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levy war was not treason, but was held by the court to be evidence of imagining the king's death, which was. The inference may have been a violent one, but we think Hunt is wrong-in good company no doubt-in thinking any legal principle was violated in the trial, though we believe there is a le gislative declaration to that effect in the act of parliament reversing the attainder. We feel, however, that it is impossible to read the earlier cases and not perceive that by the king's death was meant the actual death of the king, and not the destruction of the form of government, into which the thought had been unwarrantably strained, but for this Lord Russell's judges, who are not free from their own share of guilt, were not to blame, for the thoughts had been identified long before that trial. Leigh Hunt's account, however, of the facts of the case is very good. That designs against the person of the king were entertained by many of those acting with Lord Russellthat Lord Russell himself contemplated his imprisonment, while others imagined his death
-is, we think, subject to no doubt whatever ; but the extent to which their respective plans were communicated to each other must, in all proba bility, notwithstanding the unexpected revelations which are each day correcting our notions of history, remain for ever secret.
A feature of character is worth transcribing from Burnett. Mr. Hunt gives the passage in full. It was thought the king would have yielded to the solicitations for Russell's life, but that he was afraid of his brother, the Duke of York. « The duke, Lord Rochester told me" (these are Bur. nett's words],“ suffered some among them-he was one-to argue the point with him, but the king could not bear the discourse."
The burning of popes of pasteboard, and the execution of patriots, are, when a century or two have passed, events of very much the same kind. Poor humanity is in its nonage, and all this and more must have been gone through, before society, in any true sense, can be said to exist. Let us hope and believe that, even in the cases of men most opposed to each other, the opposition most often arises from imperfect views of partial truths. In all the greater heresies, the student of church history finds that some neglected truth has been forced into notice by what seems intemperate ardour to those from whom that truth bad been concealed. To no man of letters in our day is so much kindliness due as to Mr. Hunt; for never was there a man more tolerant of all that is at all endurable in others, or who has done so much to exhibit jarring interests in the light of some common reconciling truth.
We have lingered too long among the subjects suggested by Mr. Hunt's book, and yet we have left a hundred topics, on which he gives a great deal of pleasant information, wholly untouched. His heart is among the poets and in the playhouses. Pepys' pleasant gossiping gives him more than one good chapter. Cibber gives him a vast deal about the actors and actresses of an earlier day; and his own recollections bring back many of later date. On the whole, the book is an agreeable, chatty book, fit for a long summer day, or winter night. The topics are, as we have intimated, linked together by threads of association perhaps too slender. Still it has, in all its variety, a unity of its own, and is everywhere agreeable.
The volumes would be improved, and their contents rendered more accessible, by a page or two of index, which might be easily added.
THE BOTGAT PRIDEGROON.-A STORY OF GOLD,
Mrs. MURPHY was searching through one of her drawers--the old-fashioned mahogany drawers she had brought to her husband's house when she was married. She was thinking at that very moment of her marriage, and those thoughts were woeful, for sorrow was shadowed in her face. She was searching for pieces of old linen to dress the ulcerated leg of her invalid husband. At that instant she heard his complaining voice from the fireside of the sittingroom, which adjoined the bedroom
“Come, Betty—what keeps you, I say-come."
“ Betty-yes, Betty-poor Bettyif she had only died long ago," muttered Mrs. Murphy, and her eyes glared, and her face became white for a moment with anger, and a proud, and even lofty expression, such as Elizabeth of England in her haughtiest mood, when domineering most over her nobles and her kingdom, might have assumed, passed over Mrs. Mur. phy's countenance, though she was but the wife of a man in humble rank, and her life had always been mingled with the concerns and the people of that rank. She made no answer to her husband-she had not found the object of her search-she turned over a great variety of things—she examined the corners and sides of the draw. ers_ she went to the bottom of them she disarranged the folded precision of many garments—she dragged to light old handkerchiefs and old aprons, which were coeval with her marriage, and she disturbed the repose of old baby.linen-the baby-linen of her first and only child, Robert; her face softened a little, but only a little; for coinbating with the natural mother's love, there had long been powerful an. tagonist passions in her soul. She pushed the baby-linen carelessly into its corner, and continued her search, but she could find none of the article in question. There had been a great demand for it of late ; that ulcerated limb of her husband's had consumed her whole store of old linen. Still she searched in another corner; in a parti, cular place in the lowest drawer of
all, which had been little disturbed for a length of time, she found a parcel loosely tied together, and drawing it out, proceeded to examine the contents. Alas! these were only pieces of printed calico-pieces of many an old dress which had long since been worn out, and consigned, in the shape of rags, perhaps, to the paper manufacturer—there was not one fragment of old linen in the bundle. Mrs. Murphy was carelessly tying the fragments together again, when she espied what seemed an old letter. She took it up carelessly, but her whole frame became agitated-it was a well-remenbered handwriting.
Mrs. Murphy was, to a casual observer, a common place looking woman ; there was usually a cold expression on her rather hard features; there was a cast of sorrow and pain about her eyes, but on her thin and pale lips there was always indication of bitterness which told that though she had sorrowed much, she had not sorrowed as a Christian should. Her figure was middle-sized, and neither majestic nor graceful; her plain, brown stuff gown, and her still plainer thick muslin cap, caused her to seem in all respects an individual in whose mind there had never been any feelings beyond the common order of emotions which live and die in the great masses of the world.
“I thought I had burned them all every one-ay, many a day ago, I thought it," she whispered, still hold. ing the letter in her hand. The deepest sorrow of the world had passed through that woman's soul; a hurricane of passion was still within it, yet her face was only something paler than usual, and her lips a little more compressed.
She turned the letter over, and read a few words, then she suddenly crumpled it together, and tore it in pieces.
“I'll do it-yes_I'll tear his happi. ness to pieces, as I am doing this-20 more pity for her—no more."
She was gazing out of the small window of the apartment close to which a public road led. Two individuals were passing at that very moment; one was Mrs. Murphy's son, and the other was the person wlio, thirty years before, had written the letter Mrs. Murphy had just torn. She looked on his face, and smiled with apparent calmness.
He was a man of somewhat respect able appearance, though the black dress which he wore was old and thread. bare, and showed evident marks of having often been sorely brushed. His name was Henry Allen, and he was the master of a school in a rather humble line in the neighbouring town of L- His face was inclin. ing to ruddiness, notwithstanding his sedentary occupation; and unlike the generality of schoolmasters, his coun. tenance was good-humoured, and his brow was very mild and benevolent; the affections the domestic affections -were written on his face, and expressed in every tone of his voice. He was almost sixty years of age; but in appearance he was not so old. Little did this man think, as he enter. ed Mrs. Murphy's house, and saluted her with his usual mild but cheerful manner, that thoughts of him, of his long past, long forgotten letters, had raised a deadly storm of passion and rage in her breast.
It was fully more than thirty years since, in his youthful days of folly, he had paid attentions—more than attentions, it might have been-to Mrs. Murphy, then a young girl. They had quarrelled, perhaps he had wilfully, even rudely quarrelled; but then it was so long ago, it lay so covered with the mists of time, he could hardly think it had really been now, if by some acci. dent it came to his mind; but he rarely, if ever, did think of it. He had been married to another for so many years, and Mrs. Murphy having been married also, and as they both resided in the same neighbourhood, he had been so accustomed to see her with her husband, that he had almost come to think she had never been anything but Mrs. Murphy. Had he been questioned on the subject, he would have said that he believed Mrs. Murphy retained no recollection whatever of the period of their early flirtations ; for neighbours and acquaintances, as they had long been, she never was in the habit of making the slightest reference to the past. That past was in his estimation now like some state of prior existence, none of the influences of which could, by any possibility, affect his present condition. Little
VOL. XXXII.-NO. CXCII.
did he think, as he bid a cheerful goodday to Mrs. Murphy, and glanced carelessly on her, seeing her usual homely, housewife contour of face and figure, that in her soul she was the young girl of her early days, deep-passioned, and agonised with the bitterest of all. earthly disappointments, and that she saw in him, not the man advanced in years, from whom the sentiment of young romance had long since departed, but the Henry Allen-young, handsome, intellectual- who had called into existence the one deep love of her girl's heart.
He might have seen the moment. ary glaring of unutterable hatred in her muddy, dark, grey eyes, but he never dreamed of her entertaining such feelings towards him.
The schoolmaster was come to have some conversation regarding matters connected with the approaching marriage of his daughter Agnes to Robert Murphy, the only child of Mrs. Murphy; the marriage was to take place on the ensuing day.
Mrs. Murphy received the school. master in the kitchen, and invited him to be seated there as usual ; it was her own and her husband's common sitting apartment. Mrs. Murphy's early education had been a slight degree better than what is usually bestowed on the daughters of farmers of an unpretending class in Ireland ; but when she married John Murphy, who was a farmer of an unpolished order, she gave up many of the little pretensions to taste in which she had indulged in her youth, and with a hardy stoicism fulfilled the duties of a lot, in which there were none of the refinements nor the adornments of life.
The schoolmaster seated himself beside the master of the house-John Murphy, master of the house, he was called, but the name only appertained to him. He was an old, a very old man; he had been past middle age when he married; he had been an invalid, and confined to the house for years. Mrs. Murphy had managed the farm, and still continued to manage it, though, ostensibly, the business was conducted by the son, Robert. John Murphy was reclining in an old, broken, unpolished arm-chair; his thin, skinny face was one mass of deep furrows, and miserable discontent was in every glance of his hollow eyes, and in every tone of his cracked voice.
“I say, Betty, what are you doing? “Agnes will be kind, very kind to
why don't you bring the rags here you, father-Agnes has a kind heart," to dress my leg ?” he said, looking Robert Murphy said. He was a sourly at his wife, after having ex young man of pleasing appearance, changed a few words with the school with an air something above his conmaster.
dition ; his figure was rather under Be quiet, and have some patience, the middle size, but well formed; his will you?" answered Mrs. Murphy, face was handsome, though a little ef. bestowing a glance of such bitterness feminate and unexpressive; an air of on her shrivelled husband, that the extreme self-satisfaction was visible in schoolmaster could not help trembling his soft blue eyes; his whole countefor the happiness of his daughter, who nance shewed that he had never in was so soon to take up her residence his existence either thought or felt in the house with a woman who dis- deeply. At times he exhibited indiplayed such palpable ill-temper. cations of stronger passions ; but his
“Ay, be quiet-be quiet; its casy course of life had been smooth and for them to be quiet that's not sufferin' monotonous, and if any powerful ener.
that's not sufferin' the long years gies were within him, they still rethat I've been here, and not able to mained slumbering in the depths of go out and see the fields that I've so his soul. He believed that he loved often ploughed and sowed, and the his bride elect; he had certainly blessed corn that God sends us. Is never loved anything else excepting the corn gettin' strong now, Robert ? himself so well, she had flattered his I don't see the field out of that win- ruling passion_vanity-by accepting dow since the leaves come on the trees of him in preference to some other -if it was God's will that I'd only get suitors, as elegible as himself; thereout as I used to do;" the old man's fore, he fancied he loved her ; he was voice softened into a sad resignation not in the habit of examining deeply as he said the last words.
his own feelings and so rested sa. The schoolmaster spoke soothingly tisfied. to the sick old man, and strove to en. " There are a few things I would courage him by hopeful words, telling like to mention," said the schoolmas. him what a good nurse his future ter looking around the kitchen, and daughter Agnes was ; how attentive gazing into an open door which led to she was in her own family when sick a sitting room. “You know my ness came, and how he and the young Agnes is a girl of taste-she likes to brothers of Agnes would miss her. see things so nice and neat-she has The old man listened, and seemed made our little parlour at home so pleased.
pretty, and all at but a trifling ex“Ay-well-maybe she will have pense." the kind hand about me, the creature. Mrs. Murphy sneered audibly at I've thought sometimes, when I was this. The old man moved restlessly lying here, and me hoarse with calling on his chair, and his eyes, with a dis. somebody, if it was only to get me a satisfied, and at the same time enquir. drink of water, that if I had a daugh ing look, turned towards his wife, as ter, she wouldn't be cross with the if to discover her sentiments on this poor, old, sick father."
point. As he spoke, a gleaming of hope “You have no notion," continued came beautifully over the miserable the schoolmaster, “ how saving Agnes wrinkles of his face, and smiles played is on all points, though she has such a around the corners of his withered lips. taste for seeing things nice about her
“ Well, if she does be the kind dar. --why I am sure she saved the price lin' I hear you say, it ’ill be good of of a bit of carpet, and the chintz winProvidence to send her here to take dow-curtains that I bought for our care of the old man. Robert there little parlour; yes, she saved it out of attends me kindly enough sometimes; her own dress, every farthing of it, I but a daughter-ay, a daughter, it do think." stands to reason, should know best “Carpets and window-curtains! how to take care of a sick old man;" humph, * indeed,” reiterated Mrs. he glanced to his son as he spoke, as Murphy. if wishing to hear his sentiments con- «Why it doesn't cost much, indeed," cerning the coming daughter-in-law. said the schoolmaster beseechingly,
“and your parlour there, when you get a piece of carpet on it, and when Agnes brings her little baskets, and things are put all to rights—why you'll be delighted ; yourselves will have the comfort of it all and this kitchen, when Robert gets flags for it (he looked down at the carthen floor, which was worn into holes and damp in some places); and when some new glass is put in the window there, it will be so clean and, cheerful, with Agnes to see that it's all kept right, that you'll not rue any little money you may spend on it, believe me."
“I have lived here many a year without carpets and window-curtains, ay, and without flags on the kitchen
-what's good enough for me won't do for her, I suppose,” said Mrs. Murphy, in a sharp, bitter voice.
“Ay, it's true ; it done for Bettymy Betty, as it is and why shouldn't it do for Robert's wife too?" cried the old man, grufily.
"To be sure she's to bring such a great fortune with her, that she'll buy new furniture out and out," sneer ed Mrs. Murphy, with a malicious smile on her thin lips.
The father of Agnes reddened with anger.
* I am sorry my daughter is to enter your house," he cried, passionately; “ my daughter, who is one of the best treasures of heaven in herself— my daughter to be twitted by you, because she does not bring a large fortune. I have saved a moderate fortune for her, as much as girls of her rank usually have-as much as your son, Mrs. Murphy, is entitled to, let me tell you ; but if heif you, Robert, have such sentiments regarding my daugh. ter's fortune, as your mother expresses, my daughter shall never enter this house it is not yet too late to break off — "
He was interrupted by Robert who, with every appearance of sincerity, and with real sincerity at the moment, made protestations that he never dreamed of being discontented, be cause that his Agnes had not more fortune.
The schoolmaster was a little paci. fied'; but he sighed deeply, and seemed very sorrowful. “ Poor Agnes the good daughter-the delight of my eyes ; to hear them talking about her fortune-her, with all the riches of Toodness and kindliness in her-the
riches that gold and silver can never bring to many a wealthy man ; it's heart-breaking to hear it." He spoke slowly and dreamily, as if in a sad reverie on the future fate to which his daughter might be subjected.
“You love her, I see-you're very fond of Agnes,” said Mrs. Murphy.
" Love her! ay, love her, indeednobody knows how I love her. God knows I've been troubled sometimes thinking that good wouldn't happen her, because I love her too well—the darling girl, she's so like her mother."
"She is,” replied Mrs. Murphy- she is like her mother ;” and a look of bitterness, mingled with triumph, passed over her face.
“Her good, beautiful mother, who died and left me so soon,” continued the schoolmaster. " Agnes doesn't speak, or smile, or walk, or turn round, but I think I see her mother before me. Don't you see it, Mrs. Murphy? You remember her mother; isn't the likeness great ?”
Little did the schoolmaster dream of the old, but unhealed and cankering wounds he was probing as he spoke.
* " I remember it well; I remember her very well.” Mrs. Murphy turned her face towards the window as she spoke; but neither her voice nor countenance betrayed any emotion.
“It was 'not the wish of my poor Agnes that I should talk to you about these little matters I have mentioned. She begged me not to speak on the subject, the dear girl ; for it's no ambition to be finer than her neighbours, or the like of that, makes her wish to have things tasty. She told me she could live with Robert in the worst cabin in Ireland, and think it no hard. ship; though, to be sure, if her circumstances allowed it, she would like to have a nice clean house, to make her husband comfortable, and content with his home.”
Shortly aftewards the father of Agnes took his leave, carrying a message from Robert, to the effect that he would spend the evening with his bride elect.
“Do not be late of returning home this evening, Robert,” Mrs. Murphy said to her son, when the schoolmaster had gone; “I want to have some very particular conversation with you."