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the flattering hope that his opponent would be speedily and most effectually disposed of.

After his arrival in England, Annesley unfortunately occasioned the death of a man by the accidental discharge of a fowling-piece which he was in the act of carrying. Though there could not exist a doubt of his innocence from all intention of such a deed, the circumstance offered too good a chance to be lost sight of by his uncle, who employed an attorney named Gifford; and with his assistance used every effort at the coroner's inquest, and the subsequent trial, to bring about a verdict of murder. In this, however, he did not succeed, although he practised all the unfair means that could be invented to procure the removal of the prisoner to Newgate from the healthy jail to which he had been at first committed;' and though the earl even appeared in person on the bench, endeavouring to intimidate and browbeat the witnesses, and to inveigle the prisoner into destructive confessions,' Annesley was honourably acquitted, after his uncle had expended nearly one thousand pounds on the prosecution.

The trial between James Annesley, Esq. and Richard Earl of Anglesey, before the Right Honourable the Lord Chief-Justice and the other barons of the Exchequer, commenced on the 11th November 1743, and was continued for thirteen days. The defendant's counsel examined an immense number of witnesses, in an attempt to prove that Annesley was the illegitimate son of the late Baron Altham. The jury found for the plaintiff; but this did not prove sufficient to recover his title and estates: for his uncle 'had recourse to every device the law allowed, and his powerful interest procured a writ of error which set aside the verdict. Before another trial could be brought about, Annesley died without male issue, and Lord Anglesey consequently remained in undisturbed possession.

It is presumed, that the points of resemblance between the leading incidents in the life of this unfortunate young nobleman and the adventures of Henry Bertram in Guy Mannering are so evident, as to require neither comment nor enumeration to make them apparent to the most cursory reader of the novel. The addition of a very few other circumstances will, it is believed, amount to a proof of the identity of the two stories.

The names of many of the witnesses examined at the trial have been appropriated-generally with some slight alteration-to characters in the novel. Among others, one of them is named Henry Brown, while Henry Bertram, alias Vanbeest Brown, is the hero of the story. An Irish priest was examined, named Abel Butler, while we find ABEL Samson in 'Guy Mannering' and Reuben BUTLER in the Heart of Mid-Lothian'-all three corresponding in profession as in name. Gifford and Glossin, although somewhat alike in patronymic, resemble each other still more in character and the abuse of their common profession. Gifford had an associate in iniquity named Jans,' while Jans Janson' is the alias assumed by Glossin's accomplice, Dirk Hatterick. Again, we find Arthur Lord Altham and Mr MacMullan in the history, and Arthur Melville, Esquire, and Mr MacMorlan in the fiction. Kennedy and Barnes appear unaltered in each. A remarkable expression used by one of the witnesses in reference to Annesley-' He is the right heir if right might take place-has probably served as a hint for the motto of the Bertram family,' Our right makes our might.?"

DIARIES.

existed. But, in another class of characters, where
the less noble tendencies of our nature are powerfully
implanted, it is likely that the self-confession of a
diary did not do much to produce reformation. There
is an example of the diary of such a person, which was
printed and published in 1776, and which shows in a
striking manner how the fault might be again and again
confessed, and yet the evil still continue. The author
was Dr Rutty, an eminent physician in Dublin, and
the writer of some books of good reputation on medi-
cal subjects. He appears to have been a thoroughly
religious man (of the Society of Friends), but liable to
two vices of character, which his best impressions and
wishes failed to keep in check. These were-an irri-
table temper, and a liking for the pleasures of the
table. His Diary, which consists of two thick volumes,
fully and candidly chronicles his failings on these
points during a long course of years, and affords at
once an affecting view of the infirmity of human
resolutions, and a most singular exposé of the interior
of a mind whose outside would probably pass with the
world as very estimable. In the extracts which follow,
and which are taken from the period between 1753
and 1757 inclusive, each sentence or paragraph is the
entry of a day.

"Two sudden transports of passion.
Feasted with moderation.
Mechanically morose.
Perverse without cause.
Indulgence in bed an hour too long.
Twice unbridled choler.

Brittle on a slight provocation.
Tolerable patience under bad usage.

A transport of anger, in which I struck my servant.
Weak and fretful. Licked spittle in two places;
insolent in two others.*

Very perverse on fasting.

A little impatient of contradiction.

Feasted a little beyond the holy bounds, and was most righteously chastised by a subsequent sickness and diarrhoea.

The [tobacco] pipe enslaves.

A compotation, scarce within the holy bounds; as,
indeed, unless one most resolutely seclude himself, it
is not easy to keep within them strictly.
Feasting pretty well limited.

Morose: an ebbing time with regard to fees.
Snappish.

On fasting, much discomposed, through some cross
events, concluded with feasting scarce innocent.
Very morose. Feasting tolerable.
Very brittle on a very small occasion.
Brittle again.

Patience exercised in the detention of fees. }
Scolding too vehement.",

A poor, dull, sickly day; indigestion and choler.
A hypochondriac obnubilation, from wind and in-
digestion.

Cross on my servant's deafness. Anger rose too high
for want of bridling early.
Ate too much to-day. To eat and drink to live is
the point.

Feasted, not innocently, in not refusing the bumper;
however, retired soon.

A little ruffled on provocation, though but little eruption in words.

Ate too much; was too cross.

I feasted pretty moderately; but, with this notable difference in solitary and social eating, that in the last I ate more like a swine.

A sudden eruption of ferocity.

Frappish, unrighteously, twice this morning.
On a little neglect and injustice, fretted too much,
for want of bridling the first emotions.

Fawning to superiors, insulting to inferiors.
A black evening; a fit of downright anger on a
supposed injury, and, for want of timely resisting, it
proceeded.

Vexed sorely and inordinately by a call on a hot day.
Doggedness sticks.

A sudden recoil, I doubt more than nervous, on a sudden attack from a pauper. Still snappish.

Choler with cause in the morning, and without cause in the evening.

Horribly dogged and choleric.

Feasted to the utmost bounds.
Sinfully choleric on a slight provocation, for which
I am to ask forgiveness to-morrow.

Choler in the morning with little cause, in the afternoon with apparent cause, but amplified by mistake. Much incensed on a small occasion.

Cross in the morning from fasting, not only mecha-
nically from bile, but immorally.
A little of the beast in drinking.
Feasted a little piggishly.

Anger to a too great degree.

Choler, merely on an unseasonable call from a poor man.

Mechanically dull, listless, and cross.
Dinner-bread, water, and saffron-cakes.
Mechanically, shamefully dogged.

Dogged on a certain rencounter, but soon relented.
Lost a fee pretty contentedly.

Oh my doggishness and snappishness with my ser

CONSUMPTION OF SUGAR.

IN the course of Mr Macgregor's examination in reference to the import duties, he mentioned the following interesting particulars respecting the consumption of sugar. Being asked whether the consumption would be increased if the duty on foreign sugar were lowered, he replied "The consumption of sugar, taking the whole of this kingdom, is three-quarters of an ounce to every individual a-day: the calculations made when I was at Vienna, and also when I was in Paris, were, that each individual who took coffee or tea twice a day, consumed two ounces and a half, which is more than double the quantity that we have consumed. This is exclusive of all that would be required, and that to a great extent, in the preserving of fruits, and in various other ways, such as homemade wines, pastry, and many other preparations into which sugar enters.

Had you occasion to observe, while you were in Austria, what was the effect of doing away with the monopoly on sugar?—The effect of doing away with the special monopoly was quite extraordinary; in a short space of time it gave more revenue than the whole net customs revenues had previously given.

State what were the circumstances which produced so great an increase to the revenue.-Previously to the time when the trade was opened, which was in 1838, the whole trade of refined sugar in the Austrian dominions was in the hands of a few licensed im

porters and dealers, who had not only been licensed individually, but had something like an hereditary license given to them by Maria Theresa; under which they had the privilege of importing all their sugars for home consumption, limiting the import alone to this protective importation; the consequence of which was, that they themselves, from want of capital or from other circumstances, could not supply the whole demand for sugar in the country; but they managed under these patents to import an immense quantity, which yielded them enormous profits. The nature of the change was, that the whole sugar trade in the A hasty word, and false to my servant. country was thrown open, not only to natives but to Snappish on a call to a child, which, however, I foreigners; but there was a protection of 7s. given to answered.

Contempt from a patient, and pretty calm under it.
Told a lie in haste.

A vexatious message in wet weather, at which I
repined unrighteously.

Feasted beyond bounds.

them afterwards for the sugar which they actually used in refining; the consequence of which has been, Inappetent and morbidly peevish, with lassitude that having reduced the duties upon all foreign sugar and coldness.

An over-dose of whisky.

from 22 florins per centner of 123 lbs., what they formerly were, to 15 florins, and thrown the trade open, and also reduced the duty upon refined sugar to 18

THE keeping of Diaries was formerly very general amongst studious men, and even in the more bustling walks of life. It was deemed very curious to be able to tell what was the state of the weather on some particular day several years back, and every place where one had dined abroad for the better part of his life. We remember an old gentleman, who, for half a century, had been in the habit of entering, in a series of small paper books, every guest who came to his house, every considerable purchase which he made, all his journeys and even his walks, and the deaths not only of the members of his household, but of the horses, cows, and dogs. Ashmole, the antiquary, was a formalist of this kind. His diary tells us when his maid, Joan Morgan, died of the small-pox, and when he discharged his man Hobbs. We learn from it how often he had the toothache, and took medicine, how often he was bled with leeches, and what were the consequences of his rubbing the skin near his haunch. He also relates, very faithfully, how he fell ill of a surfeit, "occasioned by drinking water after renison”—a case, we apprehend, likely to be so very rare, that it would be difficult to see any utility in chronicling it. It must be obvious that such commonplace-books in general were only a means of wasting time. There was a better kind, in which an effort was made to chronicle the state of the mind, with a view to the correction of faults of character. A man, having imposed upon himself the duty of stating as candidly as possible every improper act and thought, felt himself in some measure in the same predicament as if he had been in the priest's confessional-box, and was apt to check evil tendencies, that he might not have the pain of exposing them daily before his own judgment. So at least thought Samuel Johnson, who used to recommend the keeping of such diaries, and to a certain extent followed the practice himself. Perhaps the supposed utility was real in many cases, where the general dispositions were good, and no strongly besetting sin they reflect what a line trait of nature this exhibits. * Our readers will excuse the indelicacy of expression, when ket?-The consumer pays, at the present moment,

A dull, cross, choleric, sickish day.

Eleven patients, and not one fee, and my patience florins per centner, the revenue has increased and the abused considerably: I muttered a little.

Oh for more patience, and no snapping!
A sudden disappointment not quite well sustained.
A feast again, to my hurt, and some little grief.
Learn to repine less at small evils and flea-bites,
thou pitiful Jack-straw!

A little vociferation to a servant.
Vicious complaisance, though in one solitary glass
only.

Änger, on importunate and ill-timed teazing for
money, cast a gloom on this whole day.

smuggling diminished, so as to give a net revenue, from sugar alone, greater than the net revenue of the entire customs was before.

Is not the consumption in England, in proportion to the population, greater than in most foreign countries?It is greater among the opulent portion, but certainly much less among the poorer class.

Has not the consumption of tea and coffee lately extended itself among the middling and poorer classes as a substitute for spirituous liquors ?—Yes.

And, therefore, as sugar is a necessary accompaniment to that, is it not, in a moral point of view, very

A fierce answer to a tolerably civil question.
Base usage from a patient utterly unworthy of at- important?-Yes.
tendance. I resented it enough.

Ilave you ever calculated the amount paid by the consumer for the present monopoly of the sugar mar

about 50 per cent. in addition.

Column for Little Boys and Girls.

TRAITS OF CHARACTER.

EVERY one may observe how much more happy and beloved some children appear to be than others. There are some you always love to be with. They are happy themselves, and they make you happy. There are others whose society you always avoid. The very expression of their countenances produces unpleasant feelings. They seem to have no friends.

Now, no person can be happy without friends. The heart is formed for love, and cannot be satisfied without the opportunity of giving and receiving affection. If we love others, they will love us; and in order to have friends, we must show ourselves friendly. Hence, it is every one's duty to cultivate a cheerful and obliging disposition. It is impossible to be happy without it.

If your companions do not love you, it is your own fault. They cannot help loving you if you will be kind and friendly. If you are not loved, it is good evidence that you do not deserve to be loved. It is true that a sense of duty may at times render it necessary for you to do that which is displeasing to your companions. But if it is seen that you have a noble spirit; that you are above selfishness; that you are willing to sacrifice your own personal convenience to promote the happiness of others you will never be in want of friends. You must not regard it as your misfortune, that people do not love you, but your fault. It is not beauty, nor is it wealth, that will give you friends. Your heart must glow with kindness, if you would attract to yourself the esteem and affection of those by whom you are surrounded.

You are little aware how much the happiness of your whole life depends upon your manifesting an affectionate and obliging disposition. If you will adopt the resolution that you will confer favours whenever you have an opportunity, you will certainly be surrounded by friends. Begin upon this principle early, and act upon it through life; thus you will make yourself happy, and promote the happiness of all within your influence.

You go to school on a cold winter morning. A bright fire is blazing in the grate, surrounded with boys struggling to get near it to warm themselves. After you get slightly warmed, another school-mate comes in suffering from the cold. Here, James," you pleasantly call out to him, "I am almost warm; you may have my place." As you move on one side, to allow him to take your place at the fire, will he not feel that you are kind? The worst dispositioned boy in the world cannot help admiring such generosity; and even though he be so ungrateful as to be unwilling to return the favour, you may depend upon it that he will be your friend, as far as he is capable of friendship.

Suppose some day you are out with your companions playing at ball. After you have been playing for some time, another boy comes along. He cannot be chosen on either side, for there is no one to match him. "Henry," you say, "you may take my place a little while, and I will rest." You throw yourself down upon the grass, while Henry, fresh and vigorous, takes your bat and engages in the game. He knows that you gave up to accommodate him. And how can he help liking you for it? The fact is, that neither man nor child can cultivate such a spirit of generosity and kindness, without attracting affection and esteem. Look, and see who of your companions have the most friends, and you will find that they are those who have this noble spirit; who are willing to deny themselves that they may make their associates happy. This is not peculiar to childhood, but is the same in all periods of life.

But persons of ardent dispositions often find it exceedingly difficult to deny themselves. Some little occurrence irritates them, and they speak hastily and angrily. When offended with a companion, they will do things to give pain, instead of pleasure. We must have our tempers under control, if we would exercise a friendly disposition. A bad temper is an infirmity which, if not restrained, will be continually growing worse and worse. There was a man a few years since tried for murder. When a boy, he gave the reins to his passions. The least opposition would rouse his anger, and he made no efforts to subdue it. He had no one who could love him. If he was playing with others, he would every moment be getting irritated. As he grew older, his passions gathered strength, and he became so ill-natured that every one avoided him. One day, as he was walking with another man, he became so enraged at some little provocation, that he seized a club, and with one blow laid the man lifeless at his feet. He was seized and imprisoned. But while in prison, the fury of his spirit increased to such a degree that he became a maniac. Loaded with chains, and immersed in a dark dungeon, he was doomed to pass the miserable remnant of his guilty life. Had he learnt to govern his temper when young, how different might have been his latter end!

Nothing is more common than for a child to destroy his own peace, and to make his brothers and sisters unhappy, by indulging a peevish and irritable spirit. Nor is it an uncommon thing for a child to cherish this disposition until he becomes a man; and then, by his peevishness and fault-finding, he destroys the happiness of all who are near him. His home is the scene of discord. His family are made wretched.

An amiable disposition makes its possessor happy. And if you would have such a disposition, you must learn to control yourself. If others injure you, obey the gospel rule, and do them good in return. If they revile you, speak kindly to them. It is far better to suffer injury than to inflict injury. Resolve that you never will be angry. If your brother or your sister does any thing which has a tendency to provoke you, restrain your feelings, and speak mildly and softly. Let no provocation draw from you an angry or an unkind word. If you will commence in this way, and persevere, you will soon get that control over yourself which will contribute greatly to your happiness. Your friends will increase; and you will be prepared for far more extensive usefulness in the world.

And is there not something noble in being able to be always calm and pleasant? I once saw two men conversing in the streets. One became very unreasonably enraged with the other. In the fury of his anger, he appeared like a madman. He addressed the other in language the most abusive and insulting. The gentleman whom he thus abused, with a pleasant countenance and a calm voice, said to him, Now, my friend, you will be sorry for all this when your passion is over. This language does me no harm, and can do you no good." Every person who witnessed this interview despised the angry man, and respected the one who was so calm and self-possessed.

Humility is another very important trait of character, which should be cultivated in early life. What can be more disgusting than the ridiculous airs of a vain child? Sometimes you will see a foolish girl tossing her head about, and walking with a mincing step, which shows you at once that she is excessively vain. She thinks that others are admiring her ridiculous airs, when the fact is, they are laughing at her, and despising her. Every one speaks of her as a very simple vain girl. Vanity is a sure sign of a weak mind; and if you indulge in so contemptible a passion, you will surely be the subject of ridicule and contempt.

A boy happens to have rich parents, and he acts as though he supposed that there was some virtue in his father's money which pertained to him. He goes to school, and struts about, as though he was lord of the play-ground. Now, every body who sees this says, it is proof that the boy has not much mind, or he has been badly taught. He is a simple boy. If he had good sense, he would perceive that others of his playmates in many qualities surpass him. The mind that is truly great is humble.

Go into a school-room, and look around upon the ap-
pearance of the various pupils assembled there. You
will perhaps see one girl, with head tossed upon one
shoulder, and, with a simpering countenance, trying to
look pretty. You speak to her; and instead of receiving
a plain, kind, and honest answer, she replies with voice,
and language, and attitude, full of affectation. She thinks
she is exciting your admiration; but, on the contrary,
you view her with disgust.

You see another girl, whose frank and open counte-
nance proclaims a sincere and honest heart. All her
movements are natural. She manifests no desire to at-
tract attention. The idea of her own superiority seems
not to enter her mind. You can detect no airs of self-
conceit. She is pleasant to all her associates. You ask
her some question. She answers you with modesty and
pleasure. Now, this girl, without any effort to attract
admiration, is beloved and admired. Every one sees
that she is a girl of good sense. She is too wise to be
vain. She will never be without friends; for this is the
character which ensures usefulness and happiness.
Moral courage is a trait of character which you should
endeavour to acquire. It requires a bold heart to be
ready to do one's duty, unmoved by the sneers of others.
There is reason to fear that some persons often do what
they know to be wrong, because they are afraid that
others will call them cowards if they do right. One cold
winter day three boys were passing by a school-house;
the oldest was a mischievous fellow, always in trouble
himself, and trying to get others into trouble also. The
youngest, whose name was George, was a very amiable
boy, and wished to do right, but was very deficient in
moral courage. We will call the oldest Henry, and the
other of the three James. The following dialogue passed
between them :---

Henry. What fun it would be to throw a snow-ball
against the school-room door, and make the teacher and
scholars all jump!

James. You would jump too if you did; for if the teacher did not catch you and whip you, he would tell your father, and you would get a whipping then, that would make you jump higher than the scholars, I think. Henry.-Oh, but we should get so far off before the teacher could come to the door, that he would not know who we are. Here is a snow-ball, as hard as ice, and George would just as soon throw it against the door as not.

James. Give it to him and see, He would not dare to throw it against the door.

Henry. Do you think George is a coward then? You don't know him as well as I do. Here, George, take this snow-ball, and show James that you are not such a coward as he thinks you to be.

George. I am not afraid to throw it. But I do not want to do so. I do not see that it will do any good, or that there will be much fun in it.

it.

James.-There, I told you he would not dare to throw

Henry. Why, George, are you turning coward? I thought you did not fear any thing. We shall have to call you chicken-hearted. Come, save your credit, and throw it. I know you are not afraid.

George. Well, nor am I afraid. Give me the snowball: I would as soon throw it as not.

Whack went the snow-ball against the door; and the boys took to their heels. Henry laughed as heartily as he could to think what a fool he had made of George. George afterwards got a whipping for his folly, as he richly deserved. He was such a coward, that he was afraid of being called one. He did not dare to refuse doing what Henry bid him, for fear he would be laughed at. If he had been really a brave boy, he would have said, "Henry, do you suppose that I am such a fool as to throw that snow-ball, just because you wish me? You may throw your own snow-balls, if you please."

Henry would perhaps have tried to laugh at him. He would have called him a coward, hoping in this way to induce him to comply with his wishes. But George would have replied, "Do you think that I care for your laughing? I do not think it is right to throw a snowball against the school-room door; and I will not do that which I think to be wrong, if the whole town should join with you in laughing."

This would have been true moral courage. Henry would have seen at once that it would do no good to laugh at a boy who had so bold a heart. And you must have this fearlessness of spirit, or you will be continually in trouble, and will deserve and receive contempt.

In things which concern your own convenience merely, you should be as yielding as the air. But where duty is concerned, you should be as firm as the rock. Be ever ready to sacrifice your own comfort to promote the comfort of others. Show that you are ready to do every thing in your power to make those around you happy. Let no one have occasion to say that you are stubborn and unaccommodating.

But, on the other hand, where duty is concerned, let nothing tempt you to do wrong. Be bold enough to do right, whatever may be the consequences. If others laugh at your scruples, let them laugh on as long as they please; and let them see that you are not to be frightened by their sneers. Your courage will often be tried; but remember, that if you would do any good in the world, you must be steadfast in what you know to be your duty. Without possessing this trait of character, no one can become a Christian.-J. S. C. Abbott.

IRELAND BEFORE AND AFTER THE UNION.

In the seven years from 1723 to 1729, the exports from Ireland to Great Britain amounted, according to Sir Charles Whitworth's work, to L.2,307,722, whilst in one year, 1829, the amount of goods and live-stock exported given before the Irish committee, was L.2,136,934. In from the port of Waterford alone, according to evidence produce or manufacture of the United Kingdom from 1801, the aggregate official value of the exports of the Ireland was L.3,350,000, whilst in 1825 it had increased there have been exported from Dublin only, to the value to eight millions and a half. Since 1824, in eggs alone, Newspaper paragraph. [A dissolution of the union beof L.273,000, distributable among the poorer classes.utter ruin of the trade of the latter country.] tween England and Ireland, would be attended with the

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multiplicity of social connexions and intercourse, and, more than all, by the rapidity of locomotive flights, are comprised the divertisements that would have formerly occupied a twelvemonth. The subject-matter, too, of our employments, partakes more of realities and less of the ideal, abstract, or fanciful. Spectral illusions, goblin stories, apprehensions of sorcery, and the other offspring of a diseased or untutored mind, by which men were wont to be distressed and bewildered, have ceased to be matters of cognisance or sober thought. Food, fire, and raiment, the conveniences and luxuries of living, and the means by which these may be obtained in the greatest fullness and perfection, form, with rare exceptions, the engrossing

aim of all classes. The fancies we do cherish are mainly such as tend to augment, not to embitter, enjoyment. Unlike the savage or half-civilised state, gloom and terror are not deliberately cultivated; they are not patronised as part of the indispensable requirements of the established order and worship. Tragedy, dirges, monodies, and epitaphs, have become less in request, and the unavoidable ills of life are sought to be beguiled or averted more by comedy, music, or the opera, than by the perpetration of dark and melancholy rites.

Dramatic representations themselves are a proof of this tendency of the public mind towards intrinsic utilities. They have declined, we apprehend, not so much from late dinners and large theatres, as from an absolute change in the popular taste. A whole evening's leisure, with the further deductions of a heated and unwholesome atmosphere, a protracted and perhaps irksome sitting, make up a price too high to be frequently paid by a rational person for an exaggerated portraiture of the emotions and actions either of real or imaginary personages. The consequence is, that the drama has fallen into a position strikingly inferior to that which it occupied during the eighteenth century. The same revolution has happened in France. Theatrical property has declined in value, and the disciples of Thespis no longer receive those inordinate salaries which enabled them

to rival princes and farmers-general in the splendour of their establishments. Since the period of the Empire, not an actor or actress of the French theatres has been in a condition, from professional gain, to set up an equipage.

Amidst these social vicissitudes in the minutiae of life, it is gratifying to think that the standard of moral feeling has been indubitably elevated. This is unquestionably the case in the British metropolis, where, in the opinion of the elder residents, there is a decided improvement in manners and behaviour. The public tea-gardens, the minor assemblies and concerts in taverns, exhibit none of those licentious scenes which abounded in their ancient prototypes, Ranelagh, Bagnigge Wells, and Vauxhall. To the credit of young men of the present day, they have little appetite for absolute grossness, and this improvement must certainly be ascribed to the diffusion of knowledge, and more general cultivation of the productions of art and literature. The periodical press, with few exceptions, is free from impurity, contains none of the factitious allurements to vice which disgraced a former period-no bon ton magazines, nor trash of that description, to corrupt the minds of the rising generation. In the language of society and external presentment of vice, the purification that has arisen over what prevailed at the beginning of the reign of George III., has been often remarked the dialogue in the comedies of Congreve,

Vanbrugh, and Cibber, would be revolting to modern ears; and few living examples could be found of the grossness in expression and conduct recorded in the scandalous chronicle of Lord Orford's Reminiscences. The scenes in the Adventures of a Guinea, though highly coloured by Johnstone, are considered not to exhibit a very exaggerated picture of living manners for the time for which they were written; but in the public men of the present day, or in private individuals, it would be difficult to find any corresponding examples of turpitude and profligacy. If not in sentiment more pure than our grandfathers, yet in practice, such is the taste of the age, as Sir Walter Scott remarked, that "modern vice pays a tax to appearances, and is compelled to wear a mask of decorum." It is almost supererogatory to say any thing by way of wind-up to these rambling observations on matters of apparently small concernment. It is clear that happiness in "that condition of life in which it has

* Miscellaneous Prose Works, vol. iii. p. 516.

dued order; and altogether a feeling of apprehension -a something ominous-seemed to sit heavy on the hearts of both lad and lass, as often as silence gave them time for reflection. Instances of the fever having penetrated from the town into the country, had of late become more common; and John Jarves and his wife, both of whom should have been among the band, now lay dangerously ill of that fearful disorder. On the day in question, the mowers were reduced to two, the others having been called off to do something else about the farm; and these, in returning from their breakfast, with the bottles of small beer which were to serve for their forenoon's refreshment in their hands, called at the cottage to inquire for their sick fellow-labourers. Fortunately, upon this occasion the accounts were cheering. The medical attendant, who had just left the house, had pronounced the disease past its height, and said that he now confidently expected a favourable issue. As a confirmation of this opinion, at the time when the mowers called, both patients were enjoying a peaceful slumber, from which the doctor had forbidden them to be workmen took their way around by the end of the awakened. house to the field in which they were to be employed, Gladdened by the happy change, the and, after a short consultation, exactly opposite to a back window, they commenced the labours of the forenoon.

pleased God to call us," depends in a very inferior
degree on what are usually called "great matters"-
"things of vast importance" in a national point of view.
Many of these supposed great matters are only things
causing at the time an inordinate absorption of mind
and a corresponding measure of talk, and too frequently
distract attention from what should constitute the real
mental and social enjoyments which we ought to aim
at. But it is fortunate, as already hinted at, that,
after all, the talk usually expended on great matters
has less actual influence on our social condition than
the silent, unobtrusive, newspaper-unnoticed little
matters which daily affect our most ordinary thoughts
and actions. These small affairs form a kind of fly-
wheel on the mechanism of society, keeping the fabric
of wheels within wheels working smoothly and steadily,
and so preventing it from dashing off at the gallop on
every occasion of undue excitement and impetus.
Besides, it must not be imagined that matters are
unimportant in their character and results, merely
because they do not come with a mighty fuss and
bounce upon the world, like some political or diplo-
matic explosion. Circumstances utterly obscure and
unthought-of are in daily operation-need we instance
the slow and sure steps of the educator-which in Towards eleven o'clock, both patients awoke, ap-
fifty years hence will have an infinitely greater in-parently much refreshed by the sleep which they had
fluence over human affairs than the whole of the enjoyed, and, as it seemed, in a fair way of recovery.
paltry-great squabbles-string them all together-But by this time a number of neighbours and gossips,
which now exteriorly engage public attention.

THE WARNING.

DURING the early part of summer, a mortal fever had
been raging in the populous village of Overburn, from
which the scene of our little story was not distant
more than a mile. Of those who were attacked, some
had recovered, but by far the greater part had died;
and, as is common enough in all cases of the kind, a
degree of alarm and consternation prevailed for seve-
ral miles round. Among those in the town, as it
last silent resting-place in the churchyard-many
was called, who had gone to their long homes-their
were connected one way or other in the country;
and thus minute and detailed accounts of almost
every death were circulated among the families of
cottagers, farm-servants, and rural labourers, to a con-
siderable distance. The fever, and those victims who

day after day fell before it, formed the prevailing
topics of conversation, till people had talked them
selves into a degree of imaginary terror, and worked
their minds into that state of excitement which made
them willing to listen to the most incredible and mar-
vellous accounts, while they were, at the same time,
willing to trace to the most extraordinary origin the

very simplest occurrences.

History as well as observation has established the fact, that there is in the mind of man, when left untutored, or even in a partially enlightened state, a strong predisposition to believe in supernatural agency; and, in the present instance, this principle soon began to manifest itself. The excited imaginations of the poor people whose relatives were bidding adieu to this world, converted every noise which they heard-even a bat flapping its wing against the window, or the night wind sighing among the chimneytops-into a warning of the solemn event about to take place, communicated by some invisible power. Their minds brooded over these mysterious indications of death, which in most instances were fatally verified. They became the subject of conversation in the sickhurrying him on to his doom, if they did not of themroom, depressing the spirits of the patient, and thus selves produce the very event of which they were believed to be only portents; they formed the theme of superstitious wonder and melancholy speculation among the friends of the deceased, after death had apparently sealed their truth; and from thence they travelled to their acquaintances in the country, with all their details exaggerated and exhibited through a magnifying and not unfrequently a false medium."

from the surrounding cottages, had assembled in the house, some overjoyed at the prospect of their restoration to health, and others, strange as it may seem, secretly but not the less certainly discontented at the event not having answered exactly to their previous predictions-thus leaving room for cavillers to question the truth of their pretensions to a knowledge of futurity.

"I aye thought they might recover as lang as the warning wasna gi'en," said Margaret Toshick, an old woman who belonged to the last-mentioned class of visiters; "and we haye a' great reason to be thankfu' doctor has said that they are sure to recover, folk for their betterness. But for a' that, and though the should never be owre certain; for the doctor sees as short gait afore him as his neighbours, and the fever may soon relap, and the warning may be sent, and them that rejoice may soon have cause to mourn."

sharp sound was heard, which, to the terrified group, While the last word was yet on her lips, a short, appeared to come from under the bed, and which, in their estimation, resembled the report of a pistol. The loudest peal of thunder that ever was heard by mortal ears, would have failed to produce half the effect upon their imaginations which was produced by that momentary noise. All stood silent for a few seconds, while their trembling limbs, quivering lips, and suppressed breathing, gave unquestionable proof of that indescribable state of feeling for which fear is not a proper name-that mixture of awe, terror, and mystery, which does not find a ready utterance in words.

"What's that?" at last whispered one of the company, in a voice so low, and so choked with apprehension, as to be scarcely audible.

"Ay, ye may weel speer what's that?" rejoined Margaret Toshick, who, notwithstanding the state of her own feelings, seemed to have been waiting for some such question. "That's the warning," she continued; "nae doubt about it ava noo! and either the ane or the ither-John or Jennet-maun e'en awa' to the lanesome kirkyard, as I said there was owre the disorder. The doctor may say what he likes muckle reason to fear they would do when they took about bein' corlescent, but, when it comes to as guid, we maun a' say, The Lord's will be done; and what is foreordained to be, will be in spite o' a' his palavers, and his learned faces, and his drogs, and his doctory. Peggy there, puir thing, did a' his newfangled ways, and keepit the doors and the windows open, as he bade her, though that was never wont to be done in my day, and the folk had just as muckle skill then as they hae yet. But mark the upshot. At the very be, at the very minute when he is braggin' of his time when he thinks he has gained a victory, and, may performance to some ither body, there's Ane aboonblest be his name-wha laughs at his vainglory, and sends the warning for anither world; and weel for them for wham it was sent, if they're only prepared."

It was the very pride of the year, being the month of July, and was felt the sun shone with unof and hay-making had commenced. Scarce a clouded splendour-the blooming clover, from which the bee was busy extracting its "nectar store," sent forth the richest perfume, and the calm and sultry air seemed alive with the song of birds and the ceaseless hum of insects. As already said, the hay-makers had gone forth to their task in the field-the men with oft-repeated sweep of the keen-edged scythe to sever the crop from the ground, and a troop of sun-burnt girls, and other individuals of the softer sex, to tie it up in sheaves and prepare it for being carried to the farm. Such a season and such a combination of the sexes, notwithstanding the oppressive heat, and the severity of the labour which calls them abroad, has been characterised by mirth and rural enjoyment from time immemorial. Ancient poets have sung of hay-making; the benevolent heart still warms over joyous season; and, sooth to say, there are not want- along taken a deep interest in the fate of the patients, their descriptions of rustic happiness during this The girl who acted as sick-nurse, and who had all ing realities which correspond to their glowing pic-was the first to speak. "That crack came from the

tures. But, on the present occasion, there was an air
of sadness mingled with the mirth of the hay-makers
at Minnowbrigs: their laughter was more fitful and
less loud than it used to be; the jests were of a sub-

In the state of feeling which then existed, Margaret's reasoning was conclusive. No one attempted to answer her, and no one appeared to doubt the truth of what she had said. But though they had been determined to do both, time was not allowed; for she had scarcely been silent two seconds, when they were again alarmed by a repetition of the self-same noise, or at least a noise so like the first, that no one could distinguish between them; only to their terrified imaginations it seemed doubly loud. A short period of

awe-struck silence followed, during which even Margaret appeared to have nothing to say.

back window," said she; "and I could wager somebody has flung a stane at it, or something else, to make the noise." While she thus spoke, there was a degree of tremor in her voice, which showed that she

From the foregoing little story, the evil effects of As fortune would have it, these words were ad- some particular kinds of superstition must be evident dressed to the very individual who had formerly been to the reader; and yet it would appear that superstiso anxious to discover a natural cause for the ominous tion in some shape or other is almost inseparable from sounds. With the word bottle, an idea had dawned humanity in certain stages of society. Among an upon her mind that this circumstance might perhaps ignorant or only half-enlightened people, things must lead to a solution of the mysterious question, more in be accounted for, as well as among philosophers; and accordance with her own opinions than any thing she as they have not those powers of investigation which had heard from Margaret Toshick; and she was careful would enable them to arrive at truth, they immedito suppress, as far as possible, her own agitation, and, ately fall back upon supernatural agency. Superstiat the same time, not to interrupt the man till he had tions no doubt have been, and always will be, modified by reached the end of his story. Having made herself the peculiar temperament of the people among whom fully acquainted with the particulars of the case, and they exist, by their civil institutions, and their notions supplied him with a quantity of water, the whole of of the Deity. The manner in which their worship is which was the work of little more than a minute, she conducted, too-whether in a joyous, solemn, austere, hastened back to the chamber of death, where she or gloomy style-must have a considerable influence found the poor woman, who was still ignorant of her in moulding the creations of fancy; but till something husband's decease, just beginning to recover from a like rational knowledge begins to prevail, and till state of temporary insensibility; and, though the life-effects have been traced to their causes, and the conless remains of a fellow-creature lay untouched upon nexion between them established upon incontroverthe other bed, there was a something of triumph in tible evidence, the great mass of mankind will always