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more permanently than others, it is because the brain, for some unknown reason, answers longer and more readily to the stimulus which awakens them. We retain the sensations aroused by an exciting scene with great freshness, and recall it with great vividness; but gradually the newer sensations, aroused by later influences, occupy the brain. Gradually our ability to experience them passes away, and no stimulus can recall them. The poignant grief of youth cannot be reawakened in age by any mnemonic stimulus. The time arrives when all ability to recall the event which caused it disappears. When we reflect upon the myriad brain sensations, the thoughts and emotions of our past lives, of which so few now remain or can be recalled, and what a vast number have passed away, utterly beyond the power of repetition, we can understand that these thoughts and emotions are states of our nervous structures, which disappear when their causes are removed, which reappear when those causes are repeated, -if our structure remains identical, if we have not too much changed, and which cannot be reiterated when our substance has so far differentiated that the same incident force cannot produce the same result as at first.

The incident force which initiates all these changes of thought, as well as the vast ramifications of all the physical and psychical phenomena of nature, is fixed in immutable law. As no change in the physical status of nature takes place without a cause, so no

change in the mind of man occurs without a cause. We may not detect it; but it exists. The action of the human brain is no exception to the laws which govern matter. If it thinks, it is because something made it think. It answers to some direct stimulus, and the answer is thought.

It may be said that chance exists in the reference of one event to another., The falling of the brick had no connection with the child's broken arm; it was therefore a chance occurrence in that relationship of events. But this is merely our finite ignorance. If I had perceptions and power to grasp all the ramifications of all the forces of nature, I should have traced out the coincident fall of the brick with my unusual walk as readily as I trace the passing of the earth between the sun and the moon on such a year, hour, minute, second. The only difference is that in the first case the workings of those laws are far beyond the measure of my faculties. The great motive-powers of the universe all move in obedience to eternal law, out of the action of which has arisen the present status of that universe. There is no exception. If there seem to be, it is because of human ignorance and weakness. The deeper we examine into these laws, the more wonderfully comprehensive they appear, holding the great host of suns in their orbits, and inciting the human brain to a thought of love. The idea of chance vanishes from us in the contemplation of their vast complexity and invariable action.

N the

THE FACE IN THE GLASS.

CHAPTER I.

IN year of our Lord 1845, I, Wil

liam Ayres, formerly Surgeon of theth Regiment H. E. I. C. S., resigned my commission; packed up my worldly possessions, which are few; bade farewell to my friends, who are numerous; and sailed in the steamer Vivid, Belknap commander, for London. The cause of my departure was threefold: firstly, I was too old for the service; secondly, I was weary of it; thirdly, it was, as I had good reason to suppose, weary of me. And I had seen enough of life to enable me to appreciate the advantages to be derived from a graceful withdrawal from office, while still capable of doing some good and inspiring some regret; I had a very strong dislike and dread of lingering until younger and better men were impatient to step into my shoes, and even my best friends were led to wish that I could realize my advancing infirmities.

Such, briefly stated, were the reasons for my resignation. I landed in England in the summer of 1845, and in the following autumn took up my abode at No. 9 Lansdowne Crescent, Cheltenham, in company with my old friend and comrade, Major Buckstone, also of the th, who is, like myself, verging upon seventy, gray-haired, and a bachelor.

We live very comfortably together; so comfortably that we are no more inclined than was that most genial of bachelors, Charles Lamb, to go out upon the mountains and bewail our celibacy. I have not taken up my pen to-day, however (and for the convenience of the reader I will inform him that I am writing on the fourth day of August, 1846), -I have not taken up my pen to-day, I repeat, for the purpose of dwelling upon the history or habits of two quiet old men, neither of whom can make any pretensions to a claim upon public in

terest. But I was reminded, not long since, of a singular event in my life, which I have often thought of committing to paper, when I had the leisure and the disposition to do so; and just now I have both.

I was strolling leisurely about town the other day, enjoying my cigar and the shop windows, when I was attracted by a water-color drawing of the quaint old town and Abbey of Tewkesbury. How familiar to me were those gray walls; the tall tower, on the very top of which the wall-flowers wave, just as those others did, upon which, as a boy, I often cast a longing eye; those low, moss-grown headstones, slanting in all possible and impossible directions; and, beyond, the sunny meadows. A fair, peaceful spot, but one which I will never willingly visit again, easy of access and pleasant as it is.

Writing on this quiet summer morning, with the sun shining through the open windows, and, distinctly audible, the shrill chattering of old Lady Scrampton's parrot two doors off, and the scarcely less shrill voices of two dowagers who have stopped their Bath chairs beneath my window, and are arguing volubly, - even now a strange terror possesses me as I recall what I once saw and heard in Tewkesbury more than forty years ago. Those scenes have been long absent from my memory. I have striven to forget them altogether, but in vain; and I will no longer hesitate about giving them to the world.

Early on the morning of the 4th of December, 1799, I arrived at Tewkesbury in a violent snow-storm, and put up at the Angel, intending to remain there through the day, and go on to Gloucester by the night mail. From Gloucester I intended to go to Laceham on a visit to a married sister who lived there, and from Laceham to London, where I had already begun life as a surgeon. I had business to transact which took me

to a certain village near Tewkesbury, and it was late in the day when I began my walk back. As I made my way through the deep snow, however, I came to the conclusion that it would be impassable for a coach and four; and I was confirmed in my opinion by the landlord of the Angel, who was evidently much relieved by my arrival, and who at once declared that there was small prospect of my getting away from the Angel for two days at least.

"I never saw such a storm in my life, sir," he concluded. "The snow is near two feet deep already, and falling fast."

After spending two hours in pacing the bar-room, looking at my watch, comparing it with the inn clock, and then running to the door to see if there were any signs of the coach, by which means I increased my impatience tenfold, I decided to make the best of my situation, and retired to a private room, called for some gin and hot water, put my feet into slippers, and settled myself comfortably for the evening. I was the more disposed to be contented, as the storm had increased in violence, the snow was deepening fast, and it was so bitterly cold and dreary without as to enhance my sense of the warmth and comfort within.

The room in which I was seated was a small parlor on the ground-floor of the Angel, with casement windows, a tolerably large fireplace in which a generous fire was blazing, a dining-table, a large easychair, and last, though not least, an ample screen, so placed as to exclude the draughts of air which swept under the door. I was comfortable enough, with one exception. I had neglected to put a book in my portmanteau, and an examination of the stores of the Angel resulted in the discovery of a torn copy of "The Mysteries of Udolpho," which I had read several times, and a soiled file of country newspapers, none less than a year old. I looked them over carelessly, as they lay on the table, and was pushing them away in disgust, when it occurred to me that they might at least serve to keep me awake, and I accordingly seNO. 131.

VOL. XXII.

21

lected one and began to read. But the comfortable fire, the good dinner, and the gin I had taken were too much for me, and in five minutes I was asleep. I woke up in about half an hour with a sudden start, and, highly disgusted with myself for my weakness, fixed my eyes on the paper, determined to read steadily for an hour. But my mind wandered, and my eyelids drooped in spite of my efforts. I did indeed keep my eyes open, but they fixed themselves vaguely on the paper, and for five minutes I had been staring at the same column, when a paragraph caught my eye, and I was suddenly roused to a full consciousness of what I had been reading. It was headed "Shocking Occurrence," and ran as follows: "The distinguished member for Cumberland, the Right Honorable Harrington Carteret Huntingdon of Huntingdon Hall and Averndean Manor, Cumberland, was found murdered at the latter residence on the 24th of September last. It will doubtless be recollected that for the past two weeks public curiosity has been much excited relative to the disappearance of the unfortunate gentleman, and it may be a melancholy satisfaction to his numerous friends and admirers to be informed of the few particulars connected with his disastrous fate. On Friday, the 8th of September, Mr. Huntingdon left home on horseback, to attend a public meeting at Cleveham, ten miles away. He declined the attendance of his groom, saying that he should probably not be at home until late, and that he preferred to ride alone. He arrived at Cleveham at eight o'clock, took the chair of the meeting, and, after having discharged the business of the evening with his accustomed clearness and despatch, delivered a brief but forcible address, and left early, alleging, as an excuse for his abrupt departure, the fact that he had business at home, and wished to return as early as possible. That home he never again entered. His horse was found the next morning wandering on Maxon Moor, on the other side of the county; and no one, it seems, had seen Mr. Huntingdon after

he quitted Cleveham on the previous night. The animal, though spirited and powerful, was completely under the control of his distinguished master, who possessed in a remarkable degree the rare and enviable suaviter in modo, fortiter in re. Any supposition, therefore, that Mr. Huntingdon was killed by a fall from his horse was groundless; and although a search was at once instituted, and conducted by Messrs. Smith and Belrow, of London, with their usual skill and perseverance, nothing whatever was discovered, and his untimely fate might ever have remained a mystery, had it not been discovered by an accident. A laborer employed on the Clareville estate, which joins Averndean Manor, had occasion to pass through Averndean, and, on passing the manor-house, noticed, to his surprise, that the hall door was open, and had evidently been open for some time, as a quantity of dried leaves had drifted in, and were strewed over the hall. He was the more surprised as he recollected the fact that the manor-house had been closed for many years, having never been occupied during the lifetime of the present possessor or his father. The man, influenced by the curiosity peculiar to his class, proceeded to examine the house. At the end of one of the four corridors which lead from the great hall of Averndean to different parts of the house, he perceived an open door. As he approached nearer, he saw Mr. Huntingdon seated at a table, and apparently engaged in writing. His horror may be imagined when the lamented gentleman was found to be a corpse. The table was strewed with writing-materials, and the unfortunate gentleman had been engaged in writing a notice of the death of his wife, who expired, it seems, on the 20th of August, at Hyères, in France. In all probability the assassin approached from behind, and struck Mr. Huntingdon while absorbed in writing. The wound was in the jugular vein, and the weapon with which it was inflicted a small Italian stiletto-was found in the corridor, having evidently

been thrown away by the assassin in his flight. The house was searched, but no further trace of the murderer was discovered, nor did there seem to have been any attempt to rifle the body, which, though much decomposed, was found evidently in the attitude which Mr. Huntingdon had assumed before he was struck, and one which was very common with him. His right hand still held the pen, and rested on the table; the left was thrust into his breast. Everything seems to indicate the fact that the murderer fled the moment the horrible deed was committed, probably alarmed by some sound. A purse containing forty sovereigns was found in the pocket of Mr. Huntingdon's coat; and his signet-ring, a large and valuable emerald, with the Huntingdon coat of arms deeply engraven upon it, on the little finger of his right hand. His overcoat, hat, and whip were thrown on a chair, near the door, together with the report of a benevolent society in which he was interested, and which Mr. Barton of Cleveham recollects having handed him on the evening he was last seen. Mr. Huntingdon appears to have used this room - the only one at Averndean which bears any traces of habitationas a place where he could write, undisturbed by the interruptions to which he was liable at Huntingdon. The table was littered with the proof-sheets of a political pamphlet, written with his accustomed ability. The deepest interest has been felt in his unhappy end, and immense rewards are offered for the discovery of the murderer. The funeral is to take place on Monday next, and a large concourse of the nobility and gentry of the county will probably be present. Mr. Huntingdon was particularly distinguished for his interest in benevolent pursuits, and for the remarkable, we had almost said magical, influence which he obtained over individuals as well as masses. Death has put an untimely end to his illustrious, useful, and honorable career. His late wife was the only child of the Right Honorable Charles Huntingdon Carteret, of Carteret Castle, and Branthope

Grange, Cumberland, and of the Countess Alixe La Baume de Lascours. She was her husband's first-cousin, and by her death he became her heir. As the unfortunate couple have left no children, the vast estates of Huntingdon and Carteret, in default of heirs, pass to the Crown."

By the time I had finished this extract I was thoroughly awake. I sat leaning over the soiled, crumpled paper, and mentally living over the horrible tragedy which it depicted in such set and stilted phrases. I thought of the murdered man waiting in his dreary, empty house, waiting through long days and nights,until some one came to give rest to his dishonored dust and avenge his death. I pictured to myself the assassin creeping stealthily down the dark corridor, and nearer and nearer the unconscious victim, whom a glance, a breath, a footfall, might have saved. I was dwelling upon all this with an intensity which was far from soothing to my nerves, when a light tap on the window behind me brought me to my feet with a bound. I went to the window, lifted the curtain, and looked out, but saw nothing but the snow already piled on the outer sill, and the fast-falling flakes driven against it by the violence of the wind. I dropped the curtain, and after walking round the room on a tour of inspection, of which I was somewhat ashamed, came to the conclusion that my nerves had played me a trick, and, taking my post before the fire, resolutely turned my thoughts in a different channel. Some fifteen minutes elapsed, during which time I had (mentally) arrived in London, become a distinguished practitioner, and was just about setting up a genteel brougham, with a man in livery, when the silence of the house was suddenly broken. Steps stamped along the narrow passage which led to my room. There was a confusion of voices, a rush, a sharp, terrified cry; then the slamming of a door, and silence once more. Soon after, the landlord presented himself at my door, candle in hand.

"I beg pardon for disturbing you,

Doctor, I'm sure," he began in rather a tremulous tone; "but there's a poor cretur in the kitchen, - Lord knows where she's come from, but she seems quite wild like, and being as how she's unwilling to let the women come anigh her, perhaps you would see what you can do.”

I went forthwith to the kitchen. A group of servants were huddled near the door, and in the farthest corner of the room, crouched down with her back to the wall, and her pale face and terrified dark eyes turned with a mixture of fear and menace towards them, was a tall and powerfully formed woman. Her profuse dark hair, already streaked with gray, clung wet and dishevelled about her shoulders. Her features-finely moulded and beautiful they must have been once were sharpened by an agony of fear which I have never seen before or since in any human creature. I did not wonder that the landlady, half compassionate and half frightened, stood near the door, dreading the menace which such supreme terror invariably conveys, and that the maids and men were equally afraid to approach.

As I advanced, followed by the landlord, she rose slowly from her crouching attitude and surveyed me. I paused within a few steps of her, that she might see that I had no evil intentions regarding her, and spoke.

"Do not be frightened," said I, gently, "we mean you no harm; but you must not crouch in the corner there: come out and let the landlady make you comfortable. You are cold and wet, and must be hungry too, I'm sure."

She still gazed at me without speaking, or relaxing in the least her look of

terror.

"Come," said I, gently, approaching still nearer, and extending my hand,"come, let me take you to the fire."

She made no reply; and, as I again paused, I had a full opportunity to observe her. She was, as I have said, remarkably tall, large, and, as I now saw, symmetrically formed. Her feet were bare and bleeding, but so delicate

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