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opinion. The secrecy so unnecessary -the mystery as to her family, even as to her name-all so needless. That interval of seclusion, in which, probably, he had not yet resolved finally on the course he should adopt. And lastly, a point more peculiarly referring to ourselves, and over which I have often pondered: I mean the selection of my daughter, Polly, to be her friend and companion. It is not at my time of life,” added Fagan, with an almost fierce energy of voice, “that I have to learn how the aristocracy regard me and such as me. No one needs to tell me that any intercourse between us must depend on something else than similarity of taste and pursuit; that if we ever sit down to the same table together, it is on the ground of a compromise. There is a shame to be concealed or consoled, or there is a debt to be deferred, or left unclaimed for ever. Walter Carew's wife would scarcely have sought out the Grinder's daughter for her friend and bosom companion. His mistress might have thought such an alliance most suitable. Polly has herself told me the terms of perfect equality on which they lived; that never by a chance word, look, or gesture, was there aught which could imply a position of superiority above her own. They called each other by their Christian names, they assumed all the inti macy of sisters, and that almost at once. When she related these things to me," cried Fagan, sternly, "my passion nearly overcame me, to think how we had been outraged and insulted; but I remembered, suddenly, that there were others, far higher than us, exposed to the same indignity. The Castle was crowded by the rank, the wealth, and the influence of the whole country; and if there be a disgrace to be endured, we have, at least, partners in our shame."

"Yes, yes," said Crowther, nodding his head slowly in assent; "the whole assumes a strange and most remarkable consistency. I remember well, hearing how many of those invited on that occasion had sent letters of apology; and stranger again, the way in which the party broke up and separated has been made public enough in the newspapers. Rutledge's own words were It was a rout, not a retreat.' That was a curious expression."

Who has not, at some time or other

of his life, experienced the force of that casuistry which is begotten of suspicion? Who has not felt how completely reason is mastered by the subtle assaults of a wily ingenuity, which, whilst combining the false and the true, the possible and impossible together, makes out a mock array of evidence almost too strong for a doubt? The least creative of minds are endowed with this faculty, and even the most commonplace and matter-of-fact temperaments are sometimes the slaves of this delusion! To render its influence allpowerful, however, it should be exercised by two, who, in the interchange of suspicions, and by bartering their inferences, arrive at a degree of certainty in their conclusions, rarely accorded to the most convincing testimony. As a river is swollen by the aid of every tiny rill that trickles down the mountain side, so does the current of conviction receive as tributary, incidents the most trivial, and events of the slightest meaning.

Fagan's spirit revolted at what he felt to be a gross insult passed upon his daughter, but this very indignation served to rivet more firmly his suspicions, for he reasoned thus:-Men are ever ready to credit what they desire to be credible, and to disbelieve that which it is unpleasant to accept as true. Now, here have I every temptation to incredulity! If this be the fact, as my suspicions indicate, I have been deeply outraged. An affront has been offered to me, which dared not have been put upon one of higher rank and better blood. It is, therefore, my interest and my wish to suppose this impossible, and yet I cannot do

So.

Not all the self-respect I can call to aid, not all the desire to shelter myself behind a doubt, will suffice. My reason accepts what my feelings would reject, and I believe what it is a humiliation for me to credit.

Such was, in brief, the substance of a long mental struggle and self-examination on Fagan's part-a process to which he addressed himself with all the shrewdness of his nature. It was

a matter of deep moment to him in every way. He ardently desired that he should arrive at a right judgment upon it, and yet with all his penetration and keen-sightedness, he never perceived that another agency was at work all the while, whose tendencies were exactly in the opposite direction.

For

To believe Walter Carew still unmarried, was to revive his long extinct hope of calling him his son-in-law, and to bring back once more that gorgeous dream of Polly's elevation to rank and position, which had filled his mind for many a year. His whole heart had been set upon this object. In pursuit of it, he had made the most immense advances of money to my father, many of them on inferior security. some he had the mere acknowledgment contained in a few lines of a common letter. The measures of severity which he had once menaced, were undertaken in the very paroxysm of his first disappointment, and were as speedily relinquished when calm reflection showed him that they could avail nothing against the past. Besides this, he felt that there was still an object, to the attainment of which my father's aid might contribute much, and towards which he hoped to urge him— the emancipation of the Catholics. It had been long Fagan's cherished idea, that the leadership of that party should be given to one who united to reasonable good abilities the advantages of birth, large fortune, and, above all, personal courage.

"We have orators and writers in abundance," would he say. "There are plenty who can make speeches, and even songs for us; but we want a few men, who, with a large stake in the country, and high position in society, are willing and ready to peril both, and themselves into the bargain, in the assertion of our cause. If we ever chance to find these, our success is certain. The worst thing about our cause," added he, "is not its disloyalty, for that admits of discussion and denial; but the real plague-spot is its vulgarity. Our enemies have been cunning enough to cast over the great struggle of a nation, all the petty and miserable characteristics of a faction, and not of mere faction, but of one agitated by the lowest motives, and led on by the meanest advocates. A gentleman or two, to take service with us, will at once repulse this tactie; and until we can hit upon these, we shall make no progress."

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I have been obliged to dwell even to tediousness on these traits of the Grinder; for if they be not borne in mind, his actions and motives will seem destitute of any satisfactory explanation. And I now return to the

chamber where he sat with Crowther, as they compared impressions together, and bartered suspicions about my father's marriage.

"Now that I begin to consider the matter in this light," said Crowther, "it is curious what an explanation it affords to many things that used to puzzle me formerly. All that coldness and reserve towards Carew that his neighbours showed the way his former acquaintances fell off from him, one by one-and, lastly, those strange hints about him in the newspapers. I suppose we should see the meaning of every one of them now easily enough ?"

Fagan made no reply; his mind was travelling along over the road it had entered upon, and would not be turned away by any call whatsoever.

"Yes," muttered he to himself, "the little cottage at Fallrach, in the Killeries-that's the place! and the only thing now is to get him down there. I must go up and see how he gets on, Crowther. I'm half afraid that he ought to see a surgeon." And so saying, he arose and left the room.

My father was still sleeping as he entered, but less tranquilly than before, with a feverish flush upon his face, and his lips dry and dark-coloured.

With a noiseless hand, Fagan drew back the curtain; and, seating himself close to the bed, bent down to

gaze on him. The uneasy motions of the sleeper denoted pain; and more than once his hand was pressed against his side, as if it was the seat of some suffering. Fagan watched every gesture eagerly, and tried, but in vain, to collect some meaning from the low and broken utterance. Rapidly speaking at intervals, and at times moaning painfully, he appeared to labour

either under some mental or bodily agony, in a paroxysm of which, at last, he burst open his vest, and clutched his embroidered shirt-frill, with a violence that tore it in frag

ments.

As he did so, Fagan caught sight of a handkerchief, stained with blood, which, with cautious gesture, he slowly removed, and, walking to the window, examined it carefully. This done, he folded it up; and, enveloping it in his own, placed it in his pocket. Once more he took his place at the bed-side, and seemed to listen with intense anxiety for every sound of the sleeper's

lips. The fever appeared to gain ground, for the flush now covered the face and forehead, and the limbs were twitched with short convulsive motions.

At last, as the paroxysm had reached its height, he bounded up from the bed, and awoke.

84

Where am I?" cried he, wildly. "Who are all these? What do they allege against me?"

"Lie down; compose yourself, Mr. Carew. You are amongst friends, who wish you well, and will treat you kindly," said Fagan, mildly.

"But it was not of my seeking-no one can dare to say so. Fagan will be my back to any amount-ten thousand, if they ask it."

"That will I-to the last penny I possess."

"There, I told you so.

I often said I knew the Grinder better than any of you. You laughed at me for it; but I was right, for all that."

"I trust you were right, sir," said Fagan, calmly.

"What I said was this," continued he, eagerly: "the father of such a girl as Polly must be a gentleman at heart. He may trip and stumble, in his imitations of your modish paces; but the soul of a gentleman must be in him. Was I right there, or not?"

"Pray, calm yourself; lie down, and take your rest," said Fagan, gently pushing him back upon the pillow."

"You are quite right," said he ; "there is nothing for it now but submission. MacNaghten, Harvey, Burton-all who have known me from boyhood-can testify if I were one to do a dishonourable action. I tell you again and again, I will explain nothing; life is not worth such a price -such ignominy is too great!"

He paused, as if the thought was too painful to pursue; and then, fixing his eyes on Fagan, he laughed aloud, and added

"Eh, Fagan! that would be like one of your own contracts-a hundred per cent. !"

"I have not treated you in this wise, Mr. Carew," said he, calmly.

"No, my boy! that you have not. To the last hour of my life-no great stretch of time, perhaps-I'll say the same. You have been a generous fellow with me the devil and yourself may, perhaps, know why. I do not—

nay, more, Fagan-I never cared to know. Perhaps you thought I'd marry Polly. By George! I might have done worse; and who knows what may be yet on the cards. Ay, just

so the cards the cards !"

He did not speak again for several minutes; but when he did, his voice assumed a tone of greater distinctness and accuracy, as if he would not that a single word were lost.

"I knew your scheme about the Papists, Tony. I guessed what you were at then. I was to have emancipated you!"

A wild laugh broke from him, and

he went on

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Just fancy the old trumpeter's face, that hangs up in the dinner-room at Castle Carew! Imagine the look he would bestow on his descendant as I sat down to table. Faith, Old Noll himself would have jumped out of the canvas at the tidings. If you cannot strain your fancy that far, Tony, think what your own father would have said were his degenerate son to be satisfied with lawful interest!-imagine him sorrowing over the lost precepts of his house!"

"There; I'll close the curtains, and leave you to take a sleep," said Fagan.

"But I have no time for this, man,' cried the other, again starting up; "I must be up and away. You must find some place of concealment for me till I can reach the Continent. Understand me well, Fagan. I cannot, I will not make a defence; as little am I disposed to die like a felon! There's the whole of it! Happily, if the worst should come, Tony, the disgrace dies with me: that's something-eh?"

"You will make yourself far worse by giving way to this excitement, Mr. Carew; you must try and compose yourself."

"So I will, Fagan. I'll be as obedient as you wish. Only tell me that you will watch for my safety-assure me of that, and I'm content."

As though the very words he had just uttered had brought a soothing influence to his mind, he had scarcely finished speaking, when he fell off into a deep sleep, unbroken by even a dream. Fagan stood long enough at the bedside to assure himself that all was quiet, and then left the room, locking the door as he passed out, and taking the key with him.

A TRIO OF NOVELS.

ESMOND, REUBEN MEDLICOT, AND BASIL.

As well as we can recollect, it is the poet Gray who gives utterance to the wish, that he could pass his existence in eternally reading new romances, by Marivaux and Crebillon. If, at the conclusion of that important part of a critic's duty, which necessarily precedes the enunciation of his opinion, we did not express a similar sentiment, it was from no want of appreciation of the excellencies of those works we are now about to discuss, but because other business, although perchance of a nature far less agreeable, must unfortunately be performed.

Without, therefore, going so far as the French savant, who thought more could be learned from a good novel than from the greatest treatise on history or philosophy, we must confess, there are few works which we more frequently turn to for instruction and profit, than productions in this species of composition, by men who have proved themselves fitted for the task. Seated in our easy chair, we can avail ourselves, at small expense of mental exertion, of the results of a knowledge of men and books, which it may have taken the writer half a lifetime of close observation, patient industry, and continuous toil, to accumulate; as a record of past manners and opinions, such writings afford more minute and abundant information than any other. Where, for example, could we discover in any records of the same period so graphic and circumstantial an account of the general state of society during the reign of the second George, as can be gathered from the adventures of Joseph Andrews and his friend Parson Adams. But not so much, perhaps, to its connexion with the general happiness of society, as to its relation to the happiness of mankind as individuals, is the popularity of this species of literature to be ascribed. What amusement can occupy so delightfully the vacant moments of life,

even with those whose business is pleasure. The taste for literature is one of those which increases by indulgence. Its objects become more numerous the greater the cultivation of the habit. It is more independent of the will of our fellows than any other species of enjoyment. The man whose mind is to him a kingdom, can people it with the very creatures of thought, ad infinitum. The indulgence of a literary taste is naturally attended with a perception of increasing power. It is followed by the delightful conviction of gaining a higher claim upon the love and admiration of mankind, and of acquiring a greater command over those feelings and passions which render men odious to their fellows. It amalgamates with the best feelings in every condition of life; it engages and employs the thoughts of the wretched, tempers the character in prosperity; and has so long been felt, so often described, with all the powers of language and genius, that it may be regarded as one of the laws to which universal assent is attached. "If the riches of both the Indies," said Fenelon, "if the crowns of all the kingdoms of Europe were laid at my feet, in exchange for my love of literature, I would renounce them all." Considerations such as these must force themselves upon the mind which comes to the consideration of such a subject as is now before us.

Public expectation, which had for so long a period been kept alive by the promise of a continuous tale from the pen of the author of " Vanity Fair," is now satisfied, by the appearance of a work in every way as unlike what was looked for as can well be imagined, professing to be the autobiography of a gentleman living under the reign of Queen Anne, written in the quaint phraseology of those times, and printed in type after the fashion of the "Willoughby Papers." The book* has taken

"Esmond: a Story of Queen Anne's Reign." By W. M. Thackeray, Author of "Vanity Fair," "Pendenni,s" &c. 3 vols. London: Smith, Elder, and Co.

the public completely by surprise, and, notwithstanding the obvious danger and difficulty of the undertaking, has achieved what we may, without using the language of exaggeration, denominate a complete success. Nor, when we came to look critically into it, were we at all surprised. Carefully written, elaborately finished, and containing a story, carried on with a continuous interest, which excites the reader's curiosity nearly to the end, "Esmond" is, beyond all question, if we regard it merely as a work of art, of a higher order of composition than any of Mr. Thackeray's previous performances. The period, as well as the characters -it is a matter of notoriety-have been suggested by his lectures on the humorists of the last century. Having thoroughly mastered the history and literature of those days, if any man could come well prepared to his work, it was the present writer. The great danger of overlaying the course of the narrative with too many events, or of crowding together on the canvas too great a variety of characters, has been dexterously avoided; and of the historical events which came in his way, Mr. Thackeray has availed himself more to bring out in a strong relief the character of the individuals who take part in the incidents of his story, than with any design of critically scanning that portion of our domestic history in which the scene is laid. His novel, therefore, althought it must necessarily be placed in the category of historical fiction, is something still better. The mere suggestions of authentic history can scarcely be expected to convey adequate notions of the state and condition of those who live in its troubled periods; but the history of an individual life, as it is operated upon by historical events, with which accident has brought it more or less in contact, must always be a study full of the deepest interest. The main incidents of which history takes cognisance can never have a direct influence on the great body of the people. Men marry and are given in marriage; frequent their places of business, or of pleasure; go to the forum or the theatre, the stock exchange or the ball; are ab. sorbed in schemes of personal distinction or worldly advancement, in periods of revolution or public discord, just as much as in the piping times of peace. The great current of life flows on

steadily in its accustomed channel, but slightly affected by the storms that sweep above it; and while long tracts of time will always seem to the student of the past to be darkened by the clouds of oppression, the greater part of the men who have lived in those ages will be found to have enjoyed an average share of human happiness. Few men are historical characters; no man is always performing a public part. The actual happiness of every life depends far more on things that regard it exclusively, than on those political occurrences which are the common concern of society. But, notwithstanding this, there is nothing which lends such an air, both of reality and importance to fictitious narrative, as what serves to connect its heroes with events in real history. Although it is the imaginary individual himself who excites our chief interest throughout, yet that interest owes in a great degree its depth, reality, and importance, to the great political incidents with which his fortunes are associated. Public events are only important as they concern individuals; if one be selected who comes in direct contact with them, and their operation on him be accurately described, we are enabled, in following out his adventures, to form a just estimate of their true character and value. But we must not suffer ourselves to enlarge further upon the merits of this species of composition. Of "Esmond" it is not too much to say, that the author has made the most of his materials, without suffering himself to fall into any of the dangers which beset so adventurous a path.

It will be beside our purpose to enter into the plot of the story farther than is sufficient to illustrate and explain such observations as have suggested themselves. The opening is a little dull, in consequence of the intricacy of the pedigree and connexions of the Castlewood family. Colonel Henry Esmond, the hero of the tale, is supposed to be the illegitimate son of Thomas Esmond, afterwards third Viscount Castlewood, a profligate soldier, who has repaired his fortunes by marriage with a Roman Catholic lady, whose reputation had suffered not a little from the attentions paid to her by James II., in her younger days. Soon after his marriage, becoming wearied of a court-life, he retires to his paternal domain of Castlewood, and sends for

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