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we should think it time, one and all, to make some arrangement of our affairs both for this world and the next. A prisoner confined in solitude or condemned to penal servitude for life is not likely to do himself any good, neither can he do good to the State, for keeping him and guarding him probably cost more than his hopeless labour. I forbear the deduction. It is a stern one, but I believe it to be true. The prisoner may ask for a long day," and have it, and benefit of clergy ought to be denied to none by those who have the thief on the cross before their eyes; nor ought the services of a national church, which buries all, as she baptises all, in charitable hope. Secondary punishments are of course a question of much detail and arrangement, and many plans have been proposed with regard to them, more or less sensible. It seems to me that means must be taken to banish from the country all criminals but the young and those convicted of trifling offences, or under great temptation, and to banish them for ever. First, they ought, properly classified and supervised, to be set to useful public works, and work out at home the term of their punishment, and then granted a passage to certain stated regions of the earth, not necessarily colonies, where the people would not object to receive them, if there were inhabitants already, and where they might, as it were, begin a new life under fairer auspices. Return to this country, under any circumstances whatever, should be punished by another and a very long lease of penal servitude. Nor should that penal servitude be too light, else it would be resorted to in some cases in order to effect an ultimate emigration. It should be very severe, but not untempered by relaxation both of mind and body; nor should the chaplain be the only reformer. I would have the musician, and even the actor of Shakespeare, to aid his efforts. Reparation and reformation are the two main objects of secondary punishments; nor is the more selfish protection of society, although important, to be weighed in the balance with them. If a crime is committed, according to divine law, it has to be expiated, sooner or

later, in the person of the offender; and it can be no harm for human law to endeavour to be in harmony with the divine. After expiation, forgiveness may come, but not without it, both from man and God. God may forgive in any case, even the worst; but in the worst cases, man, conscious of his weakness, must submit to be unforgiving. As to lesser punishments, I have often wondered why that excellent summary process of flogging has fallen into such disrepute. Why should we have mercy on the skin of a man who has no mercy on the skin of his wife, and invest it with sacerdotal sanctity? And ought not cruelty to animals to be punished in kind, by scourging the animal that is cruel? As for the noble Stocks, which has become in most villages a significant ruin, it is a machine which seems to have been created expressly to curb the national vice of drunkenness. Put your silly Helot by all means in the stocks, and let all our young village Spartans have a good stare at him, especially at the time when he is beginning to get sick and sorry. No rotten eggs, if you please, far less a stone in a snowball! The poor fellow cannot run after you, and is sufficiently punished by the degrading exposure. I have no more time or paper, or I would say even more, Irenæus, on this subject of punishments; but I think you can see my general drift. After all, prevention is better than cure; and I would rather put another strain on our British freedom, and take away by force from their parents all the children who are being brought up under notoriously evil auspices; beginning by transporting them to be out of the way, and then bringing them back in ten or fifteen years' time, if they wished to come back, to some other spot at home, far from the habitat of their parents, and not this till the "death of their parents had been ascertained. But even they would perhaps do better in a new country, as would some of us, who have but a sort of struggle to live here, and yet very little of a moral nature the matter with us. Farewell,

Your ever

TLEPOLEMUS.

THE ATHELINGS; OR, THE THREE GIFTS.

BOOK III.-PART IX.

CHAPTER L-AN OLD STORY.

"Now, mother," said Charlie, "I'm in real earnest. My father would tell me himself if he were here. I want to understand the whole concern."

Mrs Atheling and her son were in Charlie's little room, with its one small lattice-window, overshadowed and embowered in leaves-its plain uncurtained bed, its small table, and solitary chair. Upon this chair, with a palpitating heart, sat Mrs Atheling, and before her stood the resolute boy.

And she began immediately, yet with visible faltering and hesitation, to tell him the story she had told the girls of the early connection between the present Lord Winterbourne and the Atheling family; But Charlie's mind was excited and preoccupied. He listened, almost with impatience, to the sad little romance of his father's young sister, of whom he had never heard before. It did not move him at all as it had moved Agnes and Marian. Broken hearts and disappointed loves were very far out of Charlie's way; something entirely different occupied his own imagination.

He broke forth with a little effusion of impatience when the story came to an end. “And is this all? Do you mean to say this is the whole, mother? And my father had never anything to do with him but through a girl!"

"You are very unfeeling, Charlie," said Mrs Atheling, who wiped her eyes with real emotion, yet with a little policy too, and to gain time. "She was a dear innocent girl, and your father was very fond of herreason enough to give him a dislike, if it were not sinful, to the very name of Lord Winterbourne."

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"I had better go on with my packing, then," said Charlie. So, that was all? I suppose any scamp in existence might do the same. Do you really mean to tell me, mother, that there was nothing but this?"

son.

Mrs Atheling faltered still more under the steady observation of her "Charlie," said his mother, with agitation, "your father never would mention it to any one. I may be doing very wrong. If he only were here himself to decide! But if I tell you, you must give me your word never so much as to hint at it again."

Charlie did not give the necessary pledge, but Mrs Atheling made no pause. She did not even give him time to speak, however he might have been inclined, but hastened on in her own disclosure with agitation and excitement. "You have heard Papa tell of the young gentleman -he whom you all used to be so curious about-whom your father did a great benefit to," said Mrs Atheling, in a breathless hurried whisper. "Charlie, my dear, I never said it before to any creature -that was him."

She paused only a moment to take breath. "It was before we knew how he had behaved to dear little Bride," she continued, still in haste, and in an undertone. "What he did was a forgery- a forgery! people were hanged for it then. It was either a bill, or a cheque, or something, and Mr Reginald had written to it another man's name. It happened when Papa was in the bank, and before old Mr Lombard diedold Mr Lombard had a great kindness for your father, and we had great hopes then-and by good fortune the thing was brought to Papa. Your father was always very quick, Charlie, he found it out in a moment. So he told old Mr Lombard of it in a quiet way, and Mr Lombard consented he should take it back to Mr Reginald, and tell him it was found out, and hush all the business up. If your Papa had not been so quick, Charlie, but had paid the money at once, as almost any one else would have done, it all must have been found out, and he would have been

hanged, as certain as anything-he, a haughty young gentleman, and a lord's son!'

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And a very good thing, too," exclaimed Charlie; saved him from doing any more mischief. So, I suppose now, it's all my father's blame." "This Lord Winterbourne is a bad man," said Mrs Atheling, taking no notice of her son's interruption"first he was furious to William, and then he cringed and fawned to him; and of course he had it on his conscience then about poor little Bride, though we did not know-and then he raved, and said he was desperate, and did not know what to do for money. Your father came home to me, quite unhappy about him; for he belonged to the same country, and everybody tried to make excuses for Mr Reginald, being a young man, and the heir. So William made it up in his own mind to go and tell the old lord, who was in London then. The old lord was a just man, but very proud. He did not take it kind of William, and he had no regard for Mr Reginald; but for the honour of the family he sent him away. Then we lost sight of him long, and Aunt Bridget took a dislike to us, and poor little Bride was dead, and we never heard anything of the Lodge or the Hall for many a year; but the old lord died abroad, and Mr Reginald came home Lord Winterbourne. That was all we ever knew. I thought your father had quite forgiven him, Charlie-we had other things to think of than keeping up old grudges when all at once it came to be in the newspapers that Lord Winterbourne was a political man, that he was making speeches everywhere, and that he was to be one of the ministry. When your father saw that, he blazed up into such an anger! I said all I could, but William never minded me. He never was so bitter before, not even when we heard of little Bride. He said, Such a man to govern us and all the people!—a forger! a liar!-and sometimes, I think, he thought he would expose the whole story, and let everybody know."

"Time enough for that," said Charlie, who had listened to all this without comment, but with the

closest attention. "What he did once he'll do again, mother; but we're close at his heels this time, and he won't get off now. I'm going to Oxford now to get some books. I say, mother, you'll be sure, upon your honour, not to tell the girls?"

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'No, Charlie," said Mrs Atheling, with a somewhat faint affirmation; "but, my dear, I can't believe in it. It can't be true. Charlie, boy! if this was coming true, our Marianyour sister, Charlie!-why, Marian would be Lady Winterbourne!"

turn; he only took down his little
Charlie did not say a word in re-
travelling-bag, laid it at his mother's
feet to be packed, and left her to that
business and her own meditations;
but after he had left the room, the
lad returned again and thrust in his
shaggy head at the door. "Take care
of Marian, mother," said Charlie, in
father's little sister Bride."
a parting adjuration; "remember my

Atheling a good deal disquieted. She
So he went away, leaving Mrs
had got over the first excitement of
Miss Anastasia's great intelligence
and the sudden preparations of
Charlie.

enough, indeed, to give a thought to She had scarcely time these things, when her son demanded this history from her, and sent her mind channel. Now she sat still in Charaway into quite a different lie's room, pondering painfully, with heeded at her feet. At one moment the travelling-bag lying quite unshe pronounced the whole matter perfectly impossible-at the next, triumphantly inconsequent, she leaped and saw her own pretty Marianto the full consummation of the hope, dazzling vision !—the lady of Winterbourne! and again the heart of the good mother fell, and she remembered little Bride. Louis, as he was now, having no greater friends than their own simple family, and no pretentune, was a very sions whatever either to birth or forthat other Louis who might be heir different person from of lands and lordship and the family pride of the Riverses. Much perplexed, in great uncertainty and pain, of that grand discovery of Miss mused Mrs Atheling, half-resentful Anastasia, which might plunge them all into renewed trouble; while

Charlie trudged into Oxford for his Italian grammar-and Louis and Marian wandered through the enchanted wood, drawing homeward

and Rachel sang to the childrenand Agnes wondered by herself over the secret which was to be confided only to mamma.

CHAPTER II-A CRISIS.

That night Charlie had need of all his diplomatic talents. Before he returned from Oxford, his mother, by way of precaution lest Agnes should betray the sudden and mysterious visit of Miss Anastasia to Marian, contrived to let her elder daughter know mysteriously, something of the scope and object of the sudden journey for which it was necessary to prepare her brother, driving Agnes, as was to be supposed, into a very fever of suppressed excitement, joy, triumph, and anxiety. Mrs Atheling, conscious, hurried, and studying deeply not to betray herself and Agnes, watching every one, stopping questions, and guarding off suspicions with prudence much too visible-were quite enough of themselves to rouse every other member of the little company to lively pursuit after the secret. Charlie was assailed by every shape and form of question: Where was he goingwhat was he to do? He showed no cleverness, we are bound to acknowledge, in evading these multitudinous interrogations; he turned an impenetrable front upon them, and made the most commonplace answers, making vast incursions all the time into Hannah's cakes and Mamma's breadand-butter.

"He had to go back immediately to the office; he believed he had got a new client for old Foggo," said Charlie, with the utmost coolness; "making no secret of it at all," according to Mamma's indignant commentary.

"To the office!-are you only going home, after all?" cried Marian.

"I'll see when I get there," answered Charlie; "there's something to be done abroad. I shouldn't wonder if they sent me. I say, I wish you'd all come home at once, and make things comfortable. There's my poor father fighting it out with Susan. I should not stand it if it was me."

"Hold your peace, Charlie, and don't be rude," said Mrs Atheling. "But, indeed, I wish we were at home, and out of everybody's way."

"Who is everybody?" said Louis. "I, who am going myself, can wish quite sincerely that we were all at home; but the addition is mysterious -who is in anybody's way ?"

"Mamma means to wish us all out of reach of the Evil Eye," said Agnes, a little romantically.

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No such thing, my dear. I daresay we could do him a great deal more harm than he can do us," said Mrs Atheling, with sudden importance and dignity; then she paused with a certain solemnity, so that everybody could perceive the grave self-restraint of the excellent mother, and that she could say a great deal more if she chose.

"But no one thinks what I am to do when you are all gone," said Rachel; and her tearful face happily diverted her companions from investigating and from concealing the secret. There remained among them all, however, a certain degree of excitement. Charlie was returning home, to-morrow-specially called home on business!-perhaps to go abroad upon the same! The fact stirred all those young hearts with something not unlike envy. This boy seemed to have suddenly leaped in one day into a man.

And it was natural enough that, hearing of this, the mind of Louis should burn and chafe with fierce impatience. Charlie, who was perfectly undemonstrative of his thoughts and imaginations, was a very boy to Louis-yet there was need and occasion for Charlie in the crowd of life, when no one thought upon this fiery and eager young man. It was late that night when Louis left this only home and haven which he had ever known; and though he would fain have left Rachel there, his little sister would not remain behind him,

but dong to L's arm with a strange sent d whething about to press. happen, which the ord wt explain Iola wardly atawerod a word to the quiet talk of Pachel as they went upon their way to the Hall With difficulty, and even with impa tience, be cured his rapid stride to her timid little footsteps, and hurried her along without a glance at the surrounding wene, memorable and striking as it was. The broad moonlight flooded over the noble park of Winterbourne. The long white-columned front of the house which was a great Grecian house, pallid, vast, and imposing-shone in the white light like a screen of marble; and on the great lawn immediately before it were several groups of people, dwarfed into minute miraculous figures by the great space and silence, and the intense illumination, which was far more striking and particular than the broader light of day. The chances were that Louis did not see them, as he plunged on, in the blindness of preoccupation, keeping no path, through light and shadow, through the trees and underwood, and across the broad unshaded greensward, where no one could fail to perceive him. His little sister clung to his arm in an agony of fear, grief, and confidence trembling for something about to happen with an overpowering tremor yet holding a vague faith in her brother, strange and absorbing. She said, "Louis, Louis!" in her tone of appeal and entreaty. He did not hear her, but struck across the broad visible park, in the full stream of the moonlight, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. As they approached, Rachel could not even hear any conversation among the groups on the lawn; and it was impossible to suppose that they had not been seen. Louis's abrupt direct course, over the turf and through the brushwood, must have attracted the notice of bystanders even in the daylight; it was still more remarkable now, when noiseless and rapid, through the intense white radiance and the perfect stillness the stately figure of the young man, and his timid, graceful ittle sister, came directly forward in face of the spectators. These spec

tators were all sent looking a vi a certain fascination, and Luiz evald not tell whether Louis was even conscious that any one was there.

But before they could tem aside into the road which led to the ELC door-a road to which Rachel Zust anxiously endeavoured to guide her brother-they were suddenly arrested by the voice of Lord Winterbourne. I must put a stop to this," said his lordship suddenly and loudly, with so evident a reference to themselves, that even Rachel stopped without knowing it. "Here, young felow, stop and give an account of yourself

what do you mean by wandering about my park at midnight, eh! I know your poaching practices. Setting snares, I suppose, and dragging about this girl as a protection. Get into your kennel, you mean dog; is this how you repay the shelter I have given you all your life?"

"It would be a fit return," said Louis. He did not speak so loud, but with a tremble of scorn and bitterness and intense youthful feeling in his voice, before which the echo of his persecutor's went out and died, like an ignoble thing. "If I were, as you say," repeated the young man—“ setting snares for your game, or for your wealth, or for your life, you know it would be a fit return."

"Yes, I live a peaceful life with this villanous young incendiary under my roof!" said Lord Winterbourne. "I'll tell you what, you young ruffian, if nothing better can restrain you, locks and bars shall. Oh, no chance of appealing to my pity, with that fool of a girl upon your arm! You think you can defy me, year after year, because I have given charity to your base blood. My lad, you shall learn to know me better before another week is over our heads. Why, gentlemen, you perceive, by his own confession, I stand in danger of my life."

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Winterbourne," said some one over his shoulder, in a reproving tone, "you should be the last man in the world to taunt this unfortunate lad with his base blood."

Lord Winterbourne turned upon his heel with a laugh of insult which sent the wild blood dancing in an

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