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

Q LITERATURE.
ILIA' T LEY MANOR. 3 Vols. By Lady Geor.
teems giana Fullerton.
eat_ , e Lady Georgiana Fullerton has written a
te!.o".utiful domestic tale, we are not. on that ae-
keenstie thepoaed to make supercilious or depreciatory
4sittr"! to those novelists who have failed in their
ty, eations of character, much less to derogate from
i'it:e!o_ettestionable genius of some of her literary
eeta'n'Peraries. The appearance of a romancist who
coastees great natural capacity in the composition and
2•
lettnn of a fiction by no means disposes us to
n churlish with the unsuccessful, or unjust
eleirse who have already acquired celebrity by
1 aL, narratives. The former have their own
04:utoent in their failure ; the latter their own re-
; rn" in their popularity. The former are below
totaieetnnation ; the latter are above praise. The
eat Jcannot be saved from oblivion ; the latter can-
nery deprived of fame. We are conscious that
of iYag?neration has its defamers, be it a generation
hoeerhrri, "3, or statesmen, or historians, or poets, or
to lass ‘s• Dr. Smollett was so peculiarly disposed
eta, en the credit of everything and everybody that
yar7l4oder
his inspection, that he was christened
epreeriately)
'toll Smellfungus. Each age has its
Su, t; each country is cursed with its Sinell-
-
~,We have ours. The political Smollett
krieoa law an invidious inference from the codrn-
te,ttsora ° „rally class or profession with its pre ed-
-4411 ' 1-le would protest to the Pitts an
le,,ciat,tros that they must " hide their diminished
, Ole Lbefere the superior memories of the Wal-
-1 hlti,.bee7,,l the Bolingbrokes; he would in the same
ntte ai," 'emind the Greys and the Cannings of the
"111 oil the Chathams ; the Peels and the Rus-
'cell . . Greys and the Cannings ; and regard
ea
411 l . , eer the eloquence of a Sheil and an O'Con-
tllpieueeause Grattan and Curran had gone before
IN ei Were we to take the estimates of the Smol-
ktelleBB ef critics as conclusive, we should view the
atteenettual progress of mankind as one of perpetual
faAseitt, d decadence. We should put the
alnts subib:Peo Shakspere because .2Eschylus
tat'elotaluuser-ore,'eptrn Turenne because Hannibal was
Watt because Archimedes was in-
prilln histiopowinedLge:errier because Kepler was profound
of astronomy. According to this
18teriabi e! sYsternatic depreciation the Present is
he abet! inferior to the Past--a notion of the gros-
tela tibl
a rditY4 and one, to our thinking, most con-
'lee 3' line.
i eai,, -,-nerous. It was thus that, about t e
lirimillied With I°aluitblts 1:10f-century, the public ear was
+ eo ations over the degeneracy of Eng-
ellNlZl"7;dat _the very time when Byron, and
ee '
andden CrabAlbeoore, and Shelley, and Cole-
and Rogers were flourish-
' bie.,l-" cried'out, "0, for the (lays
141411)1413er
41eh
-j'ent
and Pope, and Goldsmith," wken
~ "Cep, . ,s Were issuing such works as " Cain,," as
(le,e„ e,' as ~
Gertrude of Wyoming," as " Gene-
It'sf,l4ortclitLisia".Alastor." Itwas protested that the
sipleattleue.' 1.,s
)was extinct, except in the pages of
Ilk: jea„,,'na I antagruel," at the very time that
811 as (1,7. was startling the hearts and the imagi-
ele. '''e trinlion. Some exclaimed that the true
t( bop pas °I3IY to be found buried in the reliquary of
ere
k lilt a„,, Y, when the whole land was ringing with
ti it I-4 'i Passion of the "Irish Melodies." And
fv..ttinliett arnew-a-days. The jealous sarcasms of
ege, e still audible. The literary Smell-
-41 ever, sn is
d as rampant and as inexorable
tOki D. ~"-Idas! that it should be so—that love of'
th'esi totlV„r°oi the credit of contemporary., intellect
ba("letie7rauteerning contagious. According to the
•h.
en /narks
b '41(4 which are made day after day,
1-"th.4% "rs.i.econ, there is nothing great, or good, or
144,111°11ra',,"" us. There are no historians worthy
"-let look at Hallam, and Lingard, and
11% I There
is.. men _ ere is no poetic genius—yet there are
All Them teranger, and . Tennyson, and. Macau-
iiibe 14„ re is no real philosophy—yet there are.
kid- P 41114.14
,Lardner, and Faraday ! There is
Cho 1.. ca,„,e'equence—yet there are Ventura
mere!- eaire, and"
lad There (only the other week)
see e yet te are no political reformers,
jk, errat,. uere are Peel, and Cobden, aye,
-48 illy "1 Such is the blindness, or, rather, the
ltlvis. la' I,ol.educed by that genius of discontent, which
lemma disanisoner peculiar to Tobias Smollett.
.And
to ,Ott tOteot that breaks out with the more viru-
-4 ITS' its".Be very occasions which might be expected
dirZotai- leritnony. Is Sir harry Smith gallant
gt,'' ee th 'is gallantry affords a key-.note forp as
~,TEeld e Partial disappearance of heroism. .
toeit
el% ialiaint a scene as only Stanfield can paint
147 taasalt sigh for the bygone glories of Lorraine.
ti etehed !ttu, Is Hogan more felicitous than usual
(Zel kaithg his conceptions in marble —an allu-
Itseta• he to the masterpieces of Roubilliac. and
kte eleit;"°e, 8 Lady Georgians Fullerton write a
th,-,llatti',.„ll. as a composition, thrilling as a drama,for
to time ~„71, as every-day life—there is a lament.
ataae.,.."" Walter Scott is no longer penning a
tenth Mid a covert sneer at the genius
to„•-iv,er Linea as Charles Dickens and as
b;44; of A Ytton . Away with this miserable
-`vs "keel • I
alai ll° ley- atten . The disciples of Dr.. Smollett
%s ll they''Pathy with us. The splenetic sentiments by
to-,thettio are actuated are more loathsome to us thanonl
1 (Lille belle the -,,,,,7—ps garoux—for the one feeds.
to
tee'ea)._l tlial-B,°f the dead, while the other strives od
117'-veees. 61'4 fame of the living ! We love. an
1%-'l4 d lit- memory of those who have appreciated
boa Inek:::lng the existence of its possessors on earth.
Ott: NV! with these feelings Mammas for having
'ilip.l,_ed thirgij audilorace ; Si H. Wootton for having
'4-1,7_ teej powers of Milton ; Allen for his friend-
aleas ate,-tAddison and Sir Richard Steele ; Sprat
Vtellift3 victlie'to for Thomson ; yes, and we could.
; 114 ker hay, r. Macaulay, love and reverence. Bos-
-140444 inviß; attended Dr. Johnson like his shadow,
itte 4treutto with the s.yeophancy that only the
IheitYie % toad-eater could evince. So rejoiced
Itota of
t those men caught a glimpse of
tliatlle ofr're.nnwo through the admiration and
i tal We dleir contemporaries. Hence it is
1 °l4lfite 'Citc,n fully estimate the excellence of
i die of ~-/rantley Manor," without diminishing
1 tatldnguiseV. Rood opinion f the writings of those
14 -ng a 1 1d nien withwhom, as authors—notwith-
- 44":1he '
' eoul or,; r unquestionable
ster,ted. °T,,na Fullerton cannot for one instant be
hatioes.tu til‘a is impossible to regard with greater
ill ti_Oattoo owe do the fruitful and almost Arabic.b
no Qat eath 11 Sir Walter Scott—and yet with
the 41„to havii4iztara we are satisfied that he could„or
Ili , 144 t ,er, written such works as,," Zoni: or
tpuipt and-Uays of pompeii,,, or Rienzi,"
Lytton
he, Morning," than Sir Bulwer
Bride . e writte
Tel' (4. tarn ° " Guy Mannering," :::r " The
baimletaao.,, raermoor" or " Waverley, or the
insre of tie 11°flouring with equal sincerity the
bey heve Liwr3P.Pielding, we know that he
,c,oupldmno.
thitritted s rattan 4,
Jo-
And .elia,
I'' Oliver Twist," or 0
BePh 4„ bitTtl'" or " Martin Chuzzlewit,"„ than
'' 41 ttoclre,,,,er; could have written .
~
or 44 Jonathan Wild, oF,
reign Scott% toe " Journey to the Other World.
1 _ vet 7._ of El; °Peeed to us the pageants of the
1 truil has lta.heth in his " Kenilworth," Bulwer
1 the depi
1 urile.• 'tag% c.teci the voluptuous court of Edward
of th-iot youthetutnity of the great Warwick, and the
te'Do.e4_l/erons eaf our Third Richard, in his " Last
b-4talitY oats;
life if Fielding has given to us and
Ittot, II has eof the bastard " Tom Jones,
theref Papers of done„ the same by the posthu-
atNiZtte wite, ao"": " Pickwick Cluli" Sympathising..
tblre 6°l tO..dj one rather than with the Tobias
$,. the • . ay or
a alien° indieput,,, Yesterday, we can and doad-
geopinapii:Witho,it-wle Powers of Lady Georgians
eeotera' -le Aenius slieering at the peculiarities or
sara
.Peraries. .t,ef her more illustrious literary
Ailde short time inn" expectations which were raised
le, diet% e haveB --e4 on vs
i 4e aUtll4: been r
-nw eresa & ,".e publication of " Helen
i realised in ‘• Grantley Manor.'
her vita. and tv._ e remarkable graces of her.
Olean
,7'°.11 in a "y purities and elegances of
ISts„wraitlan in
~ story which elevates her to no
eoi,B:tl this she tne literary republic of her age.
the mate ar:7iclenFes her familiarity with. that
?"est of 'lllness "len imparts to a fictitious history
Is the of the real
Of si fabuiou „, and the enthralling inte,-,
Mane nolo
~, S• The plot of " Grantley Manor
No to roll rnplicity, and
i, tired se the attention a the reader. It is
itliNate:pasorseoioovve_ier.,a.rbey the rich and various atmos-
yet sufficiently inge.-
achi the n ii through 'Which the imaginary be-
Nor%eves, as a revealed to us. Among other
lye diversifi work of art its narrative is
Niti4l3ters are • ad by its duplex character.
disci "4 of tba in of the most opposite dis-
t
L 411.41110. „pile Most contrary education, of the most
4 th:e; kar "'ince—Margaret Leslie and Ginevra
Gin lily ~, Zaret is a,
" the rose," and Ginevra as
D. gevra c•it Auargaret is like “ • "
-4,elttb._ fa,, _ , a summer morning,
,
1 via, -4e of
and I:nuonlight night ;" Margaret is a
er _ lire of continual isturbed happiness, Ginevra the
olvaio.. _ and dreadful sorrows• and as a
cretabotestltsettcownturftst between the two, Margareti is a
liellteSOftliet 1"e Ginevra is a Catholic. The circum-
lia .r 1 Leal' ate may be described shortly fII
as .o..Ows:
Vja , e
etootaiotgiesi,aorfgxlo,Bs.Yeu3suing -man of ancient lineage and
f ons in one of the most be
; , ha% atheehdiladitielerad• marries his cousin, Mary Thorn-
of a village clergyman. By her he
Thorn-
after
4 land the birth argaret-1 ut, the mother dying soon
; 41 in ,i of this ild, Leslie leaves Eng-
-Bnßht eeP of
e ttsvel er t° the Nnden Y, consigning his infant
care of her grand-parents. He
$ 1%41 osetolr the Continent to dissipate his grief,
5,
Let with ntfle afterwards contracts another mar-_
0,
t artieon
Jo Ferrari. Twelve
of an Italian artist, named
berai
with
Twelve months . of unut-
4rteontoof h.naseenet at Verona, are followed by the
ef is
ll tra .4 wife,
eoalnide daughter and the death of his
itae.ted at the
,1.,
,e is again a widower ; he is dis-
h Yours to Alecrees of his destiny, and again
.en.
of
0 y aetivit .rON%
Vithi-mia I, enternptee,remernbrance of his afflictions
and travel. The story opens
krtat • etuna to his English home, Grantley Manor,
eighteen
i years absence. Margaret ie 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 repay
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 prantley Manor
a few weeks after the return of Colonel Leslie
from his adventures as a saldier 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 real
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 seen 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 mesalliance 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 wile 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 Alanor"—and it is a grand
moral, nobly and passionately treated. Lady Geor-
gians 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 seal, d his lips
and concealed from his own thoughts the real nature
of his attachment. The truth, however, beams on
Margaret,.end 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
atone 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 bad 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 Frederic 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
feelirrgs. Soon I shall leave )ou.'
" 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 this
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 to come back.
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!'—(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 now,
Old Walter! No more trials ; you must take me, even
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 passed
away in that hour from the hearts of Wisher 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 elder daughter 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 eyes, 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 ag
Such a martyr and such a confes-er is Ginevra, and
the conception of her charariar, her fervent devo-
tion to her religion, and of " the w'restlings of her
lonely heart," are brilliant tokens of the genius of
Lady,,Georgiana Fullerton. Ginevra, however, was
sustained, it will be seen, by the ardour in-
spired
thehno
edr
gorgeous
eput
ohrt
uehe
precious
rotieuelss
pgmlvi
eneasraryobt i
of her
by. that faith which fascinates young
and the ou
h
hese .earua tnoi
v'unlStlh)lhae,en ids'
taai
rdeek
hadrri
ceghe nesegs,:eonmf-NiesN:a
earth
i tttnthhehg,es:
d
gold of the mine and the peal of p
the ocean, lavished

in profusion on the shrines of the Almighty; and she ! POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTION•
had learnt, at the same time, that the precious things Last evening Mr. Hunter Simple, the newl% -nis-
ei' man's heart and of man's brain, its pearls of great pointed chemical lecturer at this establishment, deli-
price, its treasures of deep thought, its gems of count-
ess value, should be laid upon the altar of God,
not vered a highly-interesting
l
to he destroyed like the holocausts of old, but chemical
analysis, which was illustrated by a series
to be hallowed and exalted by the light of the of beautiful experiments, which were exhibited in a
sanctuary." The intense affection with which ' pleasing and masterly style, though it must be ad-
Lady Georgiana Fullerton speaks of the Catholic mitted that the lecturer required a little more fami-
church prove s that she does not merely subscribe to
liarity with the practice of addressing public audiences
its peculiar tenets nominally. Her mind is evidently
convinced and her heart is warmed. Take these sin- before his lectures will have the efficiency of which
his talents and scientific attainments are capable. He
fences wherein she describes Ginevra in a convent
near London : was, however, much applauded. In the course of the
" When she entered her little room, its simple arrange- day Dr. Bachoffner, whose rare versatility and ex-
ment, and its various religious ornaments, reminded her tensive learning are the theme of admiration to every
of her Italian home; and the sacred Litanies chanted by
the nuns— the same which, from her infancy upwards of the P I ,technic Institution, delivered several
visitor o)
she had loved to join in, wherever a humble choir of lectures in various departments of science, to the
wandering peasants, or of home-hound children, recited great gratification of numerous audiences. The ope-
them before some wayside image of the Blessed Virgin rations with the diving-bell and helmet, and the sub-
-carried her back to the days of her childhood, and marine galvanic apparatus for the blowing up of
awoke in her heart a fervent gratitude, that her faith wrecks, shoals, &c., at the bottom of the sea, were
had made no shipwreck in the midst of the storms which
conducted under the superintendence of Mr. Cripps,
had beset it. Who can describe what the language of
the Church is to a Catholic—the type of its universality, v*'l° also,
I in a very kind manner explained in detail
the badge of its unity I That voi,3e, reaching unto all the. various models of works of art so profusely dis-
lands, and speaking to all hearts! uttering the same well- tributed throughout the great hall. These explana-
and instruction to
known accents in the gorgeous temples of the south, and tions afford very great amusement
the Gothic shrines of the north, as in the rustic chapel or the visitors, and, indeed, are perhaps as useful and
in the mountain cave, where persecuted worshippers meet entertaining as any other exhibitions or discourses
in secret. At every altar, in every sanctuary, each sacred presented here. The music performed in the course
rite and solemn hour claim the words of sacred import, of the day, selected chiefly from Lavenu's opera of
which fall on the ear of the stranger and the wanderer, at Loretta, an overture, and other pieces from Weber,
once as a whisper from his home, and a melody of was executed in a very superior style, under the
heaven." direction of Dr. Wallis, and was so distributed as to
convert the intervals between the lectures into an
Through all the passion of the narrative, in the
pr
animation of the incidents, and the earnest enthusiasm agreeableomenade. The selection of music for the
cc
of the dialogues, several of the thoughts sparkle ac of the dissolving views did great
almost with the vividness of wit, as where it is said credit to the judgment of the very able direction of
(vol. i. p. 255) that " Christabel," " that extraor- Dr. Wallis, and was performed by an orchestra that
dinary poem," "is like a bad dream 1" does credit to the institution. The views themselves
The delineation of character, again, is sometimes are new, and are in many respects superior to any
most inimitable and observant. Mrs. Thornton is that have been before exhibited. In the interior of
depicted as " a good woman; nobody could deny " St. Etienne, at Paris," a very novel and striking
that; but to her goodness she joined a profound con- effect was introduced which we had not seen before.
viction of her own wisdom ; a steady, simple-minded The church is first presented in the moving appear-
conceit, which carried her through every circum- ante previous to public service, and after some
stance of life with an amount of self-gratulation, and minutes of this exhibition it gradually begins
through every conversation with a degree of authori- to fill, and we have at length the proces-
tative folly, that was inexpressibly amusing:' Mr. sion of the host in all its grandeur, attended
Warren was said to be, "on the whole, a kind and by a thronged congregation. The beauty of this
goods natured man, but (he) had fallen into the effect was acknowledged with very great applause.
grievous error of supposing that to be fastidious The effect was much heightened by the skilful and
was a' proof of refinement, and to be impertinent a appropriate adaptation of church music introduced.
mark of distinction." Lady Donnington is men It is understood that the additional theatres and
tioned as one whose chief characteristic was galleries now in progress of building
civility : " She was civil, as other people will not be
completed before Christmas. One of the theatres
are literary, or professional, or scientific—it was will accommodate 2,000 persons—and, indeed, the
the business—the enjoyment—the sum total of increased space is much wanted, for the present
her existence." Mrs. Fraser is spoken of as a lady
theatres and lecture-rooms, though capacious, do not
who "had the rare power of talking nonsense with- afford on all occasions—(they did not last evening)
out appearing silly, and of insulting people without
—sufficient accommodation to the crowds of every
,
transgressing in the least the rules of good-breeding. age, sex, and rank, who throng hither for pleasure and
We know one or two Mrs. Thorntons, four or five
Mr. Warrens, half a dozen Lady Donningtons, and a improvement.
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 authoress is speaking
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 cf 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 Maker
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 with 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 see
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 against temp-
tation; or to the powers of wrath, to stamp upon her the
mark of their withering passage.
Lady Georgiana 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 las
few days that the assurances that have been given that
there will be na opposition to the election of Messrs.
Bogie'. 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. Ve) dt 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 es 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 fur 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,
AUG. 12.—1 f we consider the numerous secessions which
within the last year has taken place from the Ronan
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;
ly tes 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 Ru>sia 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 from the the old Russian
Government, and to go to those parts of the country
where Christians, Mahomedans, and Heathens live to-
gether, viz., Caucasia. This Greek church, how-
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, Arm. 25. It 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 chief of Military Instruction, vacant by the death
of General Ruhle Von Lilieorsterm, has not yet been
filled up. The report which has so often been circu-
lated of the nomination of Von Bodels.chiviaz to be
Chancellor of State is verified. His Majesty appointed
him to the office previous to his departure for IBM,—
Flanders Mail, Aug. 29.
PRUSSIAN FUNDS.—BIIIII.I24, AUGUST 28.
Bills. Money.
St.Schuld Sch., 3% per Cent ••• • • ....... 9314 923 f
rms. English Bonds, 1830, 4 per Cent ••• • • •
Foreign Exchanges • • • • • • • • • • • • .. • ..... • • • •
Exchange on London, Ll Sterling, 3 Months 6 24% --

His Royal Highness Prince Waldemar of Prussia,
attended by Baron Lauer Munchhosen, Count Oliolla,
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.
THE SYNAGOGUE IN GREAT ST. HELEN'S.—Yes-
terday afternoon the new synagogue in Great St.
Helen's, Bishorgate, was re-opened for public worship,
after Laving undergone a complete repair. A very large
c:,:igregation 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
At the conclusion of the service the Rev. Dr.
chiro.
Adler preached an arpropriate sermon. The
tong©offeris
were subsequently proclaimed, and it appeared
the general opinion that tbE repairs had been judiciously
completed, and r« ficeted great credit on the taste and
Jude/milt of the wardens.
We very much regret to hear that R. B. Sheridan,
Esq., M.P., still continues very ill, at his residence,
Frampton House.

M. de Praslin so kind and good towards the, 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 ha ve done
it, out of respect for the children. I should h ave 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 we of
the word " daughters" which I have done only since
1 write to them. I have said "my children" sume-
: times when speaking to all the little band.
Was this sentiment of tenderness participated in
X y M. de Praslin P—No ; M. de Praslin had no sen-
timent of tenderness, nor exaltation of tenderness, for
me, but his children were unhappy, they suffered
in their health, from the harsh treatment of their
mother.

e?-te Id not agree with any of them. Madame de Pras-
ln me that I should reside alone with the chit-
Aro zin one side of the hotel, that I should take my
met Is alone with them, and that I should allow them
-ely to see their mother. I refused to consent to
the se propositions, and declared that I would not accent
the situation that was offered. The Duke then decided
th' 1 t ti. governess and the children should take their
tce ?,als witb the family, but that the children should
;remain under her exclusive control and direction
a latter. period, during my stay at the Chtsteau
1 Tandreml, where I was alone with the Duchess, the-
lti
Ater took part in the readings and direction of the
st ,udies of her children. On his arrival, the Duke,
hi wing learned this, was very much dissatisfied, and
ea pressed that dissatisfaction somewhat strongly,
wl iereupon the Duchess abstained. We were then
est ablished at the Château de Praslin, where the
hot serness and the children lived entirely apart, ex-
cep t as regarded the meals, which were taken en
fan zille. I never endeavoured to keep away the chit-
dre n from their mother, bet there existed between the
Du ke and Madame de Praslin causes of difference
whi ch I could not prevent. I was perhaps greatly
wrc ng to accept that position, but I never wilfully
end' .avoured to pain the Duchess. The Duchess ex-
pees sed sentiments of jealousy towards me, but which
N,,'% not the least foundation in the world. Still,
gt er ally, the Duchess was on good terms with me,
ty ithout being affectionate ; and that often caused me
t( ) forget her injustice. I had no fortune, no friend
a t Paris. I was obliged to keep my position, with so
luch the more resignation that the Duke had pro-
le ised to give me a pension if I had the courage—
se ch was the term he used—to terminate the education
`of his three eldest girls, notwithstanding the annoy-
es, ice which that task might occasion me.
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 f. 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
to the intimate relations which she supposed to exist
between you and her husband ? Never ; no, Sir,
never I 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 Duches,,
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 &iallard
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, drd 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.

ioffitthceancrbilenel7liitevceadntnhaetveMr TL. de
außthuotr tPhoraulglihnt thastthhee
committed it to defend i,his children against the harsh
treatment of their mother 2—No .Sir, that was not
the motive. That which excited' him, that which
carried him beyond himself, was a fear
of a suit far a separation, with wl;ich Madame
de Praslin 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. Hiant, the notary, who communicated it to me.
The Abbe Gallard also mentioned it to me, and M.
de Praslin requested me to submit to everything from
Madame de Praslin, and I promised him to do so, at
whatever sacrifice it might 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 alno2ag 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 interventiorr 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 assa.sinated ?—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 letter
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 result
of six years passed together in the same house.
SECOND INTERROGATORY OF MDLLE. DE LIJZY.

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 his 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. I do
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 I 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 I" she resumed, " oh !
tell me, gentlemen, I beg of you. •But no! If you
told me, I would not believe it—no, never !" She
then paused, and pressed her forehead with her hands.
" 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 I—l alone who am guilty ! who
loved the children so much, who adored them !—I
have been cowardly I (headed 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 adapt myself to my situa-
tion, that I could be happy in my little chamber,
and that they ought to forget me and love their mo-
ther ; but I did nothing like that. When I left the
house, I was in such despair that I wished to die. I
had a phial of laudanum ; I took the poison, but I
was unfortunately called to life, for life is very sad 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 ! Yes, write it !
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 !";
Such an exaltation does not appear possible to
belong to the feelings which may have existed between
you and the children. Was it to these children, and
to them alone, that the letters of despair you have
spoken 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

of weak
thenes s severity m'llen
of a circumstancesmther. would
These I
were' de-
mandedthe
reasons which had induced M. de Praslin •
to insist on
an education completely isolated ; but
unfortunately
his domestic tastes and the pleasure •
which he found in
the society of his daughters caused him by degrees
relax for himself this measure of isolation. fe to
IPraslin became annoyed at this, for until then . hie
had submitted without any apparent difficulty to 81
e
order of things that had been established. oumt lo
entering the house she had announced to me that:
matters would go on in that way, 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 disappeared 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 us to attribute to you is
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 them—l devoted myself
to them, their pleasures were my pleasures, their
pains my pains. For six years I watched over them,
night and day, with a solicitude that never gave way.
These children loved me with all the enthusiasm of
their age, and
I loved them with all the affection
that may be int with mine. I was
supposed consistent
without family ties,
without friends, all my sentiments
were concentrated in in yduties, at once so agreeable
and so easy.
Did not a moment arrive when you pe.'rceived that
you had become between M. and Aide.-cle Praslin a
subject of dissention—a stumbling-block, and did
you then do all in in your power to change so afflict-
ing a state of things, either by sacrificesimpos
n
your self-love, or by all the means that you oughte to
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
co 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
1 saw her conceiving the same impressions with res-
pect to all the persons in intercourse with her hus-
band. At a later period, when these circumstances
appeared to assume some gravity in the eyes of the
, world, I sought an explanation with her on the sub-
! ject, and expressed myself clearly and without any
circumlocution. She then appeared to consider this
susc-ptibility of mine as a great excess of self-hove, in
the secondary position in which I found myself with
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 commencements 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 Aledame
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 painfal
for 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 1,500 f. 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, and 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 AI. de Praslin and his daughters, keep up as
much as in you lay the sentiments of irritation, spite,
and anger which existed 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. 1 was in the utinost
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
-luring 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 something
give you insinuate ) I
' t Alde. de Praslin ?—( Areeping
wrong against
h most sincerely I had not to say what I do. She
wish
is dead, and I only wis • h 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 of her mind,
every change of her existence ? Who knows as I
do that extraordinary and incomprehensible versatility
which caused Aide. de Praslin to pass from anger to
mirth, from disdain to mildness, from irony to kind-
ness ? Ifeel that, except before you, I would not have
uttered a word, except of respect, veneration, and re-
gret. Oh !I do not defend myself. only I
endeavour
to enlighten what is dark.
Since you left M. de Praslin's how often have you
seen him and his children ?—Three times—once with
his second daughter and his youngest boy ; the second
time he was alone ; he sent for me to the door. The
third time was on Tuesday last with three of his
daughters and his youngest boy.
When he came to you alone were you long to-
gether ?—Three-quarters of an hour. M. de Praslin
was charged by one of his daughters to carry a basket
of fruit to Al. Remy ; he proposed to me to get into a
wanted to converse with me.
carriage, because he
What was the subject of your conversation ?—The.
-en to Mdlle. his
direction which ought to be gi.%
e education Aide. de PrMaslinaria, had
third daughter, woos
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 ?—W hen 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 unfilvourable reports relative to my reputation,
she wanted to obtain from Aide. de Prashn a letter
to serve es a testimony in my favour. Al. de Praslin
went to see Mde. Lemaire, and, e hen he returned,
I told him " not to think too much of this atffutalier,
in
Mde. Lemaire probably gave it more
order to induce me to accept condit
Pion importance
let
ft I did
• lin
not seem inclined to accept.' M. de ras me
some minutes after, and our 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.
Did Al. de Preslin give you any hope of obtaining
the letter from Madame de Praslin ?---He had told
Madame Lemaire that he thought it would b difficult
to obtain it, as Madame Ce Praslin was anxious for me
to go to some foreign country.
When Al. 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;
Re appeared calm. The hour was a little before 10,
and he was in a hackney-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 before?
—I took them with me.

How long have you been engaged in the education
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 P—Exceedingly well ; the
children soon became attached to me, 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 thiugs cease ?
When the girls began to grow up, the father came
more frequently near them, and of necessity near me,
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-
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 of 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 of ad-
vaneement 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 ifraslin, 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 M.
de Praslin P—l 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 let°
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
mother ; they affected, with the innocent malice of
children, to brave this sentiment, in testifying still
greater tenderness to their father. I perceived the
real mischief which this kind of struggle produced in
the children, but had not always shed ower to pr.e-
, vteeundteirtnsersessuwlhtsi.oh Even
itat.faorlamtetyiraP3e
luipni sthrese matters,
iptheeveenxtceedssmivee
from being
themselves.
back to Madame de
I could not attempt to brmg
completely
from her.
imprudently, kept apart
said
Praslin those whom she desnedly, or at east very
endeavour-
ing very evidently to throw all the fault on Madame de In all that you have you have been
Praslin ; however, the frightful catastrophe which has
terminated her life ought certainly to render you
more circumspect in your manner of judging. From
the language you use, it may be doubted that you did
all that it was your duty to do to terminate so de-
plorable a situation, and to bring back to the mothtr
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 b nd
tvheerrye ffoarre, pferrommi t ted
conductingt o bel believe ve t
at
ens. Itfairs,
andyou
hyuovuer
your-
self in these unhappy circumstances as you ought to
have done.—l would not for the whole
world thst I
could be accused of being wanting in respect to the
memory or Mde. 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 Ido her character, at rnom, nts
irritable and fractious, which rendered her incapable
of conducting so many children of ages, minds, ad
characters completely opposite. Neither had she in
her tenderness for them that hisser, aller, that facility
which gains the heart of youth ; irritable in I slty
circumstances where indu.esnce would have been
necessary, she, on the contrary, manifested, as if to
make up for such useless rigour, too great an extent