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 He laughed, yet pitied, but neither desired me to hope nor despair.

'Lausane (said he, one morning, after we had been two or three weeks in Italy), would it be vastly disagreeable to you if, instead of passing two months here as we at first proposed, we returned to Lord Dunlere's, and spent them there?'

"Ah! St. Julian, (cried I) you know my heart too well to render it necessary for me to answer you."

"In short, without longer delay we returned to that mansion on which my thoughts continually dwelt. Here, in the presence of her whom my soul adored, I forgot my resolution of trying to conquer—to conceal my passion:—ah! how indeed could I do so, when in the soft glances of her eyes I sometimes fancied I saw an assurance of its being returned. At length the period for quitting her arrived—for quitting without the smallest hope of again beholding her: the most excruciating anguish filled my heart the moment it was announced, and with difficulty I concealed it.


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 "Unable to converse the evening preceding the day fixed for my departure, I left Lord Dunlere and St. Julian together, and withdrew to an alcove in a lonely and romantic part of the garden, where some of my happiest hours had been passed with Geraldine, indulging a melancholy kind of pleasure at the idea of there giving vent to my feelings.

"You may imagine what my emotions were, when, on entering it, the first object I beheld was Geraldine!—She was alone, and dejectedly leaning on a little table. Reason bid me fly, but passion overpowered, and at her feet I poured forth my sorrows. Ah! how amply did I think myself recompensed for those sorrows when I beheld the tear of pity stealing down her cheek, when I heard her soft and faltering accents declare I was not indifferent to her:—but the rapture that declaration gave was transient: I reflected on my situation, and my soul immediately upbraided me with cruelty to her, and treachery to Lord Dunlere, in avowing my passion,


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 and pleading for a return to it, when no hope existed of our ever being united.

"Pity me, Geraldine, (said I, wildly starting from her feet), but no longer love me; yield not to sentiments which will, if indulged, entail anguish upon your gentle soul, such anguish as now pervades mine—the anguish of a hopeless passion:—we must part, part without an idea of again meeting;—I cannot, dare not ask you to become mine; cannot ask you to bestow your hand on him who is but a dependant. No, Geraldine, were it offered I would reject it, from a conviction that by accepting it I should plunge you in distress!—Oh! mild as your virtues may your destiny be,—different, ah! far different from that of the unhappy Lausane's!"

"A sudden rustling amongst the trees behind me made me turn round, and I beheld Lord Dunlere. I was a little startled, but the consciousness of not having attempted to take any advantage of the tenderness of his daughter, prevented my feeling that confusion I should otherwise have experienced at


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 being thus surprised. I bowed, and was retiring from the alcove, when he stopped me—

'Lausane (said he), do not let me frighten you away: let me try (added he, with a benignant smile) whether I cannot obtain your pardon for my intrusion.'

"He seated himself by the almost fainting Geraldine, and motioned me to sit beside him.

'You will not, Lausane, (said he, after a pause) be surprised I think, when I inform you that I have overheard your conversation, nor will you, I hope, regret my having done so; it was one which reflected the highest honour on your heart. He who can soar above selfish considerations, who can resist the pleadings of passion for fear of inconveniencing the woman he loves, evinces a generosity, a sensibility, that does credit to human nature.

'I have long suspected your attachment; you will believe I did not disapprove it, when I confess I felt happy to think it was returned.

'To men of virtue, not to men of greatness, I always wished to give my daughters;


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 they only, of all the numerous connexions which once blessed me, remain; consequently my felicity solely depends upon their's: I therefore determined never to control their inclinations, if such as reason could approve.'

"Oh! my Lord, (I exclaimed) I cannot give utterance to my feelings; but, ah! will you indeed persevere in your generous intentions when you hear my sad story, when you hear that I have been not only deprived of fortune, but the name I have a right to?"

'I am already acquainted with your story, (he replied); Count St. Julian related it a few days after your introduction to me. Your now mentioning it reminds me of a preliminary which must be settled ere I positively consent to give you my daughter, namely, that you solemnly promise never to enter again upon the subject of former grievances.'

"This was a promise which, even without having such an inducement as he now held out for making, I would not have hesitated to give, having long before determined to


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 be silent about wrongs which I could not gain redress for.

'If then (resumed he) you think you can be happy in the retirement in which we live, for my fortune will not permit me to give you the power of entering the gay world, receive the hand of my daughter.'

"On my knees I expressed my gratitude, on my knees with truth assured him, that a desert with her would be a paradise. From his arms I received the most lovely and beloved of women. Oh! moment of ecstasy, in which I folded my Geraldine to my heart as my destined wife—in which I kissed away the tear that hung upon her glowing cheek, like the sweet dew of the morning on the silken leaves of the rose!

"St. Julian, who appeared almost overpowered with delight at my happiness, put off his journey in order to be present at my marriage, and gave me the most solemn assurances of dividing with me his paternal fortune whenever he came into possession of it.


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 "He left me the most blessed of men. Oh! days of delight, rapid in your course, and succeeded by years of misery and horror!

"I had been married about three months when I received a letter from my brother, informing me that he was ill, and anxiously desirous of seeing me. I sighed at the idea of even a transient separation from my love, but I could not resist the call of friendship, and accordingly set out for a cottage near the castle of Montmorenci, where St. Julian had once before lodged, and now appointed to see me.

"The heaviness of heart with which I commenced my journey was surely a presentiment of the ills that were approaching. Oh! venerable Dunlere, thy happiness and mine was then about setting!

"The chateau de Valdore lay in my way to the castle of Montmorenci; I could not think of passing it without inquiring after the friend of my youth, from whom I had heard but once since my departure from her house; our correspondence, as she then informed


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 me, having been prohibited by her guardian. I went through a private path to the chateau, which conducted me directly to the hall occupied by the servants: here, amidst many strangers I soon discovered some of the old domestics, and from them learned that M. de Valdore and his family resided at the chateau, and that Lady Elvira's situation was unaltered. I sent to request an interview, and was almost immediately summoned to her: she received me with the most rapturous delight, and tears involuntarily fell from me as I recollected the kindness of her parents, and witnessed her pleasure at beholding me.

"When we grew a little composed, I answered her eager enquiries concerning all that had befallen me since our separation, and my present situation: but, Oh! what were my emotions when, as I mentioned that situation, I saw the blood forsake her cheeks, and discovered that it was more than friendship which she felt for me!


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 Citadel was defended in Form, and at length, in proper-Form, furrendered at Dicretion.

During this whole Time, which filled the Space of near a Month, the Captain preerved great Diftance of Behaviour to his Lady, in the Prefence of the Brother, and the more he ucceeded with her in private, the more reerved was he in public. And as for the Lady, he had no ooner ecured her Lover, than he behaved to him before Company with the highet Degree of Indifference; o that Mr. Allworthy mut have had the Inight of the Devil (or perhaps ome of his wore Qualities) to have entertained the leaft Supicion of what was going forward.  Containing what the Reader may perhaps expect to find in it.

N all Bargains, whether to fight, or to marry, or concerning any other uch Buines, little previous Ceremony is required, to bring the Matter to an Iue, when both Parties are really in earnet. This was the


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 'Married!' she repeated in a faint voice—she paused—she seemed trying to recollect herself, and attempted to wish me joy; but her tongue could not utter what she wished to say, and her head sunk upon my shoulder. Oh! Geraldine, surely I did not wrong thy love by the tears, the tears of unutterable tenderness which I shed upon her pale cheek—by the sighs which heaved my bosom on hearing her's.

"She soon however recovered:—her mind was the seat of every virtue, and shrunk from the idea of betraying feelings contrary to propriety—

'Lausane, (said she) be assured I rejoice at your present happiness; the period I trust will arrive when I shall have an opportunity of beholding it; prepare your lady against that period to love and esteem me; tell her you have a friend, a sister, to introduce to her.'

"Already (cried I) she is acquainted with the virtues of Elvira; already taught to love and esteem her.'


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 "In pity to her feelings, which I saw she could ill suppress, I determined to shorten my visit: when she saw me rising to depart, she desired me to stop another moment—

'I have a present (said she) to send your lady: you know I often amused myself by copying pictures?—amongst the rest (continued she, with a blush) I copied your's, and now request you will take it to your lady.'

"She retired without permitting me to speak, and returned in a few minutes with it: it was the same which you now have, and which by being an exact copy of the one I sent my father, led to the late discovery.

"From that period particular circumstances, not necessary to explain, prevented my seeing or hearing any thing of the destiny of Elvira, till chance conducted her to our cottage. She then informed me, that soon after she was of age, she had united herself


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]

rise in Tibet from lakes full of fish, but have none (at least during the rains) in that rapid part of their course from 10,000 to 14,000 feet elevation; below that fish abound, but invariably of different species from those found at the sources of the same rivers. The nature of the tropical ocean into which all the Himalayan rivers débouche, is no doubt the proximate cause of the absence of Salmonidæ.—Hocker's Himalayan Journal.

.—One of the greatest pest of this country (on the cultivated lands) is the common English Sheep-sorrel (Rumex acetosella), called by the natives the red sorrel, and said by them to be a native of Tasmania. This plant spreads with singular rapidity, its roots forming a perfect mat, and the smallest fragment throwing up a stem. Where it is present in the ground scarcely any of the ordinary crops can be obtained. All the usual processes of cultivation, such as fallows, &c., utterly fail even to mitigate the evil, and farmers were in despair, until it was found, that in the "struggle for existence," even this weed could not make head against the greater vigour of the white clover. I have seen hundreds of acres of broken-up land so completely overgrown with this plant, as to appear like a uniform red patch in the landscape, but upon which, at the end of two years, after it had been "laid down" with white clover and Italian rye-grass (which by itself would have done no good), scarcely a specimen of the sorrel could be found.—Travers, in Natural History Review.

.—Those plants are most perfect, in which the organs discharging different functions are most distinct both in position and structure. The thalloid fronds (of Cactaceæ) and the hypoblastoid embryos of Endogens indicate a lower degree of organization. Plants which have the stamens and pistils either naked or in the axil of an unmodified leaf (Naias, Hippuris, Callitriche) are inferior to those whose flowers are never complicated. Diclinous flowers are lower in position than those which are hermaphrodite; ternary verticils lower than quiniary, spirally arranged floral organs lower than those which are verticillate, polypetalous flowers lower than synearpous, atropous ovules lower than those which are inverted, homogenous embryos lower than those which are fully developed. Trees and shrubs are more common among imperfect plants. In the lower orders flowers are very numerous, in the higher the number of seeds produced by each flower is very great. Yellow and green colours in the flowers of the lowest rank are changed into red or white in those of a higher order, and in the highest plants the colour of the flower is generally blue.—J. G. Agardh. Theoria Systematis Plantarum.

.—Dr. Davy read a paper at Bath on the horse-chestnut; will any one read a paper of a horse-chestnut? The tree stands on a flat stone. Its root grows up through the air for 7 feet, turns over a wall, and descends 7 feet into the earth. So that the root passes for 14 feet through the air before it enters the earth. The celebrated Dutrochet, by experiment, convinced the still more celebrated De Candolle, and all European vegetable physiologists, that roots will only grow straight downwards. On this, I set to work to show that they will grow in any direction in which they can find food. If any one doubts this fact, let him inspect my tree, which is now twenty-one years old. In imitation of Dutrochet's beautiful experiment, I placed a great variety of seeds (single as well as double) in flower-pots, suspended them upside down on wire-work, and watered them from above. Each seed sent a tap-root down into the air, which died; but the branch roots (as I have named them) and the plants grew, and corn ripened in this way. But cuttings placed upside down, though they grew and bore fruit for years, showed no root below. I thus blundered on the fact that every seedling has a top-root, whose downward determination nothing can pervert, a provision and contrivance for the fixing of the plant, and a beautiful proof of the design of a Creator. But the downward tap-root is as peculiar to the seedling as the "seed-leaves" are, and all branch roots will grow in all directions. I preserved one horse-chestnut by placing it on a flat stone, and replacing the flower-pot with a chimney-pot full of earth, and, by degrees, raised a column of chimney-pots. I then built up a column of earth on the opposite side of the wall, turned the roots into it, and when they were established in the ground, I took away the two columns of earth. I think that Virgil's tap-rooted Esculus is the horse-chestnut. Virgil mentions it as distinct from the quercus and castanea, and Ovidas distinct from the fagus and ilex. It is, then, a feat to make its radix tend to heaven instead of to Tartarus. With regard to the name from Esea, it is true that neither man, horses, nor pigs will eat horse-chestnuts, but sheep, cows, and deer are ravenously eager for them.—Col. Greenwood, in Athenæum.

.—Plants themselves send down their roots naturally to a depth which, strange to say, is so little known as scarcely to be credited. In the case of beans, turnips, and red clover, we are familiar with the fact, that their


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 to the Count de Merville, whose virtues and tenderness rendered her, during his life time, one of the happiest of women, and thus rewarded her for the resolution with which she set about conquering her first attachment from the moment she knew it was improper to be indulged.

"From the chateau de Valdore I repaired to the cottage where my brother had desired to see me. He received me with the utmost affection, and I found he had not deceived me by saying he was ill; it was an illness however which seemed occasioned more by agitation than any bodily complaint; and I afterwards discovered I was not wrong in this opinion.

"Oh! had he confided in me; Oh! had he then opened his heart, divulged its cares, its anxieties, what misery, what horror would he have saved us both from experiencing!

"I had not been above a week with him when I was overwhelmed with sorrow by a


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 letter from my wife, containing the melancholy intelligence of her lovely sister Eleanora's death.

"I could not hesitate a moment about returning to her directly; yet at the instant I determined on doing so, my heart was almost divided between her and my brother, who was seized with a violent fever the very day on which I heard from her.

"I will not pain your gentle soul, my Madeline, by describing the situation in which I found your mother, or relating the numerous train of calamities that followed the death of her sister; it is sufficient for me to say that within a few months after her decease I lost my brother and my wife.

"Ah, heavens! even at this distant period I shudder at the recollection of the excruciating anguish I endured on being deprived of friends so beloved. The world seemed a blank, and nothing but religion and tenderness for you could have prevented my quitting it; nor has time done more than appease the


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 violence of that anguish.—Oh! never, never can the barb of sorrow be extracted from my heart; and respect for the memory of my mother, affection for you, could only have tempted me to quit a retirement, where unrestrained and unobserved I could have indulged my feelings.

"Lord Dunlere soon followed his children to their grave; the wreck of his fortune was placed in the hands of a banker at Paris, who failed about the time of his death. Thus, from necessity as well as choice, I sought the obscurity in which you were brought up.

"Disgusted with the world, I changed my name, in order to conceal myself from every one who had known me before, and thus prevent my retirement from being interrupted.

"I carefully concealed my story from you, well knowing from your sensibility the pain you would feel if acquainted with my injuries.


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 "Alas! too late is the hand of my father extended to do me justice; neither wealth nor titles can now confer pleasure upon me, and the coronet he is about placing upon my brow, I should reject, was it not to have the power of transmitting it to the child of my lamented love."


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CHAP. VI.

ceased Clermont, or, as we shall hereafter call him, St. Julian; but he ceased without gratifying the curiosity of Madeline: much of his story, she was convinced, remained untold, and she shuddered as she thought it was concealed merely because it was too dreadful to be known.

"Oh, surely, (she said, within herself) some mysterious circumstances must have attended the fate of my mother, or ere this my father would have mentioned her to me—-


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 Cafe at preent, and in les than a Month the Captain and his Lady were Man and Wife.

The great Concern now was to break the Matter to Mr. Allworthy, and this was undertaken by the Doctor.

One Day then as Allworthy was walking in his Garden, the Doctor came to him, and with great Gravity of Apect, and all the Concern which he could poffibly affect in his Countenance, aid, ‘I am come, Sir, to impart an Affair to you of the utmot Conequence; but how hall I mention to you, almot ditracts me to think of!’ He then launched forth into the mot bitter Invectives both againt Men and Women; accuing the former of having no Attachment but to their Interet, and the latter of being o addicted to vicious Inclinations, that they could never be afely truted with one of the other Sex; ‘Could I, aid he, Sir, have upected, that a Lady of uch Prudence, uch Judgment, uch Learning, hould indulge o indicreet a Paion; or could I have imagined that my Brother—why do I call him o? He is no longer a Brother of mine.—’


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 ere this would have afforded me the melancholy pleasure of knowing I was descended from so amiable a woman, and taught me to reverence her memory; but what he wishes to hide I will not try to discover, confident as I am that if a full explanation of past events could have given me pleasure, I should have received it from him."

When St. Julian came within sight of his father's residence, the strong emotions which the idea of his approaching interview with that father inspired, took from him all further power of utterance.

The day was declining, and the deep gloom of the forest heightened the melancholy which the recital of past events had infused into the hearts of the travellers.

As soon as the carriage entered the court, the doors of the hall were thrown open, and a number of servants appeared, with eager


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 impatience in their looks, to see and receive the newly declared heir of Montmorenci.

St. Julian now strove to regain his composure, that he might appear to bear the unexpected reverse in his situation with that calm dignity befitting a cultivated mind, and one which built not its happiness on the adventitious gifts of fortune; but vainly did he strive to do so. He trembled as he entered the ancient mansion of his forefathers, from which he had been so long unjustly exiled, trembled with violent emotion as he surveyed their warlike trophies, to which the spirit in his bosom told him he might have added, had not the hand of injustice plunged him in obscurity.

The resentment this idea excited was as transient however as involuntary, and though involuntary he repented it.

He was now called, he considered, to the presence of his father to receive from his


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 hands, as far as in his power to make it, atonement for every wrong.

"And if such atonement satisfies heaven, (cried he) as we are assured it does, should it not amply satisfy weak and erring man?"

Agitation caused him to pause in the hall, and the domestics seemed pleased with the opportunity he thus afforded them of gratifying their curiosity; one of them bowing low at length spoke—

"The Marquis impatiently expects your arrival, my Lord, (said he); shall I have the honour of conducting you to him?"

St. Julian assented by an inclination of his head, and was immediately ushered up stairs to the apartment where his father sat.

On reaching the door he took the hand of Madeline, who with trembling steps had followed him to it.


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 The Marquis attempted to rise at their entrance, but neither his strength nor spirits seconded the effort, and faint and almost breathless he sunk back upon his chair.

St. Julian and Madeline knelt before him.

"Let the blessing of a father, (said St. Julian in a solemn voice) at length rejoice my heart."

The Marquis raised his venerable head—

"I am too unworthy to dare to give it (he exclaimed); but may heaven bless you, may all that can render life desirable be your's, long, long after I am laid within that grave where I now wish to shroud my sorrows and my shame!"

"Oh, my father (cried St. Julian, penetrated by his language), speak not so again; wish not again to deprive your son of an in-


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 expressible comfort—the comfort of trying to mitigate your sorrows."

The Marquis embraced him, but was unable for some minutes to speak; then suddenly raising his head—

"Treat me not with tenderness, (he said, while a frown overspread his countenance) reproach, revile, neglect me, and you will show me mercy; for you will then save my heart from the intolerable pangs which kindness and attention so unmerited from you must give it. Oh! my son, my son, (he continued, clasping his hands together, and all the austerity of his countenance vanishing), you are now amply avenged, and I am amply punished. Had virtue been the guide of my actions, exclusive of that happiness which ever attends a quiet conscience, I should have had the happiness of being able to enjoy the society of my son; but now, what then would have been my blessing, almost becomes my curse; for not a word of tenderness that passes


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 your lips, not a beam of love from your eye, but will come like daggers to my heart."

"Far better had it been then said (St. Julian) that I had remained in my obscurity, if I am only taken from it to aggravate the woes of a father: permit me, my Lord, (cried he, with increasing emotion), again to retire to it; permit me to withdraw from your presence a being so injurious to your tranquillity."

"No, (exclaimed the Marquis eagerly) never, never shall you, except you really wish to do so, withdraw yourself from me. Excuse what I have said, make some allowances for the agitation of such a meeting as our's; my composure will soon, I trust, return, and I shall then, I make no doubt, be able to enjoy your society.

"Rise now, my children, (extending a hand to St. Julian and Madeline) 'tis I should have knelt to you; but since you knelt for a blessing, though unworthy of giving, receive it: may happiness and honour, both in their fullest extent, ever be your's; may thy weakness (turning to Madeline, and kissing


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 her soft cheek), ever find a tender guardian in thy father; and may his sufferings and filial piety to me be amply recompensed by thy affection and duty!"

He seated them on each side of himself, and the violence of his feelings having a little abated, began, notwithstanding the avowed wishes of St. Julian to the contrary, the history of his repentance.

"The dreadful fate of my son made me recollect my past conduct; all its enormities stared me in the face, and I wondered that the punishment of heaven had been so long delayed. Oh! wretch, (I cried, in the excruciating anguish of my soul) thy crimes have at length justly provoked the vengeance of Heaven, and drawn down destruction upon the head of thy son!——

"The idea, that the sins of the father had been the occasion of the death of the son, almost shook Reason from her throne; horrors, beyond language to express, took possession


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 of me:—to try to appease them, appease agonies which often urged me to complete the measure of my guilt, by raising the hand of suicide against my life.

"I sent for a Monk from a neighbouring Convent, to pour out my soul in confession to him; an holy act which I had long omitted, from a consciousness that till now it would have been a mockery of heaven, as till now the real sigh of repentance had never heaved my breast."

'My son, (cried the good man) you judge rightly in thinking that your conduct has caused your present afflictions; a merciful Being has sent them, in order to awaken you to repentance, and by suffering here, save your precious soul from suffering hereafter. Without further murmurs, therefore, submit to your deprivations as to a righteous punishment, and strive by every atonement in your power to expiate your crimes; so may you hope for a gleam of returning peace, so hope for support in the hour of death,


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 ‘Indeed but he is, aid Allworthy, and a Brother of mine too.’—‘Bles me, Sir, aid the Doctor, do you know the hocking Affair?’—‘Look’ee, Mr. Blifil, anwered the good Man, it hath been my contant Maxim in Life, to make the bet of all Matters which happen. My Siter, tho’ many Years younger than me, is at leat old enough to be at the Age of Dicretion. Had he impoed on a Child, I hould have been more avere to have forgiven him; but a Woman upwards of thirty mut certainly be uppoed to know what will make her mot happy. She hath married a Gentleman, tho’ perhaps not quite her Equal in Fortune and if he hath any Perfections in her Eye, which can make up that Deficiency, I ee no Reaon why I hould object to her Choice of her own Happines; which I, no more than herelf, imagine to conit only in immene Wealth. I might, perhaps, from the many Declarations I have made, of complying with almot any Propoal, have expected to have been conulted on this Occaion; but thee Matters are of a very delicate Nature, and the Scruples of Modety perhaps are not to be overcome. As to your Brother, I have really no


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 when all the terrors of another world are opening to your view.'

"In consequence of his words, and the pleadings of my own conscience, I directly ordered the most diligent search to be made after you, but without effect. I then drew up a paper, acknowledging my marriage with your mother, and, consequently, you as my heir; which I lodged in the convent where my Confessor lived, that if by any chance either he or any of his holy brothers should hereafter hear of you, or any offspring of your's, they might be able to authenticate your title to the Castle of Montmorenci.

"Gratefully I return thanks to Heaven for permitting me to do that justice to you which I gave to others the power of performing; the pleasure derived from that idea will, I make no doubt, in a few days alleviate my feelings. But, Oh! my son, if your attentions have not always power to mitigate my sadness—if, whilst receiving them, the sigh of regret, the tear of tender recollection,


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 should obtrude, be not offended, whilst I rejoice for the son I have recovered, I cannot help mourning for the one I have lost: he was all that the fondest father could desire! The proudest of the sons of men might have gloried in being called his parent. Ignorant as well as innocent of my great offences, his praises cannot displease you; but if they should, let the reflection of his being now in his cold and dreary tomb, where he can no longer interpose between you and your rights, remove your resentment."

"Oh! my father, (cried St. Julian, his tearful eye evincing the truth of his words) little do you know my heart if you think it can feel displeasure at the praises of my brother."

"I believe you, my son, (said the Marquis) and the belief gives me pleasure; for to think you will sometimes permit me to talk of him to you, sooths my feelings."

The appearance of a domestic now interrupted the conversation, and the Marquis led


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 Madeline down stairs. The supper was laid out in one of the state apartments which had been long disused; and though every thing was magnificent, every thing was gloomy.

Fatigued by her journey, or rather by the emotions of her mind, Madeline soon after supper entreated permission to retire to her chamber; an attendant was accordingly summoned to conduct her to it, and on leaving the parlour she found the housekeeper waiting in the hall for that purpose.

"Well, I am happy, (cried she, simpering and courtesying), that I have an opportunity at last of wishing your La'ship joy. Dear me, I have been so surprised at what has lately happened! Who could ever have thought that the night I had the honour of seeing your La'ship here, I should have had the so much greater honour of calling you Mistress."


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 Madeline received her compliment with a faint smile, for her heart was too heavy to permit her to answer it as at another time she might have done; nor was her melancholy decreased on entering her spacious chamber, whose faded tapestry and tarnished furniture spoke of its long desertion and neglect.

"I hope your La'ship does not dislike this apartment, (said the housekeeper, on perceiving Madeline pause at the entrance, and look round her with a kind of dread); it is one of the most magnificent in the castle I can assure you, and was occupied by my late Lady, the Marchioness, since whose death it has neither been used or altered."

"No, (replied Madeline, advancing, and endeavouring to shake off the impression which its gloom had made upon her mind), I do not dislike it."

"That door (cried the housekeeper) opens into the dressing-room; there my lady used to pass many of her hours: it was fitted


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 human nature? Not studied with the microscope, but seen largely in plain daylight with the natural eye? What novel has more good sense and gaiety and wit and unflagging, admirable literary skill? And once more, to make an end of commendations, what novel is inspired with a more unstrained or a more wholesome morality? There is no quite good book without a good morality; but the world is wide, and so are morals And above all, in this last volume, I find a singular, charm of spirit. It breathes a pleasant and a tonic sadness, always brave, never hysterical. Upon the crowded, noisy life of this long tale, evening gradually falls, and the lights are extinguished, and the heroes pass away one by one. One by one they go, and not a regret embitters their departure: the young succeed them in their places, Louis Quatorze is swelling larger and shining broader, another generation and another France dawn on the horizon but for us and these old men whom we have loved so long, the inevitable end draws near, and is welcome. To read this well is to anticipate experience. Ah, if only, when these hours of the long shadows fall for us in reality and not in figure, we may hope to face them with a mind as quiet.

We know the story of the little Spanish boy, moping in France. Did he want his father? No; his father beat him. His sister? No; she was dead. What he wanted was The Three Musketeers, which he had begun to read in Spain.

Omne tulit punctum: Dumas won every vote but the vote of the envious. He made me happy, when a not particularly contented schoolboy. I read him as often as Byron read the Waverley novels, and, like these, Dumas improves at each time of reading. I read La Reine Margot in French, and then—read it in English. There was nothing better to be had. The heartiness, the large light, the loyalty, the tolerance, the wit, the brilliant and varied sequel of adventures rejoice the heart, and carry us out of our own times and troubles into an enchanted world. We reap the joys of it without


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 up entirely under her direction, and ornamented with portraits of several of her most particular friends; amongst the pictures is one of herself, and another of Lord Philippe, her son, drawn about a year before his death; the room still remains just in the same state as when she died."

An irresistible impulse prompted Madeline immediately to take a view of these pictures; and she directly entered the dressing-room still attended by the housekeeper.

The first she examined was the Marchioness: it represented a woman in all the bloom of youth and of the most exquisite beauty; she turned from it, after expressing her admiration, to Lord Philippe's. But, Oh! what were her feelings at that moment, when the exact resemblance of de Sevignie met her eyes.

With all the wildness of astonishment she gazed upon it: "Are you sure (cried she, glancing for an instant at the housekeeper,


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 and speaking in almost breathless agitation) are you sure this picture was drawn for Lord Philippe?"

"Sure! (repeated the housekeeper) Lord, yes, that I am indeed. Why I saw him, myself sitting for it."

"Good heaven! (said Madeline to herself) what a likeness! Ah! how vain, (she continued) my resolves to forget de Sevignie while his image will be thus almost continually before me."

As if riveted by some spell to the spot, she still continued to stand before it: the more she gazed upon it, the more if possible the likeness grew upon her.

"Do you think it a handsome picture?" asked the housekeeper, elevating the light as she spoke as if to give Madeline a better opportunity of examining it.

"Handsome! (repeated Madeline emphatically and with a deep sigh), yes very handsome indeed."


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 "Aye, and so do I; (cried the housekeeper), what a sweet smile there is about the mouth!"

Yes, (thought Madeline) the fascinating smile of de Sevignie.

"And the eyes! (continued the housekeeper) how piercing, yet how mild!"

Madeline, who had turned to the housekeeper, again fastened her's upon them, and again fancied she beheld the dark eyes of de Sevignie beaming with unutterable tenderness upon her.

She sighed more deeply than before; and fearful that if she remained much longer in her present situation, she should not be able to conceal the feelings which now almost swelled her heart to bursting, she instantly left the dressing-room.

"Your La'ship looks disturbed, (said the housekeeper); I am afraid the picture of Lord Philippe has affected you, by bringing his melancholy fate to your mind: Poor youth,


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 horses from London; and thus, by a little innocent frolic, I made all parties happy again."

Lady Hester continued. "Lucy's disposition was sweet, and her temper excellent: she was like a Madonna. Griselda was otherwise, and always for making her authority felt. But I, even when I was only a girl, obtained and exercised, I can't tell how, a sort of command over them. They never came to me, when I was in my room, without ending first to know whether 1 would see them.

"Mr. Pitt never liked Griselda; and, when he found she was jealous of me, he disliked her still more. She stood no better in the opinion of my father, who bore with Lucy—ah! just in this way—he would say to her, to get rid of her, 'Now papa is going to study, so you may go to your room then, when the door was shut, he would turn to me, 'Now, we must talk a little philosophy and then, with his two legs


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 it was a sad thing indeed; but your La'ship must consider, that if he had not been taken off, your father would never have been restored to his rights; and heaven knows, he was kept long enough out of them."

"I must for ever regret (said Madeline) that his restoration to them was occasioned by the death of his brother."

"Why to be sure, (replied the housekeeper) it would have been better if they could have been regained by any other means; but that that would ever have been the case there was very little probability of; and, between ourselves, (proceeded she, lowering her voice) since your La'ship has hinted at the affair to me, I think even if it was openly proved, instead of being merely suspected, as it is at present, that the Count, your father, when his injuries were considered, would not be condemned; I, for my part, am one of those who would forgive him for what he did."

"For what he did! (repeated Madeline, starting), why what has he done to require


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 Anger againt him at all. He hath no Obligations to me, nor do I think he was under any Neceity of afking my Conent, ince the Woman is, as I have aid, Sui Juris, and of a proper Age to be entirely anwerable only to herelf for her Conduct.’

The Doctor repeated his Accuations againt his Brother, accued Mr. Allworthy of too great Lenity, and declared that he hould never more be brought either to ee, or to own him for his Relation. He then launched forth into a Panegyric on Allworthy’s Goodnes, into the highet Encomiums on his Friendhip; and concluded, by aying, He hould never forgive his Brother for having put the Place which he bore in that Friendhip, to a Hazard.

Allworthy thus anwer’d: ‘Had I conceived any Dipleaure againt your Brother, I hould never have carried that Reentment to the Innocent: But, I aure you, I have no uch Dipleaure. Your Brother appears to me to be a Man of Sene and Honour. I do not diapprove the Tate of my Siter; nor will I doubt but that he is equally the Object of his Inclinations. I have always thought


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 forgiveness? What is the affair you say I have hinted at? Speak,—you have agitated my very soul."

The housekeeper receded a few steps in evident terror.

"Why, nothing, I assure your La'ship, (exclaimed she in faltering accents) I only meant that—that—"

Here she paused in the utmost confusion.

"Speak! (cried Madeline, in a voice that betrayed the most dreadful agitation—an agitation caused by recollecting at that instant the conversation which had passed between her and the housekeeper relative to the murder of Lord Philippe on the night she had sought for shelter in the castle); speak, I adjure you, (she repeated, with a distracted air) and relieve me from the horrors you have inspired."

"I am very sorry, I am sure, (said Mrs. Beatrice) that I have so distressed your La'ship;


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 like an old woman, I must always be prating; I only meant, my Lady, I can assure you, to say, that if it was known that the Count, your father, rejoiced at, instead of regretted, the death of his brother, no one could wonder at it, considering the reason he had to hate him as the usurper of his rights."

"And was this all you really meant?" asked Madeline.

"Oh, all, I do assure your La'ship, upon the word of a true Christian; if you do not believe me, I will call all the Saints in Heaven to witness for me."

Madeline could not help smiling:

"As it is a call, perhaps, (said she) they might not obey; I will take your word."

She now endeavoured to compose herself; but not easily could she regain composure, nor dismiss remorse from her mind, for having yielded, but for a minute, to the


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 horrid suggestions which had lately pervaded it.

"Oh! was my father acquainted with them, (cried she to herself), never, never would he forgive me. Ah! how can I forgive myself—Ah! how support, without betraying it, the pain I must ever feel, for having thought unjustly of him."

"You seem well acquainted with the affairs of this family?" said she, sitting down, and making an effort to appear composed.

"Yes, very well acquainted with them indeed, (replied the housekeeper, significantly shaking her head); I have lived in it almost ever since I was born; for my parents dying when I was very young, my aunt, who was housekeeper, took me immediately under her protection."

It now occurred to Madeline, that the domestic who had liberated her unhappy grandmother might still be living; and anxious, if she was, to pay her the tribute of


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 respect she merited, she inquired; and heard, with pleasure, that her present attendant was the person who had performed that generous act.

"Yes, my lady, it was I, (cried the housekeeper, bridling up), who freed the poor unfortunate lady: I was then a fine lively young girl, as your La'ship indeed may well suppose, from the number of years which have passed since that event; and the most tender-hearted creature, though I say it myself, that perhaps ever lived. Dear me, I shall never forget how I cried, when I went with some food to her, and found her sitting on the ground, so pale, yet so beautiful, with her hair, the finest hair I ever saw, about one shade darker than your's, my lady, hanging about her shoulders, and her little baby lying on her lap, on whom her tears were falling so fast, while a cold wind whistled through the broken windows; for she was confined in an upper room, in one of the uninhabited towers."


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 "Could I see that room?" asked Madeline.

"Why, the stairs which lead to it are now very bad; but if you wish very much to go to it, I think you may venture some day or other. Poor soul!—it has not been opened I believe since she left it. I never shall forget the manner in which she thanked me as I led her from it; or the tears she shed as she put this little ring upon my finger."

Madeline started up and examined the ring; then, after a moment fastening her fine eyes swimming in tears upon the housekeeper,

"Blessed, for ever blessed, (she exclaimed) be the hand which aided the unhappy!"

"There was such a fuss, (resumed Mrs. Beatrice), when it was known that she had escaped, I was very near being dismissed from the castle; nothing but my youth could have obtained my forgiveness: so in it I con-


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 Love the only Foundation of Happines in a married State; as it can only produce that high and tender Friendhip, which hould always be the Cement of this Union; and, in my Opinion, all thoe Marriages which are contracted from other Motives, are greatly criminal; they are a Profanation of a mot holy Ceremony, and generally end in Diquiet and Miery: For urely we may call it a Profanation, to convert this mot acred Intitution into a wicked Sacrifice to Lut, or Avarice: And what better can be aid of thoe Matches to which Men are induced merely by the Conideration of a beautiful Peron, or a great Fortune!

‘To deny that Beauty is an agreeable Object to the Eye, and even worthy ome Admiration, would be fale and foolih. Beautiful is an Epithet often ued in Scripture, and always mentioned with Honour. It was my own Fortune to marry a Woman, whom the World thought handome, and I can truly ay, I liked her the better on that Account. But, to make this the ole Conideration of Marriage, to lut after it o violently, as to overlook all Imperfections for its Sake, or to require it o abolutely as to reject


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 tinued, and on the death of my aunt obtained her place."

"And what was the general opinion about the unhappy Marchioness?" demanded Madeline.

"It was the opinion of the domestics, and such simple folks, (replied the housekeeper) that she was an unfortunate lady, who had been cruelly injured; but all the great people believed, or said they did at least, that she was an artful creature, who had drawn in the Count to have an amour with her."

After conversing a few minutes longer with the housekeeper, Madeline told her, she no longer required her attendance. The night was now indeed waning fast, and most of the inhabitants of the castle had retired to repose, ere she dismissed her; however so much was her imagination affected by the gloom of her apartment, that she could not avoid asking, whether there was an inhabited one near it?


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 and didain Religion, Virtue, and Sene, which are Qualities, in their Nature, of much higher Perfection, becaue an Elegance of Peron only is wanting; this is urely inconitent either with a wie Man, or a good Chritian. And it is, perhaps, being too charitable to conclude that uch Perons mean any thing more by their Marriage, than to pleae their carnal Appetites, for the Satisfaction of which we are taught it was not ordained.

‘In the next Place, with repect to Fortune. Worldly Prudence perhaps exacts ome Conideration on this Head; nor will I abolutely and altogether condemn it. As the World is contituted, the Demands of a married State, and the Care of Poterity, require ome little Regard to what we call Circumtances. Yet this Proviion is greatly encreaed beyond what is really neceary, by Folly and Vanity, which create abundantly more Wants than Nature. Equipage for the Wife, and large Fortunes for the Children, are by Cutom enrolled in the Lit of Necearies; and, to procure thee, every thing truly olid and weet, and virtuous, and religious, are neglected and overlooked.


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 "Not very near it," answered the housekeeper; "the one adjoining it," she said, "had belonged to Lord Philippe, but since his death had been shut up, with all the rest of the chambers in that gallery, except a few near the staircase, one of which had been now prepared for the Count St. Julian."

Left to herself, instead of retiring to rest, Madeline reseated herself by the toilette, and leaning her head pensively upon her hand, began to ruminate over past events. The picture of Lord Philippe, by recalling de Sevignie to her mind, had awakened a thousand tender recollections, which wrung her heart with agony; the idea of de Sevignie's falsehood had failed to conquer her tenderness; she still loved him, still doubted his duplicity, and felt more convinced than ever that all the splendour of her present situation could never restore the cheerfulness her disappointment relative to him had injured: again she regretted that situation, again re-


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that it is customary for the daily papers to publish a column or so of society gossip. They generally head it "Chit-Chat," or "On Dit," or "Le Boudoir," or something of the sort, and they keep it pretty full of French terms to give it the proper sort of swing. These columns may be very interesting in their way, but it always seems to me that they don't get hold of quite the right things to tell us about. They are very fond, for instance, of giving an account of the delightful dance at Mrs. De Smythe's—at which Mrs. De Smythe looked charming in a gown of old tulle with a stomacher of passementerie—or of the dinner-party at Mr. Alonzo Robinson's residence, or the smart pink tea given by Miss Carlotta Jones. No, that's all right, but it's not the kind of thing we want to get at; those are not the events which happen in our neighbours' houses that we really want to hear about. It is the quiet


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 gretted that situation, again regretted her elevation to a height which would render more conspicuous the melancholy she wished to conceal from every eye.

"The sadness that marks my brow will make me appear ungrateful to heaven, (cried she) for the wonderful change it has effected in my father's favour; and what ill-natured speculations may not be excited by seeing one so young so hopeless!"

Severely, however, did her heart reproach her for regretting that change—a change which removed from the memory of her grandmother the obloquy that had been so long attached to it.

From the sufferings of her grandmother her thoughts naturally reverted to those of her father, and the more she reflected on his narrative, the more firmly convinced she was that much of his life remained untold;—the recollected words of her departed friend confirmed this opinion.


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 "She told me, (cried Madeline) and her lips knew not falsehood, that the calamities of his life were unprecedented; that its characters were marked by horror, and stained with blood;—but in the view he gave me of it, no such calamities, no such characters met my eye; 'tis therefore too evident, that much of it remained concealed.—Oh! may that concealment now continue, (she proceeded); Oh! may no hand more daring than mine withdraw the veil I have been so cautiously against raising; may no untoward circumstance reveal a mystery, whose elucidation I have now a presentiment would fill me with horror!"

She suddenly paused, for at this instant she thought she heard a groan from the adjoining chamber; which, it may be remembered, has already been mentioned as once belonging to Lord Philippe.

Her heart beat quick, and she turned her eyes towards the partition, as if they could


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 have penetrated it, and discovered the cause of the sound that had alarmed her; but all again was profoundly still, and she at last began to think it was either the wind growling through the casements, she had heard, or some of those unaccountable noises, so common in old houses; such, she recollected, as had often startled her at the chateau of the Countess de Merville.

Thus trying to tranquillize her mind, she was beginning to undress, when the powers of motion were suddenly suspended by a repetition of the sound which had so recently alarmed her—a sound she could no longer ascribe to the causes she had already done.

Deep and dreadful groans now pierced her ear—groans which seemed bursting from the bosom of misery and despair, and which by degrees rose to a yell, intermingled with sighs and sobs.


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 That Madeline was not an entire stranger to superstition, must have been already perceived; that it was now awakened in her breast, cannot be denied, nor indeed scarcely wondered at, when her situation is considered; in a gloomy chamber, remote from every inhabited one, and assailed by noises from the long unoccupied apartment of a murdered relative.

For some minutes she was unable to move: at length her eyes timidly glanced round her chamber, dreading yet wishing to ascertain whether any terrific object was within it. They encountered a bell near the head of the bed, and which the housekeeper had previously informed her communicated with the gallery where the servants slept; to this she instantly darted, and rung it with violence;—almost immediately she heard a bustle over her head, and then descending steps.

She flew to the light, and taking it up, directly opened the door. Several of the


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 ‘And this in many Degrees; the lat and greatet of which eems carce ditinguihable from Madnes. I mean, where Perons of immene Fortunes contract themelves to thoe who are, and mut be, diagreeable to them; to Fools and Knaves, in order to encreae an Etate, already larger even than the Demands of their Pleaures. Surely uch Perons, if they will not be thought mad, mut own, either that they are incapable of tating the Sweets of the tenderet Friendhip, or that they acrifice the greatet Happines of which they are capable, to the vain, uncertain, and eneles Laws of vulgar Opinion, which owe as well their Force, as their Foundation, to Folly.’

Here Allworthy concluded his Sermon, to which Blifil had litened with the profoundet Attention, tho’ it cot him ome Pains to prevent now and then a mall Dicompoure of his Mucles. He now praied every Period of what he had heard, with the Warmth of a young Divine who hath the Honour to dine with a Bihop the ame Day in which his Lordhip hath mounted the Pulpit.


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  little family scenes, the little traits of home-life that-well, for example, take the case of that delightful party at the De Smythes. I am certain that all those who were present would much prefer a little paragraph like the following, which would give them some idea of the home-life of the De Smythes on the morning after the party.

On Wednesday morning last at 7.15 a.m. a charming little breakfast was served at the home of Mr. De Smythe. The déjeuner was given in honour of Mr. De Smythe and his two sons, Master Adolphus and Master Blinks De Smythe, who were about to leave for their daily travail at their wholesale Bureau de Flour et de Feed. All the gentlemen were very quietly dressed in their habits de work. Miss Melinda De Smythe poured out tea, the domestique having refusé to get up so early after the partie of the night before. The menu was very handsome, consisting of eggs and bacon, demi-froid, and ice-cream. The conversation was sustained and lively. Mr. De Smythe


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EASONS for writing this history may in some numbers be cited. About one hundred and sixty years before the Revolution—earlier, in fact, than the landing of the Pilgrims—these lands had been visited by white men. Traders had travelled along the Indian trails of the Mohawk and Susquehanna valleys periodically all through that century and a half, while for at least a quarter of a century before the Revolution, missionaries had engaged in constant labor on the Susquehanna. By the missionaries, schools and churches were founded, and a beneficent and fruitful work was well under way when the war put a sudden end to peaceful activities. The lands on the Susquehanna for a considerable time were the frontier of the province of New York, the Unadilla River, one of the tributaries of the larger stream, forming another part of that boundary line between the Indians and the English, which was established by the treaty of Fort Stanwix in 1768. Beyond this line no settlements were made until after the war, when the white man secured his first titles in that fertile region of Central and Western New York.

During the Revolution the upper Susquehanna became a base of operations from which the Indians and Tories, who had fled from the Mohawk and Schoharie valleys, found their way back into the settled parts of New York, and under Joseph Brant, Colonel John Butler, Walter H. Butler, and Sir John Johnson wrought their destruction. After peace returned, the history of these Susquehanna

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 the perils, we run no risk of being martyred for our religion or want of religion; of being poisoned with a rose or a book, or spitted with a very long rapier. We see Catherine de Medici, walking like a wolf through the blood and the dead men in the dusky galleries of the Louvre, but she will not drop us down an oubliette. We may be ever so old, but the blood of D'Artagnan animates us in fancy, a thing "to make an old man young."

The raffinés of to-day think there is too much fighting in Homer, think that the Iliad has "a second-rate subject" (fact!), deplore the lack of "female interest," No wonder that they sneer at Dumas. He is not "up-to-date." His style is not precious: it is only a very clear, animated style, swift and glittering as the sword of Aramis. My point is that, in this world of ours there have been a large number of dates. Dumas may not be "up to" ours, of which we have, perforce, quite enough, with two thousand up-to-date novels yearly to aid the newspapers to rub it in. Dumas is "up to" a number of other dates and the bloom of them. He is "up to" love, daring, friendship, loyalty: like "the  man Heracles" in Homer, he is "conversant with great adventures." We can have no epic poem of our own, the time is past, but Dumas gives us epic prose. As Homer was "the sun of Greece," lighting up a world that, but for him, would have been invisible to the Greeks of the historical ages, so Dumas is the sun of the old worlds of France.

The studious can discern them yet, in the pages of original Mémoires, but the multitude can see them in the light of Dumas. Give him a few pages of the French Mémoires of the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries, and he will make the dry bones live, and clothe them in silk and satin, in the golden baldric of Porthos, and the diamonds of Buckingham and of Anne of Austria. There are smiles on beautiful dead lips, light in the eyes that have long been dust, love in hearts that beat no more; hatred, desire, and plot repeople the dusty cavities of skulls.


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 lands is the history of a chain of prosperous settlements founded mainly by men from New England States on sites where Scotch-Irish, German, and other pioneers had taken up lands before the conflict. Thus it becomes a history, furnishing a type of the settlement of Central New York.

In the history of the upper Susquehanna Valley as a highway, three distinct periods might be named. First come the trails of the Indian era, dating from immemorial times and including the years of the fur traders and the Protestant missions. Second is the time from 1770 to 1783, when by turns the valley was a road for pioneers coming into the country, to be driven out by fire and the tomahawk; a road for Indians bent on spoliation or massacre; a route by land and water for the soldiers of General Clinton; and, finally, a route along which the Indians, stirred to bitter revenge by General Sullivan’s ravages, penetrated and laid waste all that remained of the Mohawk and Schoharie settlements. Third comes the period after the peace, when the valley was the road for settlers bound for the "Southern Tier" and Pennsylvania by way of Wattles’s Ferry, from 1784 on for many years, and when from about 1800 it became at Unadilla the terminus of two great turnpikes, the Catskill and the Ithaca, which were the railroads of their time and along which for a quarter of a century ran the main course of trade and travel for a large inland territory.

This history has long waited for consecutive and full narration. More than half a century ago several writers dealt with certain interesting parts of it. Campbell, with an able and gentle hand, wrote the story of the settlement of Cherry Valley, and of

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 stirring events in Tryon County during the Revolution. Stone wrote the biography of Brant as might one who loved Brant and honored his memory. Simms gathered into his several publications an extensive and curious array of material. Jay Gould, when still under age, revived much that Campbell and Simms had brought to light, and added other valuable information. Cooper, with accuracy and fulness, recorded the annals of the settlement developed by his father on Otsego Lake, all of which Cooper himself may be said to have seen and a large part of which he afterward was.

Some of these and other chronicles were printed sixty or more years ago. They all long since had passed out of print and out of the convenient reach of purchasers, some of them being now very scarce books. At the time of their publication, moreover, a large store of important material, printed and unprinted, which is now to be found in State archives and in libraries, was either inaccessible, or for other reasons was not drawn upon.

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  Which concludes the firt Book, with an Intance of Ingratitude, which we hope will appear unnatural.

HE Reader, from what hath been aid, may imagine that the Reconciliation (if indeed it could be o called) was only Matter of Form; we hall therefore pas it over, and haten to what mut urely be thought Matter of Subtance.

The Doctor had acquainted his Brother with what had pat between Mr. Allworthy and him; and added with a Smile, ‘I promie you, I paid you off; nay, I abolutely deired the good Gentleman not to forgive you: For you know, after he had made a Declaration in your Favour, I might, with Safety, venture on uch a Requet with a Peron of his Temper; and I was willing, as well for, your Sake as for my own, to prevent the leat Poibility of a Supicion.’

Captain Blifil took not the leat Notice of this, at that Time; but he afterwards made a very notable Ue of it.


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  sustained it and made it lively for his daughter and his garçons. In the course of the talk Mr. De Smythe stated that the next time he allowed the young people to turn his maison topsy-turvy he would see them in enfer. He wished to know if they were aware that some ass of the evening before had broken a pane of coloured glass in the hall that would cost him four dollars. Did they think he was made of argent. If so, they never made a bigger mistake in their vie. The meal closed with general expressions of good-feeling. A little bird has whispered to us that there will be no more parties at the De Smythes' pour longtemps.

Here is another little paragraph that would be of general interest in society.

Yesterday evening at half after six a pleasant little diner was given by Madame McFiggin of Rock Street, to her boarders. The salle à manger was very prettily decorated with texts, and the furniture upholstered with cheveux de horse, Louis Quinze. The boarders were all


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 This is true in eminent degree of the missionaries, of whom very little has been heretofore written, and by the above-mentioned writers, nothing. It is true in large degree of the Border Wars, the real origin and motives of which, especially on the side of Brant and his Indian followers, as well as the full details affecting this frontier, the author believes he has here more clearly set forth. In fact, by combining the new material with the old, it has now become possible to prepare a continuous historical record of the valley, covering the period from our day back to the years when the feet of white men first followed the Indian trails of the Susquehanna, almost three centuries ago.

But there are limitations which seem destined always to exist. Beyond certain dates, those of about two hundred years ago, the historical explorer has at times little more to guide him than isolated facts, and his imagination, as he seeks to find a way about in the dim twilight of Indian legend and scattered lore. It is not until the close of the seventeenth century that he is well assisted by illuminating records.

Previous to the Revolution, the growth and spread of settlements in America had been extremely slow everywhere. More than a century elapsed after Columbus found the New World, before Hendrick Hudson discovered the stream that bears his name. A still longer period passed away before the Pilgrims disembarked from the Mayflower. When permanent settlements were first planted in

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 the Susquehanna Valley, two and a half centuries had come and gone since that memorable voyage from the Port of Palos.

Those centuries, so barren of history here, had witnessed events of great pith and moment elsewhere. England had gone forward from the Wars of the Roses almost to the reign of George III. Shakespeare, Milton, Bacon, Dryden, and Pope are among those gifted men of genius by whom her intellectual greatness had been advanced. Her political destiny meanwhile had been broadened and deepened under Henry VIII., Elizabeth, and Cromwell. In France had lived Richelieu and Louis XIV., while under Charles V. and Philip II. a vast Spanish empire had come into existence and decayed. On the banks of the Hellespont, only forty years before the voyage of Columbus, expired the last remnant of the Empire of Rome, which embraced at one time, as Gibbon said, “the fairest part of the earth and the most civilized portion of mankind.”

On American soil we can point to little of striking renown during those generations. Near the end of them Washington had become a name associated honorably with the French War. Jonathan Edwards had astonished men in Europe, as well as here, with the vigor and subtlety of his mind. Franklin had made contributions to human knowledge of great worth and potency. But of other eminent names the records are bare. For the most part men had been born, had lived, toiled, and died absorbed in the simple pursuits of trade and domestic life.

In the province of New York the first successful men were fur traders who exchanged Dutch goods for beaver skins. During more than half a century

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 after Hudson's arrival these Dutchmen did scarcely anything more. Villages grew up on Manhattan Island and in the Hudson and Mohawk valleys. The trader's boat penetrated down the head-waters of the Susquehanna. But wherever villages were founded, they were not so much permanent settlements as trading-posts. Theodore Roosevelt has justly observed that while the Dutch aspired to secure large wealth for the mother-country, they were devoid of ambition to found on these shores a free Dutch nation.

As traders, the Dutch never promised to open a way to great national wealth. For the eleven years between 1624 and 1635 the beaver skins received in Holland numbered only 80,182, and the otter and other skins, 9,447, or about 8,ooo skins of all kinds per year. Albany, the fur depot for the whole interior, was described by Father Jogues, in 1644, as "a miserable little fort called Fort Orange, built of logs with four or five pieces of Breteuil cannon and as many swivels, with some twenty-five or thirty houses built of boards with thatched roofs." Except in the chimneys, "no mason's work had been used."

Scarcely more enterprise marked the first years of English rule. As late as 1695 the trade amounted to only £10,000, while in 1678 Governor Andros reported that a merchant worth $2,500 or $5,000 was "accounted a good, substantial merchant," and a planter "worth half that in movables" was a prosperous citizen. The value of all estates in the province was only $750,000. Clearly, that was a time of very small things, but they were among the fruitful beginnings of a land and people from which was to grow the greatest of all the States, and in them this frontier had an ample share.

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Adams v. Illinois/Opinion of the Court

MR. JUSTICE BRENNAN announced the judgment of the Court and an opinion, in which MR. JUSTICE STEWART and Mr. JUSTICE WHITE join.

In Coleman v. Alabama, 399 U.S. 1, decided June 22, 1970, we held that a preliminary hearing is a critical stage of the criminal process at which the accused is constitutionally entitled to the assistance of counsel. This case presents the question whether that constitutional doctrine applies retroactively to preliminary hearings conducted prior to June 22, 1970.

The Circuit Court of Cook County, Illinois, conducted a preliminary hearing on February 10, 1967, on a charge against petitioner of selling heroin. Petitioner was not represented by counsel at the hearing. He was bound over to the grand jury, which indicted him. By pretrial motion he sought dismissal of the indictment on the ground that it was invalid because of the failure of the court to appoint counsel to represent him at the preliminary hearing. The motion was denied on May 3, 1967, on the authority of People v. Morris, 30 Ill. 2d 406, 197 N.E. 2d 433 (1964). In Morris the Illinois Supreme Court held that the Illinois preliminary hearing was not a critical stage at which the accused had a constitutional right to the assistance of counsel. Petitioner's conviction was affirmed by the Illinois Supreme Court, which rejected petitioner's argument that the later Coleman decision required reversal. The court acknowledged that its Morris decision was superseded by Coleman, but [p280] held that Coleman applied only to preliminary hearings conducted after June 22, 1970, the date Coleman was decided. 46 Ill. 2d 200, 263 N.E. 2d 490 (1970). We granted certiorari limited to the question of the retroactivity of Coleman. 401 U.S. 953 (1971). We affirm.

The criteria guiding resolution of the question of the retroactivity of new constitutional rules of criminal procedure "implicate (a) the purpose to be served by the new standards, (b) the extent of the reliance by law enforcement authorities on the old standards, and (c) the effect on the administration of justice of a retroactive application of the new standards." Stovall v. Denno, 388 U.S. 293, 297 (1967). We have given complete retroactive effect to the new rule, regardless of good-faith reliance by law enforcement authorities or the degree of impact on the administration of justice, where the "major purpose of new constitutional doctrine is to overcome an aspect of the criminal trial that substantially impairs its truth-finding function and so raises serious questions about the accuracy of guilty verdicts in past trials..." Williams v. United States, 401 U.S. 646, 653 (1971). Examples are the right to counsel at trial, Gideon v. [p281] Wainwright, 372 U.S. 335 (1963); on appeal, Douglas v. California, 372 U.S. 353 (1963); or at some forms of arraignment, Hamilton v. Alabama, 368 U.S. 52 (1961). See generally Stovall v. Denno, supra, at 297-298; Williams v. United States, supra, at 653 n. 6.

However, "the question whether a constitutional rule of criminal procedure does or does not enhance the reliability of the fact-finding process at trial is necessarily a matter of degree," Johnson v. New Jersey, 384 U.S. 719, 728-729 (1966); it is a "question of probabilities." Id., at 729. Thus, although the rule requiring the assistance of counsel at a lineup, United States v. Wade, 388 U.S. 218 (1967); Gilbert v. California, 388 U.S. 263 (1967), is "aimed at avoiding unfairness at the trial by enhancing the reliability of the factfinding process in the area of identification evidence," we held that the probabilities of infecting the integrity of the truth-determining process by denial of counsel at the lineup were sufficiently less than the omission of counsel at the trial itself or on appeal that those probabilities "must in turn be weighed against the prior justified reliance upon the old standard and the impact of retroactivity upon the administration of justice." Stovall v. Denno, supra, at 298.

We hold that similarly the role of counsel at the preliminary hearing differs sufficiently from the role of counsel at trial in its impact upon the integrity of the factfinding process as to require the weighing of the probabilities of such infection against the elements of prior justified reliance and the impact of retroactivity upon the administration of criminal justice. We may lay aside the functions of counsel at the preliminary hearing that do not bear on the factfinding process at trial—counsel's help in persuading the court not to hold the accused for the grand jury or meanwhile to admit the accused to bail. Coleman, 399 U.S., at 9. Of counsel's other functions—to "fashion a vital impeachment [p282] tool for use in cross-examination of the State's witnesses at the trial," to "discover the case the State has against his client," "making effective arguments for the accused on such matters as the necessity for an early psychiatric examination...," ibid.—impeachment and discovery may make particularly significant contribution to the enhancement of the factfinding process, since they materially affect an accused's ability to present an effective defense at trial. But because of limitations upon the use of the preliminary hearing for discovery and impeachment purposes, counsel cannot be as effectual as at trial or on appeal. The authority of the court to terminate the preliminary hearing once probable cause is established, see People v. Bonner, 37 Ill. 2d 553, 560, 229 N.E. 2d 527, 531 (1967), means that the degree of discovery obtained will vary depending on how much evidence the presiding judge receives. Too, the preliminary hearing is held at an early stage of the prosecution when the evidence ultimately gathered by the prosecution may not be complete. Cf. S. Rep. No. 371, 90th Cong., 1st Sess., 33, on amending 18 U.S.C. § 3060. Counsel must also avail himself of alternative procedures, always a significant factor to be weighed in the scales. Johnson v. New Jersey, 384 U.S., at 730. Illinois provides, for example, bills of particulars and discovery of the names of prosecution witnesses. Ill. Rev. Stat., c. 38, §§ 114-2, 114-9, 114-10 (1971). Pretrial statements of prosecution witnesses may also be obtained for use in impeachment purposes. See, e.g., People v. Johnson, 31 Ill. 2d 602, 203 N.E. 2d 399 (1964).

We accordingly agree with the conclusion of the Illinois Supreme Court, "On this scale of probabilities, we judge that the lack of counsel at a preliminary hearing involves less danger to 'the integrity of the truth-determining process at trial' than the omission of counsel at the trial [p283] itself or on appeal. Such danger is not ordinarily greater, we consider, at a preliminary hearing at which the accused is unrepresented than at a pretrial line-up or at an interrogation conducted without presence of an attorney." 46 Ill. 2d, at 207, 263 N.E. 2d, at 494.

We turn then to weighing the probabilities that the denial of counsel at the preliminary hearing will infect the integrity of the factfinding process at trial against the prior justified reliance upon the old standard and the impact of retroactivity upon the administration of justice. We do not think that law enforcement authorities are to be faulted for not anticipating Coleman. There was no clear foreshadowing of that rule. A contrary inference was not unreasonable in light of our decisions in Hamilton v. Alabama, 368 U.S. 52, and White v. Maryland, 373 U.S. 59 (1963). Hamilton denominated the arraignment stage in Alabama critical because defenses not asserted at that stage might be forever lost. White held that an uncontested plea of guilty at a Maryland preliminary hearing could not be introduced by the State at trial. Many state courts not unreasonable regarded Hamilton and White as fashioning limited constitutional rules governing preliminary hearings. See, e.g., the decision of the Illinois Supreme Court in People v. Morris, 30 Ill. 2d 406, 197 N.E. 2d 433. Moreover, a [p284] number of courts, including all of the federal courts of appeals had concluded that the preliminary hearing was not a critical stage entitling an accused to the assistance of counsel. It is thus clear that there has been understandable and widespread reliance upon this view by law enforcement officials and the courts.

It follows that retroactive application of Coleman "would seriously disrupt the administration of our criminal laws." Johnson v. New Jersey, 384 U.S., at 731. At the very least, the processing of current criminal calendars would be disrupted while hearings were conducted to determine whether the denial of counsel at the preliminary hearing constituted harmless error. Cf. Stovall v. Denno, 388 U.S., at 300. The task of conducting such hearings would be immeasurably complicated by the need to construct a record of what occurred. In Illinois, for example, no court reporter was present at pre-Coleman preliminary hearings and the proceedings are therefore not recorded. See People v. Givans, 83 Ill. App. 2d 423, 228 N.E. 2d 123 (1967). In addition, relief from this constitutional error would require not merely a new trial but also, at least in Illinois, a new preliminary hearing and a new indictment. The impact upon the administration of the criminal law of that requirement needs to elaboration. Therefore, here also, "[t]he unusual force of the countervailing considerations strengthens our [p285] conclusion in favor of prospective application. Stovall v. Denno, supra, at 299.

We do not regard petitioner's case as calling for a contrary conclusion merely because he made a pretrial motion to dismiss the indictment, or because his conviction is before us on direct review. "[T]he factors of reliance and burden on the administration of justice [are] entitled to such overriding significance as to make [those] distinction[s] unsupportable." Stovall v. Denno, supra, at 300-301. Petitioner makes no claim of actual prejudice constituting a denial of due process. Such a claim would entitle him to a hearing without regard to today's holding that Coleman is not to be retroactively applied. See People v. Bernatowicz, 35 Ill. 2d 192, 198, 220 N.E. 2d 745, 748 (1966); People v. Bonner, 37 Ill. 2d 553, 561, 229 N.E. 2d 527, 532 (1967).

Affirmed.

MR. JUSTICE POWELL and MR. JUSTICE REHNQUIST took no part in the consideration or decision of this case.

title: Adams v. Illinois/Opinion of the Court


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OHN WOODFORD in his first moments of returning consciousness was not aware that he was lying in his coffin. He had only a dull knowledge that he lay in utter darkness and that there was a close, heavy quality in the air he breathed. He felt very weak and had only a dim curiosity as to where he was and how he had come there.

He knew that he was not lying in his bedroom at home, for the darkness there was never so complete as this. Home? That memory brought others to John Woodford’s dulled brain and he recalled his wife now, and his son. He remembered too that he had been ill at home, very ill. And that was all that he could remember. 219


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What was this place to which he had been brought? Why was the darkness so complete and the silence so unbroken, and why was there no one near him? He was a sick man, and they should have given him better care than this. He lay with a dull irritation at this treatment growing in his mind.

Then he became aware that breathing was beginning to hurt his lungs, that the air seemed warm and foul. Why did not someone open a window? His irritation grew to such a point that it spurred his muscles into action. He put out his right hand to reach for a bell or a light-button.

His hand moved slowly only a few inches to the side and then was stopped by an unyielding barrier. His fingers feebly examined it. It seemed a solid wall of wood or metal faced with smooth satin. It extended all along his right side, and when he weakly moved his other arm he found a similar wall on that side too.

His irritation gave way to mystification. Why in the world had they put him, a sick man, into this narrow place? Why, his shoulders rubbed against the sides on either side. He would soon know the reason for it, he told himself. He raised up to give utterance to a call that would bring those in attendance on him.

To his utter amazement his head bumped against a similar silk-lined wall directly above his face. He raised his arms in the darkness and discovered with growing astonishment that this wall or ceiling extended above him from head to foot, like those on either side. He lay upon a similar silk-padded surface. Why in the name of all that was holy had they put him into a silk-lined box like this?

Woodford’s brain was puzzling this when a minor irritation made itself felt. His collar was hurting him. It was a high, stiff collar and it was pressing into the flesh of his neck. But this again was mystery—that he should be wearing a stiff collar. Why had they dressed a sick man in formal clothes and put him into this box?

Suddenly John Woodford shrieked, and the echoes of his scream reverberated around his ears like hideous, demoniac laughter. He suddenly knew the answer to it all. He was not a sick man any more at all. He was a dead man! Or at least they had thought him dead and had put him into this coffin and closed it down! He was buried alive!

The fears of his lifetime had come true; his secret, dark forebodings were hideously realized. From earliest childhood he had feared this very horror, for he had known himself subject to cataleptic sleeps hardly to be distinguished from death. He had had nightmares of premature burial. Even after the proneness to the cataleptic condition seemed to have left him, his fears had clung to him.

He had never told his wife or son of his fears, but they had persisted. They had inspired him to exact a promise that he would not be embalmed when buried, and would be interred in his private vault instead of in the earth. He had thought that in case he were not really dead these provisions might save his life, but now he realized that they only laid him open to the horrible fate he had dreaded. He knew with terrible certainty that he lay now in his coffin in the stone vault in the quiet cemetery. His screams could not be heard outside the vault, probably not even outside the coffin. As long as he had lain in cataleptic sleep he had not breathed, but now that he was awake and breathing, the air in the coffin was rapidly being exhausted and he was doomed to perish of suffocation.

John Woodford went temporarily mad. He screamed with fear-choked throat, and


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  very quietly dressed: Mrs. McFiggin was daintily attired in some old clinging stuff with a corsage de Whalebone underneath. The ample board groaned under the bill of fare. The boarders groaned also. Their groaning was very noticeable. The pièce de résistance was a hunko de bœuf boilé, flanked with some old clinging stuff. The entrées were pâté de pumpkin, followed by fromage McFiggin, served under glass. Towards the end of the first course, speeches became the order of the day. Mrs. McFiggin was the first speaker. In commencing, she expressed her surprise that so few of the gentlemen seemed to care for the hunko de bœuf; her own mind, she said, had hesitated between hunko de bœuf boilé and a pair of roast chickens (sensation). She had finally decided in favour of the hunko de bœuf (no sensation). She referred at some length to the late Mr. McFiggin, who had always shown a marked preference for hunko de bœuf. Several other speakers followed. All spoke forcibly and to the point. The last to speak was the Reverend Mr. Whiner. The reverend gentleman, in rising, said that he confided himself and his fellow-boarders to the special interference of Providence. For what they had


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 as he shrieked he clawed with hands and feet at the unyielding satin-covered surfaces around and above him. He beat upward as best he could upon the coffin’s lid with his clenched lists, but the heavy fastenings held firm.

He yelled until his throat was too swollen to give utterance to further sound. He clawed at the top until he broke his nails against the metal behind the silk padding. He raised his head and beat against the top with it until he fell back half-stunned.

He lay exhausted for moments, unable to make further efforts. In his brain marched a hideous pageant of horrors. The air seemed much closer and hotter now, seemed to burn his lungs with each breath he inhaled. With sudden return of his frenzy he shrieked and shrieked again.

This would not do. He was in a horrible situation but he must do the best he could not to give way to the horror. He had not many minutes left and he must use them in the most rational way possible to try to escape his terrible prison.

With this resolution a little calm came to him and he began to test his powers of movement. He clenched his fists again and hammered upward. But this did no good. His arms were jammed so close against his body by the coffin’s narrowness that he could not strike a strong blow, nor had he any leverage to push strongly upward.

What about his feet? Feverishly he tried them, but found his kicks upward even less powerful. He thought of hunching up his knees and thus bursting up the lid, but found that he could not raise his knees high enough, and that when he pressed upward with them against the lid his feet simply slid away on the smooth silk of the coffin’s bottom.

Now the breaths he drew seared his lungs and nostrils and his brain seemed on fire. He knew his strength was waning and that before long he would lose consciousness. He must do whatever he could swiftly. He felt the soft silk about him and the dreadful irony of it came home to him—he had been placed so lovingly in this death-trap!

He tried to turn on his side, for he thought now that he might use his shoulders to heave up against the lid. But turning was not easy in the cramped coffin and had to be accomplished by a myriad little hitching movements, an infinitely slow and painful process.

John Woodford hitched and squirmed desperately until he lay on his left side. He found then that his right shoulder touched the lid above. He braced his left shoulder on the coffin’s bottom and heaved upward with all his strength. There was no result: the lid seemed as immovable as ever.

He heaved again, despair fast filling his heart. He knew that very soon he would give way and shriek and claw. There was already a ringing in his ears. He had not many minutes left. With the utter frenzy of despair he heaved upward again with his shoulder.

This time there was a grating sound of something giving above. The sound was like the wild peal of thousands of bells of hope to John Woodford’s ears. He heaved quickly again and again at the lid. Paying no attention to the bruising of his shoulder, he pressed upward with every ounce of his strength.

There was another grating sound, then a snap of metal fastenings breaking, and as he shoved upward with convulsive effort the heavy metal lid swung up and over and struck the stone wall with a deep clang. A flood of cold air struck him. He struggled up over the coffin’s side,


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 dropped a few feet to a stone floor, and lay in a huddled mass.

It was minutes before he had mastered himself and summoned enough strength to stand up. He stood inside a little vault that held no coffin but his own. Its interior was in darkness save for a. dim shaft of starlight that came through a tiny window high up in one wall.

John Woodford stumbled to the vault’s heavy iron doors and fumbled at their lock. He had an uncontrollable horror of this place that had almost been the scene of his perishing. The coffin there on the shelf with its lid leaning against the stone wall seemed gaping for him with its dark, cavernous mouth.

He worked frantically at the lock. What if he were not able to escape from the vault? But the heavy lock was easily manipulated on the inside, he found. He managed to turn its tumbler and shoot its bar and then the heavy iron doors swung open. John Woodford stepped eagerly out into the night.

He stopped on the vault’s threshold, closing the doors behind him and then looking forth with inexpressible emotions. The cemetery lay in the starlight before him as a dim, ghostly city of looming monuments and vaults. Little sheets of ice glinted here and there in the dim light, and the air was biting in its cold. Outside the cemetery’s low wall blinked the lights of the surrounding city.

Woodford started eagerly across the cemetery, unheeding of the cold. Somewhere across the lights of the city was his home, his wife, and somewhere his son—thinking him dead, mourning him. How glad they would be when he came back to them, alive! His heart expanded as he pictured their amazement and their joy at his return.

He came to the low stone wall of the cemetery and clambered quickly over it. It was apparently well after midnight, for the cars and pedestrians in sight in this suburban section were few.

Woodford hurried along the street. He passed people who looked at him in surprise, and only after some time did he realize the oddness of his appearance. A middle-aged man clad in a formal suit and lacking hat and overcoat was an odd person to meet on a suburban street on a winter midnight.

But he paid small attention to their stares. He did turn up the collar of his frock coat to keep out the cold. But he hardly felt the frigid air in the emotions that filled him. He wanted to get home, to get back to Helen, to witness her stupefaction and dawning joy when she saw him returned from the dead, living.

A street car came clanging along and John Woodford stepped quickly out to board it, but almost as quickly stepped back. He had mechanically thrust his hand into his pocket and found it quite empty. That was to be expected, of course. They didn't put money in a dead man’s clothes. No matter, he would soon be there on foot.

As he reached the section in which his home was located, he glanced in a store-window in passing and saw on a tear-sheet calendar a big black date that made him gasp. It was a date ten days later than the one he last remembered. He had been buried in the vault for more than a week!

More than a week in that coffin! It seemed incredible, terrible. But that did not matter now, he told himself. It would only make the joy of his wife and son the greater when they found he was alive. To Woodford himself it seemed as though he were returning from a journey rather than from the dead.

Returned from the dead! As he hastened


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 One of the Maxims which the Devil, in a late Viit upon Earth, left to his Diciples, is, when once you are got up, to kick the Stool from under you. In plain Englih, when you have made your Fortune by the good Offices of a Friend, you are advied to dicard him as oon as you can.

Whether the Captain acted by this Maxim, I will not poitively determine; o far we may confidently ay, that his Actions may be fairly derived from this diabolical Principle; and indeed it is difficult to aign any other Motive to them: For no ooner was he poeed of Mis Bridget, and reconciled to Allworthy, than he began to hew a Coldnes to his Brother, which encreaed daily; till at length it grew into Rudenes, and became very viible to every one.

The Doctor remontrated to him privately concerning this Behaviour, but could obtain no other Satisfaction than the following plain Declaration: ‘If you dilike anything in my Brother’s Houe, Sir, you know you are at Liberty to quit it.’ This trange, cruel, and almot unaccountable Ingratitude in the Captain, abolutely broke the poor Doctor’s Heart: For Ingratitude