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Rh "No, he has not," answered the detective, decisively.

"You seem very positive about it," said the lawyer, after a moment's pause. "Did you ask Moreland about it?"

A reproachful look came into Kilsip's white face.

"Not quite so green," he said, forcing a smile. "I thought you'd a better opinion of me than that, Mr. Calton. Ask him?— no."

"Then how did you find out?"

"The fact is, Moreland is employed as a barman in the Kangaroo Hotel."

"A barman!" echoed Calton; "and he came out here as a gentleman of independent fortune. Why, hang it, man, that in itself is sufficient to prove that he had no motive to murder Whyte. Moreland pretty well lived on Whyte, so what could have induced him to kill his golden goose, and become a barman—pshaw! the idea is absurd."

"Well, you may be right about the matter," said Kilsip, rather angrily; "and if Gorby makes mistakes, I don't pretend to be infallible. But, at all events, when I saw Moreland in the bar he wore a silver ring on the forefinger of his right hand."

"Silver isn't a diamond."

"No; but it shows that was the finger he was accustomed to wear his ring on. When I saw that I determined to search his room. I managed to do so while he was out, and found"

"A ?"

Kilsip nodded.

"And so your castle of cards falls to the ground," said Calton, jestingly. "Your idea is absurd. Moreland no more committed the murder than I did. Why, he was too drunk on that night to do anything."

"Humph—so he says."

"Well, men don't calumniate themselves for nothing."

"It was a lesser danger to avert a greater one," replied Kilsip, coolly. "I am sure that Moreland was not drunk on that night. He only said so to escape awkward questions as to his movements. Depend upon it he knows more than he lets out."

"Well, and how do you intend to set about the matter?"

"I shall start looking for the coat first."

"Ah! you think he has hidden it?"


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134 number of sympathizing friends,who seemed to have sprung up on all sides, like mushrooms, in a single night. There were, of course, plenty of cautious people left who wanted to hear the verdict of the jury before giving their opinion, and who still believed him guilty. The sudden appearance of Sal Rawlins had turned the great tide of public feeling in favor of the prisoner, and many who had been loudest in their denunciations of Fitzgerald were now more than half convinced of his innocence. Pious clergymen talked in an incoherent way about the finger of God and the innocent not suffering unjustly, which was a case of counting unhatched chickens, as the verdict had yet to be given.

Felix Rolleston awoke, and found himself famous in a small way. Out of good-natured sympathy and a spice of contrariness, he had declared his belief in Brian's innocence, and now, to his astonishment, found that his view of the matter was likely to be a correct one. He received so much praise on all sides for his presumed cleverness, that he soon began to think that he had believed in Fitzgerald's innocence by a calm course of reasoning, and not because of a desire to differ from everyone else in their opinion of the case. After all, Felix Rolleston is not the only man who has been astonished to find greatness thrust upon him, and come to believe himself worthy of it. He was a wise man, however, and while in the full tide of prosperity seized the flying moment, and proposed to Miss Featherweight, who, after some hesitation, agreed to endow him with herself and her thousands. She decided that her future husband was a man of no common intellect, seeing that he had long ago arrived at a conclusion which the rest of Melbourne were only beginning to discover now, so she determined that, as soon as she assumed marital authority, Felix, like Strephon in "Iolanthe," should go into Parliament, and with her money and his brains she might some day be the wife of a premier. Mr. Rolleston had no idea of the political honors which his future spouse intended he should have, and was seated in his old place in the court, talking about the case.

"Knew he was innocent, don't you know," he said with a complacent smile. "Fitzgerald's too jolly good-looking a fellow, and all that sort of thing, to commit murder."

Whereupon a clergyman, happening to overhear the

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Rh lively Felix make this flippant remark, disagreed with it entirely, and preached a sermon to prove that good looks and crime were closely connected, and that both Judas Iscariot and Nero were beauty-men.

"Ah!" said Calton, when he heard the sermon, "if this unique theory is a true one, what a truly pious man that clergyman must be!" which allusion to the looks of the reverend gentleman was rather unkind, as he was by no means bad looking. But then Calton was one of those witty men who would rather lose a friend than suppress an epigram.

When the prisoner was brought in a murmur of sympathy ran through the crowded court, so ill and worn out he looked; but Calton was puzzled to account for the expression of his face, so different from that of a man whose life had been saved, or rather, was going to be saved, for in truth it was a foregone conclusion.

"You know who stole those papers," he thought, as he looked at Fitzgerald keenly, "and the man who did so is the murderer of Whyte."

The judge having entered and the court being opened, Calton arose to make his speech, and stated in a few words the line of defense he intended to take.

He would first call Albert Dendy, a watchmaker, to prove that on Thursday night at eight o'clock in the evening, he had called at the prisoner's lodgings while the landlady was out, and while there had put the kitchen clock right, and had regulated the same. He would also call Felix Rolleston, a friend of the prisoner's, to prove that the prisoner was not in the habit of wearing rings, and frequently expressed his detestation of such a custom. Sebastian Brown, a waiter at the Melbourne Club, would be called to prove that on Thursday night a letter was delivered to the prisoner at the Club by one Sarah Rawlins, and that the prisoner left the Club shortly before one o'clock on Friday morning. He would also call Sarah Rawlins, to prove that she had delivered a note to Sebastian Brown for the prisoner, at the Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve on Thursday night, and that a few minutes past one o'clock on Friday morning she had conducted the prisoner to a slum off Little Bourke Street, and that he was there between one and two on Friday morning, the


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184 "I'm sure of it. My theory is this. When Moreland got out of the cab at Powlett street"

"But he didn't," interrupted Calton, angrily.

"Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that he did," said Kilsip, quietly. "I say when he left the cab he walked up Powlett street, turned to the left down George street, and walked back to town through the Fitzroy gardens, then, knowing that the coat was noticeable, he threw it away or hid it, and walked out of the gardens"

"In evening dress more noticeable than coat."

"He wasn't in evening dress," said Kilsip, quietly.

"No more he was," observed Calton, eagerly, recalling the evidence at the trial. "Another blow to your theory. The murderer was in evening dress; the cabman said so."

"Yes; because he had seen Mr. Fitzgerald in evening dress a few minutes before, and thought that he was the same man who got into the cab with Whyte."

"Well, what of that?"

"If you remember, the second man had his coat buttoned up. Moreland wore dark trousers—at least, I suppose so—and, with the coat buttoned up, it was easy for the cabman to make the mistake, believing, as he did, that it was Mr. Fitzgerald."

"That sounds better," said Calton, thoughtfully. "And what are you going to do?"

"Look for the coat in the Fitzroy gardens."

"Pshaw! a wild goose chase."

"Possibly," said Kilsip, as he arose to go.

"And when shall I see you again?" said Calton.

"Oh, to-night," said Kilsip, pausing at the door. "I had nearly forgotten, Mother Guttersnipe wants to see you."

"Why? What's up?"

"She's dying, and wants to tell you some secret."

"Rosanna Moore, by Jove!" said Calton "She'll tell me something about her. I'll get to the bottom of this yet. All right, I'll be here at eight o'clock.'

"Very well, sir!" and the detective glided out.

"I wonder if that old devil knows anything?" said Calton to himself, as he resumed his seat. "She might have overheard some conversation between Whyte and his mistress, and is going to split. Well, I'm afraid when Fitzgerald does confess I will know all about it beforehand."


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136 hour at which the murder was alleged to have taken place. This being his defence to the charge brought against the prisoner, he would call Albert Dendy.

Albert Dendy, duly sworn, stated—

I am a watchmaker, and carry on business in Fitzroy. I remember Thursday, the 26th of July last. On the evening of that day I called at Powlett Street, East Melbourne, to see my aunt, who is the landlady of the prisoner. She was out at the time I called, and I waited in the kitchen till her return. I looked at the kitchen clock to see if it was too late to wait, and then at my watch. I found that the clock was ten minutes fast, upon which I put it right, and regulated it properly.

Calton: At what time did you put it right?

Witness: About eight o'clock.

Calton: Between that time and two in the morning was it possible for the clock to gain ten minutes?

Witness: No, it was not possible.

Calton: Would it gain at all?

Witness: Not between eight and two o'clock—the time was not long enough.

Calton: Did you see your aunt that night?

Witness: Yes; I waited till she came in.

Calton: And did you tell her you had put the clock right?

Witness: No, I did not; I forgot all about it.

Calton: Then she was still under the impression that it was ten minutes fast?

Witness: Yes, I suppose so.

After Dendy had been cross-examined, Felix Rolleston was called, and deposed as follows:—

I am an intimate friend of the prisoner. I have known him for five or six years, and I never saw him wearing a ring during that time. He has frequently told me he did not care for rings, and would never wear them.

In cross-examination:—

Crown Prosecutor: You have never seen the prisoner wearing a diamond ring?

Witness: No, never.

Crown Prosecutor: Have you ever seen any such ring in his possession?

Witness: No, I have seen him buying rings for ladies,


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Rh but I never saw him with any ring such as a gentleman would wear.

Crown Prosecutor: Not even a seal ring.

Witness: No, not even a seal ring.

Sarah Rawlins was then placed in the witness-box, and, after having been sworn, deposed—

I know the prisoner. I delivered a letter addressed to him at the Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve o'clock on Thursday, 26th July. I did not know what his name was. He met me shortly after one, at the corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, where I had been told to wait for him. I took him to my grandmother's place, in a lane off Little Bourke Street. There was a dying woman there, who had sent for him. He went in and saw her for about twenty minutes, and then I took him back to the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets. I heard the three-quarters strike shortly after I left him.

Crown Prosecutor: You are quite certain that the prisoner was the man you met on that night?

Witness: Quite certin', s'elp me G—.

Crown Prosecutor: And he met you a few minutes past one o'clock?

Witness: Yes, 'bout five minutes—I 'eard the clock a-strikin one just afore he come down the street, and when I leaves 'im again it were about twenty-five to two, 'cause it took me ten minits to git 'ome, and I 'eard the clock go three-quarters, just as I gets to the door.

Crown Prosecutor: How do you know it was exactly twenty-five to two when you left him?

Witness: 'Cause I sawr the clocks—I left 'im at the corner of Russell Street, and comes down Bourke Street, so I could see the Post Orffice clock as plain as day, an' when I gets into Swanton Street I looks at the Town 'All premiscus like, and see the same time there.

Crown Prosecutor: And you never lost sight of the prisoner the whole time?

Witness: No, there's only one door by the room, 'an I was a-sittin' outside it, an 'when he comes out he falls over me.

Crown Prosecutor: Were you asleep?

Witness: Not a blessed wink.

Calton then directed Sebastian Brown to be called, who deposed—


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Rh

Punctual to his appointment, Kilsip called at Calton's office at eight o'clock, in order to guide him through the squalid labyrinths of the slums, and found the barrister waiting impatiently for him. The fact is, Calton had got it into his head that Rosanna Moore was at the bottom of the whole mystery, and every new piece of evidence he discovered went to confirm his belief. When Rosanna Moore was dying, she might have confessed something to Mother Guttersnipe, which would hint at the name of the murderer, and he had a strong suspicion that the old hag had received hush-money in order to keep quiet. Several times before Calton had been on the point of going to her, and trying to get the secret out of her—that is, if she knew it; but now fate appeared to be playing into his hands, and a voluntary confession was much more likely to be a true one than when dragged piecemeal from unwilling lips. Consequently, when Kilsip made his appearance, Calton was in a perfect fever of excitement, which he concealed under a calm exterior.

"I suppose we'd better go at once," he said to Kilsip, as he lit a cigar. "That old hag may go off at any moment."

"She might," assented Kilsip, doubtfully, "but I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she pulled through. Some of these old women have nine lives, like a cat."

"Not improbable," retorted Calton, as they passed into the brilliantly lighted street; "her nature seemed to me to be essentially feline. But tell me," he went on, "what's the matter with her—old age?"

"Partly; drink also, I think," answered Kilsip. "Besides, her surroundings are not very healthy, and her dissipated habits have pretty well settled her."

"It isn't anything catching, I hope," cried the barrister, with a shudder, as they passed into the crowd of Bourke Street.

"Don't know, sir, not being a doctor," answered the detective, stolidly.


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138 I know the prisoner. He is a member of the Melbourne Club, at which I am a waiter. I remember Thursday, 26th July. On that night the last witness came with a letter to the prisoner. It was about a quarter to twelve. She just gave it to me, and went away. I delivered it to Mr. Fitzgerald. He left the Club at about ten minutes to one.

This closed the evidence for the defence, and after the Crown Prosecutor had made his speech, in which he pointed out the strong evidence against the prisoner, Calton arose to address the jury. He was a fine speaker and made a splendid defence. Not a single point escaped him, and that brilliant piece of oratory is still remembered and spoken of admiringly in the perlieuspurlieus (environs) [sic] of Temple Court and Chancery Lane.

He began by giving a vivid description of the circumstances of the murder—of the meeting of the murderer and his victim in Collins Street East—the cab driving down to St. Kilda—the getting out of the cab of the murderer after committing the crime—and the way in which he had secured himself against pursuit. Having thus enchained the attention of the jury by the graphic manner in which he described the crime, he pointed out that the evidence brought forward by the prosecution was purely circumstantial, and that they had utterly failed to identify the man who entered the cab with the prisoner in the dock. The supposition that the prisoner and the man in the light coat being one and the same person, rested solely upon the evidence of the cabman, Royston, who, although not intoxicated, was, judging from his own statements, not in a fit state to distinguish between the man who hailed the cab and the man who got in. The crime was committed by means of chloroform; therefore if the prisoner was guilty, he must have purchased the chloroform in some shop, or obtained it from some friends. At all events, the prosecution had not brought forward a single piece of evidence to show how and where the chloroform was obtained. With regard to the glove belonging to the murdered man found in the prisoner's pocket, he picked it up off the ground at the time when he first met Whyte, when the deceased was lying drunk near the Scotch Church. Certainly there was no evidence to show that the prisoner had picked it up before the deceased


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Rh entered the cab; but, on the other hand, there was no evidence to show that it had been picked up in the cab. It was far more likely that the glove, and especially a white glove, would be picked up under the light of the lamp near the Scotch Church, where it was easily noticeable, than in the darkness of a cab, where there was very little room, and where it would be quite dark, as the blinds were drawn down. The cabman, Royston, swore positively that the man who got out of his cab on the St. Kilda Road wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of his right hand, and the cabman, Rankin, swore to the same thing about the man who got out at Powlett Street. Against this could be placed the evidence of one of the prisoner's most intimate friends—one who had seen him almost daily for the last five years—and he had sworn positively that the prisoner never was in the habit of wearing rings. The cabman Rankin had also sworn that the man who entered his cab on the St. Kilda Road alighted at Powlett Street, East Melbourne, at two o'clock on Friday morning, as he heard that hour strike from the post office clock, whereas the evidence of the prisoner's landlady showed plainly that he entered the house five minutes previously, and her evidence was further supported by that of the watchmaker Dendy. Mrs. Sampson saw the hand of her kitchen clock point to five minutes to two, and, thinking it was ten minutes slow, told the detective the prisoner did not enter the house till five minutes past two, which would just give the man who alighted from the cab, presuming it to have been the prisoner, sufficient time to walk up to his lodgings. The evidence of the watchmaker, Dendy, however, showed clearly that he had put the clock right at the hour of eight on Thursday night; that it was impossible for it to gain ten minutes before two on Friday morning, and, therefore, the time, five minutes to two, seen by the landlady, was correct, and the prisoner was in the house five minutes before the other man alighted from the cab in Powlett Street. These points in themselves were sufficient to show that the prisoner was innocent, but the evidence of the woman Rawlins must prove conclusively to the jury that the prisoner was not the man who committed the crime. The witness Brown had proved that the woman Rawlins had delivered a letter to him, which he gave to the


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186 "Oh!" ejaculated Calton in dismay.

"It will be all right, sir," said Kilsip, reassuringly; "I've been there a dozen of times, and I'm all right."

"I dare say," retorted the barrister; "but I may go there once and catch it, whatever it is."

"Take my word, sir, it's nothing worse nor old age and drink."

"Has she a doctor?"

"Won't let one come near her—prescribed for herself."

"Gin, I suppose? Humph! Much nicer than the usual run of medicines."

They went into Little Bourke Street, and after going through the narrow and dark lanes, which now seemed quite familiar to Calton, reached Mother Guttersnipe's den, for in truth it could be called nothing else. After climbing the rickety stairs, which groaned and creaked beneath their weight, they entered the room, and found Mother Guttersnipe lying on the bed in the corner, and the elfish child with the black hair playing cards with a slatternly looking girl at the deal table by the faint light of a tallow candle. They both sprang to their feet as the strangers entered, and the elfish child pushed a broken chair in a sullen manner toward Mr. Calton, while the other girl shuffled into a far corner of the room, and crouched down there like a dog. The noise of their entry awoke the hag from an uneasy slumber into which she had fallen, and sitting up in bed, she huddled the clothes round her, and presented such a gruesome spectacle that Calton involuntarily recoiled. Her white hair was all unbound, and hung in tangled masses over her shoulders in snowy profusion. Her face, parched and wrinkled, with the hooked nose and beady black eyes, like those of a mouse, was poked forward, and her skinny arms, bare to the shoulder, were waving wildly about as she grasped at the bedclothes with her claw-like hands. The bottle of square and the broken cup lay beside her, and filling herself a dram, she lapped it up greedily. Some of it went the wrong way, and she was seized with a paroxysm of coughing, which lasted till the elfish child shook her up, and took the cup from her.

"Greedy old beast," muttered this amiable infant, peering into the cup, "ye'd drink the Yarrar dry, I b'lieve."

"Go t' 'ell," muttered the old woman, feebly. "Who's


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140 prisoner, and that the prisoner left the club, personally, to keep the appointment spoken of in the letter, which letter, or, rather, the remains of it, had been put in evidence. The woman Rawlins swore that the prisoner met her at the corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, and had gone with her to one of the back slums, there to see the writer of the letter. She also proved that at the time of the committal of the crime the prisoner was still in the back slum, by the bed of the dying woman, and, there being only one door to the room, could not possibly have left without the witness seeing him. The woman Rawlins further proved that she left the prisoner at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets at twenty-five minutes to two o'clock, which was five minutes before Royston drove his cab up to the St. Kilda Police Station, with the dead body inside. Finally, the woman Rawlins proved her words by stating she saw both the Post Oflice and Town Hall clocks; and supposing the prisoner started from the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets, as she says he did, he would reach East Melbourne in twenty minutes, which made it five minutes to two on Friday morning, the time at which, according to the landlady's statement, he entered the house. All the evidence given by the different witnesses agreed completely, and formed a chain which showed the whole of the prisoner's movements at the time of the committal of the murder. Therefore it was absolutely impossible that the murder could have been committed by the man in the dock. The strongest piece of evidence brought forward by the prosecution was that of the witness Hableton, who swore that the prisoner used threats against the life of the deceased. But the language was merely the outcome of a passionate Irish nature, and was not sufficient to prove the crime to have been committed by the prisoner. The defence which the prisoner set up was that of an alibi, and the evidence of the witnesses for the defence proved conclusively that the prisoner could not, and did not, commit the murder. Finally, Calton wound up his elaborate and exhaustive speech, which lasted for over two hours, by a brilliant peroration, calling upon the jury to base their verdict upon the plain facts of the case, and if they did so they could hardly fail in bringing in a verdict of "Not guilty."


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Rh When Calton sat down a subdued murmur of applause was heard, which was instantly suppressed, and the judge began to sum up, which he did strongly in favor of Fitzgerald. The jury then retired, and immediately there was a dead silence in the crowded court—an unnatural silence, such as must have fallen on the blood-loving Roman populace when they saw the Christian martyrs kneeling on the hot yellow sands of the arena, and watched the long, lithe forms of lion and panther creeping stealthily toward their prey. The hour being late, the gas had been lighted, and there was a sickly glare through the wide hall, which added to the singularity of the scene. Fitzgerald had been taken out of court on the retiring of the jury, but the spectators stared steadily at the empty dock, which seemed to enchain them by some indescribable fascination. They conversed among themselves only in whispers, until even the whispering ceased, and nothing could be heard but the steady ticking of the clock, and now and then the quick-drawn breath of some timid onlooker. Suddenly a woman, whose nerves were overstrung, shrieked, and the cry rang weirdly through the crowded hall. She was taken out, and again there was silence, every eye being now fixed on the door through which the jury would come with their verdict of life or death. The hands of the clock moved slowly round—a quarter—a half—three-quarters—and then the hour sounded with a silvery ring which startled every one. Madge, sitting with her hands tightly clasped together, began to fear that her highly strung nerves would give way. "My God," she muttered softly to herself; "will this suspense never end?"

Just then the door opened, and the jury re-entered. The prisoner was again placed in the dock, and the judge again resumed his seat, this time with the black cap in his pocket, as everyone guessed.

The usual formalities were gone through, and when the foreman of the jury stood up every neck was craned forward, and every ear was on the alert to catch the words that fell from his lips. The prisoner flushed a little, and then grew pale as death, giving a quick, nervous glance at the quiet figure in black, of which he could just catch a glimpse. Then came in the verdict, sharp and decisive, "."


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Rh they, Lizer?" she said, shading her eyes with one trembling hand, while she looked at Calton and the detective.

"The perlice cove an' the swell," said Lizer, suddenly. "Come to see yer turn up yer toes."

"I ain't dead yet, ye whelp," snarled the hag with sudden energy; "an' if I gits up I'll turn up yer blarsted toes, cuss ye."

Lizer gave a shrill laugh of disdain, and Kilsip stepped forward. "None of this," he said, sharply, taking Lizer by one thin shoulder, and pushing her over to where the other girl was crouching; "stop there till I tell you to move."

Lizer tossed back her tangled black hair, and was about to make some impudent reply, when the other girl, who was older and wiser, put out her hand and pulled her down beside her.

Meanwhile, Calton was addressing himself to the old in the corner.

"You wanted to see me?" he said gently, for, notwithstanding his repugnance to her, she was, after all, a woman, and dying.

"Yes, blarst ye," croaked Mother Guttersnipe, lying down and pulling the greasy bedclothes up to her neck. "You ain't a parson?" with sudden suspicion.

"No, I am a lawyer."

"I ain't a-going to have the cussed parsons a-prowlin' round 'ere," growled the old woman, viciously. "I ain't a-goin' to die yet, cuss ye; I'm going to get well an' strong, an' 'ave a good time of it."

"I am afraid you won't recover," said Calton, gently. "You had better let me send for a doctor."

"No, I shan't," retorted the hag, aiming a blow at him with all her feeble strength. "I ain't a-goin' to have my insides spil'd with salts and senner. I don't want neither parsons nor doctors, I don't. I wouldn't 'ave a lawyer, only I'm a-thinkin' of makin' my will, I am, blarst it."

"Mind I gits the watch," yelled Lizer, from the corner. "If you gives it to Sal I'll tear her eyes out."

"Silence!" said Kilsip, sharply, and with a muttered curse, Lizer sat back in her corner.

"Sharper than a serpent's tooth, she are," whined the old woman, when quiet was once more restored. "That


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 FTER a few years of residence in the city, Francis Bradley took his family to a new house in Evanston. It stood on a lot of nearly half a block frontage in Hinman Avenue south of Church Street. A fascinating lot this was, shaded by Evanston's eternal oaks; full of sweet odors and singing birds. There was country all about, woodland and meadow, and to the east, almost, it seemed, at the edge of the Bradley property, the lake shim mered beyond the trees.

One hears of Luther Bradley growing up in Evanston, a boy with brown wavy hair and dancing brown eyes, who shot up presently to an astonishing height, and who had just the best time a boy can have. His father encouraged him to be athletic, and to make things, and to be a manly fellow that was a father worth having: one who could beat the fellows jumping, and who could do nice carpentry work, and who kept a little astronomical observatory in the back yard, with a real telescope. Luther Bradley became a very strong-and masculine youngster, quite untamed by the fact that he had a houseful of sisters. He had at first three of these—Sarah Elizabeth and Eleanor, born in New Haven, and Louise Ruggles, born in Chicago. But before long he had another sister, Bessie, and still another, whom they named Mary Frances. Next came a brother, Francis, who died at a comparatively early age, and lastly Jessie, who was his "little sister" as long as he lived. Six sisters to admire him, to pull his hair, to criticize his neckties. And besides, in their abounding love for children, the Bradleys adopted the daughter of a relative, who made really a seventh sister, as dearly loved as any.

It is not hard to believe that the house was full of laughter, of April showers, and of quaint ambitions. But it was also full of Luther's boy friends, and his playthings, and their playthings; and there were always his dogs, and theirs, trooping through. Luther loved his sisters, but neither he nor his pursuits were dominated by them. He had his own especial

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142 On hearing this a cheer went up from everyone in the court, so strong was the sympathy with Brian.

In vain the crier of the court yelled, "Order!" until he was red in the face. In vain the judge threatened to commit all present for contempt of court—his voice being inaudible, it did not matter much—the enthusiasm could not be restrained, and it was five minutes before order was obtained. The judge, having recovered his composure, delivered his judgment, and discharged the prisoner, in accordance with the verdict. Calton had won many cases, but it is questionable if he had ever heard a verdict which gave him so much satisfaction as that which proclaimed Fitzgerald innocent.

And Brian, stepping down from the dock a free man, passed through a crowd of congratulating friends to a small room off the court, where a woman was waiting for him—a woman who clung round his neck, and sobbed out—

"My darling! My darling! I knew that God would save you."

The morning after the trial was concluded the following article in reference to the matter appeared in the Argus:

"During the past few months we have frequently in our columns commented on the extraordinary case which is now so widely known as 'The Hansom Cab Tragedy.' We can safely say that it is the most remarkable case which has ever come under the notice of our Criminal Court, and the verdict given by the jury yesterday has enveloped the matter in a still deeper mystery. By a train of strange coincidences, Mr. Brian Fitzgerald, a young squatter, was suspected of having murdered Whyte, and had it not been for the timely appearance of the woman Rawlins who turned up at the eleventh hour, we feel sure that a verdict of guilty would have been given, and an innocent man would have suffered punishment for the crime of another. Fortunately for the prisoner, and for the interest of justice, his counsel, Mr. Calton, by unwearied


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Rh, was able to discover the last witness, and prove an alibi. Had it not been for this, in spite of the remarks made by the learned counsel in his brilliant speech yesterday, which resulted in the acquittal of the prisoner, we question very much if the rest of the evidence in favor of the accused would have been sufficient to persuade the jury that he was innocent. The only points in favor of Mr. Fitzgerald were the inability of the cabman Royston to swear to him as the man who had got into the cab with Whyte, the wearing of a dianond ring on the forefinger of the right hand (whereas Mr. Fitzgerald wears no rings), and the difference in time sworn to by the cabman Rankin and the landlady. Against these points, however, the prosecution placed a mass of evidence, which seemed to conclusively prove the guilt of the prisoner; but the appearance of Sal Rawlins in the witness-box put an end to all doubt. In language which could not be mistaken for anything else than the truth, she positively swore that Mr. Fitzgerald was in one of the slums off Bourke Street between the hours of one and two on Friday morning, at which time the murder was committed. Under these circumstances, the jury unanimously agreed in the verdict, 'Not guilty,' and the prisoner was forthwith acquitted. We have to congratulate his counsel, Mr. Calton, for the able speech he made for the defense, and also Mr. Fitzgerald for his providential escape from a dishonorable and undeserved punishment. He leaves the court without a stain on his character, and with the respect and sympathy of all Australians, for the courage and dignity with which he comported himself throughout, while resting under the shadow of such a serious charge.

"But now that it has been conclusively proved that he is innocent, the question arises in everyone's mind, 'Who is the murderer of Oliver Whyte?' The man who committed this dastardly crime is still at large, and for all we know, may be in our midst. Emboldened by the impunity with which he has escaped the hands of justice, he may be walking securely down our streets and talking of the very crime of which he was the perpetrator. Secure in the thought that all traces of him have been lost forever, from the time he alighted from Rankin's cab, at Powlett Street, he has likely ventured to remain in Melbourne, and, for


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188 young devil 'ave fed at my 'ome, an' now she turns, cuss her."

"Well,—well," said Calton, rather impatiently, "what is it you wanted to see me about?"

"Don't be in such a 'urry," said the hag, with a scowl, "or I'm blamed if I tell you anything, s'elp me G—."

She was evidently growing very weak, so Calton turned to Kilsip and told him in a whisper to get a doctor. The detective scribbled a note on some paper, and, giving it to Lizer, ordered her to take it. The other girl arose, and, putting her arm in that of the child's, they left together.

"Them two young 'usseys gone?" said Mother Guttersnipe. "Right you are, for I don't want what I've got to tell to get into the noospaper, I don't."

"And what is it?" asked Calton, bending forward.

The old woman took another drink of gin, and it seemed to put life into her, for she sat up in the bed, and commenced to talk rapidly, as though she were afraid of dying before her secret was told.

"You've been 'ere afore," she said, pointing one skinny finger at Calton, "and you wanted to find out all about 'er; but you didn't, blarst ye. She wouldn't let me tell, for she was always a proud jade, a-flouncin' round while 'er pore mother was a starvin'."

"Her mother! Are you Rosanna Moore's mother?" cried Calton, considerably astonished.

"May I die if I ain't," croaked the hag. "'Er pore father died of drink, 'cuss 'im, an' I'm a-follerin 'im to the same place in the same way. You weren't about town in the old days, or you'd 'a bin after her, blarst ye."

"After Rosanna?"

"The werry girl," answered Mother Guttersnipe. "She were on the stage, she were, an' my eye what a swell she were, with all the coves a-dying for 'er, and she dancin' over their black 'earts, 'cuss 'em; but she was allays good to me till 'e came."

"Who came?"

"'E!" yelled the old woman, rasing herself on her arm, her eyes sparkling with vindictive fury. "'E, a-comin' around with di'monds and gold, and a-ruinin' my pore girl, an' how 'e's 'eld 'is bloomin' 'ead up all these years, as if he were a saint, 'cuss 'im—'cuss 'im.,'" [sic]


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144 all that anyone knows, may have been in the court during the late trial. Nay, this very article, for which his crime has furnished the necessity of its being written, may meet his eye, and he may rejoice at the futile efforts which have been made to find him. But let him beware, Justice is not blind, but blindfolded, and when he least expects it she will tear the bandage from her keen eyes, and drag him forth to the light of day to receive the reward of his deed. Owing to the strong evidence against Fitzgerald, that is the only direction in which the detectives have hitherto looked, but baffled on one side, they will look on the other, and this time may be successful.

"That such a man as the murderer of Oliver Whyte should be at large is a matter of danger, not only to the individual citizens, but to the community at large; for it is a well-known fact that a tiger who once tastes human blood never overcomes his craving for it; and, without doubt, the man who so daringly and coolly murdered a drunken, and therefore defenceless man, will not hesitate about committing a second crime. The present feeling of all classes in Melbourne must be one of terror that such a man should be at large, and must, in a great measure, resemble the fear which filled everyone's heart in London when the Marr murders were committed, and it was known that the murderer had escaped. Anyone who has read De Quincy's graphic description of the crime perpetrated by Williams must tremble to think that such another devil incarnate is in our midst. It is an imperative necessity that such a feeling should be done away with. But how is this to be managed? It is one thing to speak, and another to act. There seems to be no possible clue discoverable at present which can lead to the discovery of the real murderer. The man in the light coat who got out of Rankin's cab at Powlett street, East Melbourne (designedly, as it now appears, in order to throw suspicion on Fitzgerald), has vanished as completely as the witches in Macbeth, and left no trace behind. It was two o'clock in the morning when he left the cab, and, in a quiet suburb like East Melbourne, no one would be about, so that he could easily escape unseen. There seems to be only one chance of ever tracing him, and that is to be found in the papers which were stolen from the pocket of the dead man.


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Rh What they were, only two persons knew, and one knows now. The first two were Whyte and the woman who was called 'The Queen,' and both of them are now dead. The other who knows now is the man who committed the crime. There can be no doubt in the minds of our readers that these papers were the motive of the crime, as no money was taken from the pockets of the deceased. The fact, also, that the papers were carried in a pocket made inside the waistcoat of the deceased shows that they were of value.

"Now, the reason, we think, that the dead woman knew of the existence of those papers is simply this: It appears that she came out from England with Whyte as his mistress, and after staying some time in Sydney came on to Melbourne. How she came into such a foul and squalid den as that she died in, we are unable to say, unless, seeing that she was given to drink, she was taken up drunk by some Samaritan of the slums, and carried to Mrs. Rawlins' humble abode. Whyte visited her there frequently, but appears to have made no attempt to remove her to a better place, alleging as his reason that the doctor said she would die if taken into the air. Our reporter learned from one of the detectives that the dead woman was in the habit of talking to Whyte about certain papers, and on one occasion was overheard to say to him, 'They'll make your fortune if you play your cards well.' This was told to the detective by the woman Rawlins, to whose providential appearance Mr. Fitzgerald owes his escape. From this it can be gathered that the papers—whatever they might be—were of value and sufficient to tempt another to commit a murder in order to obtain them. Whyte, therefore, being dead, and his murderer escaped, the only way of discovering the secret which lies at the root of this tree of crime, is to find out the history of the woman who died in the slum. Traced back for some years, circumstances may be discovered which will reveal what these papers contained, and once that is found, we can confidently say that the murderer will soon be discovered. This is the only chance of finding out the cause and the author of this mysterious murder; and if it fails, we fear the hansom cab tragedy will have to be relegated to the list of those undiscovered crimes, and the assassin of Whyte will have no other punishment than the remorse of his own conscience."


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Rh "Who does she mean?" whispered Calton to Kilsip.

"Mean!" screamed Mother Guttersnipe, whose sharp ears had caught the muttered question. "Why! Mark Frettlby!"

"Good God!" Calton rose up in his astonishment, and even Kilsip's inscrutable countenance displayed some surprise.

"Aye, 'e were a swell in them days," pursued Mother Guttersnipe, "and 'e comes a-philanderin' round my gal, blarst 'im, 'an seduces 'er, and leaves 'er and 'er child to starve, like a black-'earted villian as 'e were."

"The child! Her name!"

"Bah," retorted the hag, with scorn, "as if you didn't know my gran'darter Sal.."

"Sal, Mark Frettlby's child?"

"Yes, an' as pretty a girl as the other, tho' she 'appened to be born on the wrong side of the 'edge. Oh, I've seen 'er a-sweepin' along in 'er silks an' satins as tho' we were dirt—an' Sal 'er 'alf sister—cuss 'er."

Exhausted by the efforts she had made, the old woman sank back in her bed, while Calton sat in a dazed manner, thinking over the astounding revelation that had just been made. That Rosanna Moore should turn out to be Mark Frettlby's mistress he hardly wondered at; after all, he was but a man, and in his young days had been no better and no worse than the rest of his friends. Rosanna Moore was pretty and, was evidently one of those women who—rakes at heart—prefer the untrammelled freedom of being a mistress to the sedate bondage of a wife. In questions of morality, so many people live in glass houses, that there are few nowadays who can afford to throw stones, so Calton did not think any the worse of Frettlby for his youthful follies. But what he did wonder at, was that Frettlby should be so heartless as to leave his child to the tender mercies of an old hag like Mother Guttersnipe. It was so entirely different from what he knew of the man that he was inclined to think it a trick of the old woman's.

"Did Mr. Frettlby know Sal was his child?" he asked.

"Not 'e," snarled Mother Guttersnipe, in an exultant tone. "'E thought she was dead, 'e did, after Roseanner gave him the go-by."

"And why did you not tell him?"

"Cause I wanted to break 'is heart, if 'e 'ad any," said the old beldame, vindictively. "Sal was a-goin' to 'ell as


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146

A hot December day, with a cloudless blue sky, and a sun blazing down on the earth clothed in all the beauty of summer garments. Such a description of snowy December must sound strange to English ears; and a hot Christmas day must strike them as being as fantastic as the play in did to Demetrius, when he remarked of it, "This is hot ice and wondrous cold fire." But here in Australia is the realm of topsy-turvydom, and many things, like dreams, go by contraries. Here black swans are an established fact, and the proverb concerning them, when they were considered as mythical a bird as the Phoenix, has been rendered null and void by the discoveries of Captain Cook. Out here ironwood sinks and pumice stone floats, which must strike the curious spectator as a queer freak on the part of Dame Nature. At home the Edinburgh mail bears the hardy traveler to a cold climate, with snowy mountains and wintry blasts; but here the further north one goes the hotter it gets, till it terminates in Queensland, where the heat is so great that a profane traveller of an epigramatic turn of mind once fittingly called it, "An amateur Hell." But however contrary, as Mrs. Gamp would say, Nature may be in her dealings, the English race out in this great continent are much the same as in the old country—John Bull, Paddy, and Sandy, all, being of a conservative turn of mind, and with strong opinions as to the keeping up of old customs. Therefore, on a hot Christmas day, with the sun one hundred odd in the shade, Australian revellers sit down to the roast beef and plum pudding of old England, which they eat contentedly as the orthodox thing, and on New Year's eve the festive Celt repairs to the indoors of his "friends" with a bottle of whiskey and a cheering verse of. However, it is these peculiar customs that give an individuality to a nation, and John Bull abroad loses none of his insular obstinacy, and keeps his Christmas in the old fashion, and wears his


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Rh clothes in the new fashion, without regard to heat or cold. A nation that never surrenders to the fire of an enemy cannot be expected to give in to the fire of the sun, but if some ingenious mortal would only invent some light and airy costume, after the fashion of the Greek dress, and Australians would consent to adopt the same, life in Melbourne and her sister cities would be much cooler than it is at present.

Madge was thinking somewhat after this fashion as she sat on the wide verandah, in a state of exhaustion from the heat, and stared out at the wide plains lying parched and arid under the blazing sun. There was a dim kind of haze rising from the excessive heat, hanging midway between heaven and earth, and through its tremendous veil the distant hills looked æriel and unreal. Just before her was the garden, which made her hot to look at, so vivid were the colors of the flowers. Great bushes of oleanders with their bright pink blossoms, luxurious rose trees, with their yellow, red and white flowers, and all along the border a rainbow of flowers, with such brilliant tints that the eye ached to see them in the hot sunshine, and turned restfully to the cool green of the trees which encircled the lawn. In the center was a round pool, surrounded by a ring of white marble, and containing a sheet of still water, which flashed like a mirror in the blinding light. The homestead of Yabba Yallook station was a long, low house with no upstairs, and with a wide running nearly round it. Cool green blinds were hung between the pillars to keep out the sun, and all along were scattered lounging-chairs of basket-work, with rugs, novels, empty sodawater bottles, and all the other evidences that Mr. Frettlby's guests had been wise, and stayed inside during the noonday heat. Madge was seated in one of these comfortable chairs, and divided her attention between the glowing beauty of the world outside, which she could see through a narrow slit in the blind, and a new novel from Mullen's lying open on her knee. This latter did not interest her much, and no wonder, being one of the polyglot productions of the present day, which contains quotations from the language of every nation under the sun, and where the characters speak in a barbarous jangle of English and French, with an occasional scrap of German thrown in. The powerful and flexible English tongue, which was sufficient for the


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190 fast as she could till she was tuk from me. If she had gone and got into quod I'd 'ave gone to 'im, and said, 'Look at yer darter! 'Ow Iv'e ruined her as you did mine,"

"You old devil," said Calton, revolted at the malignity of the scheme. "You have sacrificed an innocent girl for this."

"None of yer preachin'," retorted the hag, sullenly; "I ain't bin brought up for a saint, I ain't—an' I wanted to pay 'im out, blarst 'im—'e paid me well to 'old my tongue about my darter, an' I've got it 'ere," laying her hand on the pillow. "All gold, good gold—an' mine, cuss me."

Calton arose, he felt quite sick at this exhibition of human depravity, and longed to be away. As he was putting on his hat, however, the two girls entered with a doctor, who nodded to Kilsip, cast a sharp scrutinizing glance at Calton, and then walked over to the bed. The two girls went back to their corner, and waited in silence for the end. Mother Guttersnipe had fallen back in the bed, with one claw-like hand clutching the pillow, as if to protect her beloved gold, and over her face a deadly paleness was spreading, which told the practised eye of the doctor that the end was near. He knelt down beside the bed for a moment, holding the candle to the dying woman's face. She opened her eyes and muttered, drowsily—

"Who's you, go t' 'ell," but then she seemed to grasp the situation again, and she started up with a shrill yell, which made the hearers shudder it was so weird and eerie.

"My money!" she yelled, clasping the pillow in her skinny arms. "It's all mine; ye shan't 'ave it—blarst ye."

The doctor arose from his knees, and shrugged his shoulders. "Not worth while doing anything," he said, coolly; "she'll be dead soon."

The old woman, mumbling over her pillow, caught the word, and burst into tears.

"Dead! dead! my pore Rosanna, with 'er golden 'air, always lovin' 'er pore mother till 'e took 'er away, an' she came back to die—die—ooh!"

Her voice died away in a long, melancholy wail, that made the two girls in the corner shiver and put their fingers in their ears.

"My good woman," said the doctor, bending over the bed, "would you not like to see a minister?"


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148 thoughts of Macaulay and Addison, is much despised by many of our modern novelists, who express themselves in a foolish mixture of French and English, which is as irritating as it is pedantic. With one of these literary curiosities on her knee, it is not surprising that Miss Frettlby let "Tristan, a Romance by Zoe," fall unheeded on the ground, and gave herself up to her own sad thoughts. She was not looking well, for the trial through which she had passed had been very great, and had left its impress of sorrow on her beautiful face. In her eyes, too, usually so calm, there was a troubled look, as leaning her head upon her hands, she thought of the bitterness of the past year.

After Brian's acquittal of the murder of Oliver Whyte, she had been taken by her father up to the station, in the hope that it would restore her to health. The mental strain which had been on her during the trial had nearly brought on an attack of brain fever, but here, far from the excitement of town life, in the quiet seclusion of the country, she had recovered her health, but not her spirits. Women are more impressionable than men, and it is, perhaps, for this reason that they age quicker. A trouble which would pass lightly over a man leaves an indelible mark on a woman, both physically and mentally, and the terrible episode of Whyte's murder had changed Madge from a bright and merry girl into a grave and beautiful woman. Ah! sorrow is a potent enchantress, and once she touches the heart, life can never be the same again, for we nevermore surrender ourselves entirely to the pleasures of life, but find that many things which we have longed for, when obtained, are but dead sea fruit. Sorrow is the veiled of the world, and once we penetrate her mystery and see her deeply furrowed face and mournful eyes, the magic light of romance dies away from the world, and we see the hard, bitter facts of life in their harsh nakedness. This was the way Madge felt, and she saw the world now, not as the fantastic fairyland of her girlish dreams, but as the sorrowful vale of tears through which we must all walk till we reach the "Promised Land." And Brian, he also had undergone a change, for there were a few white hairs now amid his curly, chestnut locks, and his character, from being gay and bright, had become moody and irritable.


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Rh After the trial he had left town immediately, in order to avoid meeting with his friends, and had gone up to his station, which was next to that of the Frettlbys'. There he worked hard all day, and smoked hard all night, thinking over the cursed secret which the dead woman had told him, and which had threatened to overshadow his life. Every now and then he rode over and saw Madge, but only when he knew her father was away in Melbourne, for he seemed to have taken a dislike to the millionaire, which Madge could not help condemning as unjust, remembering how her father had stood beside him in his trouble. But there was another reason why Brian keep aloof from Yabba Tallook Station, and that was he did not wish to meet any of the gay society which was there, knowing that since his trial he was an object of curiosity and sympathy to every one—a position that was very galling to his proud nature. At Christmas time Mr. Frettlby had asked a lot of people up from Melbourne, and though Madge would rather have been left alone, yet she could not refuse her father, and had to play hostess with a smiling brow and aching heart. Felix Rolleston, who a month since had joined the noble army of s, was there with Mrs. Rolleston, nee Miss Featherweight, who ruled him with a rod of iron. Having bought Felix with her money she determined to make good use of him, and being ambitious to shine in Melbourne society had insisted upon Felix studying politics, so that when the next general election came round he could enter Parliament. Felix had rebelled at first, but ultimately gave way, as he found that when he had a good novel concealed among his parliamentary papers time passed very pleasantly, and he got the reputation of a hard worker at little cost. They had brought up Julia with them, and this young person had made up her mind to become the second Mrs. Frettlby. She had not received much encouragement, but, like the English at Waterloo, did not know when she was beaten, and carried on the siege of Mr. Frettlby's heart in an undaunted manner. Dr. Chinston had come up for a little relaxation, and never gave a thought to his anxious patients or the many sick-rooms he was in the habit of visiting. A young English fellow, called Paterson, who amused himself by traveling; an old, full of reminiscences of the


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150 old days, when, "by gad, sir, we hadn't a gas lamp in the whole of Melbourne," and several other people, completed the party. They had all gone off to the billiard room, and left Madge in her comfortable chair, half asleep.

Suddenly she started as she heard a step behind her, and turning, saw Sal Rawlins, in the neatest of black gowns, with a coquettish white cap and apron, and an open book. The fact is, Madge had been so delighted with Sal for saving Brian's life that she had taken her into her service as maid. Mr. Frettlby had offered strong opposition at first that a fallen woman like Sal should be near his daughter; but Madge determined to rescue the unhappy girl from the life of sin she was leading, and so at last he reluctantly consented. Brian, too, had objected, but ultimately yielded, as he saw that Madge had set her heart on it. Mother Guttersnipe objected at first, characterizing the whole affair as "blarsted 'umbug," but she, likewise, gave in, and Sal became maid to Miss Frettlby, who immediately set to work to remedy Sal's defective education by teaching her to read. The book she held in her hand was a spelling-book, and this she handed to Madge.

"I think I know it now. Miss," she said, respectfully, as Madge looked up with a smile.

"Do you, indeed?" said Madge, gaily. "You will be able to read in no time, Sal."

"This?" said Sal, touching Tristan: A Romance, by Zoe.

"Hardly!" said Madge, picking it up with a look of contempt. "I want you to learn English, and not a confusion of tongues like this thing. But it's too hot to do lessons, Sal," she went on, leaning back in her seat "so get a chair and talk to me."

Sal complied, and Madge looked out on the brilliant flower-beds, and at the black shadow of the tall witch elm which grew on one side of the lawn. She wanted to ask a certain question of Sal, and did not know how to do it. The moodiness and irritability of Brian had troubled her very much of late, and, with the quick instinct of her sex, she ascribed it indirectly to the woman who had died in the back slum. Anxious to share his troubles and lighten his burden, she determined to ask Sal about this mysterious woman, and find out, if possible, what secret had been told to Brian, which affected him so deeply.


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Rh She looked at him with her bright, beady eyes, already somewhat dimmed with the mists of death, and said, in a harsh, low whisper, "Why?"

"Because you have only a short time to live," said the doctor, gently. "You are dying."

Mother Guttersnipe sprang up, and seized his arm with a scream of terror.

"Dyin', dyin'—no! no!" she wailed, clawing his sleeve. "I ain't fit to die, cuss me; save me—save me; I don't know where I'd go to, s'elp me! Save me!"

The doctor tried to remove her hands, but she held on with wonderful tenacity.

"It is impossible," he said briefly.

The hag fell back in her bed.

"I'll give you money to save me," she shrieked; "good money. All mine—all mine. See! see 'ere! suverains," and tearing her pillow open, she took out a canvas bag, and from it poured a gleaming stream of gold. Gold—gold—it rolled all over the bed, over the floor, away into the dark corners, yet no one touched it, so enchained were they by the horrible spectacle of the dying woman clinging to life. She clutched up some of the shining pieces, but her hands trembled so that the sovereigns kept falling from them on the floor, with metallic clinks.

"All mine—all mine," she shrieked, loudly. "Give me my life—gold—money—cuss ye—I sold my soul for it—save me—give me my life," and with trembling hands, she tried to force the gold on them. They did not say a word, but stood silently looking at her, while the two girls in the corner clung together, and trembled with fear.

"Don't look at me—don't," cried the hag, falling down again amid the shining gold. "Ye want me to die, blarst ye—I shan't—I shan't—give me my gold," clawing at the scattered sovereigns. "I'll take it with me—I shan't die—G—G—" whimpering. "I ain't done nothin'—let me live—give me a Bible—save me, G—cuss it—G—, G—," and she fell back on the bed, a corpse.

The faint light of the candle flickered on the shining gold, and the dead face, framed in tangled white hair; while the three men, sick at heart, turned away to seek assistance, with that wild cry still ringing in their ears—

"G— save me, G—!"


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Cato's Letters/Letter 115

SIR, Only the checks put upon magistrates make nations free; and only the want of such checks makes them slaves. They are free, where their magistrates are confined within certain bounds set them by the people, and act by rules prescribed them by the people: And they are slaves, where their magistrates choose their own rules, and follow their lust and humours; than which a more dreadful curse can befall no people; nor did ever any magistrate do what he pleased, but the people were undone by his pleasure; and therefore most nations in the world are undone, and those nations only who bridle their governors do not wear chains.

Unlimited power is so wild and monstrous a thing, that however natural it be to desire it, it is as natural to oppose it; nor ought it to be trusted with any mortal man, be his intentions ever so upright: For, besides that he will never care to part with it, he will rarely dare. In spite of himself he will make many enemies, against whom he will be protected only by his power, or at least think himself best protected by it. The frequent and unforeseen necessities of his affairs, and frequent difficulties and opposition, will force him for his own preservation, or for the preservation of his power, to try expedients, to tempt dangers, and to do things which he did not foresee, nor intend, and perhaps, in the beginning, abhorred.

We know, by infinite examples and experience, that men possessed of power, rather than part with it, will do any thing, even the worst and the blackest, to keep it; and scarce ever any man upon earth went out of it as long as he could carry every thing his own way in it; and when he could not, he resigned. I doubt that there is not one exception in the world to this rule; and that Dioclesian, Charles V, and even Sulla, laid down their power out of pique and discontent, and from opposition and disappointment. This seems certain, that the good of the world, or of their people, was not one of their motives either for continuing in power, or for quitting it.

It is the nature of power to be ever encroaching, and converting every extraordinary power, granted at particular times, and upon particular occasions, into an ordinary power, to be used at all times, and when there is no occasion; nor does it ever part willingly with any advantage. From this spirit it is, that occasional commissions have grown sometimes perpetual; that three years have been improved into seven, and one into twenty; and that when the people have done with their magistrates, their magistrates will not have done with the people.

The Romans, who knew this evil, having suffered by it, provided wise remedies against it; and when one ordinary power grew too great, checked it with another. Thus the office and power of the tribunes was set up to balance that of the consuls, and to protect the populace against the insolence, pride, and intrenchments of the nobility: And when the authority of the tribunes grew too formidable, a good expedient was found out to restrain it; for in any turbulent or factious design of the tribunes, the protest or dissent of any one of them made void the purposes and proceedings of all the rest. And both the consuls and tribunes were chosen only for a year.

Thus the Romans preserved their liberty by limiting the time and power of their magistrates, and by making them answerable afterwards for their behaviour in it: And besides all this, there lay from the magistrates an appeal to the people; a power which, however great, they generally used with eminent modesty and mercy; and, like the people of other nations, sinned much seldomer than their governors. Indeed, in any publick disorder, or misfortune, the people are scarce ever in the fault; but far on the other side, suffer often, with a criminal patience, the sore evils brought wantonly or foolishly upon them by others, whom they pay dear to prevent them.

This sacred right of appealing to the people, was secured to them by a very good and very severe law, which is found in Livy in these words:

The former consular law for appealing to the people (the first and only great support of liberty), having been overturned by the usurpation of the Decemviri, was now not only restored, but fortified by a new law, which forbad the creating of any magistrate without appeal, and made it lawful to kill any man that did so, without subjecting the killer to a capital penalty.

The Romans had but too good reason for these laws; for the Decemviri, from whom there was no appeal, had enslaved them.

And because the being frequently chosen into power, might have effects as bad as the long continuance in it, Cicero, in his book De Legibus, tells us, that there was an express law, Eundem magistratum, ni interfuerint decem anni, ne quis capito; “That no man should bear the same magistracy which he had borne before, but after an interval of ten years.” This law was afterwards strengthened with severe penalties. Hence Rutilius Censorius blamed the people in a publick speech for creating him twice censor: And Fabius Maximus would have hindered them from choosing his son consul, though possessed of every virtue proper for one, because the chief magistracies had been too long and too often in the Fabian family. And there are many instances in the Roman history, of magistrates, chief magistrates, being degraded for their pride, avarice, and maladministration; and those who were thus degraded, were by law disabled, like our late directors, from ever enjoying again any post or power. Nor were the Romans less careful to oblige their magistrates as soon as they came out of their offices and governments, to make up their accounts, and to give a strict account of their good behaviour; and for an ill one they were often condemned, and their estates confiscated. Besides all which, to be a Senator, or a magistrate, a certain qualification in point of fortune was required; and those who had run through their fortunes were degraded from the dignity of Senators. A reasonable precaution, that they who were entrusted with the interest of their country, should have some interest of their own in it.

In this manner did the Roman people check power, and those who had it; and when any power was grown quite ungovernable, they abolished it. Thus they expelled Tarquin, and the kingly government, having first suffered much by it; and they prospered as eminently without it. That government too had been extremely limited: The first Roman kings were little more than generals for life: They had no negative vote in the Senate, and could neither make war nor peace; and even in the execution of justice, an appeal lay from them to the people, as is manifest in the case of the surviving Horatius, who slew his sister. Servius Tullius made laws, says Tacitus, which even the kings were to obey. By confining the power of the crown within proper bounds, he gained power without bounds in the affections of the people. But the insolent Tarquin broke through all bounds, and acted so openly against law, and the people of Rome, that they had no remedy left but to expel him and his race; which they did with glorious success.

The dictatorial power was afterwards given occasionally, and found of great use; but still it was limited to so many months; and there are instances where even the dictator could not do what he pleased, but was over-ruled by the judgment of the people. Besides, when the Romans came to have great and distant territories, and great armies, they thought the dictatorial power too great and too dangerous to be trusted with any subject, and laid it quite aside; nor was it ever afterwards used, till it was violently usurped, first by Sulla, afterwards by Caesar, and then Rome lost its liberty.

T I am, &c.

title: Cato's Letters/Letter 115


text:
Cato's Letters/Letter 116

SIR, It is justly observed by Mr. Locke, and by Mr. Hobbes and others before him, that we have no innate ideas, nor can reflect upon them before we have them; that is, we cannot think before we have something to think upon. All objects and materials for thinking must be let in upon the mind through the organs of sense; and when they are there, we reflect or reason upon them; or, to speak philosophically, when the action of exterior bodies strikes upon us, it must cause a second action or motion, and continue it in infinitum, unless it meets obstruction. This first action causes sensation, and the second reflection; and the first seems to me as necessarily to produce the latter, as wind sails a ship, or the winding up of a clock sets it in motion.

Every system of matter has peculiar organizations, and can perform only peculiar functions. A cow cannot perform the offices of a horse, nor a man of a monkey; nor indeed, in many instances, can one man perform those of another. As some machines or systems of matter consist of vastly finer and more numerous parts than others, so they are capable of more operations. A watch which points to minutes or seconds, has more wheels, than one which only shews hours; and a striking or repeating watch has more than both, though all are wound up by the same key. Animals who consist of infinite tubes, veins, arteries, muscles, and juices, which also consist of infinite globular, and other figured particles of matter, must have suitable and very surprizing operations, though all their actions must be confined within the circle of their machine; but they will be multiplied in equal or greater degree than the chances upon dies. Two dies have six times as many chances as one, and three as two, and so on in infinitum; and therefore there seems to be no difficulty in accounting for the great variety of actions in animals, more than in inferior machines: And as mankind never have, nor, I presume, ever will discover all the powers of mechanical experiments; so with greater reason one may venture to assert, that no animal ever yet has exerted all the faculties which it was endued with: A thousand dies may turn up all sixes; but I believe this has never happened, nor I believe ever will.

Vegetables seem to me to be analogous in many respects to animals: Their generation appears to be much alike: They both rise from seeds, or eggs, and continue their kinds by the same: Their life is continued alike, and their nourishment conveyed through veins or other tubes; and when that nourishment ceases, they die; and as the action of the sun, and other bodies, set the former in motion, and causes that sort of sensation which we call vegetation, so the same power, or some other like it, seems to rouze animal life, and sets it in like motion; and all motion must be progressive in the same system till it be destroyed, or that system become another, or part of another; which shall be more fully shewn hereafter.

This action is called by different names, as it affects the different parts of the machine. When it affects the eye, it is called seeing; the ear, hearing; the palate, tasting; the nose, smelling; which indeed are but different sorts of feeling: But when the motion is continued further, and gets to the brain, or other internal parts of the system, it causes that effect which we call thinking; which again operates within the animal, and drives it to farther action, which is always analogous to the disposition of the fabrick, and regular, or irregular, according to the present formation of the machine, and of the powers which impel it. And here we cannot enough admire the exquisite skill of the Supreme Architect, who has formed such stupendous and amazing works of his omnipotence; and in many instances, I conceive we should judge right if we only admired them, and not vainly attempted to find out what we can never know. We want faculties to search the causes of most things in nature, and know nothing of their internal contexture, and but little of the modus of their operations. We see only some sensible effects of the actions of bodies upon one another; but how they produce these effects, we are utterly ignorant, and I believe ever shall be whilst we are in this state: We cannot tell why the fire burns, the grass grows, the eye sees, the ear hears, or the mind thinks, only we find in fact, that they do so; and here is our ne plus ultra.

It is exceedingly imprudent therefore for men to pretend to determine the powers of matter and motion, when they know not what matter is, of what parts it consists, or indeed any thing about it, but by a few outward effects; nor can we form any notions of it but from those effects, which yet probably do not exhaust the millionth part of its powers: And it is still more ridiculous to use the word spirit (of which we have no sort of idea), to account for other things, of which we have very little or no idea neither; and in many instances, deny what we see, to pretend to believe what we do not understand. Words are only the signs of images, as figures are of numbers; and what use is there of a sound, or scrawl, which signifies nothing, or, which is the same thing, which stands for what we know nothing of?

Now if a man should ask a modern philosopher, what he meant by the word spirit? he possibly will answer, that it is something which wants extension and solidity. If it be asked again what conception he has of any thing which has neither extension or solidity? and he answer, that he has none at all; but that there may be beings in nature of which he neither has, nor can have any idea: If then he be asked, why he uses a word which has no conception annexed to it, to explain another thing about which he is wholly in the dark? his reply, I presume will be, that he cannot account for some operations of that being by the images which he had before conceived of it, and the definitions about it which he had been used to; and therefore he was forced to recur to negative ideas. If he be asked again, how he knows that his definitions are right, and take in all the powers of that being? he must acknowledge that he knows not the thousandth part of its powers; but yet perhaps will say, that he is very sure that it has not powers inconsistent with the nature of body. It will be asked of him, how he, who knows little or nothing of the nature of body, can know what is against the nature of body? which difficulty I shall leave to wiser men to unriddle.

Now it appears to me, that there are many mechanical operations of the minds and bodies of animals, which result only from their peculiar systems of matter; or, in other words, compounded bodies, peculiarly systematized, attain new qualities and powers which they had not before, and which influence their own actions, and the actions of other bodies, as necessarily as the loadstone draws iron, or the root and fibres of a tree or plant attract the juices of the earth, and convey them on till they are transmuted into wood, leaves, and fruit. A chick or a young pheasant, hatched in an oven, as soon as it is out of the shell, will eat bread, or emmet eggs, and soon after shew signs of love or fear, and shrink from danger (like the sensitive plant from the touch) before it has gained any experience, has any sense of injuries, or can know how it can be hurt. Birds hatched in a cage will not only generate together, but will build their nest in the same manner, and of the same materials with those of the same kind, if they can come at them, without having seen any of the same sort before. Infant animals immediately seek after the teats of their dams, without being taught to do so; and all animals and vegetables seek or attract the peculiar nourishment that is proper to their species, without any direction but from nature; and have the same affections and passions, with but little variation: which I think plainly shews, that their particular organizations, or systems of matter, by a natural sort of gravitation or attraction direct their operations; and though every particular of the same species differ in some respects from another, and consequently their actions will vary, yet they are confined within the limits prescribed to the whole species. And this observation runs through all nature.

Now I conceive that this must be accounted for as above, or we must recur to constant miracle, or else suppose that God Almighty has given to every species of animals peculiar minds different from all other kinds, and to every particular a mind different from all the rest of the same kind; which mind guides and directs all our actions; and makes all the specifick as well as identical differences that we see: For which supposition I can find no foundation in reason, or from observation; nor can I perceive what use can be made of such a concession; for whether the actions of animals are directed by the disposition of the materials which form them, or they were originally constituted with such appetites, they must act the same way; and this farther raises our admiration of the power and providence of God, who has formed all his creatures in such a manner as to answer his intentions in creating them; and has so disposed the mechanism and juices of every living species, as well as of every individual, as will best conduce to its preservation, and to perform the function intended.

But here a notable distinction arises between the operations of the mind, and those in the body, or, in other words, between sensations and reflections, between appetites and reasonings; which I must beg leave to think in this regard, has no foundation in nature, and only exists in metaphysical brains. There can be no sensations, inclinations, or appetites, without the cooperation of that faculty, capacity, energy, or whatever else it is that we call the mind. Dead men can no more hear, see, feel, &c. than a lump of earth, because their organization is destroyed, or the animal spirits which set them in motion can no longer continue that motion, or the separate principle, called the mind, can no longer keep its habitation; but whatever it be, or by what name soever called, it is certainly the causa sine qua non of the actions of the animal, and is one link of the chain of causes which direct and govern his voluntary motions.

It is the mind which sees, hears, tastes, smells, feels, desires, or fears; and herein consists the difference between animals and vegetables: They have both life, and both have organizations proper to preserve and continue that life, by suitable nourishment conveyed through veins and tubes: Both have surprising operations, unsearchable by our capacities; and both must have a long train of causes from nature to enable them to produce those operations: but besides many other possible causes linked together in those chains, and many of them existing within animals themselves which we do not know, there is one which we do, namely, the will or desire to do a thing; and this certainly, in a thousand instances, depends upon causes without us, and which are undoubtedly out of our power; which causes without set the other causes within us at work, and produce the will, and consequently the action.

A chick, or a young pheasant, would no more peck, or a lamb suck, than if it was dead, if it did not intend to do it: It feels uneasiness by hunger, and strives to help itself: It certainly shews thought and choice, in preferring one sort of food before another, and in shrinking or running away from danger: And these are all actions of the mind. It is true, as it grows older, and its contexture stronger, its experience increases, and its capacity grows with it; but the faculty is the same, and, for any thing which appears to the contrary, results from the formation of the system; nor can I conceive how all birds, beasts, and fishes of the same species should have the same, or very near the same sensations, desires, and fears, and chuse the same kinds of food and means of preservation, and always use the same, or very near the same address, cunning, or artifice, unless their contexture, the disposition of materials and juices, of which they are compounded by a natural mechanism, produced these effects, either by constituting or acting upon that energy, called their minds, and then directing and coercing those minds to exert the faculty, called the will, which produces the action, if it may be lawful to distinguish an operation of the same power from its self.

I am not aware of any other objection to this reasoning, but that we can have no conception how matter can produce an act or operation of the mind in brute animals; and therefore other systems have been invented, equally unconceivable, to avoid this, and which apparently contradict fact. It is plain, that their minds are affected, altered, and receive addition and diminution by diet, physick, and exercise, and partake, in many respects, of the fate of their material system; and their faculties are greater or less, according to the disposition of that system, as shall be more fully shewn in future papers. And since the whole must consist of the several parts, what reasons can be assigned to prove, that material causes may create or produce the parts, and not the whole, I mean of their minds; for as to the soul of man, I shall consider it separately hereafter. For my own part, I have had always so unfortunate a turn of thinking, that I could never subscribe to opinions, because others held them before me; nor will I send into the clouds for solutions, which lie under my nose, or refuse the benefit of my eyes to amuse my understanding; neither shall I regard the calumnies and uncharitable censures of those who dare not peep out of their dark dungeons, and would measure all truth by imbibed prejudices: but shall ever think, that I shall do more honour to Almighty God, in believing that he has so formed at once the whole fabrick of heaven and earth, as to produce all the events which he intended, than to suppose that he has often found cause to mend and alter his first resolutions; though I confess that it may consist with his wisdom, and conduce to the ends of his providence, to suffer matters, in some respects, and at some times, to appear to us in other lights.

He certainly is a more skilful artificer, who can make a watch which will go for a thousand years, and then break to pieces at a stated time, than another who makes one which must be wound up every day, and mended every month.

T I am, &c.

title: Cato's Letters/Letter 116


text:
Cato's Letters/Letter 117

SIR, I have often thought, that most of the mischiefs under which mankind suffers, and almost all their polemick disputes are owing to the abuse of words. If men would define what they mean by the sounds which they make use of to express their thoughts, and then keep to those definitions, that is, annex always the same ideas to the same sounds, most of the disputes in the world would be at an end: But this would not answer the purposes of those who derive power and wealth from imposing upon the ignorance and credulity of others. And therefore, till the world can agree to be honest, and to buy and sell by the same measure (which they do not seem in haste to do), I doubt this evil is likely to go on.

There are no words in language which seem to me to be more misapplied than the word self-interest, by divines, orators, philosophers, or poets: All have exerted themselves with great efforts of exhortation, reason, eloquence, and wit, against this reigning vice; but I conceive, that they have all missed the mark. Indeed, in the larger sense of the word, I think it impossible for any man to act upon any other motive than his own interest: For every pursuit that we make must have for its end the gratification of some appetite, or the avoiding of some evil which we fear; and, in truth, when we say that any man is self-interested, we mean only, that he is not enough in his own interest.

A good-humoured man, when he pities another, gratifies a natural passion, in having a fellow-feeling of the calamities of others, and a desire to see all men out of pain or trouble. A generous man pleases his vanity, ostentation, or temper, in doing good to others; or by it intends to gain friends or dependents. An indulgent parent takes pleasure to see that his children (whom he esteems parts of himself) live happy, contented, and make a figure in the world; and derives credit and reputation to himself from their doing so. A beneficent patron, or a man in love, reaps great personal satisfaction in obliging the objects of his kindness, and by making them more devoted to himself. And all these pity or contemn one who wants these agreeable appetites, and most reasonably judge, that he wants many pleasures which they themselves enjoy; as well knowing, that, next to the preservation of their beings by wholesome food, and warm raiment, and the enjoying the common necessaries and usual diversions of life, all that can be added to their happiness is, to obtain respect, love, and esteem, from others.

Even all the worst passions flow from the same source. For, what is hatred, malice, and revenge, but gratifying vicious appetites? And fear and cowardice are only struggles in nature to avoid evils to ourselves. Of all men, the covetous man is the most unhappy: For, as every pleasure is the gratification of some appetite or desire, the man who has least desires and appetites, must have the least pleasures, and he must lose many agreeable sensations which other men enjoy. I laugh at the foolish philosophy of some sects in old Greece, who placed the summum bonum, or chief happiness, in the absence of all passions or desires; which can be only a state of death, or perfect stupidity, whilst we are alive. Men exceed vegetables no otherwise than as they think; and when they cease to think (if that can be) they are in a temporary state of death; and the objects of all thinking must be something which we desire to attain, or fear to lose: And as thought itself is only a motion of the mind, so one motion must produce another, as every thought must do, and be perpetually progressive, till death puts an end to all thoughts. Here covetousness therefore can only proceed from a poorness and dejection of soul, which always fears want and misery, and must ever be bereft of all lively and sparkling imaginations, be in a constant state of diffidence and despondency, and lose all the gay, cheerful and generous sensations, which flow from a free, active, happy, and beneficent mind.

I must take the liberty therefore to think, that self-interest, in the ill sense of the word, ought to be new-defined, and made applicable only to those who prefer a small interest to a great one, or to such who take a wrong way to attain that great one: And in this latter sense the bigot is the most self-interested person in the world: His whole thoughts are so wound up in himself, and his own personal views, that he is wholly regardless of what becomes of the rest of the world, unless he can find his own benefit in it. Indeed he will give some loose pence to beggars or vagabonds, and perhaps sums to maintain idlers and cynicks, not out of humanity and generous principles, but in order to put it out to large interest: I do not mean for five or six per cent but for more than sixty times sixty thousand; though, if a nation [is] to be saved, or a great people protected from slavery, he is wholly unconcerned about the event, as esteeming the little affairs of this world much below his notice and consideration.

He is the same in respect of the other world, as the covetous man is in respect of this; and both their good qualities proceed from the same principles and appetites in nature. He is covetous for the good things in the kingdom of heaven, as the other is for them here; and both take much the same way to get them. They both contemn wise men, because wise men contemn them; their despising the vanities of the world, saves money; their condemning the modest pleasures of life, gratifies their sour and censorious temper; their living cloistered and retired lives, feeds natural melancholy; and the former hopes to carry heaven (which the other does not trouble himself about) by singing songs upon earth, by being perfectly useless to society, and good for no one thing in the world.

This sort of creature is the tool for knaves to work with, and made use of to serve their interests, whilst he intends only to pursue his own. He is made to believe that kingdoms, infinitely preferable to those of this world, are to be gained by the manner of cutting his corns, or by forms, fashions, habits, postures, cringes and grimaces; by using a rote of words, or by useless speculations, and dancing after idle harangues, and always by being an implacable enemy and a furious adversary to all who have generous and beneficent affections towards their own species. He values opinions like rotten cheese, in proportion as they are old: and is more concerned for people’s believing right, than for their doing right. He thinks that the way to shew our gratitude to God, is to refuse his gifts; and believes truth the more sacred, the less it is understood; and nothing worthy to be called faith, but what is absurd to reason, and contradicts all the principles of science. He is a fast friend to every thing that looks like a mystery; thinks common sense too common, and sublime nonsense to be always a proof of inspiration. He measures virtue and vice, right and wrong not by the interests of mankind, but by scanty and partial rules, invented by pedants and hypocrites, and calculated chiefly for their own benefit. He is a friend to no man, and all his thoughts and speculations are above humanity and social pleasures, and all the frail things of this world; and so he keeps all his money to himself, and, at last, perhaps, starves his friends and family, to leave it to such wretches as he is, not out of kindness to them, but to receive ample payment again where he is going.

I have often wondered how this stupid animal could ever be in repute; how the most insignificant and worst being in the universe could be thought the most acceptable to the best; and how any one can be supposed to merit heaven, by being useless upon earth. Castruccio Castracani said well, that he would never believe that Friar Hieronymo had more interest above than he himself had. Surely he judged right; yet the world ever has run, and, I doubt, ever will run, madding after hermits, cynicks, dreamers of dreams, venders of prophecy, and after recluse and sequestered persons, who are supposed to know heavenly things in proportion as they know nothing here. They call their solemn folly, divine wisdom; their spleen and melancholy, godly contemplation; their envious, sullen, and morose tempers, strict and rigid virtue, and detestation of vice: Covetousness in frugality, and the contempt of things below. Whereas a truly virtuous and godly man is the most candid, amiable, and best natured creature upon earth: He spends his life in doing all the good that he can, and to all the men that he can: He takes pleasure in seeing all men happy, and will endeavour to make them all happy: He has large and comprehensive notions of the deity; and as he finds in himself kind and beneficent affections towards the whole creation, believes that the Supreme Being has the same; and, consequently, will not make our happiness or misery to depend upon what is out of our power, or upon such speculations or actions as can produce no moral good, but often destroy it, and promote evil.

T

God wants nothing; and if we have any gifts to bestow, his creatures are our only proper objects: But those who crave in his name largesses and endowments, which they apply to their own use and luxury, and call their own luxury and pomp the serving of him, make the Almighty as greedy as they are, and the giver of all things to want almost every thing; and confining all their bounty and charity to their own dear persons, think that he does so too, and that they are as dear to him as they are to themselves; and so hate and despise, distress and destroy, in the name of God, all whom they hate for their own sakes: So that, excepting a very few men (the most ridiculous and the worst of the whole) all the human species are esteemed by them as outcasts, whom the wise Creator and Governor of the World has sent into it only to abhor and to damn them; and though his favours are infinite, yet they think that he bestows them all upon a little island, or a poor desert, or on a small and contemptible corner of the earth, purely because the inhabitants wear blue, or black, or broad bonnets, quaint doublets, or long petticoats; and eat, or refuse to eat fish or flesh, and other food given for the general use of all men; or make selfish and partial speeches to him, and use crazy distinctions about him, which he commands not, which wise men understand not, and which the weakest men alone are governed by.

With bigots almost every thing that is truth is blasphemy. With them a sour face, and a bitter and implacable heart, are qualifications so acceptable to the wise, merciful, and forgiving God, that he hates all who want these qualifications: So that, in great detestation of blasphemy, they blasphemously make the God and father of mercies, and of man, a party-man too; or, at best, the head of the most senseless, useless, inhuman, and mischievous party in the universe, the party of bigots; who, being blindly and obstinately addicted to their own incurable follies, are furiously bent against all the wise and sober men in the world: they improve the world by defacing it; and their way of building up, is to destroy and pull down. This they call edification.

But religion is another and a contrary thing; and whoever would entertain a just idea of the divine being, must conceive of him in direct opposition to the bigot’s conceptions; namely, that the God of Truth is not the author of contradictions; that when he speaks to men, he speaks not above the capacities of men, but to their capacities, which is the end of speaking; that he who makes the hearts of men, is the best and only judge of men’s hearts, who cannot see into one another’s, that being the only province and privilege of omniscience; that his perfect goodness cannot punish men, whom he has created naturally subject to errors, for involuntary errors; that having not made man perfect, he cannot be offended with him for natural and inevitable imperfections.

That we cannot provoke him, when we intend to adore him; that the best way to serve him, is to be serviceable to one another; he himself, who is omnipotent, wanting none of our impotent assistance and benefits, which must come from him, but cannot go from us to him; that to hurt men, or betray them, for his sake, is to mock him, and impiously to father upon the God of Wisdom and Peace our own rage and folly; that to him neither sounds, nor gestures, nor actions, are good or bad, pleasing or displeasing, but as the intentions from whence they spring are sincere or insincere, of which he alone can be judge.

That he who made the world has not restrained his gifts, favours, and mercies, to a nook of it; nor picks out from among men, who are all his, a few particular minions and favourites, or gives these authority to domineer over the rest, and to oppress them in the name of that God who is not the god of a nation, or of a sect, but of all nations, tongues, and persuasions, and is heard of all that call upon him and fear him: That the only way to please and resemble him, is to do, as he does, good to all impartially, and to restrain men from hurting or persecuting one another: And, in fine, that anger, revenge, and ambition, are not religion; nor the author and object of it an angry, partial, whimsical, and cruel being; but that religion is as different from bigotry, and as far above it, as the wise, great, and good God is above weak, little, ill, and angry men.

G I am, &c.

title: Cato's Letters/Letter 117