The Sun. — London, England, 1847-09-03 00:00:00

TtIE SUN, GR A) , LITERATURE. -'T LEY MANOR. 3 Vols. By Lady Geer- Because L giana Fullerton. very bosun tidy Georgiana Fullerton has written a ea _ _ful domestic tale, we are not, on that ac lii",.!_;ondisposed to make supercilious or depreciatory !s to those novelists who have failed in their delin eationstb e _ n of character, much less to derogate from eott:_qaestionable genius of some of her literary teitZsPnrariete The appearance of a romancist who vsnstr u r at natural ca p ac it y i n t h e compos iti o n and bemuse'Tß of a ficti on b y no means di sposes u s to t o te__cnurlish w i t h t h e unsuccess f u l , or un j us t th eir e who have already acquired celebrity by leh r ,, nar ratives. Th e f ormer h ave th e ir own ee „'" e st in their failure ; the latter their own re eeect; in their popularity. The former are below kie er na tion; the latter are above praise. The l et !annot•b e saved from oblivion ; the latter beea-l eery depriv e d of fame. We are conscious t h at V I,,ireration has its defamers, be it a generation kiv e li st ° rsi or statesmen, or historians, or poets, or iti 1 (14 8 ' Dr• Smollett was so peculiarly disposed ti ttrie n the credit of everything and everybody that tv,„ e under tra.oelleetepropriately) his inspection, that he was christened Sme 1 'fungus. Each age has it Se e t c e aeh country is cursed with its Smell - Not i ld , ' 1 " - e have o urs . Th e political Smollett Elliso n "„ r f a . w an invidious inference from the corn 'elsore:' ~,anY class or profession with its prede- Ne e „, 11 , e would protest to the Pitts and 'Ns eltnat they must " hide their diminished Polk uefere the superior memories of the Wal tetepeaad the B o li ng b rokes; he wou ld i n t h e same l'itt a 7, h rr ernind the Greys and the Cannings of the 41 13 o r the Chath ams ; the Peels and the Rus- Nite it the Grey s an d t h e C ann i ngs ; an d regard. 411, h.2t'sr the eloquence of a Sheil and an O'Con ,tiee.-4,„,ase Gratta n an d Curran had gene before ktt e l, here we to take the estimates of the Smol iittelgtellee-ts°' critics as conclusive, we should view the , et '" Progress of mankind as one of perpetual 1 013 e a, nth decadence. We should put the : 18 Slibr in l l l "a Shakspere because lEschylus tenqu e l ' uPen Turenne because Hannibal was Nous roe, ~,...__ Il k''n Watt because Archimedes was in ketifruopwoinedLgeeeerrier because Kepler was profound of astronomy. According to this list abauy haferior to kecei:bi of Systematic depreciation the Present is the Past--a notion of the grog tesli Ptile e rdit Y , and one, to our thinking, most con ;Nei: Y' and It was thus that, about the , CIL Wit th is this half•century, the public ear was 0 :4 Doe,4tnentations over the degeneracy of Eng 'Pe b e "Ye -at the very time when Byron, and N g ii, and Moore, and Shelley, and Cole 14J1' V Crabbe and ' Rogers were flourish the' be y se e s :: cried out, "0, for the days te,Klish and Pope, and Goldsmith," when e feu .e,rs were issuing such works as Cain, as . "t'e , " %m ei, ' as " Gertrude of Wyoming," as " Gene -1 4,iof 1 1 ' 4 " Alastor." It was protested that the 011it girl Rabelais was extinct, except in the pages of h,a a 44 and Pantagruel," at the very time that s w ee , 1%74 o f , ,Z was startling the hearts and the imagi 044`ne Million. Some exclaimed that . the true i Cop N °lily to be found buried in the Feliquary . o I , !tit ,'; r e e3', when the whole land was ringing with lioiltlet!''' 13 is Passion of the "Irish Melodies." And saw-a-days. The jealous sarcasms of 111 %.: a re still audible. The literary Smell -441v is ar, tio as rampant and as inexorable l eeti n '—alas! that it should be so—that love of oe i. to 1., $ from the credit of . contemporary intellect it r : n etie 7 'ecnining contagious. According to the 4 Mead remarks which are made day after day, . e ly e el nauseam, there is nothing great, or good, or e on e ~ theTo e un os. us. There are no historians worthy I ,ftr ii ree--vet look at Hallam, and Lingard, and FYI, n Tliere is no poetic genius—yet there are &I. - ss Beranger, and Tennyson, and Macau -4 100 There is no real philosophy—yet there are 1,,,, led e 74 ' 4 , Lardner, and Faraday ! There is fi e , /2 eloquence —vet there are Ventur a Ok et 7Naire, and (only the other week) h;,' There are no political reformers, cg V en t there are Peel, and Cobden, aye, 'l,, tl4 tej e etti ! Such is the blindness, or, rather, the Osi - ti rtn(luced by that genius of discontent, which l*L 4 4L n: tanner peculiar to Tobias Smollett. .And t(i t e cee,,_ ntent that breaks out with the more viru kt I llky . 41 .. nse very occasions which might be expected de,' kliei l " acrimony . Is Sir Harry Smith gallant 1 1,• :V* 1 1 16, - tie p it n 7 - • his gallantry affords a key-note for a 11ti tl e''ge p artial disappearance of heroism. Does tu tlit t4 l . Pait aseeneasonly Stanfield can paint it itt l . " 3 4 sigh for the bygone glories of Lorraine reta....,naletto. Is Hogan more felicitous than usual tki le;lll7,2,ing his conceptions in marble —an allu itlieet.--'1! to the masterpieces of Roubilliac and td ale Does Lady Georgiana Fullerton write a Hee te at as a composition, thrilling as a drama, 'le th ee a ral as every-day life—there is a lamen . or ii . When Walter Scott is no longer penning . a q IL, suer and a covert sneer at the genius ''it men as Charles Dickens and as 'Zit of depreciation! Away with this miserable vit. ve ec . " e Preciation! The disciples of Dr. Smollett ti l l4 ell ti t l l3lo Pathy with us. The splenetic sentiments by o h 1 6ho h e l Y are actuated are more loathsome to us than d:the bodies the loups garoux—for the one feeds only t ee 'ttoe', l i es.ef the dead, while the other strives to " I ,..ete' e ',,:ue fair fame of the living 1 We love and Vitis - ,f eee t he memory of those who have appreciated 0 e ee 'e'rmg the existence of its possessors on earth .4 . 11 4 7 °,:td with th e se feelings Maceenas for having e ett ie e iegil au dH orace ; S ir H. Woottonf . orb a . vin d g ele,, howtile Powers of Milton ; Allen for his filen - m e ' ads Addison and Sir Richard Steele ; Sprat Zit, affection for Thomson ; yes, and we could ' efl a to Wi i,,th, Mr. Macaulay, love and reverence Boa -1 ei ‘tl'e t et„„, -- ' vi ng attended Dr. Johnson like his shadow, k ir -4 sal,- him with the sycophancy that only the Iv -ent toad-eater could evince. So rejoiced tir e that those Ittt men caught a glimpse of 11,,: b feet through the admiration and . 7 . 1 -- e e - t of their contemporaries. Hence it is ‘oe'„lliii, can full estimate the excellence of i h ,"Jnt 4 "Grantley Manor " without diminishing Cie ft . -- t ntir good opinion of the writings of those Cntlii:""ed 'nen, with whom, as autbors—notwith kly d? all her unquestionable abilities and genius-- . 15r a„Pee e e Pgialea Fullerton cannot for one instant be aleti e j„. - • It is impossible to regard with greater all that than we do the fruitful and almost Arabic - 4 -cl° of Sir Walter Scott—and yet with t h ° Ito re er thusiasm we are satisfied that he could k Ni ght : ii L.'s, ye written such works as " Zanoni,:' or - gilt -' tlaYs of Pompeii," or " Rienzi,' or t°4l 4 - and Morning," than Sir Bulwer Lytton 11 • bee e t tde f e W ritten " Guy Mannering," or " The te es ; lll. te ee °- L ammermoor " or " Waverley," or the r e ; c ll4 or - " I f" Honouring with 'equal sincerity the 1 l e t ' ) ha $e Honouring Fielding, we know that he could no 3' d o ve written " Oliver Twist," or " Dorn- Ch a c 1 ee „nee Dickens or " Martin Chuzzlewit," than e`pp A -yieltens could have written " Jo- A„,iel i ,• -tr ews," or " Jonathan Wild," or -.14 if ''' or the " Journey to_ the Other World." te e ige Scott b .4 of as opened to us the pageants of the titttoli hElizabeth in his " Kenilworth," Bulwer Up th e s depicted the voluptuous court of Edward e ililieet Tortanipity of the . great Warwick, and the t o t Le lie ee „"tnt our Thirdßichard,.in his " Last I)." s terit " s • Or if Fielding has given to us and b , l iten s Vile life of the bastard " Tom Jones," ej i °l : pa as done the same by the posthu sueteutere w ? t ,of the " Pickwick Club." Sympathising ra' - "l t t 4l ,_ 01Z,, t ny one rather than with the Tobias Plintlier.tueon, nyi na the ith ou , in;i' d aY or yesterday, we can and do . ad delv‘%Plitabie powers of Lady Georgians , , ' sneering at the peculiarities or ao m ilteM Porae lai ns of her more illustrious literary W e e art t r -8 * The expectations which were raised Te t e' l idlet et „ 1 :? 1 e since, on the publication of " Helen S en : allth o ' re tn ive been realised in i• Grantley Manor." br 14 11 , 11 ,eti ou 33 develops the remarkable graces of her me .and the purities and elegances of Poe - Nlsiti in a story which elevates her to no co Pond thi.. °n in the literary reublic of her age. tat th e n ftre eeat ' e ' she evidences her familiarity with r ur 4rt which imparts to a fictitious history . eat o f slaws of the real and the enthralling inte - ef eh7et-,abulous. The plot of " Grantley Manor" `linos cra t o g ll lar simplicity, and yet sufficiently inge.- irktred r "" the attention of the reader. It is '• , tete, 0f moreover, by the rich and various atmos . ngs oe %Passion through which the imaginary be . re, etage : novel are revealed to us. Among other Pdered 'e, a s a work of art its narrative is . ... TWO eine_euversified by its duplex character. iii ::- are introduced of the most opposite dis %nate l of th e .. I I . 4il ar _ most contrary education, of the most Zeslie, e:PP e arance—Margaret Leslie and Ginevra %the r , --argaret is as " the rose," and Ginevra as tie:z l ,;: Margaret is like a "summer morning," n'eato e , 'K e e ' a moonlight night ;" Margaret is a victim of nt undisturbed happiness, Ginevra the ro _ . continual i e wilin g , and dreadful sorrows; and, as a rote et ;L contrast between the two, Margaret is a Leal tale Ginevra is a Catholic. The circutn e'enry tale maybe described shortly as follows:- 44°111 g le e e ' a Young man of ancient lineage and ? °ll leti ee o r Possessions in one of the most beautiful t s n, th e A _ England, marries his cousin, Mary Thorn ::ic_liTieiterooff t a b v is illage clergyman. By her he idler th e `` birth Margaret— ' ut, the mother dying 90011 di kught !l_ deep t ' ild, Leslie leaves Eng desponden y, consigning his infant 44 08 7_ 0 the care of her grand-parents. He and over the Continent to dissipate his grief, riage With lon g afterward s con t rac t s another mar j,eo . , b eed e sister of an Italian artist, named - tell% 22. th Ferrari. T welve mont h s , o f unut birth ofvuirnent at V erona , are f o ll ow ed by the Bthceciend wife' Leslie se cond daughter and the death of his leeslie is again a widower ; he is dis- ICeae t Z i rs at to the decr ees of his destiny, and win en b y aetivit d rovvi i the remem b rance o f his iifflictiot.. - With I, i _ Y. enterprise, and travel. - The story opens Id taZ 5' rtturn t° l'' English home, Grantley Manor, evitegn _ _ ..1 3 Years abysm. Margaret is by this time nineteen, beautiful, accomplished, self-willed, petted, and warm-hearted. She has been fostered during this period by a college friend of her father, Walter Sydney, and she repays the almost parental fondness of " Dear Old Walter" with the most unbounded affection. Meanwhile she has remained profoundly ignorant of the very exist ence of her sister—the second marriage of Leslie being what is called " a sore subject" with the relations of his English wife. Suddenly, however, that sister is summoned to Grantley Manor a few weeks after the return of Colonel Leslie from his adventures as a soldier in India and the Peninsula. Colonel Leslie is resolved at last to have his two children with him at the old home in Eng. land. The meeting between Margaret and Ginevra is one of the most exquisite passages in the work ; it is, however, merely the introduction to the rea: interest of the story. Among the guests at Grantley Manor is a young Irishman named Edmund Neville, the heir to a large property in Ireland. Margaret imagines him to be in love with herself, whereas he is in reality married to her sister. It is in the secresy of this marriage that the whole passion of the tale concentrates. During his journeys in Italy Neville had s Pri Ginevra in a flower- garden at Verona, when looking from the window of the atelier of her uncle, the painter Leonardo Ferrari, Naturally a being of impulse, and accustomed to follow his own inclinations without restraint, Neville marries Ginevra Leslie, although he is aware that his father is so furiously bigoted against Popery that he has declared he would disinherit his only son should he ever unite himself to a Roman Catholic. A rumour of some such mesalbance elicits an indignant and threatening letter from the elder Neville. A com munication. from Colonel Leslie calls Ginevra from her seclusion at Verona; she is compelled to leave her husband and the grave of Leonardo Ferrari, and hasten, under the care of a Mr. and Mrs. Wrrren, to Grantley Manor. There Neville is, as we have already said, among the guests. The fear of ruining his fortunes render himself and Ginevra silent as to their nuptials ' • and as the readiest means of clear ing away all difficulties, Neville is solicitous that his wife should change her religion, and thereby nul lify the prejudices of his father-in-law. The struggle which Ginevra has for the preservation of her faith is the moral of " Grantley Manor"—and it is a grand moral, nobly and passionately treated. Lady Geor giana Fullerton writes here, doubtless, with the more enthusiasm from her recent conversion to the Church of Roman Catholicism, and it is impossible, even for the most orthodox Protestant amongst us, not to respect the sincerity with which she speaks of that religion. The result of these plots and counter-plots is that the marriage is at last divulged by Edmund Neville himself in the remorse of having driven Ginevra to madness and her death-bed, as he imagines. She is saved, how ever, from the jaws of the tomb; and the future, which had darkened around them from a cruel will made by the elder Neville before his decease, is brightened by a codicil restoring Edmund to the for tune which he seemed to have altogether forfeited. Margaret meanwhile has discovered that Walter Syd ney—old-fashioned, wise, noble-hearted Walter— has cherished for her in secresy a deep and beautiful affec tion. Feelings of honour—a sense of the disproportion of their ages—respect for the sacred charge which had devolved upon him of preserving the mind and principles of the child of his old friend, Colonel Leslie, from contamination—had alike sealed his lips and concealed from his own thoughts the real nature of his attachment. The truth, however, beams on 11Iargaret, and an exquisite scene ensues : she literally pops the question herself to dear Old Walter ! Their betrothal is nevertheless interrupted by a temporary estrangement, for, being the truest of true loves, you may be sure it didn't run quite smooth. Walter imagines that Margaret repents their engage ment, and feels disposed to bestow her hand upon a younger and comelier man than himself, and heir to a title—Frederick Vincent, son of Lord Donnington. On a sudden, however, his suspicions are dissipated, on hearing that Vincent has been positively refused by Margaret. This exhilirating intelligence is con veyed to him through a letter— " Walter could scarcely command his agitation as he folded this letter, and looked towards Margaret, who was standing at the window gazing in a listless manner at the Rhine, and at the picturesque old buildings beyond it. He went up to her, and asked her to walk with him. His voice and manner were altogether dif ferent from usual, and she looked at him with surprise, though she complied with his request. They went to the old cathedral, and then on to the alley of' horse•chest nut trees beyond it, and seated themselves on a low stone wall which overhangs the majestic river. Walter, after a short silence, turned to her abruptly, and said— " Margaret, will you be very angry with me if I ask you one question?' " The expression of his eyes, and the tone of his voice at that instant, were so unlike what they had been for the last few weeks, that a sudden emotion overcame her, but she tried to conceal her agitation by assuming some thing of her old manner, and she answered gaily — "'Since when are you so afraid of me, and of my anger, Walter?' " Margaret,' he said in an earnest manner, ' Margaret, can it be true that you have refused F rederic Vincent?' " The colour mounted rapidly into her cheeks, and she had a struggle with herself' before she made any reply. "' I have been wrong,' he hastily exclaimed, as he perceived her uneasiness. I had no right to inquire. Never mind answering me.' " • I have refused Frederic Vincent,' she said slowly, with her eyes fixed on the ground. His were raised to her face, and there was a vague hope in both their hearts, They looked at each other, but neither of them seemed able to speak. At last, in an almost stern manner, he said— " Margaret, tell me the truth. Is it possible that you do not care for Vincent?' " Pride and emotion struggled in her heart, and she rose to go, but Walter imperiously detained her, and she exclaimed, at last, in a tone of wounded feeling— "' And is it possible that you care to know?' " Margaret, do not trifle with me now,' he returned, with agitation. There is a limit beyond which self control cannot extend. I have struggled long, but I cannot restrain myself for ever. If you choose to force from me the avowal that I have suffered more than I had imagined a man could have suffered without betraying it, and, for the sake of your peace of mind, patiently sub mitted to the pain you have inflicted, hear it now, and in mercy spare the feelings you cannot return. I had hoped, I had resolved, never to speak to you thus ; but it may be better for us both that you should know the truth. Forgive me, Margaret, that I could not be silent to the end; forgive me that I could not hear you express such a doubt and answer you calmly. This is the last time I shall ever allude to this subject, or give way to these feelings. Soon I shall leave you. " Walter!' she exclaimed, while a bright smile flashed through her eyes, lighting up their blue depths, like a ray of sunshine on flowers—' Walter!' she again re peated, as she turned her face towards him, and half kneeling on the edge of the bench, bent upon him those radiant orbs — I love you with all my heart • but why did you leave my letter unanswered, and make all titis mischief between us?' " A letter! I never received one from you since I left England ; and mine, Margaret! mine was a letter that should have had an answer!' "' I wrote one, I sent one. I told you t' come hack. I told you that I loved you, but it was not half so true then as it is now, for it amused me then to be admired by others • I took pleasure in Frederic Vincent's admi ration, and almost fancied I liked him. Now 100k — here is his letter. He speaks of love—l believe he feels it. I care not for it. I would not exchange one word of affection from you, Walter, for all the love and all the love letters which the whole world could lay at my feet. There l'—(she tore poor Vincent's letter into bits and threw it into the stream)—' there, let the Rhine take it and bear it to the ocean; and do you take my vain, light heart into your keeping, and carry it along with you through the river of Life to the sea of Eternity! lam yours, Walter—yours for ever! No more secrets no cow, Old Old Walter! No more tria ls ; you must take me, as I am, for better and for worse ; or while we wait till I grow better, I may only grow worse, and yet I shall never release you again. I have been too unhappy; and now, oh, now, I am too happy !' " What Walter felt, what Walter said, cannot well be described; but never in after life will he visit again the horse-chestnut alley near the cathedral of Basle, with out an intense emotion, which will be mournful or sweet according as Heaven shall appoint his future lot. The dark cloud which had hung over their prospects gassed away in that hour from the hearts of Walter and Mar garet; and the joy which filled its place was as pure and as serene as the sky above their heads." Margaret and Walter Sydney are left at the conclu sion of the novel in complete happiness; and poor Ginevra and Edmund Neville are likewise restored to a calm and placid enjoyment of life. The spirit of the work is eloquently enunciated by the authoress, where she depicts the generous instruction afforded by Sydney to the elderdaughter of Colonel Leslie. " Margaret," she says, "listened with a kindling eye and flushing cheek when he recited deeds of heroism and lauded acts of self-conquest, the real true courage of the soul ; when he spoke of the honour due to the martyr who dies for his faith, to the patriot who bares his breast to a thousand foes, to the missionary who confesses Christ with the scalping knife before his ey es, to the sister of charity who braves the horror of pestilence in the loathsome abodes of disease ; and lastly, not least, to those lonely martyrs — to those unnoticed confessors—to those meek souls who, in the humble walks of life, in desolation unrepining, go through a fiery trial, with no witness but that God — Who to the wrestlings of the lonely heart Imparts the virtue of his midnight agony." Such a martyr and such a confessor is Ginevra, and l devo tionone to her Georgianse heart,"hder r i agi Fullerton. lb a i e l e n r l i d t a o n sn o e t . f e ' o; t the conception of her character, of her fervent 1,3 e h bnn e eysv o s at • f r h e eh s t t ho l w i en. n re g dgv s oee unr o ;i f u wshi in spired sLad y ust sustained, spired by that faith which " fascinates the young imassini t, ye. " bz: , l the autliure.ss, very beautiful . y, sin: is el st, ii ril tle gorgeous temples of her own land the riches of earth, the precious marbles and the sparkling gems, the told of the mine and the pearl of the ocean ) lavished in profusion on the shrines of the Almighty ; and she had learnt, at the same time, that the precious things of man's heart and of man's brain, its pearls of great price, its treasures of deep thought, its gems of count less value, should be laid upon the altar of God, not to he destroyed like the holocausts of old, but to be hallowed and exalted by the light of the sanctuary." The; intense affection with which Lady Georgiana Fullerton speaks of the Catholic church proves that she does not merely subscribe to its peculiar tenets nominally. Her mind is evidently convinced and her heart is warmed. Take these sen tences wherein she describes Ginevra in a convent near London : " When she entered her little room, its simple arrange ment, and its various religious ornaments, reminded her of her Italian home; and the sacred Litanies chanted by the nuns—the same which, from her infancy upwards, she had loved to join in, wherever a humble choir of ,vandering p,u-Ants, or of home-bound children, i ecited them before some wayside image of the Blessed Virgin —carried her back to the days of her childhood, and awoke in her heart a fervent gratitude. that her faith had made no shipwreck in the midst of the storms which had beset it. Who can describe what the language of the Church is to a Catholic—the typo of its universality, the badge of its unity I That voile, reaching unto all lands, and speaking to all hearts! uttering the same well known accents in the gorgeous temples of the south, and the Gothic shrines of the north, as in the ru,tic chapel or i❑ the mountain cave, where persecuted worshippers meet in secret. At every altar, in every sanctuary, each sacred rite and solemn hour claim the words of sacred import, which fall on the ear of the stranger and the wanderer, at once as a whisper from his home, and a melody of heavers.". Through all the passion of the narrative, in the animation of the incidents, and the earnest enthusiasm of the dialogues, sev eral of the thoughts spar kle almost with the vividness of wit, as where it is said (vol. i. p. 255) that " Christabel," " that extraor dinary poem," "is like a bad dream !" The delineation of character, again, is sometimes most inimitable and observant. Mrs. Thornton is depicted as " a good woman; nobody could deny that; but to her goodness she joined a profound con viction of her own wisdom ; a steady, simple-minded conceit, which carried her through every circum stance of life with an amount of self-gratulation, and through every conversation with a degree of authori tative folly, that was inexpressibly amusing." Mr. Warren was said to be, " on the whole, a kind and good-natured man, but (he) had fallen into the grievous error of supposing that to be fastidious was a proof of refinement, and to be impertinent a mark of distinction." Lady Donnington is men tinned as one whose chief characteristic was civility : " She was civil, as other people are literary, or professional, or F cien t ific —it was the business the enjoyment the sum total of her existence." Mrs. Fraser is spoken of as a lady who " had the rare power of talking nonsense with out appearing silly, and of insulting people without transgressing in the least the rules of good-breeding." We know one or two Mrs. Thorntons, four or five Mr. Warrens, half a dozen Lady Donningtons, and a whole score of Mrs. Frazers. Before we conclude our rather long notice of " Grantley Manor," we must transcribe one thought—it is a majestic one —new, full of wisdom and worthy of being learnt by heart. The autho ress is s p eakin g of the interval which elapses " between the thought in the mina and the words on the lips." " That interval! How it varies with different people! —How much turns upon it! What a ruhicon it is—that second, during which the impetuous impulse of the heart, or the rapid conception of the brain, moulds itself into words, and assumes a living shape!—During which, some can deliberately close ' the barriers of their teeth,' as the Eastern proverb has it, and force back the rising flood—some, into the polluted dens they call their hearts —some, into the secret shrines where self is sacrificed and God adored! " What• a strange power there is in silence. How many resolutions are formed ; how many sublime con quests effected during that pause, when the lips are closed, and the soul secretly feels the eye of her 11Liker upon her. When some of those cutting, sharp, blight ing words have been spoken which send the hot indig nant blood to the face and head, if those to whom they are addressed keep silence, look on wish awe, for a mighty work is going on within them, and the Spirit of Evil, or their Guardian Angel is very near to them in that hour. During that pause they have made a step towards heaven or towards hell, and an item has been scored in the book which the day of judgment shall sue opened. They are the strong ones of the earth, the mighty for good or for evil, those who know how to keep silence when it is a pain and a grief to them; those who give time to their own soul, to wax strong aga inst temp tation; or to the powers of wrath, to stamp upon her the msrk of their withering passage." Lady Goorgiana Fullerton has opened a mine rich in gold and diamonds, but, as Dr. Johnson says in his preface to " Shakspere," it is one which may be like the lordliest one ever opened to the world, " clouded by incrustations, debased with impurities, and min gled with a mass of meaner minerals." Let her dis card the dross, and make for herself a diadem. FLANDERS MAIL. - BRUSSELS, AUG. 28.—1 t has been affirmed for the last few days that the assurances that have been given that there will be no opposition to the election of Messrs. Rogier and Veydt is a ruse, for the purpose of deadening the zeal of the electors, and their opponents hoping to profit by the remissness of these gentlemen, intend, by means of stratagem, to bring in two candidates, whose names are not yet known. The friends of these two members, however, are fully persuaded that neither M. Rogier nor M. Veydt have anything to fear. The changes which the Ministers are making continue to cause dissatisfaction. L' impartial du Bruges, which is friendly to the Minis ters, and cannot, therefore, be suspected, says as follows " Till now the Ministry appears to be exclusively occu pied by purely political questions, and by depriving those functionaries who are hostile to liberal opinions. L'lndependance tells us that these purifications are necessary. We wish both for the public interest and for the sake of the Ministry that these deprivations which have been judged necessary, might have taken place earlier. We hope that as soon as this measure is taken the Ministry will occupy itself immediately with the question of Flanders. Winter is coming on, and some solution ought to be arrived at. The liberal jour nals have for a long time maintained that there are re medies, and have justly accused the Ministry of De Theux with not doing anything. RUSSIA POLAND.—FROM THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER, Ana. 12.—1 f we consider the numerous secessions which within the last year has taken place from the Roman Catholic and from the Evangelical Church in Poland and the East Sea provinces to the Russio Greek com munity, we might be tempted to infer that the latter had considerably increased in numbers. This, however, is not the case, for what she has gained on one side she has lost on the other. The law of Nemesis has reached the Greek Church, since she does not make her prose lytes through the moral means of conviction and in struction. An immense number of sects have now arisen in her bosom, which greatly diminishes her numbers, the pertinacity ;of these sects may be inferred from the fact that every secession from the Greek Church in Russia is punished by the severest cor poreal chastisement and loss of liberty, and that these punishments are inflicted with as much vigour now in the nineteenth century as they were in the Romish church in the 17th century. The Greek sectarians have therefore been obliged to fly iv m the the old Russian Government, and to go to those parts of the country g, he, where Christians, Mahomedens, and Heathens live to viz., Caucasia. This Greek church, how -1 ever, cannot afford to lose them, and has issued an invitation to the apostates to return to her bosom ; in doing which she has again had recourse to material measures, the promises to the sectarians are that on their return they shall enjoy, not only perfect amnesty, but a remission of all dues for three years. It is, however, very doubtful whether they will be induced to return to their relations and former places of residence, as it is well known that these sects are exceedingly indepen dent, and pertinaciously retain their opinions. BERLIN, AUG. 2a.—lt is now confirmed that our Minister of War, M. Von Boyer, will retire from his post, though not into a state of inactivity. He is to be the chief of the invalids, a charge which has not hitherto existed. General Von Nohr, who is now commanding in Breslau, is to be Minister of War in his room. The post of chiet of Military Instruction, vacant by the death of General Ruble Von Lilieorsterm, has not yet been filled up. The report which has so often been circu lated of the nomination of Von Bodelschiviaz to be Chancellor of State is verified. His Majesty appointed him to the office previous to his departure for Ishl.— Flanders Mail, Aug. 29. PRUSSIAN FUNDS.—BmiN, AUGUST 28. Bills. Money. St•Schnld Sch., 3% per Cent ••• • • 93 1 4 92% Pruss•English Bonds, 1830, 4 per Cent .•• • • • Foreign Exchanges •.•••• • • • • • • ••••• • • • • • Exchange on London, £1 Sterling, 3 Months 6 24% -- His Royal Highness Prince Waldemar of Prussia, attended by Baron Lauer Munchhosen, Count Oriolla, and Count Groeben, is to arrive at Mivart's Hotel to day from Wales. The illustrious Prince has, during the last 10 days, been visiting the principal towns in the north of England and the lake districts, and on Satur day reached Cheshire, on his route for a tour in Wales. His Royal Highness departs for Berlin in the course of next week. His Excellency Major- General Sir Harry Smith, the newly-appointed Governor of the Cape of Good Hope, is expected to embark about the 16th inst., ac companied by Lady Smith, for the seat of his future government. The Vernon is appointed to sail about the 12th inst. TILE SYNAGOGUE IN GREAT ST. HELEN'S.—Yes terday afternoon the new synagogue in Great St. Helen's, Bishopsgate, was re-opened for public worship, after having undergone a complete repair. A very large congregation attended, and the service was performed with the usual ceremonies. The music, which was ex cellent, was composed by Mr. M. Moss, the master of the choir. At the conclusion of the service the Rev. Dr. Adler preached an arpropriate sermon. The offerings subse quent ly proclaimed, and it appeared to be were te general opinion that the repairs had beer. ` judiciously c , ompleted t arid r, Cl , 3kiit Oil til t:;,..3te and of We very much regret to bear that 11. B. Sheridan, Esq., M.P., still continues very ill, at his residence, Frampton House. LONDON, NG, SE 1847. of weakness when circums to nces would have de manded the severity of a mof her. These were the reasons which had induced M. de Praslin to insist on an education completely isol: di 3d ; but unfortunately his domestic tastes and the pl tsure which he found in the society of his daughters c a; used him by degrees to relax for himself this measunt: of isolation. Aide. de Praslin became annoyed at this, for until then she had submitted without any up parent difficulty to the order of things that had be , e, n established. O n my entering the house she had announced to me that matters would go on in that .6 ay, and that she would abstain from interfering up to the time that her daughters should be of an age to enter the world. It results from what you have just said that the authority which had disappettrud entirely from Mde. de Praslin's hands passed into yours; and, still more, that the affection which was due by the children to their mother was concentrated in you. Supposing that you did not exert yourself to bring about that state of things, it is impossible but that you must have perceived it, and it was your duty to prevent such a result, which allows ut to attribute to you in great part several of the fatal results which emanated from it ? I never said to myself, " I will withdraw from this mother the affection of her children to fix it on myself;" but I loved tem—l devoted myself night i pains ma and p d a n i y n i F t h o r a s s i o x h 3 c , i e t a u r d s e. to them, their pl easures were m y pl e a s ures, their p tt T hh hea their r s m e aagy bne children ndsu p l l o p v ol e sn d me evded consistent I th w a a t tc n h e e v d er o g v a e N r ,e th Ns e ,a m y ,. tNh‘.eitmh twh t i h t ah e mt enthusiasm iiinee.a ff elct:,o. o an f s without family ties, without friends, all my sentiments were concentrated in my duties, at once agreeable and so and so easy.. FRIDAY EVJ POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTION. Last evening Mr. Hunter Simple, the newl:, -ap pointed chemical lecturer at this establishment, deli vered a highly-interesting and popular lecture upon chemical analysis, which was illustrated by a series of beautiful experiments, which were exhibited in a pleasing and masterly style, though it must be ad mitted that the lecturer required a little more fami liarity with the practice of addressing public audiences before his lectures will have the efficiency of which his talents and scientific attainments are capable. He was, however, much applauded. In the course of the day Dr. Bachoffner, whose rare versatility and ex tensive learning are the theme of admiration to every visitor of the Polytechnic Institution, delivered several lectures in various departments of science, to the great gratification of numerous audiences. The ope rations with the diving-bell and helmet, and the sub marine galvanic apparatus for the blowing up of wrecks, shoals, &c., at the bottom of the sea, were conducted under the superintendence of Mr. Cripps, who also, in a very kind manner explained in detail the various models of works of art so profusely dis tributed throughout the great hall. These explana tions afford very great amusement and instruction to the visitors, and, indeed, are perhaps as useful and entertaining as any other exhibitions or discoursef , presented here. The music performed in the coursq. of the day, selected chiefly from Lavenu's opera or Loretta, an overture, and other pieces from Weber, was executed in a very superior style, under the direction of Dr. Wallis, and was so distributed as to convert the intervals between the lectures into an agreeable promenade. The selection of music for the accompaniment of the dissolving views did great credit to the judgment of the very able direction of Dr. Wallis, and was performed by an orchestra that does credit to the institution. The views themselves are new, and are in many respects superior to any that have been before exhibited. In the interior of " St. Etienne, at Paris," a very novel and striking effect was introduced which we had not seen before. The church is first presented in the moving appear ance previous to public service, and after some minutes of this exhibition it gradually begins to fill, and we have at length the proces sion of the host in all its grandeur, attended by a thronged congregation. The beauty of this effect was acknowledged with very great applause. The effect was much heightened by the skilful and appropriate adaptation of church music introduced. It is understood that the additional theatres and galleries now in progress of building will not be completed before Christmas. One of, the theatres will accommodate 2,000 persons—and, indeed, the increased space is much wanted, for the present theatres and lecture-rooms, though capacious, do not afford on all occasions—(they did not last evening) —sufficient accommodation to the crowds of every age, sex, and rank, who throng hither for pleasure and improvement. THE DUKE AND DUCHESS DE PRASLIN. INTERROGATORY OF THE DUKE DE PRASLIN (CHARLES LAURE HUGUES THEODALD), AGED 43. You know the horrible crime imputed to you ; you know all the circumstances which have been laid down before you, and which exclude the very appear ance of a doubt. I recommend you to abridge the fatigue you appear labouring under by confessing the truth, for you cannot, you dare not deny it ?—The question is very precise, but 1 have not strength to answer. It would require very long explanations. You say it would require very long explanations to answer the question I have just put to you : not so, a " Yes" or a "No" is sufficient ?—lt requires great moral strength to answer yes or no,—an im mense strength, which I have not. No long explanations can be requisite to answer the question I have just asked you ?—I repeat, it would require a moral strength which I do not pos sess to answer it. At what hour did you leave your children the evening before the crime ?—At half-past ten, or there abouts ; a quarter to eleven , perhaps. What did you do after you left them P—l went down to my chamber, and got into bed immediately. Did you sleep ?—Yes (with a sigh). Till what hour ?—I do not recollect. Was your resolution fixed whEn you went to bed ? —No. I cannot even tell whether that might be called a resolution. When you awoke, what was xour first thought ? I believe I was awakened by cries in the house, and that I hurried to the chamber of Madame de Praslin. (The accused added with a sigh)—l would ask you to restore me to life by interrupting this interro- gatory. When you entered the chamber of Madame de Praslin, you eould not be ignorant that all the issues around you were shut—that you alone could enter ? I was ignorant of that. You entered the chamber of Madame de Praslin several times that morning ; was she in bed the first time you went there ?—No; she was unfortunately stretched on the floor. Was she not lying on the spot where you would appear to have struck her the last time ?—How can you put such a question to me ? Because you did not answer me at first. How did you come by the scratches I see on your hands ?—I got them the evening before leaving Praslin, as I was packing up my things with Madame de Praslin. How did you come by that bite I see at your thumb ?—lt is not a bite. The surgeons who have visited you have declared it is a bite ?—Spare me, my weakness is extreme. You must have passed a very p ainful moment, when on entering y our cha mber y ou p erceived your self covered with the blood you had s hed, and which you tried to wash out ?—That blood has been beforeerro neously explained; I did not wish to a pp ear my children with the blood of their mother. Do you not feel very unhappy at having committed this crime ?—(The accused was silent, and appeared lost in thought.) Were you not under the influence of bad advice, impelling you to commit this crime P—lhave received no advice ; no one would advise such an act. Are you not tortured by not have been a sort of relief to you to have said the truth ?—My strength fails me entirely to-day. remorse; and would it You do nothing but sgeak of your weakness. I asked you a short time ago to answer me only by " Yes or "No ?"—lf any pulse, he would ea sil y judge opfe You have just had strength en ou g h to answer a w eakness. You my my yn would good many questions of detail which I addressed to you; your strength did not fail you for that.—(The accused was silent.) Your silence answers for you that you are guilty?' —You are come here with the conviction that lam guilty; I cannot change it. You could change it if you gave us reasons to the contrary, if you were to explain differently what ap pears only susceptible of explanatio n by your guilt P I do not think I can change that conviction in your mind. Why do you not believe it possible to change our conviction ?—(Tire accused, after a pause, declared it beyond his power to continue.) When you committed this horrible act did you think of your children P—As to the crime, I did not commit it—as to my children, they are the constant subject of my thoughts. Dare you affirm that you have not committed this cr ime ?—(The accused r ested his head upon his hands an d remained silent for a few instants; then he said, " I cannot answer such a question.") M. de Praslin, you are under mental torture, and, as I told you just now, you might perhaps assuage it by answering me.—(The accused did not answer, and begged as a favour that his interrogatory might be interrupted and put off to another day. In com pliance with this req uest the interrogatory was stopped.) FIRST INTERROGATO RY or MADEMOISELLE DR LUZY DESPORTES, AGED 37. When did you enter the family of the Duke de Praslin as governes s ?--On March 1, 1841. What salary did you receive ?—At Lady Hislop's, near London, I received I,Boof. a year ; at M. de Praslin's I was to have something more-2,000f., with board and lodging. sum from the Did you receive that moment you entered ?—Yes. Wh a t were your fu ncti'M on the .de Praslin's house hold ?—I had the care and education of the nine children, but it was found necessary afterwards to add an u nder- governess. After that, the Duke took a private tutor fo r the boys, but he came dissatisfied with him, and dismissed him after some time. He then placed first one son, and then a second, with M. Boussu, a professor of the College Bourbon. I re mained charged with the education of the three eldest girls and the youngest bey. The three youngest girls were placed at the convent of the Sacre-Cceur ; as M. de Praslin himself acknowledged that it was impossible to maintain harmony between a head governess and an under one. How long is it since the under-governess left the house of the Duke de Praslin?—About three years. The information which we have received has made us aware that for a length of time you behaved badly towards Madame de Praslin ; that you did not show her that consideration and deference that you ought to have done, and that you endeavoured to alienate from her the affection of her husband and children ? No, never ! never ! When I entered into Madame de Praslin's house matters were already on a very awk ward footing. The Duke wanted to direct by him self the education of his children, as the Duchess hers' if to m she informed me that it was tu the Tiuk- a ;ope 1 s hould hive to render an accuan , , and the Duke lihnself also repeated to me the 7- !roe. Three or four governesses have succeeded each other in the house in the course of some mouths ; the Duke PTEMBER 3, ct iuld not agree with any of them. Madame de Pra . s i: H i 1 told me th a t I s h ou ld res id e a l one with the eh di en in one side of th e h o t e l, th a t I should take Y t o eels alone with them, and th a t I s h ou ld allow them t o erely to see their mother. I re f use d t o consent to tl iese propositions, and declared that I would not accept e situation that was offered. The D u k e then decided th at the governess and the children should take their ?als with the family, but that the children should re main under her exclusive control and direction. al t a latter period, during my stay et the Château of andreuil, where I was alone with the Duchess, the tat tter took part in the readings and direction of the sty tidies of her children. On his arrival, the Duke, ha ving learned this, was very much dissatisfied, and expressed that dissatisfaction somewhat strongly, whereupon the Duchess abstained. We were then established at the Château de Praslin, where the governess and the children lived entirely apart, ex cept as regarded the meals, which were taken en famille. I never endeavoured to keep away the chil dren from their mother, but there existed between the , Duke and Madame de Praslin causes of difference ihich I could not prevent. I was perhaps greatly vcrung to accept that position, but I never wilfully en deavoured to pain the Duchess. The Duchess ex pressed ,ssristiments of jealousy towards me, but which had not thd least foundation in the world. Still, generally, the Vuehess was on good terms with me, without being affeelionate ; and that often mused me to forget her injustice. I had no fortune, no friend at Paris. I was obliged to !Seep my position, with so much the more resignation that the Duke had pro mised to give me a pension if I had the courage— such was the term he used—to terminate the education of his three eldest girls, notwithstanding the annoy ance which that task might occasion mo. Did the pension which you speak of form part of the first terms agreed on between you and the Duke ?—No ; all that was spoken of was an annual salary. Had the Duke fixed the amount of the pension ? —No • but I always reckoned that it would be 1,500 i. a year, or 500 f. for each of the girls. Such I believed to be his decided intention, according to a conversation which we had together. It is certain that, in the latter months especially, the Duchess de Praslin had conceived a very violent jealousy against you, and that she had no doubt as Ito the intimate relations which she supposed to exist between you and her husband ? Never ; no, Sir, never ! The Duchess may have said it to others, but she never said it to me. Two years ago, when in Corsica, with my pupils, on one of the estates of the Marshal Sebastiani ' a journal published that I had taken to flight with the Duke de Praslin. In con sequence of this I resolved to leave the house im mediately; but the Marshal, father of the Duchess, opposed this, representing that such a measure would be a confirmation of the rumour. The Duchess showed great coldness and dissatisfaction at seeing me abandon my determination and remain in the house. However, this seemed gradually to wear away ; and, especially within the last year, the Duchess became kind towards me. I was, then, completely thunder struck when, two months ago, the Abbe Gallard came to me and said that my presence was a cause of trouble in the house, and that I could not remain. We have before us a letter, without date and with out signature, which we present to you. It appears to us to have been addressed to you at no distant date by the Duchess de Praslin, and in it she says, that if it be forbidden to sleep without being reconciled to one's neighbour, it appears to her that a new year is a still stronger reason to put an end to all dissensions and to forget all griefs. She tells you that it is with a true heart that she extends her hand to you, and begs of you to forget the past, as she does herself, and to live for the future in good intelligence with her. There existed, then, at that period of the year, sub jects of complaint between you ?—This letter was not written in the month of January last, but in January, 1846. It was then that she sent it to me with a bracelet, which she gave me as a new year's gift. She had been cold to me, but during the last winter she was much better disposed towards me. Every time she went to the theatre she gave me a place in her box, and when she went with her daughters to a pleasure party she offered to take me. I forgot to state, that during the preceding winter she several times spoke to me on projects of marriage for her daughters, begging me to try to induce M. de Praslin to adopt her views ; but I declared that these pro jects of marriage in families were things too delicate for me to meddle with in any way. There was seen in this reply, which I believe a wise one, a desire to establish myself for ever in the family by keeping off good marriages, for it was understood that I should leave when the three eldest daughters should be established. When did you leave the house of the Duke de Praslin?—On Sunday evening, the 18th of July last, at the moment that all the family were prepar ing to proceed to the Château de Praslin? After leaving the house, did you not continue to see the Duke de Praslin ?—I only saw him three times. The first time was with his daughter Berthe and his son Raynald. These two children had been brought to the boarding-school in which I reside by the femme de charge of the Marshal, I had been with them to the dentists, where they underwent operations. The Duke came to rejoin us, and I went went with them in a carriage to the Corbeil Rail way. As we had some time unoccupied, we went to the gardens of the Luxembourg. It was the Duke who proposed it, saying that I should thus remain longer with the children. It is impossible for me to fix the date of this first visit. Eight days ago last Tuesday the Duke came to see me a second time. He did not go up stairs, saying that he was not well dressed enough to present himself to - Madame Le maire, and that he calculated on making his first visit to her with his daughters. He announced to me a visit with his children for Tuesday last, the 17th of this month. He then spoke to me of the direction of the education of his daughters, which did not pro ceed according to his ideas. On last Tuesday, the 17th, he brought his three daughters and his little boy between half-past eight and nine o'clock. Madame Lemaire, with 'whom he conversed for the first time, informed him of her intention to give me a superior place in her establisnment ; but she said that on ac count of the rumours which had been current on my account, it was indispensable that the Duchess should write a letter to deny them. It was settled that the next day I should present myself at about two in the afternoon to the Duchess, to solicit that letter. The Duke and his children left me about ten o'clock. Where did you pass the night of the 17th of August ?—ln my chamber, in the house of Madame Lemaire. Did any one sleep with you in that chamber ? No, Sir ; but I was surrounded by neighbours, who could hear the least noise and the least movement that I made. At what hour did you go to bed ?—At half-past eleven. During this evening did you converse with M. de Praslin alone, out of sight of the children and of Madame Lemaire ?—No. Did you accompany the Duke and his children ? I only accompanied them to the door. How did you learn the horrible event that has taken place?—From M. Remy, professor of lite rature of the young ladies, who sent bis servant to the hotel at eight o'clock, and came himself to an nounce it to me, with his wife, and take me to his house, where I passed the day, until I was removed by a police agent, Why did you quit Madame Lemaire at such a mo ment without saying where you were going ?—I gave the address of M. Remy to Madame Lemaire. Ido not know why the police agents remained at her door without coming for me where they were sure to find me. You must have learned that grave indications ac cuse the Duke de Praslin of having killed his wife ? —Oh! no, no, no, no, gentlemen ! tell me that that is not the case ! It is impossible ! He, he who could not bear to see one of his children suffer ! No, do not tell me that it is he ! You say that grave charges arise ; but say rather that there exists a suspicion which will not be justified! No, no ! (As she spoke she fell on her knees, clasped her hands, and bent her head to the ground.) "Oh 1" she resumed, "oh ! tell me, gentlemen, I beg of you. But no ! If you told me, I would not believe it —no, never I" She then paused, and pressed her forehead with her bands. "It is impossible !" she continued. "My conscience tells me that he did not do it! But if he did it, oh God! why then, it is alone who am guilty ! who loved the children so much, who adored them !—I have been cowardly I I dreaded misfortune, misery, and knew not how to resign myself to my lot, for I am a poor abandoned creature, without resources, without any other supporter than an old grandfather, who is severe, and who threatened to deprive me of the little he did for me. I was frightened at what might happen to me. Oh ! I was wrong. I ought to have said that I would a da p t m y self to my sit tion, that I could be happy in my little t c h lia .r mber, and that they ought to forget me and l h ov i e l their the ano ther ; but I did nothing like that. house, I was in such despair that I IwVishee.d to die. I had a phial of laudanum ; I took the r poison, but I was unfortunately called to life, for life 1 . 8 very sac to me. I was so happy during six years in that house in the midst of the children, who loved me, and whom I loved more than life, that life became insup portable to me without them. I . have said it, it is I who am guilty ! Write it, Sir 1 Yes, writ , it I He must have demanded that unfortunate letter which was to vouch for my character, she must have refused it, and then ! Oh, yes !It is I—it is I alone who am guilty! Write it ! write it r i Such an exaltation does not appear possible to belong to the feelings which may have existed between you and the children. \Vas it to these children, and to them alone, that the letters of ou Lave 6polien of were addressed ?—Yes, Sir, there may be exaltation in all feelings. Cannot you conceive this ? And then I would not answer till, after having seen M. de Praslin so kind and good towards me, there should not mingle with the affection I felt for the children a tenderness, a lively tenderness, for their father; but never, never have I carried into that house trouble and adultery. I could not have done It, out of respect for the children. I should have felt as if I was sullying the brows of my own daughters if I had kissed them after having become guilty. Is it not to be believed that an honest love may be en tertained ? I feel that lam wrong in making use of the word " daughters" which I have done only since I write to them. I have said "my children" some times when speaking to all the little band. Was this sentiment of tenderness participated in by M. de Praslin ?—No ; M. de Praslin had no sen timent of tenderness, nor exaltation of tenderness, for me, but his child ren were unhappy, they suffered in their health, f rom th e harsh treatment of their mother. But if it can be believed that M. de Praslin was the author of the crime, it can never be thought that he committed it to defend his children thatagainst the harsh thatwaN which s hich not treatment of their mother ?—No, Sir, the motive. That which excited him, carried him beyond himself, was a fear of a suit for a separation, with which Madame de l'raslin incessantly threatened him. In that he saw a great misfortune for his children, the ruin of their future prospects, and he was disposed to do any thing to avoid it. He was informed of the suit by M. Rient, the notary, who communicated it to me. The Abbe Gallard also mentioned it to me, and M. de Praslin recreated me to submit to everything from Madame de Praelin c and I promised him to do so, at whatever sacrifice it miglit cost me. When the dis grace came thus I had not the courage to do it, and I asked for this unfortunate letter, which has done all the evil, because Madame Lemaire did not think that of the 19th of June, which you have aniong the papers seized at my residence, sufficient. Your departure was not the result of a just mani festation of jealousy. You were sustained by the husband against the wife, and the intervention of the Marshal became became necessary ?—This resent ment was not manifested until the last moment. M. de Praslin has never expressed to me anything more than friendship and esteem, and I protest, to speak the word, that he has never been my lover. It is, however, a month since you quitted the house. In the interval are the letters which you acknowledge yourself you did wrong in writing. In the interval, we find several visits—three, at least, paid to you by M. de Praslin. Even for yesterday, you had been requested to present yourself at the house to ask for a letter from the Duchess, and yesterday morning, she was assassinated ?—I can only repeat what I have said. There was nothing criminal in the past be tween me and M. de Praslin, and no criminal project intended for the future. If Madame de Praslin had died a natural death, and M. de Praslin had offered me his hand, I should never, for the sake of the children, have consented to an alliance beneath the Duke, the consequences of which would have fallen on them ; and never should I have entertained the idea of a liaison of another nature. If M. de Praslin had loved me, I might have sacrificed my reputation to him, and my life ; but I should never have wished it to cost his wife the loss of a hair of her head—no — never—never. Are the four beginnings of letters which we now show you your writing ?—Yes. One of these letters has in it a phrase which is not finished; it begins thus,—"You do not speak to me of your father ; I hope he is well, and continues to have courage. It seems to me that I should be less un happy if I was sure of suffering—;"—what did you intend to say ?—lt is probable that I wished to ter minate the phrase by the word alone, or by the words for you all. I stopped, I cannot say why. I thought it better perhaps not to speak to these young ladies of their father. You were right, but precisely because the lett( r contained the expression of a mutual sentiment, of which the daughters ought not to be the confidents ? —This sentiment was no other that an affection ex pressed perhaps more warmly that it was felt, but which had nothing improper in it. It was the resu.t of six years passed together in the same house. SECOND INTERROGATORY OF AIDLLE. DE LUZY. How long have you been engaged in the educati( n of M. de Praslin's children ?—Six years and three months. Who had caused you to enter that family ?—I ob tained the situation through Mde. de Flahaut, to whom I had been recommended by Lady Hislop, whose daughter I had educated. When you entered the Duke de Praslin's how were you received in the family ?—Exceedingly well ; the children soon became attached to rne, and the Duchess was pleased with me. At that period did not the most complete good un derstanding exist between M. and Mde. de Praslin ? No ; the governess whom I replaced had warned me that there were often differences between M. and Mde. de Praslin, and had recommended me the greatest circumspection with respect to them. Did you observe that circumspection ?—For a length of time that was not necessary, for I lived apart in the house with the children ; I saw nothing. At what period did that state of things cease ? When the girls began to grow up, the father came more frequently near them, and of necessity near use, since I never left them. Mde. de Praslin held her self apart, because she went a good deal into society at Paris, and lived at her father's ; in the country she remained a good deal in her own apartment, and often even took her meals there. I supposed that to arise from circumstances between her and M. de Praslin which I was unacquainted with. Did you, however, as would seem to be your duty, endeavour to bring the children as much as possible, both in mind and affection, in contact with the mo -1 ther ?—I attempted several times to come to some understanding with Mde. de Praslin on the subject, but she never seemed inclined to inform me ot her intentions relative to her children. She stated to me that she did not approve of the direction given by M. de Praslin for their education, but that she had promised to leave the superintendence of their studies entirely to him. She never asked me any question as to the character or ability of any of her daughters; she never made any suggestion concern ing them, except in what related to their dress ; she , never endeavoured to induce her children to come near her, and she spoke to them very rarely. When we were alone the conversation generally turned be tween her and me on questions of literature, in which the children, from their age, and the degree ot ad vancement which they had reached in their studies, could not take part. These conversations fatigued the children, and caused them to prefer being alone with me, as I placed myself more on their level. They feared their mother exceedingly, but they were always submissive and respectful to her. Did you not frequently perceive that this situation of the Duchess de Praslin, with respect to her children, this almost complete isolation in which she was held from all that regarded them, was exceedingly painful to her, and caused differences between her and 111. de Praslin ?—I believe, on the contrary, on my soul and conscience, that Madame de Praslin, being much more occupied at that period with her sentiments for her husband, than with those which were inspired by young children whom she rarely saw, removed them from her presence when their father was with her, in order to remain with him ; and intentionally held herself apart from her children when M. de Praslin was not there, in order to turn it iuto an arm against him in the reproaches which she ad dressed to him on the manner in which he governed their education at home. Never would Madame de Praslin, at first, when in the country, take a walk in Common, but afterwards she changed. When M. de Praslin used to play with his children, and replied only briefly to the questions which she constantly ad dressed to him to attract his attention, she used gene rally. to quit the room, testifying in a visible manner her jealous irritation at the attention which the chil dren paid to M. de Praslin rather than to her ; the children at an early period perceived this sentiment, and conceived a sort of irritation against their f mother ; they affected, with the innocent malice stillo children, to brave this sentiment, in testify real mischief which this kind of struggp the power to pre ventgreater tenderness to their father. Ile errceiinvgeddthine the children, but bad not alw a ys_ e i rn ts e r s e s su l ts.pupils prevented me impartial in these matters, which Eve n efeni felt at for r l a m te y r period the excessive from being completely l tend which back to Madame de I could not attempt to dbri.ng presented themse ves_afresh day after day, and at east very imprudently, kept apart from er. Praslin those whom she esign h edly, or 1 In all that you have said you have been endeavour ing very evidently to thro w all the fault on Madame de Praslin ; however, the frightful catastrophe which has terminated her life ought certainly to render you you use, it may be doubted that you did more circumspect in your manner of judging. From your duty to do to terminate so tabus that t gr t ~,,g ea 3 de plorable a situation, and to bring back to the mother that affection from her children to which she had such strong claims—from her children, be it remem bered, over whom you exercised an almost absolute power, as is testified by documents under their hand and yours. It is therefore permitted to believe that you have ben far, very far, from conducting your self in these unhappy circumstances as you ought to have done.—l would not for the whole world that I could be accused of being wanting in respect to the memory of Mile. de Praslin, but you demand the truth from me, and I am bound to tell it in its totality. Ido not accuse her heart, Ido not accuse her sentiments, but I do her character, at moments irritable and fractious, which rendered her incapable of conducting so many children of ages, minds, and characters completely opposite. 1 , ; either had st € in her tenderness tor them that kisser all , r, that facility which gains the heart of youth ; irritable in petty circum,tanees where indulgence would have been f o r each useless rigour , to o g reat an extent necessary, she, on th e contrar y , manifested, as if to make up Did not a moment arrive when An y fgd o_u ebi pe e rc p eived that and d lin a s y a o b u j e h c a t d o b t. e c d o i m s s e e n b t e i t o ss a Le n a M. stn Mde. e you then do all in in your power to chang e so afflict ingdid a state of things, either by sacrifices impo se d o n your self-love, or by all the means that you ought t o employ with the children to induce them to feel for their mother sentiments, which they ought never to have ceased to feel towards her, and which it was your bounden duty to nourish ?—As to what related to me personally in the coolness between M. and Mde. de Praslin, I at first considered it of little im portance, in consequence of the facility with which I saw her conceiving the same impressions with res pectjstcawbhueiparesoecpnctr :suedl secondary cr, o nt oel dob a nlAc l i del I us titaxotot t rypi h uayoarg e noes hlpssf. vg ; triactr n iiepl acoeatpvhneat whenei rrtaelcr clearly theseei u eftdi oeh r naus s ns e htn dtoedoh N l crf ' eicNi myself eyeschei on the consider srloeefo r t tvrafwe h snat: u teihntite s shyns - e. a p stuom t e e sma e d r is r int s eni h o m p oece n ns e xy s ao r tps i ishmnl o e i eaa d n lenilf‘ , respect to her and M. de Praslin ; being hurt at find ing myself repulsed in a confidence which I consi dered honourable for me, I refrained from recurring to the subject. As to the children, could not a mother have drawn them back to herself had she wished it ? At the commencement, you said that M. de Praslin at last lived principally with you and his children ? M. de Praslin did not live principally with me and his children; only, at the country long walks, and in town, the habits of Madame de Praslin, who did not quit the drawing-room of her father except to enter into society, caused that in the play hours in summer, and during the long evenings of winter, M. de Praslin walked out with us, or passed his evening in the school-room circle. The children were admitted, but for a few instants, to their grandfather, and Madame de Praslin never asked us to pass our evenings in her drawing-room. In your system of reply you throw all the blame on Mde. de Praslin, and that language is most painful fur us to hear, after having heard a moment ago the two letters read which that excellent person addressed to you—one on New Year's Day, in which she offered you so generously an oblivion of all the differences which existed between you and her, she might have said pardon, but did not do so ; the other, written when you were leaving her roof, in which she assures you of her protection—all this, too, be it borne in mind, when she assured you a pension of 1,5001. a year? You interrogated me on the course followed relative to the children, and I endeavoured to make it as clear as possible. As to what is personal to me, the con duct of Madame de Praslin was to me as to all who were acquainted with her, unequal, arid often incom prehensible. I was often cruelly wounded in my self love and my other feelings ; at other times I was treated with interest and affection. Often after having thus wounded me she would make me some rich present; and even just before I left her house, when she had refused to meet me at meals, when in the eyes of the whole household I was disgracefully sent away rather than honourably dismissed, Madame de Praslin having met me by chance, all at once evinced great kindness, and even sent me books to amuse me. That is a proof of the goodness of Madame de Praslin, a goodness manifested so frequently, and which was so remarkable, when displayed after such great causes of displeasure.—But was not that kind ness a proof that the displeasure to which you allude was caused rather by an irritability of character which she could not control than by facts which she consi dered grave ? There was, unfortunately, but too much cause for that irritability of character, and you yourself, after you left Mde. de Praslin's, afforded a strong proof of the fact. Did you not by your correspondence with M. de Praslin and his daughters, keep up as much as in you lay the sentime n t s of irritation, spite, and anger which exis t ed between them and Mde. de Praslin on account of your leaving ? Even in calling on them to support the separation with firmness was there not in your language a terrible encouragement to preserve the sentiments which only too strongly reigned in their hearts, and the explosion of which in M. de Praslin's led to so frightful a catastrophe ? Oh ! I swear to you that in my letters there was neither art nor hidden motive. I was in the utmost grief, and expressed my despair with too much warmth. I now reproach myself for it ; but cer tainly it was not to separate them from their mother that I wrote as I did. I feel now that I ought to have gone to a distance, and allowed the sentiments of these children to calm down in the course of time, but I never sought to augment the evil. What is altogether unfortunate is that a determination should have been come to all at once to break the bonds of affection which had become stronger and stronger during six years. Had Madame de Praslin come to an explanation with me—had she authorised our cor respondence, and taken it under her direction, had she allowed us to see each other from time to time, their sentiments and mine would not have been ex cited. In every answer you give youagainst insinuate something Aide. de Praslin ?—( Areeping)—l wish most since rel y I had not to say what I do. She is dead, and I only wish I could bring her back to life, not by merely giving mine for hers, but in addi tion by suffering the most horrible tortures. Who beheld as I did for six years every fold o k f n h v i ss m ata i il n sit l ieivoetrhyatcehxatnrgaeorodfinhaeryr and d isentee ? \\'h, incomprehensible which caused Aide. de Pra,ltn to pass from anger to mirth, from disdain to mildness, from irony to kind ness ? I feel that, except before you, I would not have uttered a word, except of respect, veneration, and re gret. Oh ! I do not defend myself. I only endeavour to enlighten what is dark. Since you left M. de Praslin's how often have yon seen him and his children ?—Three times —once with his times e h c o e nd wasdaughter b an e d se h n i t s you ngest boy ; to the d the . sec T o nd The third time was on Tuesday last with three of his daughters and his youngest boy. youo of l a o n n e h u were r.. m y! udelornrgastioin daughters to carry a basket was charged by one of he of fruit to M. Remy ; he proposed to me to get into a g et l‘ he h r el ? l — h T e hr c e a e m- q e carriage, because he wanted to converse with me. u to t . r i s s What was the subject of your conversation ?—The direction which ought to be given to Mdlle. Maria, his third daughter, whose education Mde. de Praslin had undertaken. Did you not claim that direction ?—I could not ap prove, as a teacher, of a course of studies which M. Remy himself had told me was not practicable with so young a person, and I recommended M. de Praslin to allow the child to enjoy the country for a while, and then follow, at the convent where her sisters were placed, a more regilar course of studies. In the last visit made to you by M. de Praslin, in company with three of his daughters and his youngest son, what took place ?—When they all entered the children and myself were at first much affected. I then told M. de Praslin that Mde. Lemaire,: the mistress of the school where I was residing, was in clined to give me employment, but that having heard some w u e n n fa ted unfavourable reports traeinpofrrtosmrelmatidvee. d to e In Praslin y she to serve as a testimony in my favour. M. de Praslin went to see Mde. Lemaire , and, when he returned, I told him "not to think too much of this affair, as Mde. Lemaire probably gave it more importance in order to induce me to accept conditions which I did n ot seem inclined t o accept.' M. de Praslin left me some minutes after, and o ur last words were, " Fare well until to-morrow, " as we were all to meet at twelve o'clock, and it had been agreed that I should make a step towards a reconciliation with Mde. de Praslin. give you any hope of obtaining theDliedttiNerl. f i r l o e m Pr A nF l i t in .clame de Praslin ?—Be had told Madame Lemaire that he thought it would be difficult to obtain it, as Madame de Praslin was anxious for me to go to some foreign country. When M. de Praslin left you did he appear extra ordinarily excited ?—No, he merely said, " I am sorry for you. I play an awkward part in this affair. Eh a•yeartl e:ilin. The hour wa, st little befdre 10, and h.- in a h,.(kney -coach with his children. The next day when you heard of the murder, you went to M. Remy's. Did you take with you the letters found there, or had you left them there befors? --I took them with me. •