' murmured Lucille; 'but I scarcelyknow what I say sometimes. Mademoiselle, ' she continued earnestly, 'Iam not ungrateful; but if you knew how all my heart was bound to home, and how miserable I am here, you would pity and forgive me, if I amoften angry and impatient. '

'You were never miserable till he came, ' retorted the mother; 'and nowthat he is going, you will be so no more. It will be a happy day forboth of us when he leaves Paris. ' At this moment heavy steps wereheard ascending the stairs; then voices raised as if in anger. Lucillestarted up; in an instant her pale cheek was suffused with the deepestcrimson, her eye flashed, and her whole frame trembled violently. Hermother grasped her by the hand, but she freed herself with a suddeneffort, and darting past Madame d'Héranville and the hairdresser, whohad entered some time before, she ran out upon the landing. Adelaidefollowed, and at once perceived the cause of her emotion. André wasrapidly ascending the stairs, his countenance pale, and his wholedemeanour indicating the agitation of his feelings. He was closelyfollowed by the police-officer, whose voice, as he once more graspedhis prisoner, appalled the terrified Lucille. 'You have given us asharp run, ' he exclaimed, 'and once I thought you had got off. Youshould not have left your hiding-place till dark, young gentleman. 'And, heedless of the frantic and agonised gestures of the unhappyyouth, he drew him angrily away. 

Lucille sprang forward, and taking André's hand in hers, she lookedlong and earnestly in his face. He read in her eyes the question shedid not dare to ask, and replied, as a crimson blush mounted to hisforehead: 'I am accused of robbery, Lucille, and many circumstancesare against me. I may perhaps be condemned. I came here to tell you ofmy innocence, and to return you this;' and he placed a gold piece inher hand. It was the money she had given him for his journey--thefruit of the last sacrifice she had made. She scarcely seemed tounderstand his words, and still looked up inquiringly. 'Lucille, ' hecontinued, 'they are taking me to prison; I cannot go home as Ipromised; but you will not think me guilty. How could I do what I knewwould break your heart?'

She smiled tenderly and trustfully upon him; then letting fall hishand, she pushed him gently away, and whispered: 'Go with him, André. Justice will be done. I am no longer afraid. ' Madame d'Héranville andAdelaide at this moment approached, and eagerly related what they hadseen, both expressing their conviction of the young man's innocence. 

'It is not to me you must speak, ladies, ' returned the gendarme, wonderfully softened by their words. 'If you will be so good as togive me your names, and come to-morrow to our office, I have no doubtthat your evidence will greatly influence the magistrate in favour ofthe prisoner. ' The ladies gave their names, and promised to attend thecourt the following morning; and shortly afterwards, they left thehouse, having by their kind promises reassured the weeping girl, andsucceeded in softening her mother's anger towards her. The next daythey proceeded early to the court. As Adelaide entered, she lookedround for Lucille, and perceived her standing near the dock, herearnest eyes fixed upon the prisoner, and encouraging him from time totime with a look of recognition and a smile. But notwithstanding allher efforts, the smile was a sad one; for her heart was heavy, and theappearance of the magistrate was not calculated to strengthen herhope. André had declared his innocence--his complete ignorance of thecontents of the pocket-book his friend had placed in his hand; but hisvery intimacy with such men operated strongly against him. Both Giraudand his companion were well known to the police as men of badcharacter, and very disreputable associates. The prisoner'sdeclaration, therefore, had but little effect upon those to whom itwas addressed; and the magistrate shook his head doubtfully as helistened. Madame d'Héranville and Adelaide then related what they hadseen--describing the young man's listless look as he received thebook, and endeavouring to prove, that had André been aware of itscontents, his companion need scarcely have made the excuse he did forleaving it with him. At this moment, a slight movement was observedamong the crowd, and two men were brought forward, and placed besideAndré. At their appearance, a scream escaped from Lucille; and, turning to her mother, she pointed them out, while the name of JulesGiraud burst from her lips. Hearing his own name, one of the menlooked up, and glanced towards the spot where the young girl stood. His eyes met hers, and a flush overspread his face; then, after amomentary struggle, which depicted itself in the workings of hiscountenance, he exclaimed: 'Let the boy go: we have injured him enoughalready. He is innocent. '

'What do you mean?' inquired the magistrate; while a look of heartfeltgratitude from Lucille urged Giraud to proceed. 

'André knows nothing of this robbery, ' he continued; 'his soleconnection with us arises from a promise we gave him, to find himemployment in Paris; and all the money he received we took from himunder the pretence of doing so. Yesterday morning, we met him for thepurpose of again deceiving him, but failed. He had a louis-d'or; butit had been given him by his _fiancée_, that he might return home, andhe was determined to fulfil his promise. I would have taken his lastsou; for he'--and the destined _forçat_ ground his teeth--'for he owedme a debt! However, ' he continued recklessly, 'it is all over now. Iam off for the galleys, that's clear enough; and before starting, Iwould do something for Lucille. '

'How had the accused harmed you?' asked the magistrate. 

Giraud hesitated; but Madame Delmont came forward, and exclaimed: 'Iwill tell you, monsieur. He wished to marry my daughter himself; andI, ' she added, in a tone of deep self-reproach, 'would almost haveforced her to consent. '

The same evening, Madame Delmont, André, and Lucille were seatedtogether, conversing upon what had passed, and deliberating as to thebest means of accomplishing an immediate return to Normandie, when agentle tap was heard at the door, and the old hairdresser entered theroom. He appeared embarrassed; but at length, with a great effortrestraining his emotion, he placed a little packet in Lucille's hand, and exclaimed: 'Here, child, I did not give you half enough for thatbeautiful hair of yours. Take this, and be sure you say nothing aboutit to any one, especially to Mademoiselle Adelaide;' and withoutwaiting for one word of thanks, he was about to hurry away, when hewas stopped by Mademoiselle de Varenne in person. 

'Ah, Monsieur Lagnier, ' she merrily exclaimed, 'this is not fair. Ihoped to have been the first; and yet I am glad that you forestalledme, ' she added, as she looked into the bright glistening eyes of theold hairdresser. 'My father has just arrived in town, Lucille, ' shecontinued, after a short pause, 'and he is interested in you all. Heoffers André the porter's lodge at the château, and I came hereimmediately to tell you the good news. It is not very far from yourold home, and I am sure you will like it. Do not forget to take withyou this poor rose-tree; it looks like you, quite pale for want ofair. There! you must not thank me, ' she exclaimed, as Madame Delmont, André, and Lucille pressed eagerly forward to express their gratitude:'it is I, rather, that should thank you. I never knew till now howvery happy I might be. '

And as Adelaide de Varenne pronounced these words, a bright smilepassed across her face. The old hairdresser gazed admiringly upon her, and doubted for a moment whether the extraordinary loveliness he sawowed any part of its charm to the lock of false hair. 

CLOUDS OF LIGHT. 

In March of the year 1843, a remarkable beam of light shot suddenlyout from the evening twilight, trailing itself along the surface ofthe heavens, beneath the belt stars of Orion. That glimmering beam wasthe tail of a comet just whisked into our northern skies, as the rapidwanderer skirted their precincts in its journey towards the sun. Tothe watchful eyes of our latitudes, the unexpected visitant presentedan aspect that was coy and modest in the extreme; its head, indeed, was scarcely ever satisfactorily in sight. But it dealt far otherwisewith the more favoured climes of the south. At the Cape of Good Hope, it was seen distinctly in full daylight, and almost touching the solardisk; and at night appeared with the brilliancy of a first-class star, with a luminous band flowing out from it to a distance some hundredtimes longer than the moon's face is wide. Few persons who caught aglimpse of that shining tail, either as it fitfully revealed itself inour heavens, or as it steadily blazed upon the opposite hemisphere ofthe earth, were led to form adequate notions of the magnificence ofthe object they were contemplating. No one, unaided by the teaching ofscience, could have conceived that the streak of light, so readilycompressed within the narrow limits of an eye-glance, stretched out170 millions of miles in length. 

The comet comes from regions of unknown remoteness, and rushes, withcontinually increasing speed, towards our own source of warmth andlight--the genial sun. When it has reached within a certain distanceof this object, it appears, however, to overshoot the mark of itsdesire, as if too ardent in the chase, and then sways round withfearful impetus, beginning reluctantly to settle out into space again, and moving with less and less velocity as it goes, until its mistyform is once more withdrawn by distance from human sight. When thecomet of 1813 swept round the sun in this way, it was so near to theshining surface of the solar orb, that it must have been rushing forthe time through a temperature forty-seven thousand times higher thanany which the torrid region of the earth ever feels. Such heat wouldhave been twenty-four times more than enough to melt rock-crystal. Theoverburdened sense experiences a feeling of relief in the mereknowledge, that the comet passed this fiery ordeal as the lightning'sflash might have done. In two short hours, it had shifted its placefrom one side to the other of the solar sphere. In sixty littleminutes, it had moved from a region in which the heat was fortythousand times greater than the fiercest burning of the earth's torridzone, into another, in which the temperature was four times less. Thecomet might well have a glowing tail as it came from such a realm offire. Flames that were colder by many hundred times, would make thedull black iron shine with incandescent brightness. 

As, however, it is the comet's nature to guard its ornamentalappendages with jealous care, it may be conceived that this tail of170 million miles might prove a somewhat troublesome travellingcompanion in so rapid a journey. Comets always turn their tailsprudentially out of harm's way as they whisk through the neighbourhoodof the solar blaze. In whatever direction these bodies may be moving, they are always seen to project their caudal beams directly _from_ thesun. Imagine the case of a rigid straight stick, held by one end inthe hand, and brandished round through a half-circle. The outer end ofthe stick would move through a considerable sweep. If the stick were170 million miles long, the extent of the sweep would be not less than500 million miles! Through such a stupendous curve did the comet of1843 whirl its tail in two little hours as it rounded the solar orb. It is hardly possible to believe, that one and the same materialsubstance could have been subjected to the force of such motionwithout being shattered into a myriad fragments. Sir John Herschelvery beautifully suggests, that the comet's tail, during thiswonderful perihelion passage, resembled a negative shadow cast beyondthe comet, rather than a substantial body; a momentary impression madeupon the luminiferous ether where the solar influence was in temporaryobscuration. But this suggestion can only be received as an ingeniousand expressive hint; it cannot be taken as an explanation. There is asmuch difficulty, as will be presently seen, in the way of admittingthat comets have shadows of any kind, as there would be in compassingthe idea that bodies of enormous length can be whirled round throughmillions of miles in the minute. The truth is, the comet's tail is yetan unguessed puzzle, and vexes even the wits of the wise. It keepsgrave men seated on the horns of a dilemma, so long as their attentionis fixed upon its capricious charms. 

The comet's tail is always thrown out away from the sun, just as theshadow of an opaque body in the same position would be. But this isnot all that can be said of it. It is not only cast away from the sun:it is really cast _by the sun_--shadow-like, although not of thenature of shadow. It only appears when the comet gets near to thesun's effulgence, and is lost altogether when that body gets far fromthe great source of mundane light and heat. It is raised from thecomet's body, by the power of sunshine, as mist is from damp ground. When Halley's Comet of 1682 approached the fierce ordeal of itsperihelion position, the exhalation of its tail was distinctlyperceived. First, little jets of light streamed out towards the sun, as if bursting forth elastically under the influence of the scorchingblaze; very soon these streams were stopped, and turned backwards bythe impulse of some new force, and as they flowed in this freshdirection, became the diverging streaks of the tail. Not only avapour-forming power, but also a vapour-drifting power, is broughtinto play in the process of tail formation; and this latter must besome occult agent of considerable interest in a scientific point ofview, as well as of considerable importance in a dynamic one, for itis a principle evidently antagonistic to the great prevailingattribute of gravitation, so universally present in matter. Thecomet's tail is the only substance known that is repelled instead ofbeing attracted by the sun. 

The repulsive power to which the development of the comet's tail isdue, is one of extraordinary energy. The comet of 1680 shot out itstail through something like 100 million miles in a couple of days. Most probably, much of the matter that is thus thrown off from thecometic nucleus is never collected again, but is dissipated intospace, and lost for ever to the comet. The tail of the comet of 1680was seen in its greatest brilliancy soon before the solar approach;this was, however, an exception to the general rule. Comets nearlyalways have the finest tails, and present altogether the mostbeautiful appearance, immediately _after_ they have been in theclosest proximity to the sun. 

The comet's tail seems, in reality, to be a thin oblong case ofvapour, formed out of the cometic substance by the increasingintensity of the sunshine, and enclosing the denser portion of thatsubstance at one end. The diverging streams which it displays upon thesky are merely the retiring edges of the rounded case, where thegreatest depth of luminous matter comes into sight. As the comet nearsthe sun, much of its substance is vaporised for the construction ofthis envelope; but as it goes off again into remoteness, the vaporousenvelope is once more condensed. The tail may then be seen to flowback towards the head, out of which it was originally derived. 

But here, again, a difficulty presents itself. The comet's tail isbelieved by most of the illustrious astronomers of the day, to be thebody converted into vapour by solar influence. If it be so, thevaporising process must be a much more subtile one than any that couldbe performed in our alembics, for the comet's substance is already allvapour before the distillation commences. The faintest stars have beenseen shining through the densest parts of comets without the slightestloss of light, although they would have been effectually concealed bya trifling mist extending a few feet from the earth's surface. Mostcomets appear to have bright centres--nuclei, as they are called; butthese nuclei are not solid bodies, for as soon as they are viewed bypowerful telescopes, they become as diffused and transparent as thefainter cometic substance. Comets are properly atmospheres withoutcontained spheres; enormous clouds rushing along in space, and bathedwith its sunshine, for they have no light excepting sunlight. Theybecome brighter and brighter as they get deeper within the solarglare, and dimmer and paler as they float outwards from the same. Thelight of the comet only differs from the light of a cloud that isdrifted across the cerulean sky of noon, in the fact, that it isreflected from the inside as well as the outside of the vaporoussubstance. The material illuminated reflects light, and is permeatedby light, at once. In this respect it resembles air as much ascloud--the blueness of the sky is the sunlit air seen through thelower and inner strata of itself. In the same way, the whiteness ofthe comet is sunlit vapour seen through portions of itself. Thesunbeams pass as readily through the entire thickness of the cometicsubstance as they do through our own highly permeable atmosphere. 

The belief in the comet's surpassing thinness and lightness is not amere speculative opinion. It rests upon incontrovertible proof. In1770, Lexell's Comet passed within six times the moon's distance ofthe earth, and was considerably retarded in its motion by theterrestrial attraction. If its mass had been of equal amount with theearth's mass, its attraction would have influenced the earth'smovement in a like degree in return, and the earth would have been soheld back in its orbitual progress in consequence, that the year wouldhave been lengthened to the extent of three hours. The year was not, however, lengthened on that occasion by so much as the leastperceptible fraction of a second; hence it can be shewn, that thecomet must have been composed of some substance many thousand timeslighter than the terrestrial substance. Newton was of opinion, that afew ounces of matter would be sufficient for the construction of thelargest comet's tail. 

Light as the comet's substance is, it is not, however, light enough toescape the grasp of the sun's gravitating attraction. When the mass ofthin vapour is rushing through the obscurity of starlit space, so farfrom the sun that the solar sphere looks but the brightest of thestellar host, it feels the influence of the solar mass, remote as itis, and is constrained to bend its course towards it. Onwards the thinvapour goes, the sun waxing bigger and bigger with each stage ofapproach, until at last the little star has become a fiery globe, filling up half the heavens with its vast proportions, and stretchingfrom the horizon to the zenith of the visible concave. The great cometof 1680 came in this way from a region of space where the sun lookedbut half as wide as the planet Mars in the sky, and where the solarheat was imperceptible, the surrounding temperature being 612 degreescolder than freezing water, into another in which the sun filled up140 times greater width of the sky than it does with us, and where theheat was some hundred times higher than the temperature of boilingwater. It was then only 880, 000 miles away from the solar surface, andwould have fallen to it in three minutes, in obedience to itsattraction, if the impetus of its motion in a different direction hadbeen on the instant destroyed or arrested. But this impetus proved toogreat for the attraction, light as the material of the moving bodywas. When the comet has approached comparatively near to the grandsource of attraction, the speed of its accelerating motion has becomeso excessive, that it is able to withstand the augmented solicitationit is subjected to, and move outwards in a more direct course. Itgoes, however, slower and slower, and curving its journey less andless, until at last its motion in remote obscurity is again sosluggish, that the sun's attraction is once more predominant, and ableto recall the truant towards its realms of light. Such is the historyof the comet's course. 

Thin comet vapours drift through space, sustained by exactly the sameinfluences that uphold dense planetary spheres. They are supported inthe void by the combined effects of motion and attraction. Their ownimpetus strives to carry them one way, while the sun's attractiondraws them another, and they are thus constrained to move along pathsthat are intermediate to the lines of the two impulses. Now, whenbodies are driven in this way by two differently acting powers, theymust travel along curved lines, if both the driving forces are incontinued operation, for a new direction of motion is then impressedon them at each succeeding instant. There are three kinds of curvedlines along which bodies thus doubly driven may move: the _circular_curve, which goes round a central point at an unvarying equaldistance, and returns into itself; the _elliptical_ curve, whichreturns into itself by a route that is drawn out considerably in onedirection; and the _hyperbolic_ curve, that never returns into itselfat all, but has, on the other hand, a course which sets outwards eachway for ever. The _parabolic_ curve, as it is called, is a linepartaking of the closeness of the ellipse on the one hand, and theopenness of the hyperbola on the other. A parabola is an ellipsepassing into a hyperbola; or, in other words, it is a part of anellipse whose length, compared with its breadth, is too great to beestimated, and is consequently deemed to be endless for all practicalpurposes. 

In most instances, comets move in space, about the sun, in ellipses sovery lengthened, that their paths seem to be parabolas as long as thecloudy bodies are visible in the sky. Two of them, Ollier's Comet andHalley's, are known to return into sight after intervals ofseventy-four and seventy-six years, during which they have visitedportions of space a few hundred millions of miles further than theorbit of Neptune. Six comets travel in elliptical orbits that arenever so far from the sun as the planet Neptune, and return intovisibility in short periods that never exceed seven or eight years. These interior comets of short period seem to be regular members ofour world-system in the strictest sense. Their paths, although moreeccentric, are all contained in planes that nearly correspond with theplanes of the planetary orbits, and they travel in these paths in thesame general direction with their planetary brethren in every case. The planetoid comets of short period are--Encke's, De Vico's, Brorsen's, D'Arrest's, Biela's, and Fage's. The comet of 1843 is halfsuspected to belong to the group, and to be also a periodic body, revisiting our regions punctually at intervals of twenty-one years. 

The comet's motions strikingly illustrate the almost absolute voidnessof space. If the thin vapour experienced any resistance while moving, its free passage would be checked, although that resistance was manythousand times less than the one the hand feels when waved in the air. It is found, however, that Encke's Comet does indicate the presence ofsome such resistance. It goes slower and slower with each return, andcontracts the dimensions of its elliptical journey progressively. Butit must be remembered, that this is one of the close comets that nevergets well out of the solar domain in which our neighbouring planetsfloat. The resisting medium which opposes its journey may be merely anethereal solar atmosphere surrounding the sun, as our air surroundsthe earth, but spreading to distances of millions instead of tens ofmiles. On the other hand, it must be remembered also that starlightpasses through universal space, and is everywhere spread out therein, and that it is hardly possible to think of starlight as an existencewithout some sort of material reality. Some physicists believe thatEncke's Comet, with its retarded motions, will some day fall into thesun; while others fancy that such a consummation can never take place, because successive portions of its substance will be thrown off by thetail-forming process with each perihelion return; so that long beforethe cometic mass could reach the sun, it will have been altogetherdissipated into space, and nothing will be left to accomplish thefinal state of the fall. 

The great peculiarity of cometic paths, as compared with the planetaryones, is, that they consist of ellipses of very much more eccentricproportions; and that, therefore, the bodies moving in them, goalternately to much greater and less distances from the sun than theplanets do. It must not be imagined, however, that all comets revolveabout the sun even in the most lengthened ellipses. Three atleast--the comets of 1723, 1771, and 1818--are known to have movedalong hyperbolic paths instead of parabolic or elliptical ones. Thesecomets, therefore, can make but one appearance in our skies. Havingonce shewn themselves there, and vanished, they are lost to us forever. They are but stray and chance visitors to the domains of oursun, and refuse to submit themselves, with the more regular members oftheir fraternity, to the regulation-arrangements of our system, or toappear punctually at the systematic roll-call therein instituted. Theyare the true free-wanderers of the Infinite, passing from shore toshore of immensity, and presenting themselves, for short and uncertainintervals, to star after star. When they flit through our skies, theyshew themselves in all possible positions, and move along all possibledirections. They sometimes, however, yield too much to temptation, andhave to suffer the penalty of a short imprisonment in consequence. Lexell's Comet, for instance, rushed in its hyperbolic path too nearto Jupiter, and was caught in the attraction of its mass, and made todance attendance on the sun through two successive ellipticalrevolutions. At the end of the second, the influence that hadimpounded the comet came, however, into play oppositely, and restoredit again to its wandering life and hyperbolic courses. Its cloudy formhas not presented itself amongst our stars since 1770, when its visitwas thus strangely received by Jupiter. 

Twenty-three comets were seen by the naked eye during the sixteenthcentury, 12 were seen in the seventeenth, 8 in the eighteenth, and 9in the first half of the nineteenth. This does not, however, giveanything like an adequate idea of the number of comets really inexistence. When Kepler was asked how many comets he thought therewere, he answered: 'As many as there are fishes in the sea. ' Andmodern science seems determined, that the sagacious German shall notbe at fault even in this predication. Two or three fresh telescopiccomets are now usually found out every year. In 1847, 178 comets wereknown to be moving in parabolic orbits, and therefore to be in someway permanent connections of our world-system. Lalande has enumerated700 comets, but Arago believes that not less than 7, 000, 000 exist, which fall at some time or other within the reach of our sun'sinfluence. 

THE SLEEPY LADY. 

She is easy, good-natured, and compliant about everything but hersleep. On that point she can bear no interference and no stoppages. Unless she had it fully out every day, neither would life be worthhaving for herself, nor would she allow the life of any other peopleto be endurable. Sleep is her great gift; her body has beenwonderfully constituted to take a great deal of ease. Deprive her ofthat, and you starve her as effectually as you famish a human being byabstraction of food. Her personal appearance confirms her philosophy;for you can detect not one particle of restlessness about her. All issoft, rounded, and woolly, as if she carried an atmosphere ofdeafening about with her. 

It has been her habit ever since her earliest years. One of theprincipal anecdotes of her girlish days now remembered in her familyis, that her mamma having sent on some exigency to rouse her, shefaintly murmured forth, 'Not for kingdoms!' then turned on the otherside, and doggedly went to sleep again. There is another story of herhaving had to rise one morning at half-past seven, in order to attenda friend as bridemaid, when, coming down stairs, and seeing it to be araw drizzly day, she pronounced her situation to be 'the ne plus ultraof human misery!' She told the young bride (by way of a compliment)that she would not have got up in _the middle of the night_ to bepresent at the marriage of any other friend on earth. This phrasemight seem to most people only a pleasant hyperbole; but I am notquite sure that it was so intended. The fact is, she has seen solittle of the world at any other hours than between noon and midnight, that she has a very obscure sense of other periods of daily time. Shescarcely knows what morning is. Sunrise is to her as much of aphenomenon as a total eclipse of the sun to any other person. Shecannot tell what mankind in general mean by breakfast-time, for shehas scarcely ever seen the world so early. And really half-past sevenwas not very far from the middle of _her_ night. 

Her husband, who is a little of a wag, compares her waking-life to theappearance which the sun makes above the horizon on a winter day:only, her morning is about his noon. He says, however, there appearsto be no necessary end to her sleep. It is like Decandolle's idea asto the life of a tree: keep up the required conditions, as sap, &c. , and the tree will never decay. So, keep up the necessary conditionsfor her repose, and she continues to sleep. It is always some externalaccident of a disturbing nature which gets her up. He has sometimesproposed making an attempt so to arrange matters as to test how longshe _would_ sleep. But, unfortunately, he cannot provide against thedisturbing effect of hunger, so he fears she might not sleep above twonights and a day at the most--a result that would not be worth thetrouble of the experiment. She takes all his jokes in good-humour, asindeed she takes everything which does not positively interfere withher favourite indulgence. '"Ah, little she'll reck if ye let her sleepon, " ought, ' says he, 'to be her motto, being applicable to her in themost trying crises of life, even that of the house burning about herears. '

He contrasts his life, which is a moderately active one, with hers. 'Iwent up to my dressing-room, about nine o'clock one evening, toprepare to go to a party, when the sound of heavy breathing from theneighbouring apartment informed me that she had reached the land offorgetfulness. I went out, spent a couple of hours in conversation, had supper, set several new conundrums agoing in life, and made one ortwo new friends. Then I came home, had my usual rest, rose, and set towork in my business-room, where I drew up an important paper. Still noappearance of the lady. I had breakfast, read the newspaper, andplayed with the children. One of my new friends called, and made anappointment. Still no appearance of my wife down stairs. At length, about the middle of the day, when I was deep in a new piece ofbusiness, she peeped in, with a cold nose and fresh ringlets, to ask acheque for her house-money--having got down stairs rather morepromptly than usual that morning, in order to go out and settle herweekly bills. Thus I had a series of waking transactions last night, another this morning--in fact, _a history_--while she had been lost inthe regions of oblivion. My sleep is rounded by hers, like a smallcircle within a large one. '

Sometimes he speculates on the ultimate reckoning of their respectivelives. 'Mine, ' says he, 'will have been so thickened up with doings ofall kinds, that it will appear long. I shall seem to have lived all mydays. I fear it must be different with yours. So much of it havingbeen passed in entire unconsciousness, you will look back from seventyas most people do from five-and-thirty; and when Death presents hisdart, you will feel like one that has been defrauded of a mostprecious privilege. You will go off in a state of impious discontent, as if you had been shockingly ill-used. ' Such is one of his sly plansfor rousing her to a sense of the impropriety of her ways; but allsuch quips and cranks are in vain. Only don't absolutely shake her inher bed before her thirteenth hour of rest, and you may _say_ what youplease. It cannot be implied that she is hardened, for no such qualityis compatible with her character. But she smiles every joke and everyadvice aside with such an air of impassible benignity, that you see itis of no use to think of reforming her in this grand particular. 

One day not long since it rather seemed as if she was going to turnthe tables on her worthy spouse. She had a remarkable dream, in whichshe thought she heard a lady sing a new song. When she awoke, sheremembered the two verses she thought she had heard, and they turnedout to be perfectly good sense and good metre, and not intolerable aspoetry. Now this was what Coleridge calls a psychological curiosity, for the verses had of course been composed by her in her sleep. Therewas more in the matter still. In her waking-life, she has a remarkablytreacherous memory for poetry, being seldom able to repeat a singleverse even of Isaac Watts without a mistake. Here, however, she hadcarried two entire verses safe and sound out of her sleep into herwaking existence. It was therefore a double wonder. She hasaccordingly got up a theory, that her mind is at its best in hersleep, and is judged of at a disadvantage in its daylight moments. Insleep lies her principal life. Waking is an inferior exceptive kind ofexistence, into which she is dragged by the base exigencies of theworld. She ought to be judged of as she is in her dreams. No sayingwhat she goes through then. Perhaps she is the most active woman inthe world in that state. Possibly she says and does the most brilliantthings, such as nobody else could say or do in any condition. 'You sayyou cannot test it, for you cannot follow me into my dream-world. Well, but it may be as I say; and till you can prove the reverse, Ihold that I am entitled to the presumption which my dream-songestablishes in my favour. ' It must be admitted there is some force inthis reasoning. All that her husband can in the meantime say on theother side, is just this: 'Granted the activity and the brilliancy ofyour sleep-life, it does wonderfully little for me or our householdconcerns. Only give us an hour more of your sweet company in theforenoon, and we shall admit you to be in your sleep as stirring andas clever as you choose to call yourself. ' This of course he says verysafely, for he well knows that no earthly consideration would induceher to abridge her sleep even by that one hour. 

At a visit I lately paid to this good couple, I found them debatingthese points, the gentleman still refusing to give implicit credenceto the theory which the lady had started in her own favour. Thecontroversy was conducted with a great deal of good-humour, and Icould not refrain from entering into the discussion. I started, however, a new theory, which I thought might please both parties, andin this object I am happy to say I was successful. 'Here, ' said I, 'isa wife remarkable for putting as much good-nature into her six oreight hours of day-life as most women put into twice the time. No onecan tell what she is in her sleep: perhaps the veriest termagant onearth. Suppose her sleep could be abridged, might not some of thistermagantism overflow into and be diffused over her waking existence?I can well imagine this, and you, my friend, reduced to such straitsby it that you might wish she would never waken more. Be content, then, and rather put up with the little ills you have than fly toothers that you know not of. '

THE NEW CONVICT ESTABLISHMENT IN WESTERN AUSTRALIA. 

The subject of convict discipline has for several years past excitedthe attention both of legislators and philanthropists; but theknowledge of the public concerning its details has hitherto beenexceedingly meagre. It is not intended in this article to discuss theabstract question of the policy of transportation to the colonies, orof convict discipline there pursued; but merely to give some accountof the system adopted at a new settlement in Australia. We will stateat once, that our official authority is a Blue Book--one of those hugevolumes printed from time to time, by order of parliament, for theedification--or as some facetious folks say, for the mystification--ofM. Ps. Having carefully waded through its voluminous pages, we havejotted down the passages that especially struck us, and propose topresent the pith and substance of our labour--for it is nothingless--in a condensed and popular form. 

Little more than a couple of years ago, it was resolved by governmentto establish a convict settlement at Fremantle--a small town, as welearn, of some 5000 inhabitants--in Western Australia. The first shiparrived in Swan River on 1st June 1850, with 75 convicts; and inOctober following, a second came with 100 more. Soldiers, and properofficers to control and conduct the convicts, were on the spot; and atolerably suitable prison was forthwith extemporised out of awool-shed or warehouse. It is this kind of temporary and experimentalestablishment that forms the subject of the published returns togovernment, which are dated up to February 1851, and include anexceedingly minute and clearly-stated detail of the operations andplans adopted during the six months ending December 31, 1850. Threehundred more convicts--principally from the Portland prison inEngland--were expected in February 1851, and a grand permanent prisonwas to be erected, to contain 500 cells. 

The convicts at Fremantle are employed in both in-door and out-of-doorwork, but principally the latter. The artisans--_tradesmen_ they arestyled in the Reports--such as blacksmiths, masons, carpenters, tailors, bricklayers, &c. , labour at their respective trades; and thelabourers, _par excellence_, toil at road-making and various otherworks of public utility. The 'daily routine' is as follows:--The firstbell is rung at 5 A. M. , and the prisoners rise, and neatly fold uptheir bedding--they sleep in hammocks, we believe, as the documentsspeak of the beds being 'hung' at night. The second bell rings at5. 15; and they are then mustered in their several wards, and paraded. The third bell rings at 5. 55, when they are minutely inspected by theproper officers, and working-parties are detailed and marched off. From this time to 7. 55, the prison orderlies are busily engaged insweeping the wards, and making preparations for breakfast. At 7. 55, the bell rings, and the convicts muster, and go into breakfast. One ofthe prisoners is selected to say grace, and the breakfast is eaten inperfect silence. At 8. 25, they leave the mess-room, and are then'allowed to _smoke_ in the square before the prison door till 8. 45, when they must muster inside for prayers. ' At 9 o'clock, the bellrings for work, and the parties are inspected and marched off. At 12o'clock, the dinner-bell rings; but parties working at a considerabledistance from the prison, are allowed to leave off work a quarter orhalf an hour earlier, according to the distance they have to walk tothe prison. When grace after dinner--for which meal one hour seems tobe allowed--is said, they are again permitted to assemble outside from1 P. M. , till resuming work. At 1. 55, the 'warning-bell' rings, and theworking-parties are again formed. At 2 o'clock, the bell rings, andoff they march, and continue working till 6 o'clock, when they are allparaded, wash themselves, and muster for supper. At 6. 15 rings thesupper-bell; and after supper they are 'allowed outside' from 6. 45till 7. 30, when the chaplain reads prayers. At 8 o'clock, the beds arehung, and the convicts are sent into them immediately; and the mostperfect quiet is enforced till the morning. 

The 'rules and regulations' to be observed by the officers of theestablishment and the prisoners are very strict and minute; and, onthe whole, appear to be exceedingly judicious. As a fair specimen ofthe sound and humane spirit that seems to pervade the regulations inquestion, we will only quote No. 2 of the 'General Rules'--asfollows:--'It is the duty of all officers to treat the prisoners withkindness and humanity, and to listen patiently to and report theircomplaints or grievances, being firm at the same time in maintainingorder and discipline, and enforcing complete observance of the rulesand regulations of the establishment. The great object of reclaimingthe prisoner should always be kept in view by every officer in theprison; and they should strive to acquire a moral influence over theprisoners, by performing their duties conscientiously, but withoutharshness. They should especially try to raise the prisoners' minds toa proper feeling of moral obligation, by the example of their ownuniform regard to truth and integrity, even in the smallest matters. Such conduct will, in most cases, excite the respect and confidence ofthe prisoners, and will make the duties of the officers moresatisfactory to themselves and to the public. '

With respect to the degree of communication permitted between theconvicts and their friends, it is stated that a prisoner is allowed towrite, or to receive a letter, once every three months; but thechaplain or the overseer reads all letters either received or sent;and if the contents appear objectionable, they are withheld. We aretold in the 'Rules for Prisoners, ' that no prisoner during the periodof his confinement, or employment on public works, has any claim toremuneration of any kind, but that industry and good conduct arerewarded by a fixed gratuity under certain regulations, depending onthe class in which the prisoner is placed; and this gratuity iscredited to him at the following general rates: 1st class, 9d. Perweek; 2d class, 6d. ; 3d class, 4d. If any misconduct themselves, theyforfeit all advantages, or are subject to the minor punishment ofbeing placed in a lower class, &c. A prisoner, by particularly goodbehaviour, will be eligible to receive 3d. To 6d. Per week in additionto the above rates. The amounts thus credited 'will be advanced tothe prisoner under certain restrictions, or otherwise applied for hisbenefit, as may be considered desirable. '

There are several long and extremely circumstantial tables given ofthe amount of work done per day, per week, per month, &c. We gather, that the estimated value of the work earned by all the convicts in thesix months ending 31st December 1850, was no less than L. 3128, 9s. 4d. The total number of 'non-effectives'--men unable to labour throughillness or otherwise--was 40 in the six months. The total 'effective'workers, during the same time, was 586--artisans, 218; labourers, 368;and this gives the average number of effectives as nearly 98 permonth; so that some idea may be formed of their individual earnings. In the month of November, the total number of effectives was 154; andthey earned the large sum of L. 823, 17s. 6d. During the followingmonth of December, task-work was adopted, and the effectives, 143 innumber, earned L. 665, 19s. 10d. We are informed that task-work hasbeen contrived to allow each man to do 1-1/4 to 1-1/2-days' work perdiem, and to obtain credit for the extra amount earned. Were we, however, to take the above figures as a criterion, we should concludethat less, rather than more, was proportionately earned during themonth of task-work; yet this conclusion would not be fair, fordoubtless many modifying circumstances require to be taken intoconsideration--such as the state of the weather, the number ofartisans as compared with the labourers, &c. ; besides which, it mustbe borne in mind, that although task-work has been specially designedto benefit the convicts themselves, yet, while some would work with awill, others, and perhaps many, would prefer unremunerative idleness. 

To every breach of discipline, certain punishments are allotted; some, indeed, appear very severe; and for many misdemeanours, corporalpunishment is not merely held out _in terrorem_, but inflicted. Attempts at escape are liable to be punished by labour in chains, orflogging up to 100 lashes, or to a renewed sentence of transportation;and the recaptured convict has to work out the expenses of hiscapture, and the reward paid for the same. In the list of offences andpunishments for the month of December, we see some very curious items;and, not knowing anything of the peculiar circumstances of each case, they are apt to strike one as being somewhat arbitrary. For instance, 'for refusing to work, ' a man had 'bread and water for three days;' asecond, 'for insubordinate conduct'--much the same thing, we shouldsuppose, as 'refusing to work'--had the very severe punishment of'bread and water, and twenty-eight days' solitary confinement;' athird, for 'talking to a female, ' was 'admonished;' a fourth, forbeing 'drunk at work, ' had 'bread and water for three days, andfourteen days' solitary confinement;' a fifth, 'for threateninglanguage, ' had his '_tobacco stopped for three days_!' On the subjectof the 'pernicious Indian weed, ' there is the following passage in theReport of the comptroller-general of Fremantle:--'The issue, under hisExcellency's sanction, of a small allowance of tobacco, has beenappreciated as a very great boon, and has prevented manyirregularities. It also furnishes an excellent means of punishment forminor offences--that is, by its stoppage. ' We can well believe this. We know positively that prisoners will undergo any risk to get even amorsel of tobacco, and would gladly sacrifice a day's food for it. Itis almost incredible what an intense longing for tobacco arises in theminds of those forcibly restrained from the indulgence. 

Several 'tickets-of-leave' had already been granted at Fremantle; andon this subject we are presented with a mass of remarkable andinstructive information. The reader is probably aware, that convictsin prison, before quitting England, are subjected to a term of hardlabour--proportionate in duration to the length of their sentences oftransportation--and to a further term of hard labour on arriving inAustralia. When the latter term has expired, if the prisoner hasconducted himself well, he is presented with a ticket-of-leave, whichconfines him to a certain district, where he may engage to labour forhis own benefit under an employer. He does this, however, under verystrict rules, and the least transgression is punished severely. If, for instance, he leaves the district, he is liable to be apprehended, and summarily convicted by a magistrate, who may sentence him tolabour in irons; or he may forfeit his ticket-of-leave, and relapseinto his former situation as a convict. Or if he at all misconductshimself, or is insubordinate, his employer may carry him before amagistrate, and have him corporally punished. A list is given of theconvicts who obtained tickets-of-leave at Fremantle, with theirtrades, and the names of their employers, and the wages they were toreceive. A groom received L. 12 per annum; a carpenter, L. 14; alabourer, L. 1 per month; a blacksmith, L. 1, 8s. Per month; a mason, L. 1, 10s. Per month; and a brickmaker, L. 2, 10s. Per month. Eachticket-holder must pay to the comptroller-general the sum of L. 15, forthe expenses of his passage out to the colony. No ticket-holder, unless under very special circumstances, gets a 'conditional pardon'till one-half of his sentence, from date of conviction, is expired;nor will he receive a conditional pardon till the whole of the L. 15 ispaid. 'Wives and families of well-conducted ticket-of-leave men willbe sent out to them, when one-half the cost of so doing has been paid, either by themselves, their friends, or their parishes in the UnitedKingdom; or the expenses of their passage may be assumed as a debt bythe ticket-of-leave holder, to be repaid (under a bond) by the samemeans as the expenses of his own passage. ' This is paid by theemployer handing over to the comptroller-general annually any sum notexceeding one-third of the ticket-holder's salary, and not above L. 5 ayear in any case, unless at the man's own desire. On the subject ofthis forced payment of L. 15 to government, the comptroller-general inhis Report animadverts strongly. He says that ticket-men will tryevery trick to evade it; and that many of them openly say, that thesituation of a well-conducted ticket-holder is such, as to make themthink it not worth while paying so much as L. 15 for a conditionalpardon. The employers, however, he hints, object to pay ticket-men atall; seeming to think government ought to assign them gratuitously, aswas done, we believe, under the old system. 

The surgeon states in his report, that the food supplied at theestablishment is 'wholesome, and ample;' and the health of theconvicts seems very good, for only two had died up to that time, andboth of these were landed in a very debilitated condition. He statesthe number of convicts in January 1851 at 140. 

The chaplain's report is interesting and encouraging. He says, that'the present discipline is well calculated to maintain the habits ofindustry, order, and cleanliness acquired in preceding prisons;' andhe speaks well of the general attention of the convicts to religiousexercises. Above all, he strongly and wisely advocates the formationof a library for their use; and hints that the books selected shouldnot merely be religious, but 'entertaining and instructive'--such ashistory, biography, voyages and travels, scientific books withillustrations, &c. One exceedingly interesting fact mentioned is, thatcertain of the best educated and most intelligent convicts have beenpermitted to deliver _lectures_ to their fellow-prisoners on thesubjects with which they were best conversant, and with the happiesteffects. Thus, a man who had been employed in a large brewery, described the whole 'mystery' in a very able manner; a second, who wasby trade a French polisher, did the same; and a third, who had been asailor, gave two lectures on the art of navigation, and illustratedthem in capital style with diagrams drawn on a black-board. We cannotbut think that the beneficial tendency of these novel prisonrecreations will be very great. 

The Report of the comptroller-general himself is, on the whole, decidedly cheering; and he says of the convicts, that, 'taken as abody, I am inclined to believe they are anxious to do well, and byhonest and steady conduct, to regain here that position they haveforfeited in their native land. ' When inquiring of government whetherthe same scale is to be adopted at Fremantle as at Van Diemen's Land, he says, that at the latter place the cost of officers--such asmagistrates, superintendents, overseers, storekeepers, religiousinstructors, medical men, &c. --allowed for each 300 convicts, amountsto L. 1337, 3s. 6d. Per annum, or L. 4, 9s. 2d. For each convict. Thisseems a large sum, and does not appear to include the heavy additionalcost of warders and other prison-officers. 

The necessary brevity of this article precludes any allusion to agreat variety of curious and instructive details of the Fremantle'establishment, ' as it is called; but if what we have already saidinterests the reader, and he requires to know more, we can confidentlyrefer him to the bulky Blue Book alluded to, with an assurance that hewill there find most ample and authentic information. 

THE TRIAL OF ELIZABETH CANNING. 

In the year 1753, London was so deeply convulsed with a great questionat issue in the criminal courts, that the peace of the city wasseriously threatened. From the highest to the lowest grades, societywas divided into two parties on this question; and it was impossibleto speak of it at a dinner-table or in a street assemblage withoutexciting a dangerous quarrel. This dispute was an extravagantillustration of English zeal for justice and fair play. The realquestion lay between an old gipsy woman and a young servant-girl. Thequestion at issue was--Had the gipsy robbed and forcibly confinedElizabeth Canning, or had Elizabeth Canning falsely accused the gipsyof these outrages? By the force of incidental circumstances, thequestion came to be a really important one, in which the statesmen andjurists of the age took a lively interest. In fact, it connecteditself with the efficacy of the great judicial institutions of theland, and their capacity to do justice and protect innocence. Hencethe several trials and inquiries occupy as much space in the _StateTrials_ as three or four modern novels. In giving our readers anoutline of the events so recorded, only the more prominent and markedfeatures of them can of course find room. 

Elizabeth Canning, a young woman between eighteen and nineteen yearsof age, had borne an unexceptionable character, and was a domesticservant in the house of a gentleman living in Aldermanbury, namedEdward Lyon. On the 1st of January 1753, she obtained liberty to pay avisit to her uncle, who lived at Saltpetre Bank. As she did not returnat the specified time, Mr Lyon's family made inquiry of her motherabout her, and learned that she had not made her appearance among herother relations after the visit to her uncle. Days and weeks passed, in which every inquiry was unavailingly made after her, and her mothersuffered intense anxiety. Public notice had been taken of the mystery;it was commented on in the newspapers, and much talked of. At length, at the end of January, Elizabeth entered her mother's house in awretched condition--emaciated and exhausted, and with scarcely asufficiency of clothes on her person for mere decorum. She was, ofcourse, asked eagerly to give an account of her misfortunes. Hernarrative by degrees resolved itself into this shape: She set out onher visit at eleven o'clock in the day, and stayed with her uncle tillnine o'clock in the evening. Her uncle and aunt accompanied her as faras Aldgate. Then setting off alone, as she crossed Moorfields, andpassed the back of Bethlehem Hospital, two stout men seized her. 'Theysaid nothing to me, ' she said, 'at first, but took half a guinea, in alittle box, out of my pocket, and three shillings that were loose. They took my gown, apron, and hat, and folded them up, and put theminto a greatcoat pocket. I screamed out; then the man who took my gownput a handkerchief or some such thing in my mouth. ' They then tied herhands behind her, swore savagely at her, and dragged her along withthem. She now, according to her own account, swooned, and onrecovering from her fit, she felt herself still in their hands; theywere swearing, and calling on her to move on. Partly insensible, shewas conveyed for a considerable distance, but could not say whethershe was dragged or carried. When she found herself at rest, it was daylight in the morning. She remembered being in adisreputable-looking house, in the presence of a woman, who said ifshe would accompany her, she should have fine clothes. Elizabethrefused, and the woman taking a knife from a dresser, cut open herstays, and removed them. The woman and the other people present thenhustled her up stairs into a wretched garret, and locked the door. Shefound here a miserable straw-bed, a large black pitcher nearly full ofwater, and twenty-four pieces of bread, seeming as if a quartern-loafhad been cut in so many pieces. Her story went on to say, that sheremained in this place for four weeks, eating so much of the bread anddrinking a little water daily, till both were exhausted. She thensucceeded in making her escape, by removing a board which was nailedacross a window. 'First, ' she said, 'I got my head out, and kept fasthold of the wall, and got my body out; after that, I turned myselfround, and jumped into a little narrow place by a lane, with a fieldbeside it. Having nothing on but 'an old sort of a bedgown and ahandkerchief, that were in this hay-loft, and lay in a grate in thechimney, ' she managed to travel twelve miles through an unknowncountry to her mother's house, not daring, as she said, to call at anyplace by the way, lest she should again fall into the hands of herpersecutors. 

If Elizabeth's absence created excitement, her reappearance in theplight she was in, and with such a story to tell, increased ittenfold. She was an attractive-looking girl; and seeing the sympathyshe excited, had no objection to assent to the theory formed by herfriends, that the people in whose hands she had fallen had the basestdesigns upon her; that they had resolved to conquer her virtue byimprisonment and starvation; and that she had magnanimously andpatiently resisted all their efforts. The story was hawked abouteverywhere. It was spoken of in every tavern and at everydinner-table. The indignation of many respectable citizens was roused. They were parents, and had daughters of their own, who might be madethe victims of the diabolical crew from which this poor girl hadescaped. Many of them resolved to rally round her--avenge her wrongs, and punish the perpetrators. Elizabeth found herself one of the mostimportant people in London. She received many presents, andconsiderable funds were raised to prosecute the inquiry. In thesecircumstances, she was bound of course to assist her friends byremembering every little incident that could lead them to the place ofher sufferings. She believed that it must have been on the Hertfordroad, for in looking from the window, she had caught sight of a coachon that road with which she was familiar, as a former mistress hadbeen accustomed to travel in it. This circumstance, with the distancetravelled by the girl, afforded her champions a clue, and theyconcentrated their researches at Enfield Wash. There they found aquestionable-looking lodging-house kept by a family of the name ofWells, which seemed to answer to Elizabeth's description. It had agarret with an old straw-bed, and a black pitcher was found in thehouse. 

Elizabeth was taken to examine this house in a sort of triumphalprocession. Her friends went on horseback, making a completecavalcade; she and her mother travelled in a coach. As many as couldfind room seem to have simultaneously rushed into the squalidlodging-house, and the natural astonishment and confusion of itsinmates on such an invasion were at once assigned as the symptoms ofconscious guilt. Elizabeth seemed to be at first somewhat confused andundecided; these symptoms were attributed to the excitement of themoment on recollection of the horrors she had endured, and to afeeling of insecurity. She was told to take courage; she was among herfriends, who would support her cause; and she at last said decidedly, that she was in the house where she had been imprisoned. A gipsy womanof very remarkable appearance was present. One of the witnessesrecognised her, from her likeness to the portraits of Mother Shiptonthe sorceress. She sat bending over the fire smoking a pipe, andexhibiting through the hubbub around the imperturbable calmnesspeculiar to her race. Elizabeth immediately pointed to her, and saidshe was the woman who had cut her stays, and helped to put her in herprison-room. Even this did not disturb the stolid indifference of theold woman, who was paying no attention to what the people said. When, however, her daughter stepped up and said: 'Good mother, this youngwoman says you robbed her, ' she started to her feet, turned on thegroup her remarkable face, and said: 'I rob you! take care what yousay. If you have once seen my face, you cannot mistake it, for Godnever made such another. ' When told of the day of the robbery, shegave a wild laugh, and said she was then above a hundred miles off inDorsetshire. This woman was named Squires. Her son, George Squires, was present. Elizabeth did not seem completely to remember him atfirst, but she in the end maintained him to be one of the ruffians whohad attacked her in Moorfields. Her followers were now eminentlysatisfied. All the persons in the house were seized, and immediatelycommitted for examination. The strange, wild aspect of the gipsy seemsto have added an element to the horrors of the affair; and in theafternoon, when two of Elizabeth's friends were discussing the wholematter over a steak in the Three Crowns at Newington, one of them saidto the other: 'Mr Lyon, I hope God Almighty will destroy the modelthat he made that face by, and never make another like it. ' It wasfound that Mrs Wells, who kept the lodging-house, belonged to adisreputable family, and she admitted that her husband had beenhanged. If Elizabeth had given a false tale to hide the questionablecauses of her absenting herself, she had probably found that it took amuch more serious turn than she intended, and she must now make up hermind to recant her tale or go through with it. She resolved on thelatter course, to which she was probably tempted by having all Londonto back her. She could not well have carried on the charge alone, butthe popularity of her cause brought her unexpected aid. A woman namedVirtue Hall, who lived in Mrs Wells's lodging-house, thought it wouldbe a good speculation to be partner with Elizabeth Canning, and shegave testimony which corroborated the whole story. 

On the 21st of February, Mary Squires and Susannah Wells were broughtto trial for a capital offence. The evidence adduced against them wasthe story just told. When Mrs Squires was called on for her defence, she gave a succinct account of how she had from day to day gone fromone distant place to another during the time when Elizabeth said shewas in confinement. Two or three witnesses came forward somewhattimidly to corroborate her statement; and it is a melancholy fact, that others would have appeared and offered convincing testimony ofthe innocence of the accused, but were intimidated by the ferociousaspect of the London populace from venturing to give their evidence. That it was not very safe to contradict the popular idol, ElizabethCanning, was indeed experienced in a very unpleasant way by thewitnesses John Gibbons, William Clarke, and Thomas Greville, who cameforward in favour of Squires. Money was collected to prosecute themfor perjury. Dreading the strength of the popular current againstthem, they had to incur great expense in preparation for theirdefence. Before the day of trial, however, some of Canning's championsbegan to feel a misgiving, and no prosecutor appeared. The counsel forthe accused complained bitterly of the hardship of their position. They had incurred great expense. They felt that it was necessary forthe complete removal of the stain of perjury thrown on theircharacter, that there should be a trial. They said they had witnesses'ready to give their testimony with such clear, ample, convincingcircumstances, as would demand universal assent, and fully prove theinnocence of the three defendants, and the falsity of ElizabethCanning's story in every particular;' whereas, without a trial, allwould be virtually lost to the accused, who, instead of obtaining atriumphant acquittal, might be suspected of having agreed to somedubious compromise. 

Mrs Squires was at length convicted, and had judgment of death. ButSir Crisp Gascoyne, the lord mayor of London, who was nominally at thehead of the commission for trying Squires, believed that she was thevictim of falsehood and public prejudice. He resolved to subject thewhole question to a searching investigation, and to obviate, ifpossible, the scandal to British institutions, of perpetrating ajudicial murder, even though the victim should be among the mostobscure of the inhabitants of the realm. In the first place, aninquiry was instituted by the law-officers of the crown, the result ofwhich was, that the woman Squires received a royal pardon. The lordmayor, however, having satisfied himself that this poor woman had butnarrowly escaped death from the perfidious falsehood of ElizabethCanning, aided by an outbreak of popular zeal, was not content withthe gipsy woman's escape, but thought that an example should be madeof her persecutor. Accordingly, although he was met with much obloquy, both verbal and written--for controversial pamphlets were publishedagainst him as an enemy of Elizabeth Canning--he resolved to bringthis popular idol to justice. 

On the 29th of April 1754, she was brought to trial for wilful andcorrupt perjury. Her trial lasted to the 13th of May. It is one of thelongest in the collection called the _State Trials_, and is a morefull and elaborate inquiry than the trial of Charles I. The case madeout was complete and crushing, and the perfect clearness with whichthe whole truth connected with the movements from day to day, and fromhour to hour, of people in the humblest rank was laid open, shews thegreat capabilities of our public jury-system for getting at the truth. One part of the case was, the absurdity of Elizabeth Canning's story, and its inconsistency, in minute particulars, with itself and with theconcomitant facts. When her first description of the room, in which, she said, she was shut up, was compared with the full survey of itafterwards undertaken, important and fatal discrepancies were proved. She professed to have been unable to see anything going on in thehouse from her place of confinement, but in the room at Enfield Washthere was a large hole through the floor for a jack-rope, which gave afull view of the kitchen, where the inmates of the house chieflyresorted. She professed to describe every article in the room she wasconfined in, but she had said nothing of a very remarkable chest ofdrawers found in that which she identified as the same. That thispiece of furniture had not been recently placed there was madeevident, by the damp dust gluing it to the wall, and the host ofspiders which ran from their webs when it was removed. She had escapedby stepping on a penthouse, but there was none against the garret ofMrs Wells's house; the windows were high, and she could not haveleaped to the ground without severe injury. She stated that no one hadentered the room during the four weeks of her imprisonment, but it wasshewn that, during the period, a lodger had held an animatedconversation from one of the windows of the identical garret withsomebody occupied in lopping wood outside. Nay, a person had seen apoor woman, with the odd name of Natis, in bed in that very room. Hisreason for entering it was a curious one, which has almost ahistorical bearing. He went to try the ironwork of a sign which hadonce hung in front of the house, and lay in the garret. The sign hadbeen taken down when the Jacobite army penetrated into England in theRebellion of 1745. Probably it had been of a character likely to beoffensive to the Jacobites, and its removal is a little incident, shewing how greatly the country apprehended a revolution in favour ofthe Stuarts. 

These discrepancies were, however, far from being the most remarkablepart of the evidence. Not content with shewing that Elizabeth Canninghad told falsehoods, the prosecutor set to the laborious task ofproving where the gipsy woman had been, along with her son anddaughter, charged as her accomplices, during the time embraced by themere active part of Elizabeth's narrative. From the vagrant habits ofthe race, evidence to the most minute particulars had thus to becollected over a large range of country; and the precision with whichthe statements of a multitude of people--of different ranks andpursuits, and quite unknown to each other, as well as to the personthey spoke of--are fitted to each other, is very striking andinteresting. The most trifling and unconsequential-looking facts tellwith wonderful precision on the result. Thus a lodging-house keeperremembered the woman Squires being in her house on a certain day, andshe made it sure by an entry in an account-book, as to which sheremembered that she had consulted the almanac that she might put downthe right day. The day of the woman's presence in another place wasidentical with the presence of an Excise surveyor, and the statementsof the witnesses were tested by the Excise entry-books. The positionof the wanderers was in another instance connected with the posting ofa letter, and the post-office clerks bore testimony to the fact, thatfrom the marks on the letter it must have been posted on that day. Itwas, as we have seen, on the 1st of January that Elizabeth Canningsaid she was seized. The journey of the gipsy family is traced fromday to day through distant parts of England, from the precedingDecember down to the 24th of January, which was the day of theirarrival at Enfield Wash. Thus fortified by counteracting facts of anunquestionable nature, the counsel for the prosecution felt himself ina position to turn the whole story into ridicule, and shew the innateabsurdity of what all London had so resolutely believed. 

He proceeded in this strain: 'Was it not strange that Canning shouldsubsist so long on so small a quantity of bread and water--four weeks, wanting only a few hours? Strange that she should husband her store sowell as to have some of her bread left, according to her firstaccount, till the Wednesday; according to the last, till the Fridaybefore she made her escape; and that she should save some of hermiraculous pitcher till the last day? Was the twenty-fourth part of asixpenny loaf a day sufficient to satisfy her hunger? If not, whyshould she defer the immediate gratification of her appetite in orderto make provision for a precarious, uncertain futurity? Shall wesuppose some revelation from above in favour of one of the faithful?Perhaps an angel from heaven appeared to this mirror of modern virtue, and informed her, that if she eat more than one piece of bread a day, her small pittance would not last her till the time she was to makeher escape. Her mother, we know, is a very enthusiastical woman--aconsulter of conjurors, a dreamer of dreams; perhaps the daughterdreamed also what was to happen, and so, in obedience to her vision, would not eat when she was hungry, nor drink when she was thirsty. However that was, I would risk the event of the prosecution on thissingle circumstance, that, without the interposition of somepreternatural cause, this conduct of the prisoner's must appear toexceed all bounds of human probability. '

Notwithstanding the conclusive exposure of her criminality, ElizabethCanning was not entirely deserted by her partisans to the last. Two ofthe jury had difficulty in reconciling themselves to the verdict ofguilty, suggesting that her story might be substantially correct, though undoubtedly she had made a mistake about the persons by whomshe was injured. There was a technical imperfection in the verdict, and her friends strove to the utmost to take advantage of it. When itwas overruled, and a verdict of guilty was recorded, she pleaded formercy, saying that she was more unfortunate than wicked; thatself-preservation had been her sole object; and that she did not wishto take the gipsy's life. The punishment to be inflicted on her was amatter of serious deliberation, as many of the common people werestill so unconvinced of her wickedness, that an attempt to break thejail in which she was imprisoned might be feared, and as at that timethe transportation system had not been established. It was not, however, unusual to send criminals, by their own consent, to theplantations, and the court gladly acceded to a desire by herrelations, that she should be banished to New England. 

THE ISLAND OF ISLAY. 

There is, perhaps, no country in Europe which possesses so great avariety of territory and social condition as our own. Between theplains of Cambridgeshire and the wilds of Sutherland--between thetoiling, densely-packed multitudes of Lancashire and the idle, scattered cotters of the Hebrides, how vast a difference! The Land weLive in, as Charles Knight has called it, in a very delightfuldescriptive book, is a much more interesting study to its own peoplethan is generally supposed; and we somewhat wonder that comparativelyso few of our tourists go in search of what is picturesque, romantic, and novel within our own seas. These ideas arise in our mind inperusing a few pages of the new edition of the _Guide to the Highlandsand Islands of Scotland_, [2] by the Messrs Anderson of Inverness. Inthis book we have the benefit of remarkable fulness of knowledge onthe part of the authors, and the accuracy of their statements is onlyrivalled by their judicious brevity. The account of some of the moreout-of-the-way parts of the country brings before us not merelyphysical conditions highly peculiar, but, as it were, a totallypeculiar set of historical associations. As an example, take a fewswatches of the Island of Islay. 

It is about thirty miles long by twenty-four in breadth, composedchiefly of elevated, but not Alpine ground, much of it moorish andbleak, but a great and constantly increasing space cultivated andsheltered. The finest island in the Hebrides, it belonged almostwholly to one proprietor, whose dignity of course was great. Withinthe last few years, he came to greet the Queen at Inverary, with agallant following of men clothed in the Highland garb at his ownexpense. The island is now, however, in the hands of trustees, for thebenefit of creditors, whose claims amount to upwards of L. 700, 000. There are lead-mines on the island, now unwrought, but from which itis understood silver had been derived, wherewith some of the familyplate of the proprietor was formed. Whisky is distilled to such anamount, as to return L. 30, 000 per annum of revenue to the government. The Gaelic-speaking people, the fine shooting-grounds, the romanticcliffs and caves, the lonely moors and lochs of this island, altogether give it a degree of romantic interest calculated stronglyto attract the regard of the intelligent stranger. 

To pursue the narration of Messrs Anderson--'Islay is not a littleinteresting from the historical associations connected with theremains of antiquity which it presents, in the ruins of its oldcastles, forts, and chapels. It was a chief place of residence of thecelebrated lords, or rather kings, of the Isles, and afterwards of anear and powerful branch of the family of the great Macdonald. Theoriginal seat of the Scottish monarchy was Cantyre, and the capital issupposed to have been in the immediate vicinity of the site ofCampbelltown. In the ninth century, it was removed to Forteviot, nearthe east end of Strathearn, in Perthshire. Shortly afterwards, theWestern Isles and coasts, which had then become more exposed to thehostile incursions of the Scandinavian Vikingr, were completelyreduced under the sway of Harold Harfager, of Denmark. Haroldestablished a viceroy in the Isle of Man. In the beginning of thetwelfth century, Somerled, a powerful chieftain of Cantyre, marriedEffrica, a daughter of Olaus or Olave, the swarthy viceroy or king ofMan, a descendant of Harold Harfager, and assumed the independentsovereignty of Cantyre; to which he added, by conquest, Argyle andLorn, with several islands contiguous thereto and to Cantyre. Somerledwas slain in 1164, in an engagement with Malcolm IV. In Renfrewshire. His possessions on the mainland, excepting Cantyre, were bestowed onhis younger son Dugal, from whom sprung the Macdougals of Lorn, whoare to this day lineally represented by the family of Dunolly; whilethe islands and Cantyre descended to Reginald, his elder son. For morethan three centuries, Somerled's descendants held these possessions, at times as independent princes, and at others as tributaries ofNorway, Scotland, and even of England. In the sixteenth century theycontinued still troublesome, but not so formidable to the royalauthority. After the battle of the Largs in 1263, in which Haco ofNorway was defeated, the pretensions of that kingdom were resigned tothe Scottish monarchs, for payment of a subsidy of 100 merks. AngusOg, fifth in descent from Somerled, entertained Robert Bruce in hisflight to Ireland in his castle of Dunaverty, near the Mull ofCantyre, and afterwards at Dunnavinhaig, in Isla, and fought under hisbanner at Bannockburn. Bruce conferred on the Macdonalds thedistinction of holding the post of honour on the right in battle--thewithholding of which at Culloden occasioned a degree of disaffectionon their part, in that dying struggle of the Stuart dynasty. ThisAngus's son, John, called by the Dean of the Isles "the good John ofIsla, " had by Amy, great-granddaughter of Roderick, son of Reginald, king of Man, three sons--John, Ronald, and Godfrey; and by subsequentmarriage with Margaret, daughter of Robert Stuart, afterwards RobertII. Of Scotland, other three sons--Donald of the Isles, John Mor theTainnister, and Alexander Carrach. It is subject of dispute whetherthe first family were lawful issue or illegitimate, or had merely beenset aside, for they were not called to the chief succession, as astipulation of the connection with the royal family, to whom theothers were particularly obnoxious; or, as has been conjectured, fromthe relationship of the parents being thought too much within theforbidden degrees. The power of John seems to have been singularlygreat. By successive grants of Robert Bruce to his father, and ofDavid II. , Baliol, and Robert II. , to himself, he appears to have beenin possession or superior of almost the whole western coasts andislands. . . . 

'The inordinate power of these island princes was gradually brokendown by the Scottish monarchs in the course of the fifteenth and earlypart of the sixteenth century. On the death of John, Lord of the Islesand Earl of Ross, grandson of Donald, Hugh of Sleat, John's nearestbrother and his descendants became rightful representatives of thefamily, and so continue. Claim to the title of Lord of the Isles wasmade by Donald, great-grandson of Hugh of Sleat; but James V. Refusedto restore the title, deeming its suppression advisable for the peaceof the country. '

At the close of the sixteenth century, when Bacon was writing his_Essays_, and Shakspeare his _Hamlet_, this remote part of the countrywas the scene of bloody feuds between semi-barbarous chieftains. Abattle, with from one to two thousand men on each side, took place inIslay in 1598. The power of the Islay Macdonalds ultimately passedinto the hands of the Campbells, who have since been the ascendantfamily in these insular regions. 

'The remains of the strongholds of the Macdonalds in Islay are thefollowing:--In Loch Finlagan, a lake about three miles incircumference, three miles from Port Askaig, and a mile off the roadto Loch-in-Daal, on the right hand, on an islet, are the ruins oftheir principal castle or palace and chapel; and on an adjoiningisland the Macdonald council held their meetings. There are traces ofa pier, and of the habitations of the guards on the shore. A largestone was, till no very distant period, to be seen, on which Macdonaldstood, when crowned, by the Bishop of Argyle, King of the Isles. On anisland, in a similar lake, Loch Guirm, to the west of Loch-in-Daal, are the remains of a strong square fort, with round corner towers; andtowards the head of Loch-in-Daal, on the same side, are vestiges ofanother dwelling and pier. 

 'Where are thy pristine glories, Finlagan? The voice of mirth has ceased to ring thy walls, Where Celtic lords and their fair ladies sang Their songs of joy in Great Macdonald's halls. And where true knights, the flower of chivalry, Oft met their chiefs in scenes of revelry-- All, all are gone, and left thee to repose, Since a new race and measures new arose. 

'The Macdonalds had a body-guard of 500 men, of whose quarters thereare marks still to be seen on the banks of the loch. For theirpersonal services they had lands, the produce of which fed and clothedthem. They were formed into two divisions. The first was calledCeatharnaich, and composed of the very tallest and strongest of theislanders. Of these, sixteen, called Buannachan, constantly attendedtheir lord wheresoever he went, even in his rural walks; and one ofthem, denominated "Gille 'shiabadh dealt, " headed the party. Thispiece of honourable distinction was conferred upon him on account ofhis feet being of such size and form as, in his progress, to cover thegreatest extent of ground, and to shake the dew from the grasspreparatory to its being trodden by his master. These Buannachanenjoyed certain privileges, which rendered them particularly obnoxiousto their countrymen. The last gang of them was destroyed in thefollowing manner by one Macphail in the Rinns:--Seeing Macdonald andhis men coming, he set about splitting the trunk of a tree, in whichhe had partly succeeded by the time they had reached. He requested thevisitors to lend a hand. So, eight on each side, they took hold of thepartially severed splits; on doing which, Macphail removed the wedgeswhich had kept open the slit, which now closed on their fingers, holding them hard and fast in the rustic man-trap. Macphail and histhree sons equipped themselves from the armour of their captives, compelled them to eat a lusty dinner, and then beheaded them, leavingtheir master to return in safety. Macphail and his sons took shelterin Ireland. The other division of these 500 were calledGillean-glasa, and their post was within the outer walls of theirfastnesses. These forts were so constructed that the Gillean-glasamight fight in the outer breach, whilst their lords, together withtheir guests, were enjoying themselves in security within the walls, and especially within the impenetrable fortifications of Finlagan. 

'On Freuch Isle, in the Sound, are the ruins of Claig Castle--a squaretower, defended by a deep ditch, which at once served as a prison anda protection to the passage. At Laggavoulin Bay, an inlet on the eastcoast, and on the opposite side to the village, on a large peninsularrock, stands part of the walls of a round substantial stone burgh ortower, protected on the land side by a thick earthen mound. It iscalled Dun Naomhaig, or Dunnivaig (such is Gaelic orthography. ) Thereare ruins of several houses beyond the mound, separated from the mainbuilding by a strong wall. This may have been a Danish structure, subsequently used by the Macdonalds, and it was one of their strongestnaval stations. There are remains of several such strongholds in thesame quarter. The ruins of one are to be seen on an inland hill, DunBorreraig, with walls twelve feet thick, and fifty-two feet indiameter inside, and having a stone seat two feet high round the area. As usual, there is a gallery in the midst of the wall. Another hadoccupied the summit of Dun Aidh, a large, high, and almostinaccessible rock near the Mull. Between Loch Guirm and Saneg, andsouth of Loch Gruinart, at Dun Bheolain (Vollan), there are a seriesof rocks, projecting one behind another into the sea, with precipitousseaward fronts, and defended on the land side by cross dikes; and inthe neighbourhood numerous small pits in the earth, of a size to admitof a single person seated. These are covered by flat stones, whichwere concealed by sods. 

'There are also several ruins of chapels and places of worship inIslay, as in many other islands. The names of fourteen founded by theLords of the Isles might be enumerated. Indeed, most of the names, especially of parishes of the west coast, have some old ecclesiasticalallusion. In the ancient burying-ground of Kildalton, a few milessouth-west of the entrance of the Sound, are two large, butclumsily-sculptured stone-crosses. In this quarter, near the Bay ofKnock, distinguished by a high sugar-loaf-shaped hill, are two largeupright flagstones, called the two stones of Islay, reputed to markthe burying-place of Yula, a Danish princess, who gives the island itsname. In the church-yard of Killarrow, near Bowmore, there was aprostrate column, rudely sculptured; and, among others, twograve-stones, one with the figure of a warrior, habited in a sort oftunic reaching to the knees, and a conical head-dress. His hand holdsa sword, and by his side is a dirk. The decoration of the other is alarge sword, surrounded by a wreath of leaves; and at one end thefigures of three animals. This column has been removed from itsresting-place, and set up in the centre of a battery erected nearIslay House some years ago. Monumental stones, as well as cairns andbarrows, occur elsewhere; and there is said to be a specimen of acircular mound, with successive terraces, resembling the tynewalds, orjudgment-seats, of the Isle of Man, and almost unique in the WesternIslands. Stone and brass hatchet-shaped weapons or celts, elf-shots orflint arrow-heads, and brass fibulæ, have been frequently dug up. '

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Edinburgh: Adam and Charles Black. Pp. 808. 

THE APPLE OF THE DEAD SEA. 

We made a somewhat singular discovery when travelling among themountains to the east of the Dead Sea, where the ruins of Ammon Jerashand Ajoloun well repay the labour and fatigue encountered in visitingthem. It was a remarkably hot and sultry day. We were scrambling upthe mountain through a thick jungle of bushes and low trees, whichrises above the east shore of the Dead Sea, when I saw before me afine plum-tree, loaded with fresh blooming plums. I cried out to myfellow-traveller: 'Now, then, who will arrive first at the plum-tree?'and as he caught a glimpse of so refreshing an object, we both pressedour horses into a gallop, to see which would get the first plum fromthe branches. We both arrived at the same moment; and, each snatchingat a fine ripe plum, put it at once into our mouths, when, on bitingit, instead of the cool, delicious juicy fruit which we expected, ourmouths were filled with a dry bitter dust, and we sat under the treeupon our horses, sputtering, and hemming, and doing all we could to berelieved of the nauseous taste of this strange fruit. We thenperceived, and to my great delight, that we had discovered the famousapple of the Dead Sea, the existence of which has been doubted andcanvassed since the days of Strabo and Pliny, who first described it. Many travellers have given descriptions of other vegetable productionswhich bear analogy to the one described by Pliny; but, up to thistime, no one had met with the thing itself, either upon the spotmentioned by the ancient authors or elsewhere. --_Curzon's Visits toMonasteries in the Levant. _

INVOCATION. 

 Creator of the universal heart In nature's bosom beating! Life of all forms, which are but as a part Of Thee, thy life repeating! Soul of the earth, thy sanctity impart Where human souls are meeting!

 Bright as the first faint beam in mercy shewn Unto the barren-sighted, Where, on the yet unbroken darkness thrown, A sunny ray hath lighted, The glory of thy presence streameth down On us, the world-benighted. 

 To us the shadow of the earth is given, And ours the lower cloud; But though along its pathways tempest-driven, Our hearts shall not be bowed, While yet our eyes unto the stars of heaven We lift, and pray aloud!

 Not with the prayers of long ago we pray, With red raised hand beseeching-- Not with the war-voice of our elder clay, With the mammoth's bones now bleaching-- Not for the mortal victories of a day, But--for the Spirit's teaching!

 Be Words of Light alone our javelins hurled, While Truth wings every dart: Oh, welcome, then, the legions of a world!-- But ours no warrior's part; The ensigns we would bear are passions furled-- Love, and a child's young heart!

 O. 

ART-EDUCATION OF CHILDREN. 

Let us here mention, that we have found the children of the sovereignof Great Britain at nine in the morning at the Museum of PracticalArt; and on another occasion, at the same hour, amidst the Elginmarbles--not the only wise hint to the mothers of England to be foundin the highest place. Accustom your children to find beauty ingoodness, and goodness in beauty. --_The Builder. _

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