importance and circulation? It is too early to answer these questions. But it is not too soon to estimate the probable value of the enterprise to the literary, political, social, and moral education and elevation of American readers.

The most obvious fact in the survey is, that Harper's Weekly occupies the same relative position to the hebdomadals that Harper's Monthly did to the magazines. It is better than the other weeklies, but in the same direction. The difference is one of quality, not of kind. It is simply a Saturday illustrated paper, with a digest of news, editorial comments, stories, literary criticisms, personal scandal and gossip, and facetiæ. All these departments are thus far fairly filled. The summary of news is admirable. It is a compendious current history of the world. The notices of books are pointed and emphatic; but little space is allowed to them. The tales are of two kinds-the sentimental and the horrible-which are the two most popular varieties. The jokes are of the kind usually called Joe Millers, and the best comic illustrations are taken from Punch. Its lighter editorial articles, or comments and observations upon society, indulge in personalities not very adroitly concealed; and the attempt at humor is sometimes more conspicuous than the success. The heavier editorials are, beyond question, of the very heaviest kind of newspaper writing; and it is a signal proof of the intrepid resolution with which the journal is conducted, that it survived its very first leader. The illustrations, as yet, are not very many; but they are well executed, and the typography of the paper is very handsome.

Such is a fair account of this new weekly periodical, which commences with more chances of pecuniary success than any weekly ever undertaken in America. The business facilities of the eminent publishing house under whose auspices it appears, secure to it an extensive circulation and support; while the knowledge of the general popular taste, so obviously displayed in the conduct of the Magazine, will do equal service to the Weekly; and the liberality of the management will attract and satisfy the most various talent.

But it seems to us impossible that, in a country of intelligent and decided opinion, an opinionless newspaper should do more than amuse an hour. Already the spirit of the paper is manifestly that

of the Magazine. The very first leader, to which we have alluded, was simply a very long and very dull sermon upon the Union, which, aiming to be neutral and save all sides, simply took one side with lumpish complacency; and, under the protection of the most venerable commonplace, entirely avoided the point of the question. It seemed as if that article were the draft of a Castle Garden report, which had been rejected for its hopeless heaviness, when its topic was timely, and had been now resuscitated to do duty as a universal pacificator. Now, in any country of decided opinions, not to have an opinion is to be on one side. For instance: whenever any question, like that of slavery, has introduced itself into every interest and into all thoughts, as it has undeniably done, if a northern newspaper or magazine always ducks and dodges, or, with an air of calm superiority, straddles the fence by preaching platitudes or abstractions, it is clear enough to common sense that it prefers silence or smiling to the possibility of alienating the support of a certain class. It calls itself neutral, or noncommittal, or universal. It claims to be above party and to go for the whole country, which are all admirable things to be and to do. But, it is quite beyond argument, that, in the present juncture of our affairs, to decline to take a decided position with one sentiment, is to take a most decided stand with the other. And, just in the degree that the reticence is obstinate, the contempt for it is profound.

This is the paralysis of Harper's Weekly. In the war of the roses it thinks that white is a good color, but then it thinks red is a good color, too. It is sure that a great deal may be said for white, but then it believes there is much to be urged for red. It is convinced that white is rather rash; but then it is confident that red is too impetuous. It is sure that white is right; but then it is equally sure that red is not wrong. The side which such a view takes is patent. It is simply its own side the side of offending nobody-the side of not exciting warmth of opposition, but only a gentle smile of derision. For every reader of the paper has his opinion of the subject it discusses, and he sees that the effort of the editor is, without knowing his opinion, not to offend him.

Whenever unanimity of public opinion may be assumed, then Harper's

Weekly cordially agrees with the public. In the matter of city government, everybody interested is sure that the city ought not to be governed by the remote rural districts; and it is charming to remark with what edifying emphasis the Journal of Civilization leads off upon that side. In the matter of national government, on the other hand, things are not so unanimous, and the good journal wriggles, with all Macheath's facility, and none of his brilliancy, between the two charmers. So, in the matter of William Walker, the valiant Captain Harper Macheath wisely shifts all his own responsibility upon “the future historian." That individual it is who "will see" and "will say." His history "will proceed," and this and that circumstance will be "leading events in history." Speaking for himself, the captain thinks Walker the "most enterprising of the Northmen," and an "audacious gentleman," and " hero," and proceeds to state "how matters stand," which he humorously tells us is not so easy, considering the manner in which truth from Central America is manipulated. In this delightful strain of persiflage he treats the whole matter. The famine among Walker's men is touched with appropriate humor. Henningsen "had been caged by Belloso in an old church of our lady;" :6 a wag might characterize" affairs in some waggish way, and "we," Captain Harper Macheath, "in estimating these odds, sit by, watching the struggle very much as the ancient Greeks looked on at the Isthmian games of their day."

Precisely; but how, if all thoughtful and hopeful Greece were taking part in the game? No leader or intelligent participator in affairs, such as every American newspaper, which treats such topics, must be, by its very nature, can occupy that remote position. It is obviously taken here in order that nobody may think, on the one hand, that Captain Macheath is a filibuster; and, on the other, that nobody may think he is not. Quitting his persiflage, he safely calls Louis Napoleon "a sometime vagabond of the St. James's street hells," because the captain knows he may say what he will of him and nobody will be offended.

But Walker is a hero "who enlisted for a dynasty," although the captain had just said that he might triumph without " damage to the cause of universal democracy," and Prince Arthur and the Chevalier Bayard are summoned to offer an indirect homage to "an article of our own time;" and all this, because it is not quite safe to call William Walker a vagabond, in view of the recent election, and of the fact that he has a large sympathy among certain political classes. The simple truth, as the history of the last two years has abundantly shown, is, that Walker is an inefficient pirate, whose career is unillustrated by a single noble act or generous aim, who has prostituted the American name and cause in every way, and who has directly caused more horrible suffering than all the last thousand murderers who have been justly hanged. Captain Harper Macheath chin-chins to the public, announces that his "constant devotion to the principles of right and justice shall win the approbation of the wise and the good," and then asks, of an adventurer who is apparently as much fool as he is knave, "Who knows how soon he may replace the laurel of the hero for the diadem of a king?"

We have said enough, certainly, to show our estimate of the probable value to American literature, politics, and morals, of the new enterprise of Harper's Weekly. Like the magazine, it will follow, and echo, and shirk; but whoever believes in his country and its constant progress in developing human liberty, will understand that he has no ally in Harper's Weekly. But, as a repository of pleasant, various reading, of sprightly chit-chat, and safe, vague, and dull disquisitions upon a few public questions, it will, probably, live long, and be widely sold. What we have said is with mortification, that, in the youngest, most hopeful, most favored, and most generally intelligent country in the world, a weekly journal should be started with every auspice of permanence, aiming only to be the organ of the circumlocution office, and show, with all the imposing respectability of the bald and benign old patriarch, how not to do it.

CHAPTER XII.

JOHN BOWSON was far from being

the only man in Salem who had become nearly idiotic with superstition and terror. Plenty of others were daily growing wild-eyed and haggard. Nor were these sufferers all, like him, in their own dwellings; many of them groaned in prison. Week by week the earth opened under some one's footsteps, and let him sink into those cells which, as yet, seemed only the antechambers of the grave. All, who came under trial, were condemned; and all, who came under condemnation, perished. A prosecution, at this period of the dreadful drama, was like hydrophobia-so inevitable was its deadly termination. And, while those spirits in prison waited for the sure coming of death, their bodies were galled with suffering. The Salem jail measured only thirteen feet high and twenty feet square; yet, through all the hot summer months, its narrow cells were crammed with captives. Their board was charged them at two and sixpence a week; they could not complain so much of its cost, as of its quantity and quality. The shackles, on the contrary, were good, but rather expensive; the set which garnished Martha Carrier, stood her in fourteen shillings.

On the last day of June, five women, some of them church-members, were led before the court, and, a few days after, were carted to Gallows Hill. John Willard helped those women, one after another, from the cart to the gibbet; put the rope around their necks; felt them sob against his shoulder; saw them vibrate in their ultimate agony: and went home sick, to the bottom of his soul. He sat on his door-step, after supper, with his head between his hands, and counted over those whom he had carried to prison, until the woeful muster-roll reached forty. "That is the last," he muttered; "I've done my part. Witches or not, the blood of forty souls is enough for John Willard!"

He looked up at the moment; for he heard his gate swing briskly open. There was the tall, thin, dignified form, high features, and cold, steady, gray

eyes of Justice Curwin. "Good even, sheriff," said he, holding up three or

four folded papers before Willard's face.

"Here's more work for ye. Four new commitments. We shall soon root out the evil, at this rate."

"Master Curwin," replied Willard, speaking in his usual slow way, but with a tone of grave, collected resolution, "I've done!"

"Done what?" asked the other, with a stare of haughty amazement.

"I've done committing!" persisted the sheriff-a glow of excitement steal ing over his usually quiet, slow-thoughted, but kindly countenance.

"Why, what d'ye mean ?" said Curwin, perplexed, but growing indignant. "Are you marshal and deputy-sheriff, or not? Have you taken the oaths, or. not?"

"I've been marshal and deputysheriff, but I've done being so," responded Willard. "I've taken the oaths, but you may just take 'em back agen. I've bloodied my hands enough with your commitments."

Explanations and arguments followed, which ripened into a loud and angry altercation, and ended by Curwin stalking away, with the papers still in his hand, and a flush of wrath on his thin, aristocratic countenance.

All the while the dispute continued. a fair, mild-browed young woman stood just inside the open door, unobserved, but listening to everything. When the imperious justice had disappeared, she came out on the step, and put a trembling arm around Willard's neck. "Oh, John," said she, "I'm afeard! Won't they do aught to you? Don't stay here, John."

"I've the fastest horse in Salem, Betsy; and I feel better in my conscience now," he replied.

Some moving figures loomed up the road through the twilight; and, catching sight of them, she drew him hurriedly into the house.

The next day, just after dinner, as Rachel and Margaret Jacobs sat knitting, they were startled by a tramp of horses' feet on the sward in front of the cabin, which came so suddenly, that it seemed as if some demon-riders had alighted to earth from a passing cloud.

At a loud, harsh call, of "Halloo the house! "Rachel opened the door, and saw two horsemen, one of whom was our thick-set, bull-necked friend, George Herrick. "Lass," said he, without further salutation, "is yer father home?"

"No, sir," she answered, "he is gone a-fishing."

"Seen John Willard hereabouts?" he continued.

She told him, no.

"Hear'n anybody go by here a-horseback last evenin', or airly this morning?" was his next question.

Rachel said that she had heard nothing.

That other woman hear'n anything?" he continued, leaning over his saddle-bow, and peering into the cabin at Margaret Jacobs.

"No-none of the family had heard anything."

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S'pose you know me?" he said, looking Rachel full in the eyes; "I'm sheriff and marshal now-Sheriff Herrick. If you've seen anything, or hear'n anything, you must tell me."

Rachel again assured him of her utter ignorance on the subject of his inquiries.

He gave a dissatisfied grunt, and, bidding his comrade "come along," rode off at a trot.

"Dear me !" said Rachel to Margaret, "I wonder what's gone of Sheriff Willard? I hope they are not going to commit him. He's a good, kind man, if he is sheriff. Are you afraid to stay here alone, Margaret? I wish you were not. I want to go to the village, and find out about Sheriff Willard."

Margaret loved Rachel to that extent, that she was willing to suffer any amount of fright, to do the girl a pleasure, and she, therefore, declared that she was quite able to stay in the cabin alone; although she resolved, in secret, to lock the door, shut the windows, in spite of the heat, and read the Bible, until Rachel's return. Horse-shoe there was none, to guard the threshold from witches; she had nailed one there once, but Master More had angrily torn it up, and thrown it away.

"There are those roasted pigeons," observed Rachel; "father won't care, if I take them to Martha Carrier."

So, half a dozen of the birds presently nestled in a clean Indian basket,

which Rachel put on her arm; and, thus charitably freighted, set out, through the murmuring wizard woods, for the village. On reaching the little jail, she was surprised to find Teague Rooney pacing up and down before it, in the dignity of sentinel! Instead of lounging at his post, as a New Englander would have done, he held himself as straight as a ramrod, kept his enormous duck-gun at a perpendicular, and marched back and forth, in straight lines, with a stride of absurd stiff

ness.

"Why, Teague !" said Rachel, “how came you on guard?"

"Och, murther, Misthress Rachel! the crame o' the mornin' to yiz!" replied this native Emerald. Ön guard, is it? Deed, an' I was put on guard. Ye must know that the thrain-band is gettin' slapey, wid all this night-worrk and day-worrk; not to mintion, that some o' them is within. So they takes most anybody that comes to hand, for the business; an' I was mighty convaynient for 'em, ye know. An' so, here I am, howldin up a gun-barrl as weighty as a barrl o' cidher, an' much dhrier!"

"What's become of John Willard ?" she asked.

"Bedad!" said Teague, "an' that's jist what all Salem is askin' itself, without gettin' much of an answer. But there's shupay rior raysons, misthress, for belayvin that he's made away wid himself."

"What! killed himself?" exclaimed Rachel, with a look of horrified amaze

ment.

"No" said Teague. "He needn't throuble his head about not bein' kilt soon enough. But it's ginerally supposed that he's run off intirely. Surely, 'twas a mighty sthrong timptation for him so to do, whin they wanted to sthretch his neck for him!"

"What! have they found him guilty, too?" asked the girl.

"Begorra, mistḥress, an' they havn't found him at all yit, guilty or innocent; though I belayve they're doin' their best to thry. Anyhow, they've scotched the little eldher, which must be a great consolation to 'em."

"What little elder?" said Rachel. "There is no little elder."

explained Teague "Sure, an' he's in there as safe as Moses in the bulrushes; but not so comfortable, though; they're too many in a bed, already; an' to-morrow he goes to Boston."

"Elder Burroughs-you mean Elder Burroughs!" exclaimed the girl, in wonder.

"Yis, that's the man; Eldher Warren or Eldher Burroughs; I knew it was something as partained to rhabbits," replied the Irishman.

Oh, Teague, let me go in," said Rachel; "I know Elder Burroughs, and I want to give these pigeons to Martha Carrier."

Wait a bit, misthress," replied Teague; "I'll get ye intrance, if any's to be had."

Disappearing through the low doorway, he presently returned, followed by William Daunton, the jailer. That important official looked rather sulky, but brightened up at sight of Rachel's handsome face. He examined the basket to see that it contained no instruments of sorcery or jail-breaking, and then told the girl to follow him. By an enormously thick oaken door, studded with spikes, through a short and narrow passage, paved with cobble-stones, and then through a second doorway, as strongly guarded as the first, she passed into a cell of the Salem prison. The building was divided into two apartments, each about nine feet in breadth by eighteen in length; the one occupied by men, the other, which Rachel now entered, by women. A little light fell through a single small window, placed ten feet above the floor, and rudely but strongly grated. Seven beds, some of them mere heaps of straw, occupied nearly the entire floor; and on each bed sat or lay the form of her who was to lie there until the cart should carry her to Gallows Hill. Three or four anxious faces looked up, and there was a dull clank of chains when the door opened, while a dark figure rose from a kneeling posture, near one of the pallets, and, after some whispered words of farewell to the prisoner who occupied it, came toward the visitor. She recognized the mild old Higginson, who bade her a kind good-morning, and then passed out in silence. The girl trembled as she heard the portal jar, and the key grind in the heavy lock behind her. "Is Martha Carrier here?" she said, without moving. A sitting figure in the, furthest

corner, raised its head, but made no other answer, although Rachel advanced to it, and sank down on her knees among the straw by its side. “ Martha, it's Rachel More; don't cry. Oh, how sorry I am for you," she said, and began to sob.

"I never cry," replied the woman, in a cold, hard, monotonous voice. Rachel continued to sob, without speaking, and presently the prisoner seemed moved by this sympathy; for she reached out her hand, and laid it softly on the girl's arm. "Come nearer to me," she said; "I can't move easily; I'm chained by the feet."

Rachel crept close to her, and put her arms around the neck of the desolate creature. "Oh, Martha! you have befriended me, and I can do nothing for you," she whispered. "Yes, though; I have brought you some pigeons; here they are, in the basket."

"Dear Rachel, you make me cry," murmured the poor woman. "I thought I never would cry again. I said I never would let these people make me shed a tear, nor ever open my lips to one of them again. But you are not of them, and I am glad you have come. Where is my little girl?"

Rachel told all she could about Sarah, without, as she thought, hurting the mother's feelings.

"But Sarah has witnessed against me," said the prisoner; "tell me about that."

"I hoped you hadn't heard of that, Martha," replied the girl; and she went on to relate, in as gentle terms as possible, the scene of the deposition, and the subsequent troubles of her uncle, taking care, however, not to mention the whipping. "Poor thing!" observed Martha, quietly. "They have talked it into all that. It doesn't know what it says. It doesn't understand.”

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She burst into a hysterical laugh at the trials of Deacon Bowson; but, after a little while, she became grave, and, putting her mouth close to Rachel's ear, said, in a low whisper: "Noyse has been here. He asked what I said to you. He wanted to pray with me. I spit at him. Promise me that you never will marry him. Promise! That is little punishment enough."

Rachel promised solemnly, and, we may be sure, with the most hearty sincerity of intention. In a moment after, Daunton opened the door, and called: