swear; and so he laid a wager he'd never swear again; and yesterday, in the middle of dinner, while he was champing his bird, and cutting up your argument about cruelty, all of a sudden what does our vicar but clap his hand to his jaw as if he was going to give a view holla, and rap out the d-dest oath you ever heard. He had Now champed a shot, by G-d, with an old tooth. that's meat and drink to you, Harry, for all your tenderness."

"Why, it was only a shot in a black coat, Jack, instead of a black cock."

"That's famous. I'll tell him of that. Oh, Hal, your laugh is savage. See-you enjoy the sport now yourself."

"It ought to be a lesson to him."

"Oh yes! mighty considerate persons you Tatler and Spectator men are, and would make fine havock with our amusements.'

"Excuse me. It is you that make fine havock. I would have you amuse yourself to your heart's content, if you would do it without breaking the bones and hearts of your fellow-creatures."

"Fellow-creatures!' and their 'hearts! The hearts of woodcocks and partridges! Pooh, pooh! Bilson might have borne his pain better, I own, though it's a d-d thing, that sort of jar; but what he says, is very true; he says, if you come to think of it, there must be pain in the world, and it would be unmanly to think of it in this light."

"Very well. Then do you, Jack, who are so manly, and so willing to encourage one's sports, stand a little farther, and let me crack your shin with this poker." "Nonsense. That's a very different thing." "Perhaps you'd prefer a good crack on the skull ?" "Nonsense."

"Or a thrust-out of your eye?"

"No, no: all that's very different."

"Well you know what you have been about this morning. Go and pick your way again along the palings there; and leave me your fowling-piece, and I'll endeavour to shoot you handsomely through the body."

66 Nonsense, nousense. I'm a man, you know; and a bird's a bird. Besides, birds don't feel as we do. They're not Christians. They're not reasoning beings. They're not made of the same sort of stuff. In short, it's no use talking. There's no end of these things."

"Just so. This is precisely the way I should argue if I had the winging of you. Here I should say, is Mr. John Tomkins. Mind, I am standing with my manningpiece by a hedge."

N

"With your what?"

"With my manning-piece. You cannot say fowlingpiece, when it is men that are to be brought down." "Oh, now you're joking."

"I beg your pardon; you will find it no joke presently. Here, says I, is Mr. John Tomkins coming; or Here is a Tomkins. Look at him. He's in fine coat and waistcoat (we can't say feather, you know :) keep close now for my Joe Manton: you shall see how I'll pepper him. Pray don't,' says my companion. 'A Tomkins is a Tomkins after all, and has his feelings as we have.' 'Stuff!' says I: Tomkinses don't feel as we do. They're not Christians, for they do not do as they would be done by. They're not reasoning beings, for they do not see a leg's a leg. They're not made of the same sort of stuff; and so if they bleed, it does not signify if they die of a torturing fracture, who cares? In short, it's no use talking. There's no end of these things. So here goes. Now if I hit him, he is killed outright, which is no arm to any body; and if I wound him, why he only goes groaning and writhing for three or four days, and who cares for that?'"

"Upon my soul, if I listen, you'll make a milk-sop of me. Consider-think of the advantages of fresh air and exercise; of getting up in the morning, and scouring the country, and all that."

"Excellent: but, my dear Tomkins, the birds are not bound to suffer, because you want fresh air."

"But it's the only time of the year, perhaps, that I can get out and I must have something to do-something to occupy me and lead me about."

"The birds, Tomkins, are not bound to have their legs and thighs broken, because you are in want of something to lead you about."

66

Well, you know what I mean. I mean that we must not look too nicely into these things, as somebody said about fish; or we should fret ourselves for nothing. The birds kill one another."

"Yes, from necessity; for the want of a meal. But they do not torture-or if they did, that would be because they did not reason as well as you and I, Tomkins."

"What I mean to say is, that there's pain in the world already: we cannot help it; and if we can turn it to pleasure, so much the better. This is manly, I think."

"Well said indeed. But to turn pain into pleasure, and to add to it by more pain, are two different things, are they not? To bear pain like a man, and to inflict it like a sportsman, are two different things." A sportsman can bear pain as well as any body." "Then why does he not begin by turning his own pain into a pleasure? As it is, he turns his own pleasure to another's pain. Why does he not begin with himself?"

"How with himself?"

"Why you talk of the want of amusement and excitement. Now to say nothing of cricket, and golf, and

boating, and other sports, are there no such things to be had as quarter-staves, single-stick, and broken heads? A good handsome pain there is a gallant thing, and strengthens the soul as well as the body. If there must be a certain portion of pain in the world, these were the ways to share it. But to sneak about, safe one's-self, with a gun and a dog, and inflict all sorts of wounds and torments upon a parcel of little helpless birds, Tomkins, you know not what you are at, when you do it; or you are too much of a man to go on."

"I cannot think that we inflict those tortures you speak of?"

"How many birds do you wound instead of kill? Say, upon an average, twenty to one, which is a generous computation. How many hundred birds would this make in the course of the day? How many thousands in the course of a season? To bring them down, and then be obliged to kill them, is butcherly enough: but to lame, and dislocate, and shatter the joints and bodies of so many that fly off, and leave them to die a lingering death in their agony,-I think it would not be unworthy of some philosophers and teachers, if they were to think a little of all this as they go, and not talk of the "sport" and the "amusement" like others; as if men were to be trained up at once into thought and want of thought, into humanity and cruelty. Really, men are not the only creatures in existence; and the laugh of mutual complacency and approbation is apt to contain very sorry and shallow things, even among the "celebrated" and "highly respectable." I don't speak of you, Jack; but of those who make a profession of thinking, which you know you are not under the necessity of doing. But what's the matter?"

"I've got the d-dest toothache come upon me. It's this cursed draught. Of all pains the toothache is the most horrible. I've no patience with it."

"I'll shut the door. There-now never mind the toothache, for I'll bear it capitally."

"You hear it! That's a good one. Very easy for you to bear it; but how the devil can I?-Hm! hm! (writhing about) it's the cursedest pain."

"Stay-here's some oil of cloves Mrs. Wilton has brought you. How does it feel now?"

"Wonderfully. The pain is quite gone. It was very bad, I assure you. You must not think I am wanting in proper courage as a man, because it hurt me You know, Harry, I can be as bold as most inen, though I say it who shouldn't."

So.

My dear Jack, you have as much right to speak the truth, as I have. The boldest of men is not expected to be without feeling. An officer may go bravely into battle, and bear it bravely too, but he must feel it: he cannot be insensible to a shattered knce." "Certainly not."

"Or to a jaw blown away-" "By no means."

soft and expressive: it is large, black, and full of lustre, rolling, as it seems to do, in liquid gems of dew. I had shot a bird of this beautiful species; but, on taking it up, I found that it was not dead. I had wounded its breast; and some big drops of blood stained the pure whiteness of its feathers. As I held the hapless bird in my hand, hundreds of its companions hovered round my head, uttering continued shrieks of distress, and, by their plaintive cries, appeared to bemoan the fate of one to whom they were connected by ties of the most tender and interesting nature; whilst the poor wounded bird continually moaned, with a kind of inward, wailing note, expressive of the keenest anguish: and, ever and anon, it raised its drooping head, and turning towards the wound in its breast, touched it with its bill, and then looked up in my face, with an expression that I have no wish to forget, for it had power to touch my heart, whilst yet a boy, when a thousand dry precepts in the academical closet would have been of no avail."

"Well now, Harry, that's touching; d--mme if it isn't. He's right about the precepts. You have saved 'em from being dry, eh, with your claret; but all that you have said hasn't touched me like that story. A lapwing! Hang me if I shall have the heart to touch another lapwing."

"But other birds, Jack, have feelings, as well as lapwings."

"What do you say, though, about Providence? Bilson said some famous things about Providence. What do you say to that?"

66 Oh, ho! what he

"Admits and leaves them Providence's care'Does he ?-You remember the passage, Jack, in Pope : "God cannot love (cries Blunt with tearless eyes) The wretch he starves; and piously denies. The humbler bishop, with a meeker air, Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care."

Or if

"But we are Providence, Jack. Nay, don't start; I mean that our own feelings, our own regulated feelings and instructed benevolence, are a part of the general action of Providence, a consequence and furtherance of the Divine Spirit. You see, I can preach as well as Bilson. Humanity is the most visible putting forth of the Deity's hand; the noblest tool it works with. this theology doesn't serve, recollect the fable of Jupiter and the Waggoner. Are we content with abstract references to Providence, when we can work out any good for ourselves, or save ourselves from any evil? Bilson wait for Providence to induct him to his living? Did he not make a good stir about himself? Push him into a ditch the next time you meet him, and see if he will not bustle to get out of it. Leave him to get out by himself, and see if he does not think you a hard-hearted fellow. Wing him, Jack, wing him; and see if he'll apply to Providence or a surgeon."

Did

66

CARACTACUS.

While the coward will fly to the dagger or bowl,
From the agony hairowing up the soul;
Which each new breath is a torture higher,
Each moment of time an age in fire:
The last glance of glory extinguish'd, forgot,
Man, life, and creation one hideous blot-
Loud pans the deeds of the conqueror swell,
But who will the captive's triumph tell?

From his dungeon gloom to the glare of day
Is Caractacus led by his guards away.
His wrists are link'd with an iron chain,
But he hears its clank with unalter'd mien;
For his courage is firm as that man's should be
Who has learn'd to conquer adversity.
On his brow at times a deep thought made

A hue pass over of darker shade;

Mayhap 'twas a gleam of his island earth,
His green meads of Severn and native hearth.

In blood to the last he had done and dared,
And the Roman had deeply his vengeance shared;
While, though vanquish'd, 'twas only by those who gave
To the universe law, and to freedom a grave.

Claudius sat on the world's proud throne,
Round him his glittering warriors shone;
Lord of a thousand victories, he
Concentred his empire's majesty;

That empire which stretches from Afric's pyres
To the icy North's impassive fires;
While Iberia and Mesopotamia display
The arc of its rising and setting day.
Purple and gold was the robe he wore,
With its rich folds piled on the marble floor.
Perfumes in clouds of incense arose,
Bearing the odours of amber and rose
To the ceil ngs of fretwork and ribs of gold,
And paintings rich that their wreaths enfold.
The victor's bay bound the emperor's brow,
And shaded the lightning that flash'd below
From a deep eye, dark as a winter midnight,
When the hidden thought rush'd from its depth to light.
The adamant lip and the moveless limb,

Seem to comport with none but him.
Guards and patricians stand around,
And the lictors mark the imperial bound.

Sudden the tramp of feet draws nigh,

The portal arch fixes every eye.
All is still as eternity within,
Without is a rattling fetter's din,
At intervals clanking as it draws near,
Its sound of captivity, suffering, and fear.
He comes! he comes! to the Roman gaze
That meets him in silence and in amaze,
The Briton comes, with his stature tall,
Like a lion entrapp'd in the hunter's thrall,
That looks on his bondage and seems to say-
"I am a sovereign born-I am one to-day!"
He turn'd not his head from the victor's throne,
For his sight was placed upon him alone.
The grandeur around, and the southern's pride,
Drew not his princely glance aside.
Though his palace afar on his native plain
Was a rude hut built on the wild campaign;
Though earth was the floor, and mud the wall,
To him 'twas more worth than that guilded hall.
The wolf's rough hide o'er his shoulders cast
Caught the butterfly courtier's smile as he past,
But his carriage crush'd the vain sneer ere it broke,
For his limbs were knit like his native oak-
It would humble the stoutest Roman there,
One grasp of his iron arm to dare.

"I am conquer'd, a prisoner, my crown is with theǝ; I fought that my country, my race might be free.

If this be a crime in a Roman eye,
Lictors, lead me forth, for this will I die.
Let to-morrow enthrone me in power again,
Again will I combat, although it be vain,
Thee, Claudius, or thine, and will gloriously die,
As honor requires in our far country;
There we brand a slave with a curse of scorn,
And deem none noble but the blessed free-born.
What wonld'st thou with me?-I have nothing now
Save my own stern will that the world shall not bow!"
Thus the captive said, and the Roman cried :-
"Go, his chains unloose, lest the universe wide,
While it sees us the victor in battle, may know,
We're vanquish'd in greatness of soul by a foe!"

ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.
I-TRAGEDY IN THE FAMILY OF KYTE.

this frightful piece of domestic history had been ought upon the modern stage, the dramatist, in consequence of the hero's setting his house on fire, would probably have called it (not with thorough applicability, but that does not signify to a good play-bill) the "Sardanapalus of Private Life." It is impossible, of course, to pronounce complete judgments on the parties concerned, in this or any other tragedy. To judge all, it is necessary to know all. But the writer tells us, that if Lady Kyte had begun with a little less anger, it is probable that no tragedy would have taken place.

Loving-kindness does not always effect what it wishes; but it is the only sure card to play, whether to do away evil or to lessen it. And that man must be stupid

or a monster, who would not adore, above all other women, the wife that with a real love for his person, should have treated him kindly in a matter like this.

Sir William Kyte was a baronet of very considerable fortune and an ancient family, and on his return from his travels, had so amiable a character, and was reckoned what the world calls so fine a gentleman, that he was thought a very desirable match for a worthy nobleman's daughter in the neighbourhood, of great beauty, merit, and a suitable fortune. Sir William and his lady lived very happy together for several years, and had four or five fine children, when he was unfortunately nominated at a contested election to represent the borough of Warwick, in which county the bulk of his estate lay, and where he, at that time, resided. After the election, as some sort of recompence to a zealous partizan of Sir William, Lady Kyte took an innkeeper's daughter for her own maid; she was a tall, genteel girl, with a fine complexion, and seemingly very modest and innocent. Molly Jones, for that was her name, attracted Sir William's attention; and after some time the servants began to entertain some suspicions that she was too highly in her master's favour; the housekeeper in particular soon perceived that there was too much foundation for their suspicions, and knowing that the butler had made overtures to Molly, she informed him of the circumstance, and his jealousy having rendered him vigilant, he soon discovered the whole affair, and found that it had proceeded much further than was at first apprehended. The housekeeper made use of the butler's name, as well as his intelligence to her lady; and this threw everything into confusion; Lady Kytes's passion soon got the better of her discretion: for, if instead of reproaching Sir William for his infidelity, she had dissembled her resentment till his first fondness for this new object had abated, she might probably have reclaimed her husband; who, notwithstanding this temporary defection, was known to have a sincere regard and esteem for his lady. The affair being now publicly known in the family, and all restraints of shame or fear of discovery being quite removed, things were soon carried to extremity between Sir William and his lady, and a separation became unavoidable. Sir William left

Lady Kyte with the two younger children, in possession

of the Mansion House in Warwickshire; and retired himself with his mistress, and his two eldest sons, to a large farmhouse on the side of the Cotswold hills. The situation was fine, plenty of wood and water, and commanded an extensive view of the vale of Evesham: this

tempted him to build a handsome box there, with very extensive gardens planted, and laid out in the luxurious taste of the age; and not content with this, before the body of the house was quite finished, Sir William added two large side fronts, for no better reason than that his mistress happened to say, "what is a Kite without wings?" The expense of finishing this place, which amounted at least to £10,000., was the first cause of Sir William encumbering his estate; and the difficulties in which he was involved making him uneasy; he, as is too often the case, had recourse to his bottle for relief. He kept what is called a hospitable table, and being seldom without company, this brought on a constant course of dissipation and want of economy, by which means his affairs in the course of a few years became almost desperate.

There was taken into the family about this time a freshcoloured country girl, in the capacity of a dairy-maid, with no other beauty than what arises from the bloom of youth; and as people who once give way to their passions know no bounds, Sir William, in the decline of life, conceived an amorous regard for this girl, who was scarce twenty; this event produced still further confusion in the family. Mrs. Jones soon observed this growing passion in Sir William, and either from resentment or the apprehension, or perhaps the real experience of ill usage, thought proper to retire to Cambden, a neighbouring market-town, where she was reduced to keep a little sewing-school for bread. Young Mr. Kyte, whether shocked at this unparalled infatuation of his father, or as was commonly said, finding himself exposed to the continual insults of his female favourite, sought an asylum and spent most of his time with a nobleınan, a friend of his, in Warwickshire. Sir William, though he had now a prospect of being successful in this humble amour, and of indulging it without molestation, yet began at length to see the delusive nature of all vicious pursuits, and though he endeavoured to keep up his spirits, or rather to drown all thought by constant intoxication; in his sober intervals he became a victim to gloomy reflections; he had injured a valuable wife, which he could not now reflect upon without some remorse; he had wronged his innocent children, whom he could not think upon without the tenderest sentiments of compassion. His son, who had been a sort of companion to him for several years, had now left him through his ill usage, and as Mrs. Jones had for some time been useful to him, he was shocked at being deserted even by the woman for whose sake he had brought this distress upon his family; and he found himself almost alone in that magnificent, but fatal mansion, the erecting and adorning of which had been the principal cause of ruining his fortune. Tormented by these contending passions, he had for a week raised himself by

constant inebriation to a degree of phrensy, and behaved in so frantic a manner that even his new favourite could day on which he executed his fatal resolution, he sent bear it no longer, and had eloped from him. On the for his son, and for his new mistress, with what intention can be only conjectured, but luckily neither of them obeyed the summons. Early in the evening, it being in the month of October, the butler had lighted two candles as usual, and set them upon the marble table in the hall. Sir William came down and took them up himself, as he frequently did; after some time, however, one of housemaids ran down stairs in a great fright, and said, "the lobby was still all in a cloud of smoke." The servants. and a tradesman that was in the house upon business, ran immediately up, and forcing open the door whence the smoke seemed to proceed, they found that Sir William had set fire to a large heap of fine linen, piled up in the middle of the room, which has been given by some old lady, a relation, as a legacy, to his eldest son. While the attention of the servants was entirely taken up with extinguishing the flames in this room, Sir William had made his escape into an adjoining chamber, where was a cotton-bed, and which was wainscotted with deal, as most finished rooms then were; when they had broken open this door, the flames burst out upon them with such fury that they were all glad to make their escape out of the house, the principal part of which sumptuous pile was, in a few hours burned to the ground, and no other remains of Sir William were found next morning, than the hip-bone and the vertebiæ, or bones of the back, with two or three keys, and a gold watch, which he had in his pocket. This was the dreadful consequence of a licentious passion, not checked in its infancy.

SPECIMENS OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS. SECOND SPECIMEN OF ST. EVREMOND.

His opinion of the best food; and of the English and their comedies.

at once.

It is not easy to give a complete specimen of an author His qualities are often various, and demand various samples. Those of St. Evremnod, for instance, are a gallant good-nature, a refined epicurism (in the ordinary sense of the word), great good sense in judging

of common life, and now and then a disposition to banter; which last is said to have so pervaded his manners (that is to say, the spirit of it, or the disposition to undervalue and to look at the petty side of things), as to give him a "sneering physiognomy." There is a look of this kind in some of his portraits, though not all; and it is easy enough to suppose, that a man of St. Evremond's fine, but not profound, sense, falling upon the times he did, and on such a court as Charles the Second's however he may have accommodated himself to circumstances, may have had misgivings about human nature, calculated to give this turn to his countenance. Of the good-natured gallantry we have given a sample. The banter we must keep for another time. Here follow specimens of the refined epicurism, and the solid judgThe first is part of a letter written to a friend

ment.

in exile.

JUDICIOUS EATING (if you can afford it). You'll tell me, perhaps, that I was not of so gay a humour in my own misfortunes, as I appear to be in your's; and that it is ill-breeding in a man to bestow all his concern upon his own misfortunes, and be indifferent to, nay, and even merry with the calamities of his friends. I should agree with you in that if I behaved myself so; but I can honestly affirm to you that I am little less concerned at your exile than yourself; and the little mirth which I advise you to, is in order to have a share of it myself, when I shall find you capable of receiving it.

As to what relates to my own misfortunes, if I have formerly appeared to you more afflicted under them than I seem to be at present, it is not because I was so indeed. I was of opinion that disgraces exacted from us the decorum of a melancholy air, and that this apparent mortification was a respect due to the will of our superiors, who seldom bethink themselves of punishing us, without a design to afflict us. But then you are to know that under a sad outside and mortified courtenance, I gave myself all the satisfaction I could find in myself; and all the pleasure I could take in the conversation of my friends.

After having found the variety of that grave temper we learn from morality, I should grow ridiculous myself, if I c ntinued so serious a discourse, which makes me proceed to give you some advice that shall be less troublesome than instructions.

Adapt as much as possibly you can, your palate and appetite to your health: tis a great secret to be able to reconcile the agreeable and necessary in two things, which have been almost always opposite. Yet after all, to arrive at this great mystery, we want nothing but sobriety and niceness; and what ought not a man to do that he may learn to chuse those delicious dishes at his meals, which will keep both his mind and body in a good disposition, all the remainder of the day? A

exhibitions in the world. Each boy thought himself right, and had good reason for thinking so; but there was not the same reason for thinking the other wrong. He had seen his own book with his own eyes, and had, therefore, very sufficient evidence for himself; but he could not know what evidence the other had had. Hence the folly of expecting everybody to think as we think. They will think as we think, if the same reasons are given to them, and if those reasons influence them as they influence us. If they have other reasons unknown to us, or if our reasons appear to them not to warrant our opinions, they cannot think as we think it is impossible, and there is no help for it.

"But what ought to be helped, and ought to be avoided, is our attempting to punish others because they do not see as we see, or think as we think. This is persecution.

"When I was in Lisbon, I was accompanied by a Monk to the church of St. Anthony. You have heard, perhaps, that the armorial bearings of that beautifully-situated city, are a vessel dismasted, but guided through the waters by two crows, one seated on the prow and the other on the stern of the ship. The device is in honour of a miracle said to have been wrought in favour of St. Anthony, the patron saint of the Tagus, who, when at sea, sailing on a mission to the heathens, fancied himself lost for all the crew of the vessel in which he had sailed had perished of plague, and he was left, wholly ignorant of navigation, to the mercy of the waves. In his despair, he knelt down to pray, when he saw two black pinioned birds descend from heaven, one of which seized the rudder, and the other perched on the bow of the ship: by these he was safely conducted to Portugal. And among the majority of the Portuguese there is no more doubt of the miracle than of the ordinary events of which they have been witnesses themselves. "Did you believe the story, papa?' enquired Edith.

"By no means; and, though I never said any thing which should show that I felt contempt for the credulity of the Portuguese, yet I have no doubt they considered me somewhat heretical.'

""Come,' said the monk, 'with me to the Igreja de San Antonio, and I will give you such evidence as shall be irresistible.' We walked together under the magnificent arches of the church,-between avenues of pillars, on many of which the miracles of the Saint were recorded, and we reached a narrow staircase at the foot of the tower. 'Follow me,' said the monk, ' and fear not.' I ascended after him the long, long winding stone steps, the darkness of the way being only lighted by distant gleams which broke through the narrow interstices left in the thick walls, and on reaching the top, the monk pointed out a huge cage, it was as large as an ordinary sized room, in which were two enormous black crows, gravely seated on a metal bar. Look there, Senhor,' said the monk, and bowed his head reverently before the crows; those are the identical birds which brought St. Anthony hither. And do you doubt the miracle now?'

"I doubted it, and did not doubt the less in consequence of what I saw. And why did I doubt, Edith?'

"I suppose papa, because you did not think they were the real crows that brought St. Anthony to Lisbon.' Even so, my love; and I did not believe that St. Anthony had been brought to Lisbon by crows at all; and the attempt to convince me that the two crows were still living, and had lived for many hundred of years, was one difficulty more to believe, and not one difficulty less.'

"The monk's reasoning was what logicians call 'begging the question.' He took for granted, the very thing to be proved, that St. Anthony had been escorted by the crows, and thus fancied that his telling me the crows I saw were the real crows, was to weigh down all my experience of the habits of the animal, all my knowledge of natural history, and the very natural reflection, that it was much more likely that there should be a succession of crows provided by the monk and his brethren, as the old ones died, than that a perpetual miracle should be wrought in order to prove the truth of a very improbable story. Besides, I saw that the crows were richly and regularly fed, and I might have asked him why if the crows were miraculously preserved, all the expenses of nourishing them were not saved?

"And did you not tell him, papa, that you could look through the whole of the imposture? said George. Did you not tell him that he was a rogue, and that you were not to be duped by his roguery?" "Softly, my impatient boy; that would neither have been prudent nor courteous; it would have done neither me, nor him, nor any body good. No good to me, for I should have been exposed to some danger; the Monk would have looked upon me with hatred, because my expression of incredulity would have implied contempt for his opinions, or distrust of his honesty and veracity; it would have done him no good, for it was his interest to persist in the fraud, and as to the facts of the case, he knew more about them than I did; and no good to any body else, for no body else was present. But it may do good now to you and to others, for to others you may tell the story, as I may tell it to others.

"My purpose in telling the story was not to excite your scorn or dislike towards the Monk, who, though he could not believe, against the knowledge he had, that those identical crows really escorted St. Anthony up the Tagus, may have believed that St. Anthony was escorted by crows. I did not wish you to be angry with the Monk, or the Monk's tale, but I wish to ask you two questions. If I had really desired and tried to believe the story, could I have done so, in spite of myself?"

No, indeed, papa, that would have been impossible," said the children at once.

"You would not have been so foolish."

"And if I could not have believed it, even though I wished to believe it, could I do so because the Monk, or any other person, wished one to believe it?” "Oh no! no!" they all repeated again and again. Well then, my children, the lesson I wish to teach you is this:-Never be angry with any person, merely because his opinion is not your opinion; never be angry because you cannot persuade him to change his opinion; and above all, never do him any injury, or hesitate about doing him a good, because his opinion and yours are different. Nobody can believe what he likes, however he may try to do so; at all events, if he hears all that is to be said on all sides of a question. Still less can any body believe according to the likings of others. Where you doubt, inquire. In your own opinion seek nothing but truth, because truth, after all, is the great thing. In your conduct to others, be guided by the rule that you should never cause useless pain. In the minds of the best men there is, always has been, and always, perhaps, will be, much difference of opinion as to what is true, but everybody knows and feels what is kind, and truth itself is most likely to be found when it is sought for by tolerance and benevolence.

ACCOUNT OF THE ASSAMINS. (From Part 19 (just published) of the Penny Cyclopodia,—a publication which for compressed fulness and variety of information, executed with the greatest tact and judgment, and brought up to the most recent enquiries, may compete with the very costliest of its namesakes. We have long had it upon our conscience that we did not say this before, and have now a particular, reason for regretting that we did not do so. But this must not prevent our doing it).

Assassins, a military and religious order, formed in Persia in the eleventh century. 1t was a ramification of the Ismaelites, who were themselves a branch of the great Mohammeden seat of the Shiites, the supporters of the claim of Ali's posterity to the caliphate. But among the Ismaelites there were many who were Mussulmans only in appearance, and whose secret doctrine amounted to this; that no action was either good or bad in itself and that all religions were the inventions of men. These unbelievers were formed into a secret society by one Abdallah, a man of the old Persian race, who had been brought up in the religion of the Magi, and was a hater of the Arabs and of their faith. After several bloody insurrections against the Abbaride caliphs, the Ismaelites succeeded in placing on the throne of Egypt a pretended descendant of Ismael, the seventh Imaum in the line of Ali, from whom the Ismaelites had taken their name. This descendant, whose name was Obeid Allah Mehdee, was the founder of the Fatemite dynasty, so called from Fatema, Mohammed's daughter. Under the protection of these princes a lodge of the secret doctrine was established at Cairo, and its members spread over a great part of Asia. Their ostensible object was to maintain the claims of the Fatemite caliphs to universal dominion, and to urge the destruction of the caliphs of Bagdad as usurpers. One of the adepts, Hassan Ven Sabah, thought of turning these instruments to his own advantage. He had filled high offices under the Sultan of the Seljucide Turks, but, on being disgraced, he went to Egypt, where he was received with distinction by the caliph, became a zealous adherent of the Ismaelite lodge; and, after many vicissitudes and wanderings, obtained possession, by the aid of his brethren of the hill-fort of Alamoot (or vulture's nest), situated to the north of Casvin, in Persia, and there, (A. D. 1090), established an independent society, or order, consisting of seven degrees, with himself at the head as Sheikh at jebel, i. e. sheikh of the mountain. Under him came three dai al Kebir, the grand priors of the order; 3rdly, the dais, or initiated masters; 4thly, the refeeks, or companions; 5thly, the fedafees, or devoted; 6thly, the laseeks, aspirants or novices; 7thly, the prophane or common people. Hassan drew out for the dais, or initiated, a catechism consisting of seven heads, among which were, implicit obedience to their chief; secrecy; and lastly, the principle of seeking the allegorical, and not the plain sense in the Koran, by which means the text could be distorted into anything the interpreter pleased. This did away effectually with all fixed rules of morality or

faith. But this secret knowledge was confined to a few ; the rest were bound to a strict observance of the letter of the Koran. The most effectual class in the Koran were the fedavees-youths often purchased or stolen from their parents when children, and brought up under a particular system of education, calculated to impress upon their minds the omnipotence of the sheikh, and the criminality as well as utter impossibi ity of evading his orders, which were like the mandates of heaven itself. These fedavees were clothed in white, with red bonnets and girdles, and armed with sharp daggers, but they assumed all sorts of disguises when sent on a mission. Mario Polo gives a curious romantic account of the garden at Alamool, to which the fedavee designed for an important mission, was carried in a state of temporary stupor, produced by powerful opiates, and where, on awakening he found everything that could excite and He was made to believe that was a gratify his senses. foretaste of the paradise of the prophet, reserved for his faithful and devoted servants, and thus became willing to encounter death, even under the most appalling forms, in order to secure a permanent seat in the abode of bliss. Marco Polo's narrative is confirmed by Arabian writers, and Von Hammer inclines to believe it true in the main; others attribute the visions in the garden to the effects of the intoxicating preparation administered to the fedavees. The name of haskish, which is that of an opiate made from hemp-leaves, is supposed to have been the origin of the word "Assassins;" others derive the latter from Hassan ben Sabah, the founder of the order. The word becoming familiar to the crusaders was by them carried to Europe where it was used as synonymous with that of Sicarius, or hired murderer, but the Italians have adopted it to signify a robber on the high road, without necessarily implying the crime of murder.

The assassins, either by force or treachery, gained possession of many other castles and hill-forts in Persia. The Sultan Melek Shab attacked them, the doctors of the law excommunicated them, but the fedavees carried secret death among their enemies; the Sultan's minister, Nigam ul Mulk, was stabbed, and his master soon after died suddenly, it was supposed by poison. The Assassins spread into Syria, where they acquired strong holds in the mountains near Tripoli; and the Sultan of the Seljucides was glad to come to an agreement by granting them several districts. Hassan ben Sabah, having extended his order over great part of the Mohammedan world, died at Alamoot in 1124, after thirty five years' reign. He bequeathed his authority of Keah Buzoorg Oomeid, one of the dais of the order. Buzoorg renewed the war with the Seijucides, and Aboos Wefaut, his Dai al Kebir in Syria, entered into a temporary alliance with Baldwin II. King of Jerusalem, through the agency of Hugo de Pagens, grand master of the Templars, against their common enemies the Seljucide Turks. After this, the Assassins were sometimes on friendly terms, but oftener at variance, with the Christian princes of Syria and Palestine, as well as with their Mohammedan neighbours. To accomplish their object, they never scrupled to resort to assassination. In 1126 the prince of Mosul was stabbed as he entered the Mosque by Assassins disguised as Dervises; soon after, a caliph of Bagdad was killed likewise, and also a Sultan of Cairo, notwithstanding his Fatemite.

The Syrian, or western branch of the Assassins, however, continued to exist for some years later under their Dai al Kebir, Massyad, not far from Beyroot, was their principal strong hold. The history of this branch is the most familiar to Europeans, being much interwoven with that of the Crusaders and of the great Sultan Sala-eddeen. The latter was several times in danger from the daggers of the Assassins. The Dai al Kebir Sinan, a man who had a reputation for Sanctity, sent in 1173, an embassy to Almeric, the Christian King of Jerusalem, offering, in his name and that of his people, to embrace Christianity, on condition that the Templars, who were their neighbours, would remit the annual tribute of forty thousand gold ducats which they had imposed on them, and live in future in peace and good neighbourhood towards them. Almeric was delighted with the offer, and dismissed the envoy with honour. The envoy, however, on his return to his territory, was killed by a party of Templars, led by Gaultier du Mesnil. After this, the Assassins resorted again to their daggers, which they had laid aside for many years. Among others, Conrad, Marquis of Tyre and Montferrat, was murdered by two fedavees in the market-place of Tyre, 1192. The reasons of this murder which some have ascribed to Richard

of

England, have been the subject of a long controversy, which Von Hammer does not succeed in elucidating. The assassins kept the Christians of Tripoli in continual fear. They levied contributions on the Christian princes for the safety of their lives; and they even demanded it of St. Louis, King of France, on his passing through Acre on his return from the Damietta expedition. Louis, however, indignantly refused. At last the Syrian Assassins were conquered, and their stronghold taken, by Bibars, the Mamluke Sultan of Egypt, fourteen years after the destruction of the Eastern branch by the Monguls. Many, however, found refuge in the mountains of Syria, and became mixed with the Yezeed Koords; and some of the tenets of the order are believed to still linger among them.

Hammer, Geschichte der Assassinen; also Sir John Malcolm's History of Persia; and Wilken's History of the Crusades.