when you first blamed my morbid love of murder gossip. Duncan did marry. A landed proprietor owes a duty to his country, to his tenantry; he may not isolate himself from them, or deprive them of the benefits arising from his home, his example. "It is not meet for man to be alone;" and a country gentleman requires a wife to share his labours, to add to the comforts of his cottagers. Duncan then married, and was happy, though it was long ere he recovered from the bitterness of his first disappointment. Of Marian but little remains to be said: she never left the asylum, but lived there in voluntary seclusion. She was not mad, perhaps; but she had no faith in her own sanity; she dared not put it to the test. We were once relating this anecdote in the presence of a celebrated physician. "I am not surprised," he said; "all the latest medical writers, Devargie, Rook, Esquirol, Pinel, Georget, agree respecting the imitative symptoms of insanity, particularly of homicidal mania. Your Miss Campbell was of a nervous temperament, and peculiarly excitable; a horrid murder strikes her imagination, she broods over its details until mania ensues; and she fancies she hears a voice impelling her to do the same. Look into the statistics of crime, you will find that a terrible! assassination seldom takes place without being followed by three or four, some minutely following the details of the parent crime, others differing, but most commonly of greater atrocity. Read the records of each, and you will find that the criminals have frequently alluded to their first prototype before committing the deed, thus showing that those actions were deeply impressed on their minds." And so it is; yet, while we remark on the singularity of the fact, we seek no further, we look not beyond the surface. We say that one crime breeds many, and then rush to swell the throng which crowds our assize courts, or devour the page which records each detail of the deed, each trivial action of the murderer. How much more civilized are we, when we seek this thrilling excitement, or point our glasses at the murderer's dock, calmly scanning the frenzied movements of the condemned felon, than the donna at the bull-fight, or the Roman vestals who, with graceful gesture, doomed their gladiators to die? Can we sneer at them till we have learned to guard ourselves and our families from the contagion of this unnatural excitement? AN IMPERTINENT EPIGRAM. When Eve brought woe to all mankind, That people call them whim-men. "THE PHILOSOPHER;" OR, "TWERE WISER TO FORGET. BY F. L. JAQUEROD. "Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie." SHAKSPERE. No tears I'll shed, I'll sigh no more; The fountains of my heart are dry- Since nought avails, when worldly strife The recollections of the past, The joys of boyhood's hour, Since, too, of youth the golden beam Has now for ever set, And all its promise prov'd a dream- In life's gay noon Love whisper'd me And Hope-sweet Hope !-came cheerily But soon I found that Fortune, Love, And Hope had only met, This after-truth to teach and prove→ And said they not that Friendship's balm But Friendship borrow'd pence and pound, Then Law, in sense of right so bold, Said "Friendship must repay," Of Mem'ry's sad decay— Yet, though Love, Friendship, Fortune, Law, Yes, there is one-who as a guide, One, whom-though worldlings may deride, Now that some little wisdom's mine, And breathe sweet lessons from above- Nimes, South of France, THE PLEASURES OF AN EDITOR. (From a MS. found in the desk of a country gentleman.) To a young and ardent mind, the position of editor is a high and honourable one. With what a dreadful awe of "the editor" does the literary tyro drop his neatly written MS. into the fateful box, and slink away lest any should have seen the deed! In my early days I felt this wholesome dread, and the first time I met the editor of the " Dumbledon Argus" (a small country paper, to whose poetic department I had for some time contributed), I say, when I met the editor for the first time, I thought I should have fainted. The romance I had woven around him was somewhat dispelled by the entrance of a little girl, who said, "Please, papa, will you come to dinner? the meat is getting cold." This brought him near the level of humanity, and in time we became very fast friends. Many years after this an acquaintance, who edited a magazine, was taken ill, and knowing my literary predilections, wrote to invite me to take his place for one month. I went up to London, and took possession of his private room, and his desk. I must own I felt no little pride in my new position. I read MSS. with great dignity, and was pitiless in consigning half-fledged sonnets and weak tales to that "refuge for the destitute," the waste-paper basket. On the fifth day of my reign a gentleman and his daughter called. The gentleman accosted me by asking for the editor of the magazine. I told him I had undertaken the editorship for a month, in consequence of my friend's illness. He looked at his daughter, and said, "I have brought you a new correspondent." "Indeed," cried I, raising my eyelids, and glancing at the girl, who might be about fifteen years of age. "A wonderful talent!" whispered the father, taking me by the button-hole-" wonderful! Gets by herself in the moonlight, and thinks about nobody knows what." "Indeed!" I said again-'twas all I could say. "Jooly," said he, "give me the verses you brought." And the partial father declaimed, à la Garrick in Hamlet, these beautiful stanzas "The robin tunes his cheerful lay I shook my head. "The lines are not suited to our pages, sir," I said, repressing an obstinate smile. He knitted his brow, and glared at me for a moment. "Not suited! Eh? Why, what an expression is that, Flowers blush!' You seem to see the full-cupped rose before you, in all its fragrance. Not suited, sir! You authors, I have heard, are jealous of a new appearance of talent. But is the real editor at hand?" "He is too ill to see you," replied I; "but if you will give me your card, I will let him see the verses as soon as possible, and he will write to you. To tell you the truth, they are not up to our standard." Unhappy sincerity! The tall Irishman looked at the heavy leaden inkstand with an unpleasant eye, which he then brought to bear on my head. I moved involuntarily; the thought flashed across me that he might hurl it at me. "Not up to your standard you mean, pennya-liner; who are you, to insult a gentleman? Mr. the editor, shall suffer for the impu dence of his hireling; I'm a partner in the house where he banks, and next time he overdraws his account"- And he shook his fist. I looked at him with more respect than heretofore, now I knew he was a banker, as I interrupted him by saying, "Indeed, sir, don't allow my opinion to vex you; the lady is young, and may improve." "Ma said they were equal to Pope," sobbed Jooly, wiping her eyes. "Ma was right," said the choleric father; "refer me to a friend, you wretched scribbler; I'll have you out for this. Here, give me a wine-glass; I'll show you what you have to expect." He took a wine-glass from the table, and having placed it on the window-sill, opened the window, and, retreating a good distance, deliber ately shot it clean off the stem by means of a pocket-pistol. "Now," said he, "will ye fight, or own yourself a coward at once?" "And agree to print the verses, pa," said Jooly, faintly. The father, however, in the pleasure of a quarrel, had forgotten its cause, and took no notice of the suggestion. In this awful manner a man three times my size bullied me for an hour at least, and at last compelled me to make an apology, for I was too small to object. Then in wrath he withdrew, with Jooly and the verses, saying he would call again when the editor was better. 1 I am a timid man, and was so frightened by this awful visit that I was fit for nothing all day. It was the beginning of my troubles. The magazine came out next day, and I was assailed by a shower of notes. These are some of them: SIR,-I am astonished and vexed at your duplicity; I can use no milder term. After promising me a favourable review, you have abused my book in the most unconscionable manner; and the very passage you praised extravagantly in my presence, three weeks ago, is made the chief subject of your vituperation. I have been asked by --, the bookseller, to look over and give my opinion of the novel you have submitted to him; I shall decline the office, although my favourable verdict would have secured you the publication of your book, and a handsome sum of money. It is not in human nature to promise you a continuance of my powerful good influence. I am, Yours, &c. It was clear he did not suspect that the editor was disabled, and his place supplied by a raw recruit. I was very sorry, for instead of benefiting my friend I had injured him, and that deeply. On this very review I had congratulated myself ever since I wrote it; it appeared to me so just, so witty, and yet so elegantly written. Alas! alas! Note number two ran thus: Mrs. of the presents her compliments to the Editor Magazine, and begs to inquire why Miss's flimsy tale is placed before her "Essay on Chinese Jurisprudence?" She considers it not only a proof of injustice, but of bad taste; indeed Miss - -'s DRIBBLING INANITIES ought never to be printed at all. Miss's "Biographical Notices of the most remarkable Artisans employed in the building of the great Chinese Wall" will, nevertheless, be resumed next month. Should the slight be repeated, Mrs. must decline taking any further trouble about the magazine. Note number three: Caius Gonville, Esq. presents his respects to the Editor of the Magazine, and is exceedingly displeased by the gross misprinting of his Greek quotations. He is positively twitted with the errors by a little brother at Eton, only in his eleventh year! He is astonished that a man in Mr. —'s position has not found means to acquire such an ancient and useful language. He must beg that an ample apology be made in next month's cover. The fourth was from the editor himself, to whom I had transmitted the notes quoted, and five hundred others: DEAR SIR,-You have done me more harm than good by your exertions in my behalf; six months will hardly mend all the mischief you have caused. You were made for a country gentleman; not for an editor, that is very clear. You have praised to the skies the book written by my greatest enemy, Mr. THE UNKNOWN. (From the French.) In the days of my youth a singular adventure occurred to me, the recital of which is enough to make the most intrepid shudder. I was hardly twenty years of age when my father sent me to Paris, to study for the bar. Naturally | fond of quietude, I took no interest in the frivolous amusements of the capital; all my pleasures consisted in following with ardour the lectures of those wise professors who lavish the treasures of their learning on the youth of France collected around them. The Revolution was raging with all its fury. The Reign of Terror was omnipotent, and blood flowed everywhere; the sciences, so foreign to political strife, suffered from the general state of anarchy; the schools were closed, and I, confined to my poor apartments in the Faubourg St. Jacques, blessed my happy obscurity, and reduced to the solitary study of Cujas and Barthole, awaited with impatience the coming of happier days. One night, when I had remained from home later than usual, I traversed with a rapid step the Marais, in order to regain my peaceful home. Arrived at the Place de Grève, with which so many frightful recollections are associated, the first object I beheld was the scaffold then erected in front of the Hôtel de Ville. At this period the terrible instrument of death was in dreadful activity, and every passing day witnessed the immolation of many innocent victims. Seized with horror I was about to turn away, to avoid the hideous machine, when, by the faint glimmer of a distant lamp, I thought I perceived something move at the foot of the scaffold. I was always of a romantic and adventurous disposition, and my first impression was that the mysterious object was some unfortunate creature doomed to sorrow by the deeds of the bloody tribunal, and that my assistance might be useful and consolitary. Impressed with this idea, I advanced boldly; and soon distinguished a woman dressed in black, seated at the foot of the fatal ladder. Her face, extremely pale, was of dazzling beauty, and a large collar of black silk bound round her neck, set off its brilliant whiteness. She appeared a prey to that mute despair so much more agonizing than cries and noisy lamentations. The long tresses of her beautiful black hair waved idly at the will of the cold wind, and her mournful gaze was intently fixed on the bloody altar, where, without doubt, she had seen immolated one whom she had held most dear. Moved with compassion, I approached; and with words of kindness endeavoured to rouse her from her state of sad dejection. For a long time she appeared insensible to my presence; but by degrees became attentive to my consolations, and fixed her brilliant eyes upon me. I respected her grief, and, without asking her questions, offered to escort her to her family or friends. "I have no friends on earth," she replied, with a sepulchral voice. "But at least you have some place of refuge?" "Yes, the grave," was her reply. I was much moved, and confess to a tear or two of pity trickling down my cheek. This stranger inspired me with an interest difficult to describe. Till that day a constant application to study had preserved me from the pleasures of youth; but it seemed that this extraordinary meeting had decided the fate of my life. My heart beat with violence, and I felt persuaded that the hand of Providence had conducted me to that spot, to become the protector of one so beautiful, so unhappy, and so forsaken. "Whoever you are," said I, in my enthusiasm, "trust to me; I am a man of honour; I will try to replace all you have lost; will be your friend-your brother. I swear never to abandon you!" The unknown looked at me earnestly for a moment, as if to penetrate my thoughts, and then, letting her hand fall in mine, she replied, with a solemn voice, "I consent." At the same time she arose, took my arm, which she grasped convulsively, and we directed in silence our steps towards the smoky district of La Sarbonne. Arrived at my modest habitation, I placed my beautiful companion in a large easy-chair, by the side of a blazing fire, and hurried to the next apartment to procure her some refreshment. I was absent but a moment; but on my return I found she had fallen back in the chair, and, as I thought, fainted. I approached, and found her a corpse! Horror-stricken, and almost beside myself, I called loudly for assistance. The alarm spread quickly, the police were sent for, and the commissaire of the district arrived without delay. The body was placed upon my bed, and the officer took a candle from the table to examine it; but hardly had he approached it, when he cried, with an accent I shall never forget, "Great God! who has conducted this woman hither?" "Do you know her?" I exclaimed. "Without doubt," he replied; "she was executed this morning." In saying this, he untied the black collar encircling her alabaster neck, and her head rolled upon the floor! At this horrible sight I gave a shriek, and awoke. I found myself in bed, and perceived that I had been the sport of a dream! W. G. MY UNCLE NED'S NOTIONS OF A GENTLEMAN. There are no two words in the English language more frequently misapplied, than those of gentleman and friend; and although I may be wrong in my conclusion, I am disposed to think that it requires a tincture of each to make either in perfection. To go carefully into the etymology of the latter, we find the Latin word amicus, signifying friend, has its origin in amo, to love; whilst Dr. Johnson has it-"Friend, s., an intimate, a confident, a favourer." His definition, I take it, to be somewhat vague and unsatisfactory; since a man may be all these, and yet devoid of sincerity, the element of all union, sociality, honour, truth, virtue, worth, and everything which has a tendency to make life a boon, and social intercourse a blessing. Some, I have little doubt, in answer to this, would be disposed to aver, that sincerity and candour in the expression of our thoughts and feelings would be the most direct means of making a breach in friendship. With the self-conceited, self-sufficient coxcomb, who is just one remove from an idiot, I think this might probably be the case; with the waspish, testy, and captious, it might also have its influence; but with the sound-thinking, modest, and sterling man, it would be appreciated. "Those are our friends who tell us of our faults, And teach us how to mend them." How beautifully and how truly has Shakspere illustrated this in the quarrel of Brutus and Cassius, who, when the former tells him he "does not like his faults," Cassius replies, "A friendly eye could never see such faults." How keen and yet how true is the answer of his friend-" A flatterer's would not!" A shallow, time-serving, toad-eating, hollow sycophant, is not a desirable acquaintance, and can never be a true friend. And yet these pass current, and have their value; but, like small sins, they grow to damn their encouragers. It has been said, and often quoted, that "the world, without a friend, is but a wilderness." And still, with this axiom before us, they are as rare as flowers in winter, and require as much care, warmth, and cultivation, to secure. To be entirely a friend a man must be entirely disinterested, having a heart made up of charity, and a disposition framed for forgiveness. These principles draw so largely upon our moral resources, that unless the heart has been thoroughly tried by adversity, and has invested a large experience, it can scarcely answer to the call. Real want teaches us to sympathise with distress, and distress needs no tongue to plead its cause with those who have been sufferers. The inflated monetary magnifico knows it not. He revels in the excess of the pride of accumulation, and deems those unworthy who have been less fortunate, and ascribes the sunken cheek, the hollow eye, and the broken spirit, to unthrift, want of genius, or non application; and has just enough of mind to evince contempt for his decrepit brother. How different in this respect are the poor to each other! They have felt the hard hand of a vexatious want;" they know the solace of a friendly crust; and although it may be hard, it is softened by the spirit of sympathy, and gives to the giver a self-satisfaction incomparably greater than the relief afforded to the recipient. There is no ostentation here: the poor, isolated, semi-destitute cottage can give shelter to the mendicant from the unfriendly blasts of the northern night winds: he departs ere the grey dawn streaks the horizon, taking with him the sorrows, sympathies, and regrets of his poor host, whilst his own brother may be revelling in luxury-has his name enlarged with gilt letters in the hall of some hospital, but has not the courage to recognise a poor relation upon whom the world and its vanities have frowned, and who may have too much pride, even in his destitution, to show his blood his own humility, but wanders on in the hope that death will sooner or later close his sufferings, and oblivion obliterate his memory. This is no overdrawn picture, but one of daily recurrence. I remember an anecdote almost a synonym to the foregoing. Two brothers, with whom I was acquainted, but whose dispositions were diametrically opposite-the younger, from his genius and acquirements, won notice and regard wherever he went, and secured the deepest love of an affectionate parent; whilst the elder, although equally educated, from moving in a different sphere, acquired certain crude notions which excluded him from the same recherché society, as it made his own deficiency apparent to himself. This produced a strangeness between the brothers, which sunk into a jealousy, and ultimately a most determined hatred, which the elder, by virtue of his seniority, had a subsequent opportunity of putting in force, and which he exerted with the utmost pertinacity. Old sturdy Time wore on apace, Depressed by fortune, he most unguardedly made an appeal to the elder, not in the spirit of |