MARTIN FABER; 
 
 TIN: 
 
 STORY 0|- A CU1MLWAL. 
 
 Smo q n. at n uncrrtain hour, 
 
 1 I::U ncrony n turns, 
 And .,V . 1 n >> fht{y tale i U )IH, 
 
 IK-:., ihin me, burns. 
 
 Ittncifnt Marine, . 
 
 N K W . V O R K : 
 
 PUBLISHED "Y J. fe j. HARPER, 
 wo. B2, 
 
 " v 
 
 M nc<c xxxiii. 
 
[Knurcd accenting to Act of C"onpiv, : bjr J. & J. Harp* r, 
 in the yiar 1S33, ii the Ck-rk i OtVu-c ! the DiitrrH Court of 
 tbe United Stair* for the Soullu-rn Pimict of Xiw-York.] 
 
 rui.sih.ii, N. 1U\ 
 
MY DAUGHTER 
 
 T O O N i:, \V HO, AS YE T, 
 
 c v \ r x n r u s T A \ i> 1. 1 i T L i: n r T HIS L o v E, 
 
 TI1KSE PAGES ARE FONDLY DEDICATED, 
 
 v i 1 1 ALL TUK AFFKCTIOTTS OF 
 
 A F A T II n R . 
 
 OSS 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The work which follows is submitted with great 
 deference and some doubt to the reader. It is an 
 expei -incut; ami the style and spirit arc, it is be 
 lieved, something out of the beaten track. The 
 events are of real occurrence, and, to the judgment 
 of the author, the peculiarities of character which 
 he has hern drawn if they may be considered such, 
 which are somewhat too common to human socie 
 ty arc genuine and uncxagg2rated. The Vsign 
 of the work is purely moral^and the lessons sought 
 to be inculcated are of universal application/ and im 
 portance. They no to impress upon us tk j neces 
 sity of proper and early education they show ;he 
 ready facility with which the best natural powers 
 may be pen cried to the worst purposes they stim- 
 
"4 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 ulatc to honorable deeds in the young, teach linn- 
 ness under defeat and vicissitude, and hold forth a 
 promise of ultimate and complete success to well 
 directed perseverance. By exhibiting, at the 
 same time, the injurious consequences directly 
 flowing from each and every aberration from the 
 standard of a scrupulous morality, they enjoin the 
 strictest and most jealous conscientiousness. The 
 character of Martin Faber, not less than that of 
 William Harding, may be found hourly in rc.il life. 
 The close observer may often meet with them. 
 They are here put in direct opposition, not less 
 with the view to contrast and comparison, than in 
 cident and interest. They will be found to de- 
 velope, of themselves, and by their results, the na 
 ture of the education which had been severally 
 given them. When the author speaks of education 
 he does not so much refer to that received at the 
 school and the academy, lie would be under 
 stood to indicate that which the young acqriro at 
 home in the parental dwellingunder the parental 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. J 
 
 rye in the domestic circle at the family lire side, 
 from those who, by nature, are best calculated to 
 lay the guiding and the governing principles. It 
 is not at the university that the affections and the 
 moral faculties are to be tutored. The heart, and 
 Irspctitcs morales the manners, have quite anotl rr 
 school and other teachers, all of which are but too 
 little considered by the guardians of the young. 
 These are the father and the mother and the 
 friends the play-mates and the play-places. 
 
MARTIN FADER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " This is a fearful precipice, but I dare 
 look upon it. \VJiat, indeed, may I not 
 ilarr what have I not dared ! I look be 
 fore me, and the prospect, to most men full 
 of terrors, has few or none for me. With 
 out adopting too greatly the spirit of cant 
 which makes it a familiar phrase in the 
 mouths of the many, death to me will prove 
 a release from many strifes and terrors. I do 
 not fear death. I look behind me, and though 
 
 I may regret my crimes, they give me no 
 2 
 
6 MARTIN FABLR. 
 
 compunctious apprehensions. Tl\ey were 
 among the occurrences known to, and a ne 
 cessary sequence in the progress of time and 
 the world s circumstance. They might have 
 been committed by another as well as by my- 
 elf. They must have bi-en committed ! I 
 was but an instrument in the hands of a power 
 with which I could not contend. 
 
 Yet, what a prospect, does this backward 
 glance afford ! How full of colors and char 
 acters How variously dark ami briirht. I 
 am dazzled and confounded at the various 
 phases of my own life. I wonder ai the pro 
 digious strides which my own feet hav<} taken 
 and as I live and must die, I am bold to de 
 clare, in half the number of instances, with 
 out my own consciousness. Should I be con 
 sidered the criminal, in deeds so committed ? 
 
M A K T I N F A D E ft . 7 
 
 Had not my arm been impelled had not my 
 mood been prompted by powers and an agen 
 cy apart from my own, I had not struck the 
 blow. The demon was not of me, though 
 presiding over, and prevailing within, me. Let 
 those who may think, when the blood is boil 
 ing in their temples, analyze its throbs and the 
 source of its impulses. I cannot. I am a 
 fatalist. Enough for me that it was written ! 
 
 My name is Martin Faber. I am of good 
 family of German extraction the only son. 
 I was born in M village, and my pa 
 rents were recognized as among the first in 
 respectability and fortune of the place. The 
 village was small numbering some sixty fam 
 ilies ; and with a naturally strong and shrewd, 
 and a somewhat improved mind, my father, 
 Nicholas Faber. became the first man in it. 
 
8 MARTIN FADE R. 
 
 The village of M , was one of those that 
 
 always keep stationary. The prospect \vas 
 slight, therefore, of our family declining in in 
 fluence. My father, on the contrary, grew 
 every Jay stronger in the estimation of the 
 people. He was their oracle their counsellor 
 his word was law, and there were no rival 
 pretensions set up in opposition to his supre 
 macy. Would this had been less the case ! 
 Had Nicholas Faber been more his own, than 
 the creature of others, Martin, his son, had 
 not now obliterated all the good impressions 
 of his family, and been called upon, not only 
 to recount his disgrace and crime, but to pny 
 its penalties. Had he bestowed more of hi* 
 time in the regulation of his household, and 
 less upon, public afTiiirs, the numberless vici 
 ous propensities, strikinglv marked in me 
 
MARTIN FABER. 9 
 
 from childhood up, had, most probably been 
 sufficiently restrained. But \vhy speak of 
 this? As I have already sc*id it was written ! 
 The only child, I was necessarily a favor 
 ite. The pet of mama, the prodigy of pppa, 
 I was schooled to dogmatize and do as I 
 pleased from my earlier infancy. I grew 
 apace, but in compliance with maternal ten 
 derness, which dreaded the too soon exposure 
 of her child s nerves, health and sensibilities, I 
 was withheld from school for sometime after 
 other children are usually put in charge. of a 
 tutor. When sent, the case was not very 
 greatly amended. I learned nothing, or what 
 I learned was entirely obliterated by lh na 
 ture of my education and treatment at home. 
 I cared little to learn, and my tutor dared not 
 
 coerce me. His name was Michael Andrews. 
 o* 
 
10 MARTIN KABKR. 
 
 He was a poor, miserable hireling, \vho having 
 a large and depending family, dared not. offend 
 by the chastisement of the favorite son of a 
 person of so much consequence as my father. 
 Whatever I said or did, therefore, went by 
 without notice, and with the most perfect im 
 punity. I was a truant, and exulted in my 
 irregularities, without the fear or prospect of 
 punishment. I was brutal and boorish sav 
 age and licentious. To inferiors I was wan 
 tonly cruel. In my connexion with superior?, 
 I was cunning and hypocritical. If, wanting 
 in physical strength, I dared not break ground 
 and go to blows with my opponent, I, never 
 theless, yielded not, except in appearance. I 
 waited for my time, and seldom permitted the 
 opportunity to escape, in which I could revenge 
 myself with tenfold interest, for provocation 
 
M A H T I N V \ B E K . 11 
 
 or -injustice. Nor did I discriminate between 
 those to whom this conduct was exhibited. To 
 all alike, I carried the same countenance. To 
 the servant, the schoolmaster, the citizen, and 
 even to my parents, I was rude and insolent. 
 My defiance was ready for them all, and when, 
 as sometimes, even at the most early stages 
 of childhood, 1 passed beyond those bounds of 
 toleration, assigned to my conduct, tacitly, as it 
 were, by rny father and mother, my only rebuke 
 was in some such miserably unmeaning lan 
 guage as this Now, my dear now Maitin 
 how can you be so bad* or. I will be 
 vexed with you, Martin, if you go on so. 
 
 What was such a rebuke to an overgrown 
 boy, to whom continued and most unvarying 
 deference, on all hands, had given the most 
 extravagant idea of his own importance. I 
 
12 MARTIN F ABE R. 
 
 bade defiance to threats I laughed at a,nd 
 scorned reproaches. I ridiculed the soothings 
 and the entreaties of my mother ; and her gifts 
 and toys and favors, furnished in order to tempt 
 me to the habits which she had not the cou 
 rage to compel, were only received as things 
 of course, which it was JUT duty to give mo. 
 My falher, whose natural good sense, some 
 times made him turn an eye of misgiving up 
 on my practices, wanted the stern sense of 
 duty which would probably have brought 
 about a different habit ; and when, as was oc 
 casionally the case, his words were harsh and 
 his look austere, I went, muttering curses, 
 from his presence, and howling back my do- 
 fiance for his threats, i was thus brought up 
 without a sense of propriety without a feel 
 ing of fear. I had no respect for authority 
 
MAI!TI>; I MIKR. 1 J 
 
 no regard for morals. I was a brute from edu 
 cation, and whether nature did or not, conlri- 
 bi:tc to the moral constitution of the creature 
 which I now appear, certain, 1 am, that the 
 rourse of tutorship which I received from nil 
 around me, would have made me so. You 
 will argue from this against my notion of the 
 destinies, since I admit, impiiedly, that a dif 
 ferent course of education, would have brought 
 about different results. I think not. The 
 case is still the same. I was fated to be so ^ 
 tutored. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 There was at the school to which I went, 
 a boy about twelve, the same age with myself. 
 His name was William Harding he was the 
 only child of a widow lady, living a retired 
 life of blameless character, and a disposition 
 the most amiable and shrinking. This dispo 
 sition was inherited by her son, in the most 
 extravagant degree. He had been the child 
 of affliction. His father had been murdered 
 in a night affray in a neighbouring city, and 
 his body had been brought home to the house 
 and presence of his lady, when she was far 
 advanced in pregnancy. The sudden and ter 
 rible character of the shock brought on the 
 
MARTIN FABER. 15 
 
 pains of labour. Her life was saved with dif 
 ficulty, and, seemingly by miraculous interpo 
 sition, the life of her infant was also preserved. 
 But he was the creature of the deepest sensi 
 bility. His nervous organization was peculi 
 arly susceptible. He was affected by circum 
 stances the most trifling and casual trem 
 bled and shrunk from every unwonted breeze 
 withered beneath reproach, and pined under 
 neglect. 80 marked a character, presenting 
 too, as it did, a contrast, so strikingly with my 
 own, attracted my attention, at an early period 
 of our school association. His dependence, 
 his weakness, his terrors all made him an ob 
 ject of a consideration which no other character 
 would have provoked. I loved him strange 
 to say and with a feeling of singular power. 
 I fought his battles I never permitted him to 
 
16 MARTIN FAB 11. 
 
 be imposed upon : and he could he do les^? 
 he assisted me in my lessons, he worked my 
 sums, lie helped my understanding in its defi 
 ciencies he reproved my improprieties and 
 I I bore with and submitted patiently on most 
 occasions to his reproofs. William Harding 
 was a genius, and one of the first order ; but 
 his nervous susceptibilities left him perfectly 
 hopeless and helpless. Collision with the 
 world of man would have destroyed him ; and, 
 as it was, the excess of the imaginative quality 
 which seemed to keep even pace with his sen 
 sibilities, left him continually struggling and 
 aa continually to the injury and overthrow of 
 the latter with the calm suggestions of his 
 judgment. lie was a creature to be loved and 
 pitied : and without entertaining, at this period, 
 a single se itimcnt savoring of either of these, 
 
MARTIN FA HER. 17 
 
 for any oilier existing being, I both loved and 
 pilicd him. 
 
 One day, 1o the surprize of all, William 
 Harding appeared in his class, perfectly igno 
 rant of his lesson. The master did not pun 
 ish him \viih .stripes, hut, as the school was 
 about to be dismissed, commanding the trem 
 bling boy before him, he hung about his neck 
 a badge made of card, on which was conspicu 
 ously printed, the word idler. With this 
 badge he was required to return home, re-ap 
 pearing at school with it the ensiling afternoon. 
 
 A more bitter disgrace could not, by any 
 ingenuity, have been put upon the proud and 
 delicate spirit of this ambitious boy. I never 
 saw dismay more perfectly depicted upon any 
 countenance. His spirit did not permit him 
 
 to implore. But his eye it spoke volumes 
 3 
 
18 MARTIN KA HER. 
 
 of appeal it was full of entreaty. The old 
 man saw it not. Tlic school was dismissed, 
 and, in a paroxysm of grief wlych seemed to 
 prostrate every faculty, my companion threw 
 himself upon the long grass in the neighbour 
 hood of the school-house, and refused to ho 
 comforted. I fought him out, and curious to 
 know the cause of an omission which in him 
 was remarkable, and should therefore have 
 been overlooked by our tutor, I enquired of 
 him the reason. The cruelty of his punish 
 ment was now more than ever, apparent to 
 
 my eyes. His mother had been ill during the 
 
 O 
 
 whole previous night, and he had been keep 
 ing watch and attending upon her. I was in 
 dignant, and urged him to throw aside the card 
 beneath the trees, and resume it upon his re 
 turn to the school. Rut he would not descend 
 
M A R T I N F A B E R 19 
 
 to the meanness of such an act, and resolutely 
 determined to bear his punishment. I was of 
 a different temper. Grown bold and confident 
 by the frequent indulgencies which had so 
 often sanctioned my own aberrations, I had al 
 ready assumed the burdens of my comrades, 
 escaping myself, while effecting their escape. 
 Should I now hesitate, when a sense of jus 
 tice, and a feeling of friendly .sympathy coa 
 lesced towards the same end, both calling upon 
 me for action. I did not- I seized upon the 
 accursed tablet, t tore it from his bosom, and 
 hacking ii to pieces of the smallest dimensions, 
 I hurled them to me winds, declaring, at the 
 same time, his freedom, with a shout. He 
 would have resisted, and honestly and ear 
 nestly endeavored to prevent the commission 
 of the act. But in vain, and with a feeling of 
 
20 MARTIN FADE II. 
 
 ihetruent salinfaction, I beheld liim return 
 to bin Huttcring parent. Hut my turn wan to 
 come. I had no fcftrs for the consequence, 
 having been accustomed to violate the rules of 
 school, with impunity. Harding appearing 
 without his badge, was questioned, and firmly 
 refused to answer. I boldly pronounced my 
 handiwork, no one else venturing to speak, 
 fearing my vengeance, though several in the 
 school, had been cognizant of the whole affair. 
 At the usual hour of dismissal, I wi-.s instruct 
 ed to remain, and when all had departed, I was 
 taken by the master, into a Hmall adjoining 
 apartment, in which IK; usually studied and 
 kept his books, and which formed the passage 
 way from his school-room to his dwelling- 
 house. Here I was conducted, and wonder 
 ing and curious, at these preliminaries, here I 
 
MARTIN FABfiR. i! 1 
 
 awaited his presence. I had been guilty of 
 insubordination and insurrection, and was not 
 altogether sure that he would not proceed to 
 (Ion me. But not so. lie spoke to rue like a 
 father as my father had never spoken to me 
 his words were those of monitorial kindness 
 and regard. lie described the evil conse- 
 cjiirnces to his authority if such conduct were 
 tolerated ; and contented himself with requir 
 ing from me a promise of apology before ihe 
 assembled school on the ensuing morning. I . 
 laughed in his face, lie was indignant, as 
 well he might he, and, under the momentary 
 impulse, he gave me a smart blow with his 
 open hand upon my cheek. I was but a boy 
 some thirteen or fourteen years of age, but, 
 at that moment, I measured with my rye the 
 
 entire man before me, and though swelling 
 3* 
 
22 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 with fury, coolly calculated the chances of 
 success in a physical struggle. Had there 
 been a stick or weapon, of any description at 
 hand, I might not have hesitated. As it was, 
 however, prudence came to my counsel. [ 
 submitted, though my heart rankled, and my 
 spirit burned within me for revenue ; and I 
 had it-^-vears afterwards I had it a deep, a 
 dreadful revenge. For the time, however, f 
 contented myself with one more congenial 
 wrli the little spirit of a bad ar.d brutal boy. 
 In school-boy phrase, he kept me in he took 
 from me my freedom, locking me up safely in 
 the little study, into which I had been con 
 ducted. 
 
 While in that room shut up, what were my 
 
 emotions ! The spirit of a demon was work- 
 
 ^ 
 
 ing within me, and the passions acting upon 
 
M A R T I N F A D E II. 23 
 
 my spirit nearly exhausted my body, i threw 
 nysclf upon the floor, and wept hot, scalding 
 and bill IT tears. I stamped, I raved, I swore. 
 On a sudden I heard the voice of Harding 
 mournfully addressing me through the parti- 
 lion which separated the school room from my 
 dungeon. He had come to sympathize, and, 
 if possible, to assist me. But I would not 
 know I would not hear him. The gloomy 
 liend was uppermost, and I suddenly became 
 >ilent. I would not answer his inquiries I 
 was dumb to all his friendly appeals. In vain 
 did the affectionate boy try every mode of 
 winning me to hear and to reply. I was stub 
 born, and, at length, as the dusk came on, I 
 could hear his departing footsteps, as he had 
 slowly and sorrowfully given up his object in 
 despair. He was gone, and I rose from the 
 
24 MARTIN FADE R. 
 
 floor, upon which I had thrown myself. The 
 first paroxysms of my anger had gone off, ar.d 
 their subdued expression gave me an oppor 
 tunity more deeply to investigate my injuries, 
 and meditate my revenge. J strode up and 
 down the apartment for sometime, when, all 
 of a sudden, I beheld the two larpo, new and 
 beautiful globes, which my teacher had but 
 a little while before purchased at a large price, 
 and not without great difficulty, from his little 
 savings. He was a philosopher, and this 
 study was one of his greatest delights. My 
 revenge stood embodied before me. I felt 
 < that I too could now administer pain and pun 
 ishment. Though small in proportion to what, 
 it appeared to me, my wrongs required, I well 
 knew that to injure his globrs, would be al 
 most the severest injury I could infjct upon 
 
MARTIN FADER. 25 
 
 their owner. J did not pause the demon 
 was impatient. I sei/ed the jug of ink that 
 stood upon the shelf below them, and carefully 
 poured its contents upon the beautifully var 
 nished and colored outlines of the celestial 
 regions. They were ruined irreparably ru 
 ined ; and where the ink, in its course, had 
 failed to obliterate the figures, I took care that 
 the omission should be amended by employ 
 ing a feather, still further to complete their 
 destruction. This, you may say, is quite too 
 trilling an incident for record. No such thing. 
 44 The child s the parent of the man." In one 
 sense, the life of the child is made up of 
 In lies; but the exercises of his juvei ile years 
 will at all times indicate w hat they \vill be 
 when lie becomes" old. The same passions 
 which prompted the act just narrated, would 
 
26 MARTIN FAB Lit. 
 
 move the grown incendiary to the firing of his 
 neighbor s dwelling. The same passions 
 prompted me in after years to exaggerated 
 offences. How could it be otherwise ? They 
 were my fate ! 
 
 Vainly would I endeavor to describe the 
 rage, the agony of wrath, which came over the 
 face of my tutor upon discovering what I had 
 done. It is fresh in my memory, as if the oc 
 currence had taken place but yesterday. I 
 was in the study, where he had left me, upon 
 his return. Indeed, I could not effect my es 
 cape, or I had certainly done so. The room 
 was dark, and for some lime, walking to ;uul 
 fro, and exhorting me in the most parental 
 manner as he walked, he failed to perceive his 
 globes or the injury they had sustained. In 
 this way, he went on, speaking to me, in a 
 
MARTIN F A n E R , 27 
 
 way, which, had not my spirit been acted on 
 by the arch enemy of man, must have had the 
 effect of compelling me to acknowledge and to 
 atone, by the only mode in my power, for my 
 errors and misconduct. I had, indeed, begun 
 to be touched. I felt a disposition to regret 
 my act, and almost inclined to submission and 
 apology. But on a sudden, he paused the 
 globes caught his eye he approached and in 
 spected them narrowly. Passing his hands 
 over his eyes, ho seemed to doubt the cor 
 rectness of his vision ; but when he ascer 
 tained, for a truth, the extent of the evil, tears 
 actually started from the decaying orbs, and 
 rolled as freely as from the eyes of childhood, 
 down his lean and wrinkled face. Then was 
 rny triumph. I gloated in his suffering, and, t 
 actually, under the most involuntary impulse, 
 
28 MARTIN HABER. 
 
 I approached, and keenly watched hw suffer 
 ing. He beheld my approach he saw the 
 demon look of exultation which I wore ; and 
 human passion triumphed. He turned shortly 
 upon me, and with a severe blow of his fist, 
 he smote me to the ground. I was half stun 
 ned, but soon recovered, and with a degree of 
 unconsciousness, perfectly brutish, I rushed 
 upon him. But he was too much for me. Ho 
 held me firmly with one hand, and, his anger 
 now more fully provoked by my attack, he in 
 flicted upon me a very severe flowing al 
 most the only one which I had ever received. 
 It was certainly most richly deserved ; but I 
 thought not so then. I looked upon myself as 
 the victim of a most unjust i liable a most 
 ^wanton persecution. I did not, for a moment, 
 consider the vast robbery I had made from 
 
MARTIN P .VB Ell. 20 
 
 tli;il poor old man s small stock of happiness 
 and enjoyment. My feelings were all concen 
 trated in self; and mv ideas of justice, where 
 my own interests or emotions were concerned, 
 were in no decree abstract. I knew but one 
 bciniZ in the world, whose claims were to be 
 considered, and that individual, was, of course, 
 myself. 
 
 1 was now dismissed, and sore and smarting 
 in body and mind, I returned to my home. I 
 showed my bruises ; I fabricated a story of 
 greater wrongs and injuries. I dwelt upon the 
 unprovoked aggression ; taking care to sup 
 press all particulars which might have modi 
 fied the offence of my teacher. The flogging 
 he had given me, had been a most severe one 
 and, the cause not being heard, would seem 
 to have been most brutal. This was another 
 
30 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 part of my revenge, and it hud its consequences. 
 A solemn convocation of the chief men of the 
 village, of whom my father was the dictator, 
 incensed at the indignity, as it met their 
 senses, and relying upon my ex parte repre 
 sentation, determined, without further hearing, 
 upon the offence. Michael Andrews lost his 
 school with every circumstance of ignominy ; 
 and in a most pitiable condition of poverty, in 
 a few weeks, was compelled to leave the place. 
 I was yet unsatisfied my revenge was not 
 altogether complete hoy as I was unless I 
 could actually survey it. I went to see him 
 depart. I watched him, as in a misrrable wa 
 gon, containing all his household gear, he 
 drove into the adjacent country, attended by a 
 wife and four young children. I exulted in 
 the prospect ; as, from a little hillock which 
 
M A R T I N F A HER. $ 1 
 
 ovei looked the road they were compelled to 
 travel, I looked down upon their departure. 
 They beheld me, and the faces of all were 
 immediately turned away. There is a digni 
 fied something in decent sorrow, and suffer 
 ing borne in silence, which places it above, 
 while it forbids anything like the spoken taunt 
 or triumph ; I had otherwise shouted my 
 cry of victory in their cars. As it was, they 
 proceeded on their wny into the country. I 
 was, at length, satisfied with my revenge, 
 did not care to follow them. 
 
CHAPTER IIT. 
 
 Under the direction of a more supple tutor 
 than the first, I finished my education, if so 
 we may call it. William Harding was still 
 my associate. He was still the same nervous, 
 susceptible, gentle youth ; and though, as he 
 grew older, the more yielding points of his 
 character became modified in his associations 
 with society, he nevertheless did not vary in 
 his mental and moral make, from what I have 
 already described him. Thouuh diHappro\ing 
 of many of my habits and propensities, and 
 continually exhorting me upon them, he yet 
 felt the compliment which my spirit, involun 
 tarily, as it were, rendered to his; and he was 
 
MARTIN FA BER. 33 
 
 not at any time averse to the association which 
 I tendered him. Still he was like me in few f 
 respects, if any. It is the somewhat popular 
 notion that sympathy in pursuit, and opinions 
 and sentiments in common, bring about the 
 connexions of friendship and love. I think 
 differently. Such connexions spring from a 
 thousand causes which have no origin in mu 
 tual sympathies. The true source of the re 
 lationship is the dependence and weakness on 
 the one hand the strength and protection on 
 the other. This, I verily believe, was the fact 
 in oui case. 
 
 With little other society than that of Wil 
 liam Harding, years glided away, and if they 
 brought little improvement to my moral attri 
 butes they, at least, bringing no provoca 
 tion, left in abeyance and dormancy, many of 
 4* 
 
34 MARTIN .FA BE ft. 
 
 those which were decidedly immoral. My 
 physical man was decidedly improved in their 
 progress. My features underwent consider- 
 able change for the better my manners were 
 far less objectionable I had suppressed the 
 more rude and brutal features, and, mingling 
 more with society that particularly of the oth 
 er sex I had seen and obeyed the necessity of 
 a gentlemanly demeanor. But my heart occu 
 pied the same place and character llicre was 
 no change in that region. There, all was stub- 
 borness and selfishness a scorn for the pos 
 sessions and claims of others a resolute and 
 persevering impulse which perpetually sought 
 to exercise and elevate its own. The spell of 
 my fate was upon it it seemed seared and 
 soured and while it blighted, and sought to 
 blight the fortunes and the feelings of others, 
 
MARTIN FADE 11. 35 
 
 without any sympathy, it seemed neverthe 
 less, invariably, to partake of the blight. In 
 this respect, in the vexation of my spirit at this 
 similize inconsistency of character, I used to 
 curse myself, that I was not like the serpent 
 that I could not envenom my enemy, without 
 infecting my own system, with the poison 
 meant only lor his. To this mood, the want of 
 employment slave activity if not exercise and 
 exhibition. The secretions of my malignity, 
 having no object of development, jaundiced 
 my whole moral existence ; and a general hos 
 tility to human nature and the things of society, 
 at this stage of my being, vented itself in idle 
 curses, and bitter but futile denunciations. I 
 lived only in the night time my life has been 
 a long night, in which there has been no star 
 light in which there have been many tem- 
 
36 MARTIN FABLR. 
 
 pests. Talk not of Greenland darkm ss, or 
 Norwegian ice. The moral darkness is the 
 most solid and what cold is there like that, 
 where, walled in a black dungeon of hates and 
 fears and sleepless hostility, the heart broods 
 in bitterness and solitude, over its own can 
 kering and malignant purposes. 
 
 Many years had now elapsed since my ad 
 venture with Michael Andrews, my old school 
 master. I had grown up to manhood, and my 
 personal appearance, had been so completely 
 changed by the forming hand of time, that I 
 had not the same looks which distinguished 
 me at that period One morning, pursuing a 
 favorite amusement, I had wandered with my 
 gun for some distance, into a part of the coun 
 try, which was almost entirely unknown to 
 me. The game, though plentiful, was rather 
 
MAIITIX FADER. 37 
 
 shy, and in its pursuit, I was easily seduced 
 to a greater distance from our village, and on 
 ihc opposite side of a stream, \vhich though 
 nut a river, was yet sufficiently large, particu 
 larly when swollen by freshets, a not unfre- 
 iuent event to make something like a bar 
 rier and dividing line between two divisions of 
 the country. The day was line, and without 
 being at all conscious of the extent of my 
 wandering*, 1 proceeded some fourteen or fif 
 teen miles. My way led through a clos* and 
 umbrageous forest. A grove of dwarf or scrub 
 oaks, woven about with thick vines and shel 
 tering foliage, gav<5 a delightful air of quiet 
 ness lo the scene, which could not fail altoge 
 ther in its effect on a spirit as discontented and 
 querulous even as mine. Wandering from 
 place to place in the silent and seemingly ?a- 
 
38 MARTIN FA BE R. 
 
 cred haunt of the dreamy nature, I perceived, 
 for the first time, a clear and beautifully wind 
 ing creek, that stole in and out, half sheltered 
 by the shrubbery growing thickly about it 
 now narrowing into a thin stream, and almost 
 lost among the leaves, and now spreading it 
 self out in all the rippling and glassy beauty 
 of a sylvan and secluded lake. I was won 
 with its charms, and pursued it in all its bcnd- 
 ings. The whole scene was unique in loveli 
 ness* The hum of the unquiet bieczr, now 
 resting among, and now Hying from the slowly 
 waving branches above, alone broke, at inter 
 vals, the solemn and mysteiious repose of that 
 silence, which here seemed to have taken up 
 its exclusive abode. Upon a bank th.-it jutted 
 so far into the lake by a winding approach, a* 
 almost to seem an island, the tree?; hnd been 
 
MAT. TIN FA BLR. 39 
 
 taught lo form themselves into a bower ; while 
 the grass, neatly trimmed within the enclo 
 sure, indicated the exercise of that art, whose 
 Land has given life to the rock, and beauty to 
 the wilderness. I was naturally attracted by 
 the prospect, and approaching it from the 
 point most sheltered, came suddenly into the 
 presence of a tall and beautiful girl, about fif 
 teen years of age, sitting within its shade, 
 whose eyes cast down upon some needlework 
 which she had in her hands, enabled me to 
 survey, for sometime before she became con 
 scious of my presence, the almost singular 
 loveliness of feature and person which she 
 possessed. She started, and trembled with a 
 childish timidity at my approach, which not a 
 little enhanced the charm of her beauty in my 
 . I apologized for my intrusion ; made 
 
40 MARTIN .PA HER. 
 
 some commonplace inquiry and remark, anil 
 we soon grew familiar. The cottage in which 
 her parents resided, was but a little way olT, 
 and I was permitted to attend her home. 
 What was my surprize to discover in the per 
 son of her father, my old tutor. But, fortun 
 ately for me, he was not in a condition to rr- 
 cognize me. His mind and memory were in 
 great part gone. He still contrived, mechan 
 ically as il were, to teach the * accidence to 
 three white-headed urchins, belonging to the 
 neighborhood, and in this way, with the in 
 dustry of his daughters, the family procured a 
 tolerable livelihood. I was treated kindly by 
 the old people, and had certainly made some 
 slight impression on Emily the n. lidcn I 
 had accompanied. I lingered for some hours 
 in her company and, though timid, lined i- 
 
MARTIN FADER. 41 
 
 < atcd and girlish in a great degree, I was fas 
 cinated by her beauty, her gentleness, and the 
 angelic smile upon her lips. 
 
 It was late in the day when I left the house 
 of old Andrews. He had heard my name, 
 and showed no emotion. lie had evidently 
 forgotten all the circumstances of my boyhood 
 in connexion with himself. I could then ven 
 ture to return to repeat niy visits to see 
 once more, and when I pleased, the sweet ob 
 ject, whose glance had aroused in my bosom 
 an emotion of sense and sentiment entirely un 
 known to it before. We did meet, and each 
 returning day fcund me on the same route. 
 Our intimacy increased, and she became my 
 own she was my victim. 
 
 5 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 That girl was the most artless the most 
 innocent of all God s creatures. Strange! that. 
 she should be condemned as a sacrifice to the 
 wishes of the worst and wildest. But, it wa.s 
 her fate, not less than mine ! Need I say that 
 I whose touch has cursed and contaminated 
 all whose ill fortunes doomed them to any 
 connexion with me I blighted and blasted 
 that innocence, and changed the smile into the 
 tear, and the hope into the sorrow, of that fend 
 and foolishly confiding creature. We were 
 both, comparatively, children. She was, in 
 deed, in all respects a child but I I had 
 lived years many years of concentrated wick 
 edness and crime. To do wron? was to be 
 
MAHTIN FABKR. 43 
 
 myself it was natural. That I should de 
 ceive and dishonor, is not therefore matter of 
 surprize ; but that there should be no guard 
 ian ancjcl no protecting shield for the unwary 
 and the innocent, would seem to manifest an 
 unwise improvidence in the dispenser of things. 
 A lew months of our intimacy only had elap 
 sed. In the quiet and secluded bower where 
 we had first met, she lay in my arms. I had 
 wrought her imagination to the utmost. With 
 a stern sense and consciousness, all the while, 
 of what I was doing, I had worked industri 
 ously upon the natural passions of her bosom. 
 Her lips were breathing and burning beneath 
 my own. Her bosom was beating violently 
 against mine. My arm encircled and clasp 
 ed her closely. There was a warm languor 
 in the atmosphere -he trees murmured not 
 
44 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 the winds were at repose no warning voice 
 rose in the woods no tempest blackened in 
 the sky the shrill scream of a solitary bird 
 at that moment might have broken the spell 
 might have saved the victim. But the scream 
 came not the fates had decreed it body and 
 soul, the victim was mine. She was no long 
 er the pure, the glad, the innocent and un 
 stained angel I had first known her. Her 
 eyes were now downcast and fearful her 
 frame trembled with all the consciousness of 
 guilt. She gave up all to her affection, for 
 one so worthless so undeserving as myself : 
 yet had she not my affections, though loving 
 me, even as the young and morning flower 
 may be seen to link and entwine itself with 
 and about the deadly and venomous night 
 shade ? 
 
MARTIN FADER. 45 
 
 Our intercourse was continued in this way 
 for several months. The consequences now 
 bewail to threaten Emily with exposure, and 
 she hourly besought me to provide against 
 them by our marriage, as I had already fre 
 quently promised her to do. But I had no 
 idea of making any such sacrifice. The pas 
 sion which had prompted me at first, had no 
 longer a place in my bosom. I did not any 
 longer continue to deceive myself with the be 
 lief that she cither was or could be any thing 
 to me. She had few attractions now in my 
 si jht, and though still beautiful, more touch- 
 ingly so, indeed,, from an habitual sadness 
 which her features had been taught to wear, 
 than ever, I had learned to be disgusted and 
 to sicken at the frequency of her complaints, 
 and the urgency and extravagance of her re- 
 
46 MARTIN FA BER. 
 
 quisitions. Still, I could not yet desert her 
 entirely. I saw her frequently, and in va 
 rious ways sought, not merely to evade her 
 entreaties, but to soothe and alleviate her dis 
 tresses. 
 
 To full manhood I had now attained, and it 
 was thought advisable by my father, that, as I 
 had nothing else to do, I should employ my 
 self in addressing a lady whom ho had already 
 chosen, as worthy to be the consort of so hope 
 ful a son. And she was so. Constance Clai- 
 borne was not merely y 0111114, beautiful and 
 wealthy she was amiable and accomplished. 
 Our parents arranged the matter between 
 them, before either of the parties most inter 
 ested, knew or suspected any thing of what 
 was going on. I had as yet heard nothing of 
 the affair. But that was no objection. It 
 
MARTIN FADER. 47 
 
 proved none with me. I was not unwilling, 
 for many reasons, that the marriage should 
 take place. It will be sufficient to name one 
 of these reasons. Though liberal, the allow 
 ance of money for my own expenditure, which 
 I received from my father, had, for a long time 
 past, been inadequate to the wants which my 
 excesses necessarily occasioned. I had got 
 largely into debt. I was harrassed by credit 
 ors ; and had been compelled to resort to va 
 rious improper expedients, to meet my exi 
 gencies. My more recent habits rendered a 
 still further increase of stipend essential, for 
 though, for some months, I had given my time 
 chiefly to Emily, I had not yet so entirely 
 divested myself of my old associates as to 
 do with less money. My pride too, would 
 not permit her to want for many things, and I 
 
48 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 had contributed, not a little towards the iin- 
 
 V 
 
 provcmcnt of the condition of her family. 
 It is well perhaps, that, in a chronicle of 
 crime, almost unvarying, I should not alto 
 gether overlook those instances of conduct, 
 which, if not praiseworthy, were, at least, not 
 criminal. The marriage was therefore deter 
 mined upon. Constance was an obedient 
 child, and, without an affection existing, she 
 consented to become my wife. Still, though 
 making up my determination, without scruple 
 on the subject, I confess I was not altogether 
 at case when my thoughts reverted to the 
 condition of the poor girl I had dishonored. 
 But what was that condition. In pecuniary 
 matters, I could make her better of! than 
 ever and, so far as caste wos concerned 
 she could suffer no loss, for she had known 
 
MARTIN FABER. 49 
 
 no society. I never thought of the intrinsic 
 value and necessity of virtue. My considera 
 tions were all selfish, and tributary to conven 
 tional estimates. With regard to our connex 
 ion, I saw no difficulty in marrying the heir 
 ess, and still enjoying, as before, the society 
 of Emily. Matrimonial fidelity was still less 
 a subject of concern ; and, adjusting, in this 
 way, the business and relations of the future, 
 I hurried the arrangements and prepared as 
 siduously for the enjoyments of the bridal. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 A sense of ciution or it may he of shame 
 determined me to keep the marriage, as long 
 as I well could, from the knowledge of the one 
 being whom it most injured. A few days he- 
 fore that assigned for the event, I proceeded 
 to the place of usual rendezvous. I bad not 
 seen her for several days before ; and her looks 
 indicated sickness and suspicion. The latter 
 appearance, I did not scorn to observe, but 
 her indisposition called forth my enquiries and 
 regrets. I still strove to wear the guise of af 
 fection, but my words were cold, and my man 
 ner, I feel assured, wore all the features of 
 
MARTIN FAUKR. 51 
 
 unwell, Emily," I observed, putting my anus 
 around her "you have not been HO, have 
 you ?" 
 
 * Can you a>k," was her reply, as her ryes 
 were mournfully riveted upon my o\vn; 
 "could 1 continue well, and not see you for 
 three days ? alas! Martin, you little know 
 how long a period in time is three whole days 
 to me in your absence. Where have youi.ccn 
 have you been sick you look not as you 
 are wont to look. You are troubled and some 
 thing afflicts you." 
 
 Her manner was tender in the extreme- 
 the suggestion even by herself of indisposi 
 tion as a cause of my absence, seemed to 
 awaken all her solicitude, and to make her 
 regret her own implied reproaches. 
 
52 MARTIN PABER. 
 
 "I have been slightly unwell, Emily," was 
 my reply, in a tone gravely adapted to indicate 
 something of continued indisposition; and 
 the possibility that this was the case, brought 
 out all her fondness. How like a child a 
 sweet confiding child she then spoke to me. 
 With what deep and fervid devotion and, 
 
 Vyet, at the very moment that the accents of 
 her voice were most touching and tender, I 
 had begun to hate her. She was in my way 
 I saw how utterly impossible it was, that, 
 feeling for me as she did, she could ever 
 tolerate a connexion with me, shared at the 
 same time with another. 
 
 " But there is one thing, Martin -one 
 thing of which I would speak and, hear me 
 patiently, and be not angry, if in what I say, I 
 may do you injustice and may not have heard 
 
M A 11 T I N F A B E R. 5l 
 
 rightly. Say, now, that you will not be an 
 gry with your Emily that you will forgive her 
 speech if it seem to rail in question your in 
 tegrity, for, as I live, Martin, I think you 
 intend me no wrong." 
 
 And as she spoke, her hand grasped my 
 arm convulsively, while one of her own, as 
 if with a spasmodic effort, wound itself about 
 my neck. I saw that the time for stern col 
 lision was at hand that busy tongues had 
 been about her, and I steeled myself stub 
 bornly for the struggle and the strife. 
 
 " And, what do they say, Emily and who 
 arc they that say, that which calls for such a 
 note of preparation ? Speak out say on !" 
 
 " I will, Martin but look not so upon me. 
 I cannot bear your frown any thing but 
 that." 
 
54 MARTIN FA HER. 
 
 " Now then what is said. What would 
 you have, Emily ?" 
 
 "There have been those to my mother, 
 Martin who have doubted your love for mo, 
 and, ignorant of how much importance it is to 
 me now, who say, you are only seeking to be 
 guile and to mislead me." 
 
 "They do me wrong, Emily they s; oak 
 false, believe me, as I live." 
 
 " I knew it, Martin I knew that they did 
 you wrong, and I told them so, but thoy 
 sneered and laughed, and so they left mo. 
 But, Martin they will speak to others, when 
 I shall not be there to defend you, and we 
 shall both suffer under their suspicions." 
 
 She paused here, and her eye sunk under 
 the penetrating gaze of mine, but suddenly 
 recovering, and hurrying herself, as if she 
 
MARTIN FADER. 55 
 
 feared the loss of that momentary impulse 
 which then came to sustain her she pro 
 ceeded 
 
 " I knew that I should suffer from you no 
 injustice I could not think it possible that 
 you could wrong the poor girl, who had confi 
 ded to you so far; but Martin do not smile 
 at my folly a something whispers me I have 
 not long, not very long, to live, and I would 
 be your wife your married wife before the 
 time comes when my sin shall stand embod 
 ied before me. Let me have the peace the 
 peace, Martin, which our lawful union will 
 bring with it ; for now I have none. You have 
 promised me frequently say now that we 
 shall be married this week say on Thursday, 
 Martin on Thursday next that it shall take 
 place." 
 
56 MARTIN FADE R. 
 
 I started as she concluded the sentence, as 
 
 \ 
 if I had been stung with an adder. Thursday 
 
 was the day appointed for my marriage with 
 Constance. Had she heard of this. I fixed 
 my eyes attentively and scarchingly upon her 
 own ; but though Tilled with tears, they quail 
 ed not beneath my glance. On the contrary 
 her gaze was full of intenscncss and expres 
 sion. They conveyed, in dumb language the 
 touching appeal of her subdued and appre 
 hensive, though seemingly confident and as 
 sured, spirit. Disappointment, and the hope 
 deferred that maketh the heart sick, had worn 
 her into meagreness. Her checks were pale 
 her look was that of suppressed wretched 
 ness, but these things touched me not. I had 
 no notion of compliance, and my only thought 
 was how to break ofT a connexion that promis- 
 
MARTIN FA HER. 57 
 
 cd to 1)0 so excessively troublesome. I had 
 now become completely tired of her, and told 
 her peremptorily that it was impossible, for a 
 variety of reasons, to grant her request. She 
 implored she mnde a thousand appeals to 
 every supposed impulse and emotion of man- 
 Luod and affection ; to my pride, to my honor, 
 to my love. I was inflexible; and finally, when 
 phc continued to press the matter with a warmth 
 nul earnestness natural to one in her situa 
 tion, particularly as I hkd given no reason for 
 my refusal, I grew brutally stern in my replies. 
 I repulsed her tendernesses, and peevishly at 
 length, uttered some threat, I know not what 
 of absence, or indifference, or anger. 
 
 She retreated from me a pace, and draw 
 ing her hands over her eyes, seemed desirous 
 
 of .shutting out the presence of a character so 
 6* 
 
58 MARTIN FA BE R. 
 
 entirely new and unexpected, as? I now appear 
 ed to her. For a moment she preserved this 
 attitude in silence then suddenly again ap 
 proaching, in subdued accents, she spoke as 
 at first. 
 
 " Your words and look, Martin, just now 
 were so strange and unnatural that I was al 
 most afraid of you. Do not speak so again 
 to your Emily, but oh, grant her prayer her 
 last prayer. 1 do not pi ay for myself, for 
 though I could not live without your affections, 
 I shall not need them long, but 1 pray you 
 to give a name, an honorable name, to the 
 little innocent of this most precious burthen. 
 Let it not, if it lives, curse the mother for the 
 boon of a life which its fellows must despise, 
 and speak of with scorn and ignominy." 
 
MARTIN FA BUR. 59 
 
 I stood even this appeal. My heart was 
 steeled within me, and, though I spoke to 
 her less harshly, I spoke as hypocritically as 
 ever. She saw through the thin veil which I 
 had deemed it necessary to throw over my 
 dishonesty, and a new expression took the 
 place of tenderness in her features. 
 
 ik It is all true then, as they have said," she 
 exclaimed passionately. " Now, O God, do 
 J Iccl my iiilii-mily now do I know my sin. 
 Anu this is the creature I have loved this is 
 the thing wanting in the heart to feel, and 
 mean enough in sold 10 utter falsehood and 
 prevaricate this is the creature for whom I 
 have sacrificed my heart for whom I have 
 given up, hopelessly and haplessly, my own 
 soul. Oh, wretched fool oh, miserable, most 
 miserable folly. Yet think not," and as she 
 
CO MARTIN FADER. 
 
 turned upon me, she looked like the Priestess 
 upon the tripod, influenced with inspiration 
 " Think not, mean traitor, as tlum art think 
 not to triumph in thy farther seduction. Me 
 thou hast destroyed, I am thy victim, and I 
 feel the doom already. But thou shall m 
 no farther in thy way. I will seek out ihU 
 lady, for whose more attractive person, mines 
 and my honor and aircctior.?, alike, are to he 
 sacrificed. She shall hear from me all the 
 truth. She shall know whether it he compati 
 ble with her honor and happiness, or the dig 
 nity of her character, to unite herself, in such 
 bonds with a man who has proved so ueadlv, 
 so dishonorable to her sex. And, oh, God" 
 she exclaimed, sinking fervently on her knee 
 " if it shall so happen that I save one such as 
 I, from such a folly as mine, may it not expi- 
 
MARTIN FADER. 61 
 
 \ 
 
 ate in ti v sight, some portion of the sad offence 
 of whirh 1 have been guilty." 
 
 She rose firmly and without a tear. Her 
 ryes were red, her cheeks were burning with 
 the fever of her whole frame, and she seem 
 ed, in all respects, the embodiment of a divine, 
 a glorious inspiration, i was awed I was 
 alarmed. I had never before seen her exhibit 
 any thing like daring or firmness of purpose. 
 She was now the striking personification of 
 both. She approached and sought to pass by 
 me. I seized her hand. She withdrew it 
 quickly and indignantly. 
 
 " Begone" she exclaimed " I scorn, I des 
 pise you. Think not to keep me back. You 
 have brought death and shame among my 
 people in devoting me to both. You shall 
 pollute me no more. Nay, speak not. No 
 
62 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 more falsehood, no more falsehood, for your 
 own soul s sake. I would not that you should 
 seem meaner in my sight, than you already 
 arc." 
 
 I seized her hand, and retained il by a fierec 
 grasp. 
 
 " Emily," I exclaimed, " what would you do 
 why is this ? I ask but for delay, give me 
 but a month, and all will be well you shall 
 then have what you ask you shall then be 
 satisfied." 
 
 " False false ! These assurances, sir, de 
 ceive me not now they deceive rnc no more. 
 My hope is gone, forever gone, that you will 
 do me justice. I see through your hypocrisy 
 I know all your villainy, and Constance 
 Claiborne shall know it too. I la ! do you 
 start when her name is but mentioned. Think 
 
MARTIN FABER. 63 
 
 you, I know it not all know I not thai 3*011 
 have beep, bought with money that, vile and 
 mercenary :<s you aro, you have not only sold 
 mo, and this unborn pledge of your dishonesty 
 and my dishonor, but you have sold yourself. 
 Seek no! to keep me back. She shall hear it 
 all from these lips, that theuccafter shall forev 
 er more be silent/ 
 
 She struggled to free herself from my grasp, 
 and endeavored to pass by me, with a despe 
 rate effort her strength was opposed to mine, 
 (ii ul in the heat of the struggle I forgot that 
 victory in such a contest would be the heavi 
 est shame. Yet, I only sought, at first, to ar 
 rest her progress. As I live, I had then no 
 other object beyond. I certainly did not intend 
 violence, far less further crime. But the fate 
 was upon me; she persisted in her design, 
 
64 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 and in the effort to prevent her passage, I 
 hurled her to the ground. I paused, in a 
 deadly stupor, after this. I was no longer a 
 reasoning a conscious being. She looked 
 up to me imploringly the desperate feeling 
 which heretofore had nerved and strengthen 
 ed her, seemed utterly to have departed. The 
 tears were in her eyes, and, at that moment, 
 she would have obeyed as I commanded 
 she would have yielded to all my requisitions 
 she would have been my slave. She met 
 no answering gentleness in my eyes, and with 
 a choking and vain effort at speech, she tinn 
 ed her face despairingly upon the still dewy 
 grass, and sobbed, as if the strings of her 
 heart were breaking in unison with each con 
 vulsion of her breast. At that moment, I know 
 not what demon possessed me. There was 
 
MARTIN FABER. C5 
 
 a dead a more than customary silence in all 
 things around me. I felt a fury within me 
 a clamorous anxiety about my heart a gnaw 
 ing something that would not sleep, and could 
 not be silent ; and, without a thought of what 
 I was to do, or what had been done, I knelt 
 down beside her. My eyes wandered wildly 
 around the forest, but at length, invariably set 
 tled, in the end, upon her. There was an in 
 stinct in all this She had the look of an ene 
 my to the secret and impelling nature within 
 me, and, without uttering a single word, my 
 finger with an infernal gripe, were upon her 
 throat. She could not now doubt the despe 
 rate character of my design, yet did she not 
 struggle but her eyes, they spoke, and sucb 
 a language ! A chain which I myself had 
 
 thrown about her neck that neck all syme- 
 
 7 
 
60 MARTIN FA HER. 
 
 try and whiteness was in my way. I sought, 
 but vainly, to tear it apart with my hands, and 
 could only do so with my teeth. In stooping 
 for this, she writhed her head round and lift 
 ed her lips to mine. I sliumk, as from the 
 fang of a serpent. They had a worse sting, 
 at that moment, in my eyes. Mournfully, as 
 she saw this, she implored my mercy. 
 
 " Spare, forgive, dearest Martin, I will never 
 vex you again spare me this time, and I will 
 be silent. Kill me not kill me not": more 
 wildly she exclaimed as my grasp became more 
 painful "I am too young to die I am too 
 bad to perish in my sins. Spare me spare 
 me. I will not accuse you I (*od! Oh, 
 (J< H 1 I M and she was dead dead beneath my 
 hand* ! 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I breathed not I lived not for a minute. 
 My senses were gone my eyes were in the 
 nir, in the water, in the woods, but I dared 
 not turn them, lor an instant, to the still im 
 ploring glance of that now fixed and terrifying 
 look of appeal. Still it pursued me, and I 
 was forecd to sec it was impossible that I 
 could turn from the horrible expression the 
 dreadful glare, which shot from them through 
 every muscle of my frame. The trees were 
 hung with eyes that depended from them 
 like, leaves. Eyes looked at me from the 
 water that gushed by us ; and, as in a night 
 of many stars, the heavens seemed cluster- 
 
68 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 ing with gazing thousands, all bent down ter 
 rifically upon me. I started to my feet in 
 desperation ; and by a stern impulse I could 
 not withstand, I pronounced audibly the name 
 of my crime. 
 
 " Murder !" 
 
 Ten thousand echoes gave me back the 
 sound. Tongues spoke it in every tree, and 
 roused into something like demoniac defi 
 ance, I again shouted it back to them with 
 the energies of a Stentor then leaned eager 
 ly forth to hear the replication. But this 
 mood lasted not long. I was a murderer ! I 
 whispered it, as if in tenor, to myself. I de 
 sired some assurance of the truth. 
 
 " I am a murderer ! M 
 
 Spoken, however low, it still had its echo. 
 
MARTI N F A D F, U . 69 
 
 u Murderer! was the response of ihe trees, 
 which had now tongues, as well as eyes. 
 The. agony grew intolerable, and a lethargic 
 stupor came to my aid. I approached the 
 corpse of my victim. Resolutely I approach 
 ed it. How different was the aspect which 
 her features now bore. She looked forth all 
 her sweetness, and there was something so 
 I fancied like forgiveness on her lips. Was 
 it I that had dcfded so pure an image was it 
 my hand, that, penetrating the sanctuary of 
 life, had stolen the sacred fire from the altar? 
 Oh, strange ! that man should destroy the 
 beauty which charms the life that cheers 
 
 and gladdens the affection which won and 
 
 > 
 nourishes him. 
 
 Deep in the centre of that forest t ood an 
 
 ancient rock. It was little known to the 
 
 7* 
 
70 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 neighborhood, and its discouraging aspect and 
 rude and difficult access had preserved it 
 from frequent intrusion. I, however, whom 
 no sterility could at any time deter, had 
 explored its recesses, and it now suggested 
 itself to rny mind, as the place most calcula 
 ted to keep the secret of my crime. A large 
 natural cavity in one of its sides, difficult of 
 approach, and inscrutable to research, seem 
 ed to present a natural tomb, and the sugges 
 tion was immediately seized upon. I took 
 her in my arms I pressed her to my heart 
 but in that pressure I maddened. I had not 
 yet destroyed, in her death, the distinct prin 
 ciple of life which she carried within her. I 
 felt the slight but certain motion of her child 
 of my child struggling as it were for free 
 dom. I closed my eyes I suppressed the 
 
MARTIN FADER. 71 
 
 horrible thoughts which were crowding upon 
 my brain, and hurrying on my way, sought out 
 the cavity assigned for her repose. But a 
 single plunge, and she was gone from sight, 
 from reach. The rock was silent as the grave 
 it had no echoes for, at that place and mo 
 ment, I had no speech. 
 
 Will it be brlieved, the stride I had taken in 
 crime, contributed largely to the sense of my 
 own importance. I had never before doubted 
 my capacity for evil but I now felt for I 
 had realized I had exercised this capacity. 
 There is something elevating something at 
 tractive to the human brute, in being a des 
 troyer. It was PO with me. There was an 
 increased vigor in my frame there was new 
 strength and elasticity in my tread I feel as 
 sured that there was a loftier, a manlier expres- 
 
72 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 sion in my look and manner. But, all was 
 not so in my thought. There every thing 
 was in uproar. There was a strange incohe 
 rence, an insane recklessness about my heart, 
 where, if I may so phrase it, the spirit seem 
 ed prone to wandering about precipices and 
 places of dread and danger. I kept continual 
 ly repeating to mysdf, the name of my crime. 
 T caught myself muttering over and over the 
 word " Murder," and thai, too, coupled with 
 .y my own name. " Murderer," and ** Martin 
 Faber," seemed ever to my imagination the 
 burden of a melody ; and its music, laden with 
 never ceasing echoes, heard by my own ears, 
 was forever on my own lips. 
 
(Ml A 1 TKR VII. 
 
 I left the rock, slowly and frequently 
 looking behind me. Sometimes my fancies 
 confirmed to my sight the phantom of the mur 
 dered girl, issuing from the gaping aperture, 
 and with waving arms, threatening and denoun 
 cing me. But I sternly put down these weak 
 intruders. Though the first crime, of so deep 
 a dye, which I had ever committed, I felt that 
 the thoughts and feelings which came with 
 the act, had been long familiar to my mind. 
 The professional assassin could hardly look 
 upon his last murder, with more composure, 
 than I now surveyed the circumstances of my 
 first. I was indeed a veteran, and hi a past 
 
74 MARTIN FABEK. 
 
 condition of society, I should have been a he 
 ro the savior or the destroyer of a nation. 
 
 To be precipitate, was to be weak ; so 
 thought I even in that moment of fearful cir 
 cumstances. I went back with all possible 
 composure to the spot in which the crime had 
 been committed. I examined ihe spot earn- 
 fully took with my eye the bearing and dis 
 tances of all the surrounding objects in their 
 connexion with the immediate spot on which 
 the deed had been done. Ii this examina 
 tion, I found the pocket handkerchief of Em 
 ily, with her name written in Indian ink upon 
 it. I carefully cut it into shreds, dividing 
 each particular letter, with my p< n-knife, and 
 distributing the several pieces at Ao\\ r inter 
 vals upon the winds. \\ here our fee* togeth 
 er had pressed the sands, with a handful of 
 
MARTIN FAIU:K. 75 
 
 bnifh, I obliterated the traces ; and in the pcr- 
 formancc of tins task, J drew olV my own 
 shoes, leaving, onlv, as I proceeded, the im- 
 pression of a naked foot. While thus cnga 
 ged, I perceived for the first time, that I had 
 lost a rich, and large cameo, from my bosom. 
 The loss gave me no little concern, for, apart 
 from the fact of its being generally known for 
 mine, the initials of my name were engraven 
 on the gold setting. How and where had it 
 been lost. This was all important, and with 
 indefatigable industry, I examined the grass 
 and every spot of ground which I had gone 
 over in the recent events. Bi: in vain it was 
 not to be found, and with a feeling of uneasi 
 nessnot to describe my anxiety by a stronger 
 epithet I proceeded on my way home. 
 The poverty of Emily s family ; the insulat- 
 
75 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 cd position which they held in society ; their 
 inability to press an inquiry were all so many 
 safeguards and securities in my favor. There 
 was some little stir, it is true but I had so 
 arranged matters that I passed unsuspected. 
 The inquiry was confined to the particular 
 part of country in which she resided a lone 
 ly and almost uninhabited region and, but a 
 distant rumor of the crime reached our village 
 in which, the connexion existing between us 
 was almost entirely unknown. The family 
 had but few claims upon society, and but lit 
 tle interest was excited by their loss. In a 
 little while all inquiry ceased ; and with a 
 . random and general conclusion that she had 
 fallen into the river, the thought of Emily An 
 drews gradually passed from the memories of 
 those who had known her. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The night came, appointed for my marriage 
 with the beautiful and wealthy Constance 
 Claibornc. Attended by William Harding, 
 who, strange to say, in spite of the manifest 
 and radical differences of character existing 
 between us, was yet my principal companion, 
 I was punctual to the hour of appointment. 
 Every preparation had been made by which 
 the ceremony should be attractive. A large 
 company had been assembled. Lights in pro 
 fusion rich dresses gayly dressed and dec 
 orated apartments, and the most various mu 
 sic, indicated the spirit of joy and perfect 
 
 harmony with which our mutual families con- 
 
 8 
 
78 MARTIN FADE K. 
 
 template J our union. I have already said, 
 the bride was beautiful. Words cannot 
 convey an idea of her beauty. She was 
 emphatically a tiling of light and love 
 
 "Which scon, becomes a part of sight." 
 
 In grace, one knew not with what, save her 
 self, to institute a comparison. In expres 
 sion, there were volumes of romantic, and in 
 teresting poetry, embodied in each feature of 
 her face ; and the steel of my affections, stern 
 as it was, wherever she turned, even as the du 
 tiful needle to the pole, turned intuitively 
 along with her. Such was the maiden, so 
 much after the make and mo .ild of heaven, 
 whom a cruel destiny was about to link with 
 one formed in spirit after the fashion of hell. 
 
MARTIN FADER. 79 
 
 The ceremony was begun. We stood up 
 with linked hands at the altar. The priest 
 went on \vilh his formula. The bride s hand 
 trembled in mine, and her ryes were commcr- 
 < ing OI1 ly with the richly carpeted floor. I 
 was about to answer the question which 
 .should have made us one, when a cold wind 
 seemed to encircle my body. My bones 
 were numbed, and a freezing chill went 
 through my whole system. My tongue re 
 fused its office, and, instinctively, as it were, 
 bending to the opposite quarter of the apart 
 ment, my eyes fell upon a guest whom none 
 had invited. There, palpable as when I had 
 last seen her, stood the form of Emily An- . 
 drcws. A pale and melancholy picture, and 
 full of a terrible reproach. I was dumb, and 
 for a moment, had eyes only for her. She 
 
80 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 was motionless, as when I had borne her to 
 the unhallowed grave in which she did not 
 rest. I felt that all eyes were upon me the 
 bride s hand was slowly withdrawn from mine, 
 and that motion restored me. Mine were ter 
 rible energies. I seized her hand with a 
 strong effort, and with a voice of the sternest 
 emphasis, my eye firmly fixed upon the ob 
 trusive phantom, I gave the required affirma 
 tive. With the word, the figure was gone. 
 I had conquered. You will tell me, as philoso 
 phers have long since told us, that this was 
 all the work of imagination a diseased and 
 
 O 
 
 excited fancy, and in this you are probably 
 right. But what of that ? Is it less a matter 
 of supernatural contrivance, that one s own 
 sphit should be made to conjure up the spec 
 tres which haunt and harrow it, than that the 
 
MARTIN FADE R. 81 
 
 dead should actually tbe made to embody 
 themselves, as in life, for the same providence 7 
 The warning sound that chatters in my ear 
 of approaching death may be, in fact, umitter- 
 ed ; but if my spirit, by an overruling fate, is 
 calculated for the inception of such a sound, 
 shal \ve hold it as less the work of a supe 
 rior agency ? Is it less an omen for that ? 
 
 This was not all. At midnight, as I ap 
 proached my chamber, the same ghastly 
 spectre stood at the door as if to gunrd it 
 airainst my e it ranee. For a moment I paus 
 ed and faltered ; but thought came to my re 
 lief. 1 knew that the energies of sou), im 
 mortal and from the highest as they arc, 
 were paramount, and I advanced. I stretched 
 forth my hand to the key, and all was vacan 
 cy again before me. If my fancies conceiv- 
 8* 
 
S2 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 cd the ghost, my own energies were adequate 
 to . control. In this I had achieved a new 
 conquest, and my pride was proportionately 
 increased and strengthened. I was thus taught 
 how much was in my own power, in making 
 even destiny subservient to my will ! 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I need not say that no happiness awaited 
 rne in my marriage. Still less is it necessary 
 that I should tell you of the small amount of 
 happiness that tell to the lot of my wife. I 
 did not ill-treat her that is to say, I employed 
 neither blows nor violence; but I was a 
 wretched discontent, and when I say this I 
 have said all. She suffered with patience, 
 however, and I sometimes found it impossi 
 ble, and always difficult, to drive her beyond 
 the boundary of yielding and forgiving humi 
 lity. She loved me not from the first, and 
 only became my bride from the absence of 
 sufficient firmness of character, to resist the 
 
84 MARTIN FADE It. 
 
 command. The discovery of this fact, which 
 I soon made, offended my pride. 1 did not 
 distrust, however I hated her ; and, with a 
 strange perversity of character, which, let phi 
 losophers account for as they may when I 
 found that she could love, and that feelings 
 were engendered in her bo?om for another, 
 hostile to her affection for me, though not at 
 variance with her duties I encouraged their 
 growth. I nursed their dcvelopement. I stim 
 ulated their exercise; and strove, woiil ! you 
 believe it, to make her the instrument of my own 
 dishonor. .But her sense of pride and propri 
 ety was greater than mine. Though conscious 
 that her heart was another s, she unerringly held 
 her faith to her husband, and my anger and dis- 
 like were exaggerated, when I discovered that 
 my vice, even when allied to and assisted by 
 
MARTIN FADER. 85 
 
 her own feelings, could gain no ascendancy 
 over her virtue. 
 
 She was won by the gentleness, the talent, 
 the high character of my old friend, William 
 Harding. She listened to his language with 
 unrcluctant and unconcealed pleasure. She 
 delighted in his society ; and with a feeling 
 which she had never dared to name to herself, 
 she gave him a preference, in every thought, 
 in every emotion of her being. Nor boy as 
 he was sensitive and easily wrought upon 
 by respect and kindness was he at all in 
 sensible to her regards. He became, as an 
 acqup.intance, almost an inmate of our house. 
 He was always with us and with the open 
 ness of heart common to such a character, he 
 unreservedly Bought for the society of Con- 
 
86 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 stance. I soon discovered their mutual pro 
 pensities, for, at an early period, i had learned, 
 with singular felicity, to analyze character. 
 At first, and while she was yet a (-harming 
 creation in my sight, and before I had learned to 
 disregard and be indifferent to the admiration 
 which she excited in others, this predilection 
 gave me not a little concern. J was for a 
 season the victim of a jealous doubt not so 
 much the result of a fear of offended honor, 
 as of a weak pride and vanity, that was vexed 
 at the preference given to him over myself, in 
 the bosotn of one, I strove to have exclusively 
 my own. But this feeling went with the sea 
 son. I grew indifferent at first, then pleased 
 with their association, and finally it became 
 an object wilh me, no to encour/me it, as to 
 
,/ 
 
 MARTIN FA BE II. &7 
 
 give me a sufllciont excuse and opportunity 
 for a dreadful and overwhelming revenge. 
 But they were both honest honest as I had 
 never been as I never expected man or wo 
 man to have been! Twining and intcrminjr- 
 
 <5 O 
 
 linir, hourly in spirit, the most jealous scru 
 tiny, the most bitter hate and hostility, could 
 never detect the slightest feature of impropri 
 ety in their conduct. Many were the modes 
 which I chose to stimulate their passions to 
 influence their desires to put their spirits 
 into llame ; and many were the opportunities 
 with which I sought, in hurrying them to 
 crime, to provide myself with victims. They 
 went through the ordeal like angels without 
 one speck of earth ; and pining with sup 
 pressed and strong affections, I beheld the 
 
88 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 cheek of Constance grow paler, day by day, 
 and saw, at every visit the increased wild- 
 ness of look the still exaggerated emotions 
 struggling for utterance and life, in the bosom 
 of the young and susceptible Harding. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Sonic months had now elapsed since our 
 marriage ; and in this lime, my house and 
 young \vifc had lost most of their attractions. 
 My favorite habit, and one .which contributed 
 not a little to my mood of sternness, was to 
 take long walks into the neighboring country ; 
 and with my fowling-piece on my shoulder as 
 apologetic for my idle wanderings, the neigh 
 boring forests for ten or fifteen miles round, 
 soon became familiar to my survey. Some 
 times, on these occasions, Harding would be 
 come my companion ; and as he was highly 
 contemplative in character, his presence did 
 
 not at all interfere with the gloominess of my 
 9 
 
90 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 mood. It was on one of these occasions, 
 while traversing a dense wood, thickly sown 
 with undergrowth, and penetrable with diffi 
 culty, that we sat down together upon the 
 trunk of a fallen tree, and fell into conversa 
 tion. Our dialogue was prompted by the cir 
 cumstances of our situation, and unconscious 
 ly I remarked 
 
 " Harding, this is just such a spot, which 
 one would choose in which to commit a mur 
 der I" 
 
 " Horrible !" was his reply, " what could 
 put such a thought into your head ? This, is 
 just the spot now which I should choose for 
 the inception of a divine porm. The awful 
 stillness the solemn gloom the singular and 
 sweet monotony of sound, coming from the 
 breeze through the bending tree tops, all 
 
MARTIN FA1JER. Ul 
 
 seem well calculated to beget fine thoughts, 
 daring fancies bold and striking emotions." 
 
 " You talk of taking life, as if it were the 
 crowning crime it appears to me an error of 
 society l.y which the existence of a being, lim 
 ited to a duiation of years, is invested with so 
 much importance. A few years lopt from the 
 life of an individual is certainly no such loss, 
 shortening as it must, so many of his cares 
 and troubles ; an J the true standard by which 
 we should determine upon a deed, is the amount 
 of good or evil which it may confer upon the 
 person or persons immediately interested." 
 
 " That is not the standard," was his reply 
 " since that would be making a reference to 
 varying and improper tribunals, to determine 
 upon principles which should be even and im 
 mutable. But, even by such a standard, 
 
92 MARTIN F ABE R. 
 
 Martin, it would be a crime of the most hor 
 rible complexion, for, leave the choice to the 
 one you seek to murder, and he will submit, 
 in most cases, to the loss of all his worldly 
 possessions, and even of his liberty, in prefer 
 ence to the loss of life." 
 
 " What would you say, William if you 
 knew I had been guilty of this crime T 
 
 " Say !" he exclaimed, as his eyes shot 
 forth an expression of the deepest horror 
 " say ! I could say nothing I could never 
 look upon you again/ 1 
 
 I looked at him with close attention for a 
 moment, then, placing my hands upon his 
 shoulder with a deliberation which was signifi 
 cant of the deepest madness, I spoke : 
 
 " Look you shall look upon me again. T 
 
MARTIN FADER. 9, J 
 
 have been guilty of this same crime of taking 
 life. I have been, and am, a murderer." 
 
 lie sprung upon his feet with undisguised 
 horror. His face was ashen pale his lips 
 were parted in affright ; and while I held one 
 of his hands, the other involuntarily was pass 
 ed over, entirely concealing his eyes. What 
 prompted me to the narration I know not. I 
 could not resist the impulse I was compelled 
 to speak. It was my fate. I described my ^ 
 crime I dwelt upon all its particulars ; but 
 with a caution, strangely inconsistent with the 
 open confidence I had manifested, I changed 
 the name of the victim I varied the period, 
 and falsified, in my narrative, all the localities 
 of the crime ; concluding with describing her 
 place of burial beneath a tree, in a certain 
 9* 
 
01 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 ground which was immediately contiguous, 
 and well known to us both. 
 
 He heard me out with wonder and aston 
 ishment. His terror shook his frame as with 
 an ague, and at the conclusion he tried to 
 laugh, and his teeth chattered in the effort. 
 
 " It is but a story," he said chokingly, " a hor 
 rible story, Martin, and why do you tell it me? 
 I almost thought it true from the earnest man 
 ner in which you narrated it." 
 
 " It is true, William true as you now 
 stand -before me. You doubt, I will swear M 
 
 " Oh, swear not I would rather not believe 
 you say no more, I pray you tell me no 
 more." 
 
 With a studied desperation a malignant 
 pleasure, increasing in due proportion with the 
 degree of mental torture which he appeared 
 
 \ 
 
MARTIN FADER. 95 
 
 to undergo, I went again over the whole story 
 as I had before told it taking care that my 
 description of each particular should be made 
 as vivid as the solemn and bold truth ccr- 
 Jainly made it. 
 
 " I am a murderer ! William Harding ! 
 
 * May Cod forgive you, Martin but why 
 have you told me this would you murder 
 me, Martin ? Have I done any thing to oflcnd 
 you ?" 
 
 His excessive nervousness, at length, grew 
 painful, even to myself. " Nay, fear not, 1 
 would not harm you, William, for the world. 
 I would rather serve and save you. But keep 
 my secret I have told it you in confidence, 
 and you will not betray me." 
 
 " Horrible confidence P was his only reply, 
 as we took our way from the forest. 
 
CHAPTER XT. 
 
 Several days had passed since thin confer 
 ence, and, contrary to his custom, Harding, in 
 all this time, had kept out of my sight. His 
 absence was felt by both Constance and my 
 self, lie had been, of late, almost the only 
 companion known to either of us. "Why I. 
 liked him I knew not. His virtues were 
 many, and virtues were, at no time, a subject 
 of my admiration. That he was loved by 
 Constance, I had no question ; that he loved 
 her I felt equally certain but it was the pas 
 sion of an angel on the part of both ; and it 
 may be that knowing the torture which it 
 brought with it to both of them, my malignant 
 
MARTIN FAHEU, 97 
 
 spirit found pleasure in bringing them togeth- 
 rr. It was not a charitable mood, I am satis 
 fied, that made, mo solicitous that he should 
 be as much as possible an inmate of my 
 dwelling. 
 
 lie came at last, and I was struck with bis 
 appearance. The . hange for the worse was 
 dreadfully obvious. lie looked like one, who 
 had been for many nights without sleep. He 
 was pale, nervous in the last degree, and aw 
 fully haggard. 
 
 " I am miserable," said he, " since you 
 breathed that accursed story in my cars. 
 Tell me, I conjure you, Martin, as you value 
 my quiet, that you but jested with me that 
 the whole affair Was but a fabrication a 
 fetch of the nightmare a mere vision of the 
 fancy." 
 
08 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 Will it be believed, that having thus an op 
 portunity, even then, of undoing the impression 
 I had created, I took no advantage of it. I 
 persisted in the story I was impelled to do 
 so, and could not forbear. There was an im 
 pulse that mastered the will that defied the 
 cooler judgment that led me waywardly, as 
 it thought proper. You have read that strange 
 poem of Coleridge, in which the " Auncicnt 
 Marincrc" is made, whether he will or no, and 
 in spite of every obstacle, to thrust his terrible 
 narrative into the ear s of the unwilling listener. 
 It was so with me ; but though 1 was thus 
 compelled to denounce my crime, the will had 
 still some exercise, and I made use of it for my 
 security. I changed the particulars so mate 
 rially from the facts, as they rra ly were, that 
 inquiry must only have resulted in my acquit- 
 
MARTIN FADER. 99 
 
 tal. The state of mind under which Harding 
 
 O 
 
 labored, was of melancholy consequence, to 
 him, at least, if not to me. Sad and disap 
 pointed, he left me without a word, and for 
 some days more I saw him not. At length he 
 came to me looking worse than ever. 
 
 " I shall go mad, Fabcr, with this infernal 
 secret. It keeps me awake all night. It fills 
 my chamber with spectres. I am haunted 
 with the presence of the girl, you accuse your 
 self of having murdered. 
 
 * Go to will you be a child all your life. 
 "Why should she haunt you ? it is not you 
 who have murdered her she does not trouble 
 me. 
 
 " Nevertheless, she does. She calls upon 
 me to bring you to justice. 1 awake and she 
 is muttering in my cars. She implores she 
 
100 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 threatens she stands by my bed side in the 
 darkness she shakes the curtains I hear 
 the rustling of her garments I hear her 
 word*; and when T seek to sleep, her cries 
 of" Murder, ! Murder ! Murder !" arc shouted, 
 and ring through all my senses, as the sound 
 of a sullen, swinging bell in the wilderness. 
 Save me, Martin from this vision save me 
 from the consequence of your own imprudence 
 in telling me this story. Assure me that it is 
 untrue, or I feel that I shall be unable to keep 
 the secret. It is like a millstone around my 
 neck it makes a hell within mv heart." 
 
 J 
 
 " What ! and would you betray me would 
 you bring me to punishment, for an offence 
 which I have told you was involuntary, and 
 which I unconsciously committed ? Your 
 sense of honor, upurt from your feeling of 
 
MARTIN FADER. 101 
 
 friendship, alone, should be sufficient to res 
 train you. I cannot believe that you would 
 violate your pledge that you can betray 
 the confidence reposed in you." 
 
 Silenced, but not satisfied, and far more 
 miserable than ever, the poor youth, whose 
 nerves were daily become more and more un 
 steady and sensitive under these exciting in 
 fluences, went away ; but the next day, he 
 can.e again his look was fixed and resolute, 
 and an air of desperate decision marked eve 
 ry feature. 
 
 "I am about to go to the Justice, Martin, to 
 reveal all this story, precisely as you have 
 told it to me I cannot bear a continuance of 
 life, haunted as I have been, by innumerable 
 terrors, ever srince I heard it. But last night, 
 
 1 heard the distinct denunciations of the mur- 
 10 
 
102 MARTIN FA3ER. 
 
 dcrcd girl, couched in the strongest language, 
 emphatically uttered in my ears. The whole 
 scene was before me, and the horrors of the 
 damned, could not exceed those which encom 
 passed my spirit. I lied from the chamber 
 from the house. In the woods I have passed 
 the whole niuht in the deepest prayer. My 
 determination is the result of the soundest 
 conviction of its necessity. I can keep your 
 secret no longer." 
 
 T paused for a moment, and having prepar 
 ed myself for all difficulties by a considera 
 tion of all the circumstances, I simply bade 
 him "Go then if he was determined upon 
 the betrayal of his friend and the forfeiture of 
 his honor." 
 
 "Reproach me not thus, Martin" was his 
 reply. "Forgive me, but I must do so. 1 
 
MARTIN FABER. 103 
 
 must, cither disclose all or commit self-mur- 
 drr. I cannot keep within my bosom that 
 which makes it an ./Etna which keeps it for 
 ever in flame and explosion. Forgive for 
 give me : Thus speaking, he rushed from 
 my presence. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I was cited before the Justice, and the tes 
 timony of William Harding delivered with 
 the most circumstantial minuteness, was taken 
 down in my presence. Never did I see a 
 more striking instance of conscience strug 
 gling with feeling- never had I conceived of 
 so complete a conquest of one over the other. 
 I denied all. I denied that I had ever made 
 him such a statement that we had ever 
 had any such conversation ; and with the cool 
 ness and composure of veteran crime, won 
 dered at the marvellous insanity of his repre 
 sentations, lie was dumb, he looked abso 
 lutely terrified. Of course, however, in such 
 
MARTIN FAUEK. 105 
 
 an examination, my own statements were una 
 vailing ; and his wore to be sustained by a 
 reference lo the Idealities and such of the de 
 tails which he had made, as might ostensibly 
 contribute to its sustenance or overthrow. 
 Search was made under the tree where my 
 victim was alledgcd to have been buried. 
 The earth appeared never to have been dis 
 turbed from the creation upon digging, noth 
 ing was found. So, with all other particulars. 
 Ilardinii s representations were confuted. He 
 was regarded by all as a malignant wretch, 
 who envied the felicity, and sought to sting 
 the hand of him who had cherished and be 
 friended him. f the public regard fell away 
 from him, and he was universally avoided. I 
 affected to consider him the victim of momen 
 tary hallucination, and the Christian charity 
 10* 
 
106 MARTIN k lBER. 
 
 thus manifested, became the admiration of all. 
 I almost dreaded that I should be deified 
 made a deacon in life, and a saint after death. 
 Poor Harding sunk silently to his den. 
 Sensitively alive to public opinion, as well as 
 private regard, his mind reeled to and fro, like 
 a storm troubled vessel, beneath a shock so 
 terrible and unexpected, lie had lived upon 
 the brea h of fame he was jealous of high 
 reputation he was tremblingly alive to those 
 very regards of the multitude, which were 
 now succeeded by their scorn and hisses. 
 What a blow had I given him but he was 
 not yet to escape me. I suffered a day or 
 two to elapse, and then sought him out in his 
 chamber. I entered, and looked upon him 
 for several minutes unobserved. II is head 
 was between his hands, and his chin rested 
 
MARTIN FADER. 107 
 
 upon the table. I lis air was that of the most 
 \voful abandon. The nature of his feelings 
 might be inferred, along with his personal ap 
 pearance, from the nature of the companions 
 beside, and the general condition of things 
 around him. One boot was thrown off, and 
 lay upon the floor the other, as if he had 
 grown incapable of further effort, was per 
 mitted to remain upon his foot. The mirror 
 lay in the smallest pieces about the room ; 
 the contemplation of his own features, blast 
 ed as they had been with the shame of his 
 situation, having prompted him, as he came 
 from the place of trial, to dash his hand through 
 it. On the table, and on each side of him, lay 
 strangely associated his bible and his pis 
 tols. He had been about to refer to one or to 
 the other of them for consolation. It was in 
 
109 MARTIN FABKR. 
 
 this siluation, that I found him out. J brought 
 increased tortures while the people, who 
 saw and wondered, gave me credit for Chris 
 tian benevolence. How many virtues would 
 put on the most atrocious features, could 
 their true motives be pursued through the 
 hive of venomous purposes that so frequently 
 swarm and occupy he secret cells and cav 
 erns of the human heart ! 
 
 He saw me at length, and, as if the associa 
 tions which my presence had called up, wen? 
 too terrible for contemplation, ho buried his 
 
 V; 
 
 head in his hands, and airain thrust them on 
 the table. As I approached, however, he 
 started from this position a mood entirely 
 new, appeared to sei/e upon him, and snatch 
 ing the pistol which lay before him upon the 
 table, he rushed to meet me. He placed it 
 
MARTIN FABER. 109 
 
 upon my bosom, and deliberately cocked it, 
 placing his finger at the same moment upon 
 the trigger. A glare of hellish desperation, 
 flowed out from his eyes, as with words that 
 pcomrd rather shrieked than articulated, he cx- 
 cla incd * Aad what is there that keeps me 
 from destroying you? "What should stay my 
 hand what should interpose to protect you 
 from my just revenge what should keep you 
 from the retributive wrath, which you have 
 roused into fury ?" 
 
 I made no movement precipitation, or any 
 act or gesture, on my part, at that moment, 
 would have been instant death. He would 
 have felt his superiority. I maintained my 
 position, and without raising a finger, I re 
 plied with the utmost deliberation: 
 
110 MARTIN FAUEIl. 
 
 " What should keep you from taking my 
 life ! What a question ! Would you bo an 
 swered ? Your own fears. You know that f 
 would haunt you." 
 
 The pistol dropped from his hands, and he 
 trembled all over. I proceeded. 
 
 " You should have no peace no moment of 
 repose secure from my intrusion no single 
 hour you should call your own. I should link 
 myself to you, as Mezentius dead, to his con 
 demned and living victim. I would come be 
 tween you and your dearest joys, nor depart 
 for a solitary moment from a share in all the 
 unavoidable duties and performances of life. 
 We should sit, side by side, at the same table 
 sleep in the .same couch, dwell in the same 
 : dwelling. Would you rise to speak in the 
 council, I should prompt your words I should 
 
MARTIN FAB ER. Ill 
 
 your action. Would you travel, I would 
 mount the box and impel in the direction ot* 
 my c.iprit e. Would you love, 1 would figure 
 in your courtship no between yourself and 
 mistress, and assist in your bridal. Your own 
 wife should not have one, half of the commu 
 nion 1 should cnjoyWith you! 
 
 lie was paralyzed with his agony. 
 
 "Terrible man!" ho exclaimed, "What 
 would you do with me ; why am I made 
 your victim why do you persecute me ? 
 1 have not wronged; I have not sought to 
 wrong you. You, on the contrary, have de 
 stroyed me, and yet would pursue me further. 
 You have luvn my evil genius." 
 
 " 1 know it 1 deplore it !" 
 
 " You deplore it ! Horrible mockery ! How 
 shall I believe your speech after what has 
 
112 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 happened. Why deny the story, yourself 
 poured into my ears as the truth." 
 
 " It was the truth !" 
 
 " Yet you swore it was false !" 
 
 " Life is sweet -life is necessary, if not to 
 human joys, at least, to the opportunities of 
 human repentance. Would you have me give 
 myself to an ignominious death upon the scaf 
 fold disgracing my family, dishonoring my 
 self, and dooming all who shared in my com 
 munion to a kindred dishonor with myself ?* 
 
 " Why then did you tell me of this crime ?" 
 
 " I could not help it. The impulse was na 
 tive and involuntary, and I could not disobey 
 it. It would not be resisted. It burned in 
 my bosom as it has done in yours, and, until 
 I had revealed it, I could hope for no relief." 
 
MARTIN FABER. 113 
 
 " Dreadful alternative ! Hear me, Martin 
 Fabcr hear me and pity me. You know my 
 history you know my hopes my preten 
 sions my ambition. You know that for 
 years, from my boyhood up, in despite of po 
 verty, and the want of friends and relatives, I 
 have been contending for glory for a name. 4 
 You know that the little world in which we 
 live, had begun to be friendly to my aspira 
 tionsthat they looked on my progress with 
 sympathy and encouragement that they 
 pointed to me as one likely to do them honor 
 to confer a name upon my country as well as 
 upon myself. You know that for years, in so 
 litude, and throughout the long hours of the 
 dark and vvintery night, I have pursued my 
 solitary toil for these objects. That I have 
 
 fhrunk from the society that has been wooing 
 11 
 
114 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 me that I have denied myself all the enjoy 
 ments which arc the life of other men that I 
 have, in short, been sacrificing the present for 
 the future existence the undying memory of 
 greatness, which it had been my hope, to leave 
 behind me. This you knew this you know. 
 In one hour, you without an object to satis 
 fy a \vanton caprice you have overthrown all 
 these hopes you have made all these labors 
 valueless you have destroyed inc. Those 
 who loved, hate me those who admired, con 
 temn those who praised, now curse and de 
 nounce me as a wanton and malicious enemy, 
 seeking the destruction of my Iriend ! I am not 
 only an exile from my species I am banish- 
 ed from that which has been the life -blood of 
 my being the possession of a goodly, of a 
 mighty name ! I have no further use in life." 
 
MARTIN FADER. 113 
 
 <c All is true you have said but the truth. 
 1 am conscious of it all." 
 
 " Oh, speak not, I conjure you I need not 
 your assurances in my confirmation. I do not 
 nsk your voice. Hear me in what I shall say, 
 and if you can, heal as far as you may Iteal, 
 lhc wounds you have inflicted." 
 
 * Speak on !" 
 
 " I will seek to reconcile myself to the con 
 dition to the exile to which you have driven 
 me. I will struggle to give up the high hopes 
 which have prompted and cheered me, through 
 the unallcviated and unlightcd labors of my 
 life I will struggle to be nothing! All I ask 
 is that you should give me peace permit me 
 to sleep once more. Say that you have not 
 committed the crime, of which you have ac 
 cused yourself. Give me this assurance, and 
 
116 MARTIN FABJER. 
 
 free me from this gibbering and always pre 
 sent spectre, that, roused for ever by my fan 
 cies, refuses to be gone !" 
 
 How easy to have granted his request ! How 
 impossible, indeed, would it appear, to have 
 refused an appeal, urged under such circum 
 stances. But I did refuse I reiterated the 
 story of my crime, as I had uttered it before, 
 without any variation, and the nervously sus 
 ceptible youth sunk down before me, in des 
 pair, upon the floor. In a moment, however, 
 he arose, and a smile was upon his lips. 
 There was a fearful energy in his eye, which 
 had never marked it before, and which it sur 
 prised me not a little to survey. \Vitha strong 
 effort, he approached me. 
 
 " I will be no longer a child I will shake off 
 this fever of feeling which is destroying me. 
 
MARTIN FABER. 117 
 
 I will conquer these fancies I will not be 
 their slave. Shall I possess a mind, so soar 
 ing and absolute, to bow down to the tyrant of 
 my own imaginings ? I will live for better 
 things. I will make an effort!" 
 
 I applauded his determination, and persua 
 ded him to iro with me, as before, to my resi 
 dence. This, though good policy with me, 
 was the height of bad policy with him. The 
 world looked upon me as the most forgiving 
 and foolishly weak philanthropist a benevo 
 lent creation of the very finest water. The 
 readiness with which Harding again sought 
 my hospitality, after his charges against me, 
 was, of course, still further in evidence, against 
 the honesty of his intentions. They look 
 ed upon his depravity as of the most hein 
 ous character, and numberless were the warn- 
 11* 
 
118 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 ings which I hourly received, of the thousand 
 stings which the so-called serpent was 
 treasuring up for my bosom. But, I affected 
 to think differently. I put all in his conduct 
 down to a momentary aberration of intellect, 
 and urged the beauty and propriety of Christian 
 forgiveness. Was I not of a most saint-like 
 temper ? They thought so. 
 
CHAPTER XT II. 
 
 It is strange, that, with my extended and 
 perfect knowledge of human character, and 
 my great love of mental and moral analysis, 
 I should have suffered myself to be taken in 
 by these external shows on the part of my 
 victim. Strange, that so sudden so unlock 
 ed for, an alteration from his wonted habit had 
 not aroused my jealousy my suspicion of 
 some hidden motive. But, my blindness was 
 a part of my fate, or, how should it have been 
 that a creature so weak, so utterly dependent 
 as Harding had ever been, should have deceiv 
 ed a spirit so lynx-eyed as mine. Led to con 
 sider him loo greatly the victim of the nervous 
 
120 MARTIN i- AUEIl, 
 
 irritability, by which, indeed, his every action 
 and impulse was distinguished, I had not look 
 ed for the exercise, in his mind, of any of thai 
 kind of energy, which would carry him undc- 
 viatingly and perseveringly to the attainment of 
 any remote or difficult object, or to the accom 
 plishment of a far and foreign purpose. 1 had 
 neglected entirely to allow for the stimulating 
 
 / properties of a defeat, to a mind which had 
 only lived for a single object. I had refused to 
 count upon the decision of character, which, 
 
 , might, by probability, arise in a mind, however 
 in all other respects, variable and vascillatintr, 
 when concentrating itself upon the attainment 
 of a single end, and that, too, of a kind, so ab 
 sorbing, so all impelling as the attainment of 
 fame. I did not recollect, that Harding had 
 himself acknowledged the existence of one 
 
MARTIN, FABER. 121 
 
 only passion, in his bosom ; or, I should have 
 seen that his present change of manner, was but 
 a thin veil disguising and concealing some ul 
 terior project, subservient to the leading pas 
 sion of his spirit. I failed, therefore, fool that 
 I was to perceive the occult design, which 
 of a sudden had so completely altered all the 
 obvious characteristics of my companion his 
 habits, his temper, and his hopes. Folly to 
 suppose, that with the loss of public estima 
 tion, he would be content with life unless with 
 a desperate effort to regain his position. And 
 how could he regain that position ? How, but 
 by establishing my guilt, and his innocence of 
 all malevolent intention. And such was his 
 design. Assured, as he now was, that I 
 was in truth a criminal that I had committed 
 the murder of which I had accused myself, 
 
1 22 M A R T I N F,A 11 E R . 
 
 \ 
 
 and that I had only so varied the statement of 
 its particulars as to mislead and defeat enquiry 
 and looking forward to the one single ob 
 ject, that of restoring himself to the popular 
 regards of which I had deprived him ho \va:; 
 determined, of himself, to establish my crime 
 to trace the story from the very imperfect data 
 I had myself given him, and by perpetual as 
 sociations with myself, and a close examina 
 tion into my moral make, to find out the ma 
 terials of evidence which should substantiate 
 his now defeated accusations. How blind was 
 .1 not to have perceived bin object not to see 
 through bis unaccustomed artifice* ! The 
 genius the gigantic genius of his mind, will 
 be best comprehended from this curious and 
 fjroat undertaking, and from the ingenuity and 
 indefatigable industry with which he pursued 
 
MARTIN FADER. 1 i23 
 
 it. Nor, from ihis fact, alone, but coupled, as 
 under existing circumstances was the pursuit 
 adopted, las strength of character and firm 
 ness of mind, are of the most wonderful des 
 cription. The task was attended with an as- 
 soriaiion, which, for a protracted period of 
 time, still further exposed him to the scornful 
 execrations and indignation of those, for whoso 
 cood opinion, alone, he was voluntarily about 
 
 to undergo all this additional load of obloquy. 
 
 
 Under these aspects the effort was a high- 
 
 soulcd and sublime one, and furnished one of 
 the best proofs of the moral elevation of his 
 genius. I regard it now, when too late to 
 arrest its exercise and progress, with a senti 
 ment little short of wonder and admiration. 
 
 All these occurrences, had, of course, been 
 made known to my wife ; and shocked and 
 
124 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 terrified as she had been torn and distracted 
 between a sense of duly to myself, and a feel- 
 ing of deep, but unexpressed regard for my 
 accuser when, for the first time after the 
 trial, I brought him to the house, with a highly 
 proper spirit seeing the affair as she had seen 
 it she declined making her appearance. I in 
 sisted upon it: 
 
 " How can you require such a thing?" was 
 her very natural inquiry. " Whatever may 
 
 
 
 have been his motive, has he not sought your 
 life. Has lie not brought a foul and false ac 
 cusation against you, making you a criminal 
 of the darkest dye ?" 
 
 " Look at me, Constance," I said in reply, 
 as I took one of her hands in mine " I am 
 the criminal I committed the crime he charg 
 ed upon me, and which I myself had revealed 
 
MAKTJN FA HER. 125 
 
 to him. His accusation, so far as he was 
 concerned, was neither foul nor false !" 
 
 And who re fore did 1 tell her this? \Yiiy 
 should I have multiplied the evidence against 
 me why put myself at the mercy of another ? 
 It might he enough to say that I did not fear 
 that Constance would betray me. As she 
 was a pure and delicate woman, her love for 
 him treasured up in secret, and a source of 
 trembling and self-reproach, as I knew it must 
 be, to her heart was my sufficient security. 
 She would not have linked her testimony with 
 his, however she miiihl have hated me and 
 loved him, fearing that her motives might be 
 subject to the suspicion of others, as she her 
 self would have suspected them. This con 
 sideration would have left me without fear, in 
 
 that quarter, but this was not a consideration 
 12 
 
126 MARTIN PA BE R. 
 
 with me, in telling her the story. I could not 
 
 refrain from telling it in spite of myself I was 
 
 * 
 
 compelled to do so it was my fate. 
 
 I shall not attempt ! to describe her horror. 
 She was dumb, and in silence descended with 
 me to the apartment in which Harding had 
 been left. To him this was a moment of fear 
 ful ordeal. The woman he loved, though 
 hopelessly, he had struck, through her husband, 
 lie was not to know that I had most effectu 
 ally acquitted him, to her, of the oflenre, for 
 which he anticipated her scorn and hatred. 
 His anxiety and wretchedness were again 
 manifest until she relieved him, as with a 
 boldness of spirit which I had never before 
 seen her manifest, she walked forward, took 
 his hand, and welcomed him as if nothing had 
 happened. lie looked first to me, then to her 
 
MARTIN FABEIl. 127 
 
 and silently, with a tearful eye, and frame vio 
 lently agitated, he carried her hand to his lips. 
 >Shc retreated, and was deeply confused by 
 this act. I saw her inmost soul, at that mo 
 ment in her face. Why had she not loved 
 J 
 
 me as she loved him ? Why, oh, why ? 
 
 That night, in my chamber, I said to her 
 r 
 "You love this youth speak not I would 
 
 not have you deny it. I will tell you more 
 would you know it ? he loves you too, and 
 there are few persons in the world more de 
 serving the love of one another. Were I dead 
 
 O 
 
 to-morrow you would most probably make the 
 discovery, and " 
 
 "Oh, Marl in Fabcr, I see not why you should 
 torment me in this manner. For heaven s 
 sake, let me have peace. Make not all mise 
 rable about you ; or, if you arc bent on making 
 
128 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 me so, let not your malice exercise itself on 
 this unhappy youth, whose life you have al 
 ready embittered, whose prospects you have 
 blighted and to whom every hour of associ 
 ation with yourself, must work additional evil. 
 Persuade him, for the repose of all, to leave 
 the country." 
 
 " Would you fly with him ! Beware, wo- 
 
 
 man ! Think not to deceive me I see into 
 
 your heart, and understand all its sinuosities. 
 Look that your interest in this enthusiast gets 
 not the better of your duty " 
 
 She turned her head upon the pillow, and sob- 
 bod bitterly : yet, how wantonly had I uttered 
 these reproaches. The angels were not more 
 innocent in spirit than was she at that moment 
 when I had inflicted upon her the tortures of 
 the damned. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I am now rather to narrate the labors of an 
 other than of myself, and to record the pro 
 gress of Harding in the newly assumed duties 
 of his life, of which, to their termination, I had 
 little, if any suspicion. 
 
 In accordance with his design, and in this 
 respect, my own habits and disposition favored 
 him lamely, he was with me at all hours we 
 were inseparable. lie pretended a taste for 
 gunning, and though a poor sportsman, provi 
 ded with the usual accoutrements, he would 
 sally forth with me, day after day, in the pur 
 suit of the game, in which the neighboring 
 
 country was plentifully supplied. Day by 
 12* 
 
130 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 day, at all hours, in all places, we were still 
 together, and seemingly in the same pursuit; 
 yet, did we not always hunt. We chose fine 
 rambles pleasant and devious windings of 
 country, secluded roads, hills and dales and 
 deep forests, in which a moody and reflective 
 spirit might well indulge in its favorite fan 
 cies. Of this make were we both. To-day 
 we were in one direction tomorrow in an 
 other, until the neighboring world and woods, 
 for an extent in some quarters oi twenty miles, 
 became familiar toils in our excursions. I was 
 struck with ITnrdinifs nrw habit of observa 
 tion. Jn our rambles before he bad seen, 
 or appeared to see, nothing. Nuw nothing 
 escaped his notice and attention. Tree and 
 stump hill and vale wood and water all 
 grew familiar, and a subject of large and nar- 
 
MAltTIN FABEU. 131 
 
 row examination. He seemed particularly so 
 licitous of the true relations of things of par 
 allel distances objects of comparative size, 
 and the dependencies of a group, in the com 
 pass of his survey. Having great fondness 
 lor landscape drawing and some skill in the 
 art, I put these peculiarities down to the ac 
 count of this propensity, and gave myself no 
 conccnv about it; but not un frequently, turn- 
 in-j suddenly, would I detect the fixed gaze of 
 his rye, fastened inquiringly upon my own. 
 On such occasions he would turn aside with 
 a degree of confusion, which, did not, how 
 ever, provoke my suspicions. There was no 
 object in these wanderings that seemed too 
 humble for his survey. He peered into every 
 cup of the hills into hollow trees groped 
 his way through the most thickly spread and 
 
132 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 seemingly impervious undergrowth, and suf 
 fered no fatigue, and shrunk hack from no dif 
 ficulty. Having hit upon a new spot, which 
 looked impervious or dark, he would, before 
 its examination, closely watch my progress 
 the direction which I took and the peculiar 
 expression of my face. These practices were 
 not unseen hy me then, but I regarded them 
 as having no object I was certainly blind to 
 their true one. It is only now that the mys 
 tery of his mind is unveiled that his new 
 born daring is accounted for that he now ap 
 pears the rational and strong spirit I had not 
 then regarded him. 
 
 We had now, in these rambles, taken, with 
 the exception of a single one, every possible 
 route, leading into the neighboring country. 
 Hold and daring ax I was, f had always 
 
MARTIN FADER. 133 
 
 avoided the path which led to the little islet 
 and the scenes of my crime, though, certainly 
 without exception, the most beautiful and at 
 tractive among them. This had not escaped 
 his attention though he had so contrived it, 
 as not to appear to have a care or even to be 
 conscious, what route we were to pursue. It 
 now happened, however, that we were called 
 upon to retread spots which had grown famil 
 iar, and more than once my companion would 
 exclaim 
 
 "Have we not been here before can we 
 not take some new direction ? 
 
 Still I avoided the route too well known to 
 me, and still he had not ventured to propose 
 taking it. lie would not alarm me by a sug 
 gestion, though one which would have been 
 so perfectly natural, lie took another mode 
 
l. M MAHTIN F ABC II. 
 
 to effect his purpose, and one day, just as we 
 were about to pass the little hollow in the 
 woods, which led directly upon the path I so 
 much wished to avoid, he saw, or pretended 
 to sec, some game upon which to exercise his 
 skill, and, without saying more, he darted into 
 the avenue. I was compelled to follow, and, 
 slowly, and with feelings I was ashamed to 
 possess, but could not control, I prepared to 
 call up the wh<>le history of crime mid terror, 
 already HiiihVienlly vivid to the rye of mem 
 ory. We pursued the devious route, and once 
 more I found myself retracing a region, which 
 though for months uiilroddcn, Was still as 
 freshly in my recollections, as when I m:u!t it 
 the field of exercise for all the Mack and blast 
 ing passions running then riot in my soul. On 
 we went from point to point, of all the places 
 
MARTIN FADER. 135 
 
 in my memory, each of which had its distinct 
 association, and spoke audihly to my spirit of 
 some endearment or reproach, some sorrow 
 or delight. Here was the little lake, here 
 the islet where 1 first discovered her. Here 
 the scene of her dishonor and of my triumph 
 here the place of our usual meeting, and here 
 the spot upon which she perished under my 
 hands. I strove not to look. I felt all things 
 too vividly in my soul, and though I closed 
 my eyes, 1 could not shut out the images of 
 terror which weic momentarily conjured up 
 hy my imagination. I strove to look in all 
 quarters hut in that which witnessed our 
 struggle and my crime, but my eyes invaria 
 bly turned at last and settled down on the one 
 spot, where, I beheld, at length, the distinct 
 outline of her figure, as it had, at the time, 
 
136 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 appeared before inc. Slowly it seemed to 
 rise from its recumbent posture, and, ivhilc I 
 breathed not, I beheld it. proceed alonij the road 
 which I had taken, when benmiLT the, inani 
 mate burden from which that now ^uidintr 
 spirit liad forever depaited, to its place of 
 final slumber in the body of the rock, which 
 stood rigidly in the distance. I followed it, 
 unconsciously, with my eyes. My respira 
 tion had utterly ceased my hair was moist 
 and active my lips were colorless and cold, 
 and my cheeks we re ashen. A palsying wind 
 seemed to penetrate my bones, and though 
 .lot a joint trembled, yet they were all power 
 less. J became conscious at last of my con 
 dition and appearance, from discovering the 
 eyes of Harding anxiously bent upon mine 
 and following the direction of their gaze. 
 
MARTIN FADER. 137 
 
 There was something so expressive so earn 
 est in his look, that, though yet utterly unsus 
 picious of his design, I was nevertheless not 
 a little offended at his seeming curiosity. I 
 recovered myself on the instant of making 
 this discovery, and turned round abruptly 
 upon him. As if detected in some impropri 
 ety, his eyes fell from the look which 1 gave 
 him in evident confusion; and, without a 
 word, we prepared to proceed in our ramble. 
 Not willing to suggest a solitary movement 
 while in this region, which should prompt 
 doubt or inquiry, I left the choice of road to 
 himself, and saw with some concern that we 
 were now taking the direct route to the cot 
 tage of old Andrews, the father of Emily. I 
 had no fear of exposure from any such inter 
 view, for, I had so contrived it, that all suspi- 
 13 
 
138 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 cion was diverted from myself in the minds 
 of the family. I had busied myself in the 
 little inquiries that had been made into her 
 fate had pretended not a small portion of 
 sorrow and regret had made sundry presents, 
 which in the depressed condition in which 
 they lived, had readily contributed still more 
 to their blindness ; and never having been re 
 cognized, in the dotage of the old man, as the 
 boy who had contributed to his first great mis 
 fortune, I had escaped all imputations on the 
 subject of the second. Besides, I had taken 
 care to visit them frequently, though privately, 
 for a short period of time after the event, and 
 felt secure that I had no other position in their 
 regard, than that of confiding and friendly con 
 sideration. But the subject had become ilk- 
 some, and, in addition to this fact, 1 had, for 
 
MARTIN FADER. 139 
 
 the first lime, perceived in my mind the pos 
 sibility that my companion, coupling the con 
 versation of the family, which would most 
 probably turn upon the fate of their daughter, 
 with my own story, might be enabled to gather 
 from the particulars such information as would 
 open the trail, and prepare the way for further 
 evidence. But the cautious policy of Harding 
 silenced my alarm, and indeed, my great error 
 from the first, consisted in the humble estimate 
 I had been taught to make of his character for 
 firmness. There is no greater mistake, than in 
 despising him to whom you have given a rea 
 son to become an enemy. Where there is 
 mind, contempt will engender malice, and 
 where there is malice, there is a ceaseless 
 prompter, which one day will couple the ven 
 om with the sting. Self-esteem in exaggerating 
 
140 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 my own strength to myself, had also taught me 
 to undervalue that of others in this way, I as 
 sisted his pursuit, and helped him to his ohjcct. 
 We came soon upon the cottage. The old 
 man sat glowering in idiotic abstraction in a 
 corner chair, which he kept in a continual 
 rocking motion. His mind seemed utterly 
 gone, and though he spoke to both, he appear 
 ed to recognize neither of us. His wife was 
 glad to sec me, and thanked me repeatedly for 
 some articles of dress which I had sent her 
 some months before, since which period, until 
 then, I had not seen her. An "unavoidable as 
 sociation called up the memory of Emily, and 
 the tears of the old woman were again renew 
 ed. Harding wilh an air of common-place in 
 quiry, and a manner of the most perfect indif 
 ference, almost amounting to unconsciousness, 
 
MARTIN FAB6R. 141 
 
 inquired into ihc story to which she had refer 
 red, and while she told it as far as it was known 
 to herself, busied himself in plaiting into some 
 thing like form, the remains of a handful of 
 osiers which he had plucked on the way. His 
 very indifference, had not my fate otherwise 
 ordained, should have alarmed my watchful 
 ness, so utterly different did it appear from the 
 emotion which he usually expressed when 
 called to listen to a narrative so sorrowful and 
 touching. But he heard it, as if in a dream. 
 His mind seemed wandering, and I was lulled 
 into the most complete security. Never was 
 indifference so well enacted never had mortal ^ 
 been more attentive to a history than Harding 
 to this. All its details had been carefully treas 
 ured up, and where the old lady had associated 
 
 me with the adventures of her daughter, Ins 
 13* 
 
142 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 mind had taken deep note, and the record in hi* 
 memory was ineradicably written. Over the 
 chimney place stood a rude portrait of the mur 
 dered girl, to which, when the old lady called 
 for his attention to her beautiful features, he 
 scarcely gave a glance ; and he, whom destiny 
 selected to bring the murderer of her child to 
 punishment, provoked openly the anger of the 
 mother, by his glaring inattention to the story of 
 her supnoscd fate. We left the cottage after a 
 somewhat protracted visit. I had no concern 
 not the slightest apprehension, so completely 
 had my companion played his part in the trans 
 action but lie had not lost a word, not a look 
 not an action, in all the events of thai morning. 
 His eye was forever upon me his thoughts 
 * were dissecting mine, and the most distant as 
 sociation of cause and effect, drawn vividly to- 
 
MARTIN FADER. 143 
 
 gether by his intellect, quickened into sleepless 
 exercise- and energy by the influences acting 
 upon it, supplied him with the materials for 
 commencing the true; history of my crime. 
 
 "We passed the rock on our return. I could 
 not keep my eyes from it ; and his eyes were 
 on mine. He saw the same ashy paleness of 
 my check and look, and he saw that this rock 
 had something to do with my history. In ihe 
 analysis of a story like mine so tenibly ro 
 mantic as it was his imagination became a 
 prime auxiliar, and with its aid, where a dull 
 man would have paused for fact, with the fe 
 licity of truth, it supplied them, and he grew 
 confident and strong in each hour of progres 
 sion in his labor. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A week from this had not gone by, when, 
 while under the hands of our village hair-dress 
 er, I beheld a picture crowded among the hun 
 dred upon his walls, which filled me with as 
 tonishment, and awakened in my mind some 
 moving apprehensions. I beheld the scene of 
 my crime truly done to nature, and just by the 
 little copse upon which the deed had been com 
 mitted, stood a female form, pale and shadowy, 
 and with a sufficient resemblance to Emily, 
 to have been considered a portrait. You may 
 guess my emotion. Having recovered from 
 the first shock, I inquired, as if without the de 
 sire for an answer, where he got and who had 
 
MARTIN FADER. 145 
 
 painted it, and waa told in reply that an old 
 lady had brought it there for salc- the lady was 
 unknown. Finding the price low merely no 
 minal, indeed, he had readily bought it; rely 
 ing on the merits of the piece to insure it a 
 ready sale. I affected to be pleased with it 
 and paid him his price. Having secured it in 
 possession, I examined it closely, and was con 
 firmed in the opinion that the whole was copied 
 from events in my own history. Beyond this 
 I could perceive nothing farther. The prepa 
 ration of the piece was a mystery, and I had 
 not the courage to seek its dcvelopemcnt. I 
 cut up the tell-tale fabric with my knife, and 
 witnessed its destruction, fragment by frag 
 ment, in the fla.nes. Fool that I was, I did not 
 dream that the artist had yet other copies. 
 And so it was another and another, to the 
 
146 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 number of three, appeared in the crowded 
 shop of the hair-dresser. I was too sagacious, 
 however, to purchase any more. I had begun 
 to tremble ! Still I had not the slightest sus 
 picion of the author, and though my thoughts 
 were restlessly employed upon the subject, 
 they wandered to all persons and conjectured 
 all things but the right. Still, daily, did Hard 
 ing and myself pursue our rambles, iiml, each 
 day, through his adroit ingenuity, yielded some 
 thing more to the stock of that evidence which 
 was to overwhelm me. By degrees, he had 
 penetrated in all directions of that fatal wood ; 
 and, at length, our footsteps were bent, as in 
 the most casual manner, up the steep sides of 
 the rock, and over the very path, which, bur 
 dened with the dead body of Emily Andrews, 
 I had once journeyed alone. My eyes were 
 
MARTIN FABER. 147 
 
 again riveted upon that fearful chasm I heard 
 the dead fall of her delicate form, as it struck 
 from side to side in its passage down I heard 
 the clattering of the loosened stones which 
 had accompanied and followed her ; and, at 
 length, the same subtle imagination which 
 had revived all the circumstances vividly be 
 fore one sense, arrayed her reanimated form 
 as vividly before another. I saw her arise 
 from the chasm, pale and ghastly as when I 
 had seen her descend. For a moment the 
 spell of terror fixed every faculty, and in that 
 moment, the searching glance of my compan 
 ion, had gathered murh towards the formation 
 of his testimony. lie had followed the direc 
 tion of my glance, and the chasm, half con 
 cealed in the umbrage, and not very obvious 
 to the gaze, grew distinctly before him. I re- 
 
148 MARTIN VABER. 
 
 covered from the trance which had for a time 
 stupilicd me, and we returned to the village. 
 In a few days more, and another scene, to me 
 full of fearful meaning was in the shop of my 
 hair-dresser. There was the rock there the 
 chasm, and just above, in a dim haze that made 
 vague the expression and outline, but did not 
 impair the features, stood the phantom person 
 of Emily, as my imagination had borne it to 
 my sight but a few days before. \Vho was it, 
 that, with so much felicity, could embody my 
 imaginings. I was thunderstruck, and, through 
 the means of an agent, I secured this new ac 
 cuser, and destroyed it in lik mariner with 
 the former. But another self made its ap 
 pearance, and, in despair, I gave up the hope 
 of arresting, in this way, the progress of that 
 inquiry, which, taking so equivocal a form, and 
 
MARTIN FABER. 149 
 
 pursuing a course so mysterious, was doubly 
 terrible. But Harding, for he was the artist, 
 did not olonc content himself with probing 
 the secrets of rny soul, by exercising my fears 
 and fancies. lie privately took his way to the 
 family of the murdered girl. He ascertained 
 the day and date of her absence he took care 
 ful note of our association of the expectations 
 that had been formed in their minds, not less 
 than in the mind of Emily herself, from the 
 attentions I had paid her; and though the 
 true nature of our connexion had been totally 
 unsuspected by the parents, our intimacy 
 had been such as to warrant a belief, that, 
 in the progress of events, something must 
 necessarily grow out of it. lie found that 
 we had been almost in the daily habit of 
 
 meeting, and in the very wood in which 
 14 
 
150 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 he had first perceived my terrors. lie learn 
 ed, that, in dragging the stream in its nr igh- 
 borhood, no traces had been found of the 
 victim that a search, made shortly after she 
 had been missing, and on the same day, 
 throughout the count ry, for many miles, had 
 been ineffectual. He was conscious that few 
 places of concealment offered themselves in 
 the circuit so examined, except in the cavity 
 of rock to which his mind had already advert 
 ed ; and, associating the ill disguised appre 
 hension and horror which I had exhibited while 
 upon it, he came to the rapid conclusion that 
 the mystery was to be developed there. Yet 
 how was he now to proceed ? There was still 
 something wanting to unite together the sev 
 eral links in the chain of testimony which he 
 had so assiduously and singularly woven. 
 
MARTIN FAB ER. 151 
 
 The circmistanccs, though strong, \vcrc not 
 at all conclusive against me ; and, having 
 succeeded so poorly in the first instance, 
 and with ihc public prejudice so strongly 
 against him, lie might well dread the overthrow 
 of his design, in the event of any premature 
 and partial development. Though perfect 
 ly satisfied that the chasm contained the 
 remains of the murdered girl, he was yet well 
 convinced how little the mere development 
 of the bccly would avail, unless with some 
 identifying circumstance, fixing the crime 
 upon me. Accordingly, he devoted himself 
 busily to the task of tracing in the details of 
 the mother, all the particulars cf my ir.timacy 
 with the daughter. In this scrutiny he hap 
 pened upon, read carefully, and copied a 
 single note having my initials, merely, but 
 
152 MARTI NFABER. 
 
 without date, which I had sent her, enclos 
 ing some ornaments for her person and enga 
 ging to meet her on some day in the ensuing 
 week. The style of expression was guarded 
 in the extreme, and indicated the feelings of 
 one who esteemed the individual he address 
 ed, with a respectful confederation, which 
 though not love itself, might in time, become 
 so. The absence of a date, alone, presented a 
 difficulty, which was only overcome, by a single 
 passage which the note contained. It spoke 
 of pressing engagements for a term of some 
 weeks which w r ould so occupy the attention 
 of the writer as to leave him no opportuni 
 ty of seeing her for that period unless that 
 which the note suggested was embraced. 
 What engagement H were there of HO pressing 
 n character upon me? Harding knew as well 
 
MARTIN FADER. 153 
 
 as myself the nature of my employments, and 
 felt assured that the assertion was either false, 
 or thai the note had been written at the time, 
 when my marriage arrangements had been 
 made; the only circumstance he conceived 
 likely to have been looked to in my mind, as 
 calculated to interfere with the pursuit of any 
 humbler object. This was conjectural, liow- 
 rvrr, yet the conjecture furnished him with 
 an additional clue which he suffered not to 
 escape him. The old lady could say nothing 
 as to the period when the note had been re 
 ceived but the jewels were shown him, and 
 carefully noting down their kinds and quali 
 ties, he proceeded to the several shops of our 
 village in which such articles were sold. He 
 inspected all of corresponding description, and 
 
 submitting those in question, he at length found 
 14* 
 
154 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 out to whom and when they were sold. The 
 dates were supplied, and were so far found to 
 correspond with events, that it was indubitable 
 that but four days after their purchase by my 
 self, Emily Andrews had been lost to her fam 
 ily. The circumstances were now almost em 
 bodied in the estimation of the law ; and as 
 sured, but still unprecipitate, Harding prepar 
 ed calmly and quietly the whole narrative, and 
 awaited impatiently the operation of looked 
 for events, to unfold the entire history. And 
 the time came ! 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Fate had me in its power, and I was blind. 
 If I were not weak enough, of myself, to reveal 
 the secrets of my soul, and its crimes, I was 
 not less the creature of a destiny, which, in the 
 end, sot at nought my profoundcst cunning, 
 and proved my wisdom to be the arrantcst fol 
 ly. I look back now with wonder at my own 
 stupidity. A single survey into existing things, 
 as in all other concerns I had certainly made 
 it, and I should have laughed all inquisition to 
 scorn. Now, I am its victim the shallow 
 victim of a most shallow design. Thus il is, 
 however, that the wisest suffer defeat through 
 a self-esteem which leads them into wrong, not 
 
MARTIN 
 
 merely in their estimate of themselves, but in 
 their estimate of others. Thus was it \viih 
 me ; and well, from my own experience, may 
 I exclaim with the ancient, fata viam invc- 
 nicnt. 
 
 Yet was I not unwarned unthreatcncd. I 
 had a presentiment that something was to hap 
 pen I was uneasy, discontented wandering. 
 My spirits were dreadfully depressed, and but 
 half conscious, I took my way to the secluded 
 cottage of Harding.. Unannounced, I entered 
 his study, and found him on his knees, at 
 prayer. A strange feeling possessed me, and 
 I was almost tempted to kneel down beside 
 him. But I dared not I had never been 
 taught to worship I had never been taught to 
 bend the knee, and tones of supplication were 
 foreign to my sense and unfamiliar to my lips. 
 
MARTIN FADE R. 157 
 
 Could I have knell at that moment and fer 
 vently prayed for the grace I had not, I feel 
 satisfied the heart of my companion would have 
 relented of all its purposes. He would not, 
 at that moment, have arrested the new-born 
 exercises of a spirit so redeeming and atoning. 
 The moment of indulgence was permitted to 
 escape, and the fiat had gone forth. The 
 doom was upon me ! 
 
 \\ o sallied forth, as had been, for so long a 
 period, our morning custom. A grave solem 
 nity marked the expression of Harding s coun 
 tenance, mixed, at intervals, as we grew more 
 and more communicative, with a faltering hes 
 itation of manner, indicating a relaxing of pur 
 pose. I can now comprehend all his feelings 
 and emotions. His position was, indeed, a 
 strange and sad one. Under a sense of duty 
 
153 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 the most eacred, not merely to the commu 
 nity, but to himself, he had undertaken the 
 punishment of a criminal with whom he was 
 in the daily habit of close communion to 
 whom, in worldly matters, he was somewhat 
 indebted, and in whose welfare, he had at heart, 
 and sincerely, a deep interest. The task of 
 hypocrisy which he assumed, sufficiently pain 
 ful to a mind like his, was doubly irksome un 
 der the operation of such circumstances ; and, 
 I am assured that could he, at that moment, 
 have been persuaded of a change of hcait in 
 me had I niven l,i:n t!ic sli^ ilcst reason to 
 believe that my crimes were regretted, and 
 that it was my fixed purpose to become a bet 
 ter man, he would, even then, just a* the 
 curtain was about to be drawn, which would 
 unveil the whole catastrophe, have stayed )ii.i 
 
MARTIN FACE R. 
 
 uplifted hand he would have rather suffered 
 the tortures of his imagination, and the rebukes 
 of his ambition, than have cut ofT the penitent 
 in his first approaches to pardon and atone 
 ment. But, at this moment, I uttered some 
 vile jest discreditable to manhood and moral 
 ity, alike and the spell was broken. lie 
 was strengthened in his purpose, and solemn 
 ly be led the way, I following, unconsciously, 
 to my own sacrifice. 
 
 A sudden turn brought us directly upon the 
 
 uccnc of my crime, and there, to my surprise, a 
 
 goodly company were assembled. 
 
 "What is this!" was my exclamation. "Why 
 
 arc so many of the villagers here. Know you 
 
 what is meant by this assemblage ?" 
 "We shall sec !" was his somewhat sudden 
 
 and stern reply, as we continued to approach. 
 
160 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 My heart trembled, and leapt convulsively to 
 my mouth my knees faltered, but there was no 
 retreat. We came up to the company before 
 whom my appearance had scarcely been made, 
 when, wildly from the group, rushed forth the 
 mother of Emily she seized me by my arm. 
 
 " Give me back my daughter" was her fren 
 zied exclamation u you will not keep her 
 from me. My daughter my poor sweet Em- 
 fly." 
 
 They dragged her back to the spot, where, 
 
 feebly and with an expression of subdued idio- 
 
 \ 
 cy, old Andrews incessantly shook his stick in 
 
 the direction where I stood, while his palsied 
 head maintained a corresponding motion. I 
 recovered myself, but my tones were husky 
 and thick, and I am satisfied not so coherent 
 as I could have wished them. 
 
MARTIN F AliEll. 101 
 
 " What docs all this mean, my friends ; why 
 this charge upon me why this gathering " 
 was my inquiry. 
 
 "This gentleman will explain" said the Jus 
 tice, pointing to Harding who had by this time 
 taken a place midway between the company 
 and myself, "you are charged, "continued the 
 officer, "with having first seduced, then spir 
 ited away the daughter of these old people, one 
 Emily Andrews ; and for your sake, Mr. Faber, 
 I sincerely hope that you may be able to es 
 tablish your innocence in spite of the strong 
 circumstances which will be brought against 
 you." 
 
 1 looked to Harding I sought to crush him 
 with that look but he was untroubled, unap- 
 pallcd beneath it ; and, though trembling with 
 
 emotion, a* seemingly determined in intention, 
 15 
 
162 MARTI N FADER. 
 
 as the martyr, fortifying if not establishing his 
 faith, by the free offering of his blood. He 
 proceeded, modestly, but confidently to his 
 narration. lie recounted the history of our 
 intimacy described once more the circum 
 stances of the revelation which I had made, in 
 his ears, of my crime. How it had burned in 
 his heart like so many living coals. How 
 he had come in his agony to me, and how 
 finally, in order to escape from the sugges 
 tions of torture inflicted by conscience and 
 imagination, he had revealed it as it had before 
 been heard, to the officers of justice. He 
 showed how he had been overthrown by the 
 search made in accordance \viih the story 
 how, writhing under the reproaches of the 
 public and crushed in their opinion, he had 
 been on the verge of madness and suicide 
 
MARTIN FADER. 163 
 
 how I had sought him out in his closet re 
 pealed my story, and how he had again be 
 lieved it. A certain something, he said, assur 
 ed him that I had told the truth, but not the 
 whole truth that I had suppressed and alter 
 ed, so as to defeat inquiry ; but that, though 
 the causes which had led me to disclose so 
 much unnecessarily, were unknown and unac 
 countable, he was taught to believe in the com 
 mission of the crime. A desire to regain his 
 station in society to show that nothing of 
 malice had prompted him in the first instance, 
 inspired him wilh the design, which, carried 
 out pcrscvcnngly and properly, had resulted in 
 his being able, he thought, most satisfactorily 
 to prove the murder of Emily Andrews by 
 Martin Fabcr, and accordingly, he proceeded 
 to the dcvelopcment of his particulars. How 
 
164 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 did I wonder at my own blindness as he pro 
 ceeded in his narration. Mow did I wonder at 
 the ingenuity with which, without any clue, he 
 had unravelled, as with my own fingers, all 
 my seciet. He had watched all my mo 
 tions all my looksall my words. He had 
 suffered not a glance not a whisper to es 
 cape him. With the assistance of his mother, 
 who, herself, in disguise had sold them to the 
 barber, he had carried on the affair of the pic 
 tures he discovered who had bought them, 
 and conjecturing for what purpose, he dclied me 
 to produce them. He described the involun 
 tary terrors which my face had exhibited on 
 approaching the spot upon which we stood 
 how the same emotion, so exhibited, had led 
 him to suspect that the rock to which he point 
 ed had also some connexion with the transac- 
 
MARTIN FADER. 105 
 
 lion. The fuis gathered from the conversa- f 
 lions with the family, leading to the final, and, 
 &? he thought, conclusive proof, in reference to 
 the jewelry, ho next dwelt upon : and, with a 
 brief but compact summary, he so concentrated 
 ihe evidence, that, though strictly speaking, 
 it ill inconclusive, there was not an individual 
 present but was persuaded of my guilt. 
 
 " And now," said he, " there is but one more 
 witness for examination, and this is the rock 
 of which I have spoken. I am persuaded 
 that the body of Emily Andrews lies there. 
 The expression of Faber s eye the whole 
 look with which he surveyed the chasm, 
 could not have come from nothing. That 
 rock, in some way or other, is associated with 
 his crime. I have made arrangements for its 
 examination and we shall soon judge." 
 
1()0 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 Placing a little ivory whistle to his lips, a 
 shrill sound went through the forest, and after 
 the lapse of a moment, a sudden flash illumi 
 nated, and a loud explosion shook the earth 
 around us. We proceeded to the spot, and 
 when the nmoke had cleared away, a nlinut 
 from those who traversed I he fragment H, torn 
 from the fissure which had been split by irun- 
 powder, announced the discovery of the vic 
 tim, and in her hands conclusive evidence 
 against me torn from my bosom without my 
 knowledge, while in the last convulsion of 
 death, lay the large brooch, the loss of which 
 had given me so much concern at the time, 
 and, on its back, chased finely in the gold 
 setting, were the initials of mv name. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 lie came to me in my dungeon lie, my 
 accuser my enemy my friend. In ihc first 
 emotions of my wrath, I would have strangled 
 him, and I shook my chains in his face, and I 
 muttered savage curses and deep threats in his 
 ears. He stood patiently and unmoved. His 
 hands were clasped, and his eyes we re dim, 
 and for a while he had no language, no articu 
 lation. 
 
 " Think not," at last he spoke " think not 
 I have come to this work with a feeling of sat- 
 isfaction. I have suiTercd more agony in its 
 progress than I can well describe or you un 
 derstand I will not attempt it. If you can- 
 
163 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 not, from what you know of my character, 
 conceive the grief and sickness of heart which 
 must have come over me, during the long pe 
 riod and regular and frequent succession of 
 hours, in which I was required to play the 
 hypocrite I cannot teach it you. I come not 
 for this. I come to ask your forgiveness to 
 implore your better opinion and that you 
 may attribute to a necessity which gave mo 
 no other alternatives than death or shame, the 
 whole of this painful episode in my life ! 
 
 lie was a noble creature, and so I could not 
 but think at that very moment ; but, I was of 
 the earth, earthy ! I was a thing of compre 
 hensive malignity, and my impulses were per 
 petually warring with the suggestions of my 
 sense. 
 
MARTIN FADER. 
 
 * My death be upon your head my igno 
 miny be yours the curses of all of mine be 
 on you may all things curse you. Talk of 
 my being a murderer, arc you less so? Have 
 you not hurried me to death a shameful 
 death dishonoring myself, dishonoring my 
 family, when I might have atoned for the error 
 of my youth, in the progress and belter per 
 formances of my age? Hypocrite, that you 
 are, begone ! Come not falsely now to ex 
 tenuate what you may not excuse your 
 priestly cant about forgiveness docs not de 
 ceive me. Away I curse you to the last!" 
 , and his head sunk upon his breast, and his 
 hands were clasped in agony, and I exulted in 
 the writhing and gnawing of that heart, whose 
 over-delicate structure, I well knew, could ne 
 ver sustain such reproaches. 
 
170 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 " Spare me, spare me ! As I live you do me 
 wrong. Be not so merciless so unforgiving. 
 Fame, and die world s good opinion, were to 
 me the breath of life. I could not have done 
 other than I did and lived I could not." 
 
 " Looked you then to me to do it ? Was 
 the world s good opinion nothing to me? Had 
 I nothing to live for? Had I no aim in life? 
 Oh away ! I si( ken but to sec you !" 
 
 Patiently, amidst all my reproaches, he per 
 sisted in the endeavour to conciliate my fiend 
 ish mood, suggesting a thousand excuses and 
 reasons, for the obvious duty which I myself 
 felt he had done to himself and to society 
 but I rejected them all, and, in despair, he was 
 about to retire, when a sudden thought came 
 over mo. 
 
MARTIN FA BLR. 171 
 
 " Stay, Harding there is one thing there 
 is one way in which I can be assured that your 
 motive was not malicious, and that you have 
 been stimulated as you say, solely by a belief 
 in the necessity of what you have done !" 
 
 " Speak say, any thing, but grant me your 
 forgiveness give me your good opinion !" 
 
 " Ridiculous ! the good opinion of a murder 
 er the hated, the despised of the communi 
 ty ; of whot good is it to you or to any body ?" 
 
 44 True true ! but even with the murderer 
 I would be at peace I would not have him 
 die with an ill feeling towards me. But there 
 is yet another thought which prompts the de 
 sire in this case. It is from my associate 
 and companion that I would have forgiveness, 
 for the violation of that confidence which grew 
 
172 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 out of that association. For this I would have 
 your forgiveness !" 
 
 " The distinction is somewhat nice, but you 
 shall have what you ask cheerfully have it 
 upon one condition !" 
 
 " What is thai, nay on I will gladly nerve 
 you." 
 
 " Justice demands a victim and I must die ; 
 but it is not necessary to justice that I should 
 die in a particvdar manner. I would not die 
 by the rope, in the presence of a gaping mul 
 titude you must provide me with a dagger 
 a knife, any thing by which I may free myself 
 from the ignominy of such a death." 
 
 "Impossible! that will be wrong it will 
 he criminal, Justice, it is true, may not care 
 whether the rope or the steel shall serve her 
 purposes, but she requires that her officer, at 
 
MA11T1N FABEJl. 173 
 
 leasl, shall do it ; otherwise it is not her act. 
 Jt is your will, not hers, that would be per 
 formed her claim would be defeated." 
 
 " Shallow sophistry ! this then is your 
 friendship but I knew it would be so 
 away, and may " 
 
 lie stopped me in my curse. 
 
 ** Slay !" he exclaimed hurriedly, and with 
 terror "any thing but that. I will do as you 
 require." 
 
 16 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The day of retribution of a fearful trial, 
 is come ! Horrible mockery ! the sunlight 
 streams through the iron grating, and falls upon 
 the straw of this accursed dungeon. I low 
 beautifully how wooingly it looks lovelier 
 than ever, about to be forever lost ! Do I trem 
 ble would I yet live and linger out the years 
 in a life of curses, among those who howl 
 their denunciations forever in my ears ? Could 
 I survive this exposure, this infamy, and cher 
 ish life on any terms and at all hazards ! I 
 would not die not thus, not thus on that 
 horrible scaffolding, I shudder but to think on. 
 Yet what hope would I rely upon ? I have 
 
MARTIN FADER. 175 
 
 none to whom in this perilous hour, I would 
 turn in expectation. No fond spirit now la 
 bors, unslcepinglv, for my relief. I have not 
 lived for such an interest I have not sought 
 to enlist such affections none hope none 
 seek my escape none would assist in its 
 consummation ! I am alone I must die ! 
 and what, horrible thought ! if he should 
 not bring the weapon ? if his shrinking and 
 woman-like conscience should scruple, tails, 
 to interfere witli the decree of justice, and I 
 should be led out in the accursed cart, through 
 the jeering multitude, and go through all the 
 trials of that death of shame and muscular 
 agony ! let me not think of it. Let me not 
 think ! 
 
 And I closed my eyes as if to shut out 
 the light, and rushed to the extremcst corner 
 
170 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 of my cell, despairing of the appearance of 
 Harding with the dagger he had promised. 
 But a few hours were left, and the sharp and 
 repeated strokes of the hammer, at a little 
 distance, indicated the rapid progress of the 
 executioner in his preparations for the terrible 
 performance of his office. I groaned in my 
 agony of thought, and buried my head still 
 deeper in the meshes of my couch. Thanks, 
 thanks the fates be praised he comes the 
 bolts shoot back the doors arc unbarred he 
 is here ! I live again I shall not stand then on 
 that fearful fabric, lie brings me that which 
 shall enable me to give it my defiance, and 
 disappoint the gaping multitude, already be 
 ginning to assemble. I shall defeat them 
 still! 
 
MARTIN FADER. 177 
 
 11 Oh, Harding I had almost given you up 
 I had begun to despond to despair. I 
 dreaded that the weakness of your spirit had 
 yielded to your conscience, and that you had 
 forgotten your pledge. God of terror ! what a 
 horrible agony the thought brought along with 
 it. It is well you came ; I had else cursed 
 you with spectres that would have fastened on 
 you like wolves. They would have drained 
 the blood, at the same moment, from all the 
 arteries in your system. Give me the knife." 
 
 " It is here, and, oh, Martin I have had a 
 terrible struggle with my own sense of what 
 is right in the performance of this office. I 
 have resisted the suggestions of conscience > 
 T have overcome the rebukes of my own mind 
 I have done wrong, and do not seek to ex 
 cuse myself but I have brought you what 
 16* 
 
178 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 you desired. Here, take it, take it at once 
 and quickly before I repent me of having so 
 weakly yielded in the struggle." 
 
 " I have it I have it !" I shouted wildly 
 shaking the naked blade as if in defiance, in 
 the direction of the scaffold. " I am secure 
 from that shame I shall not be the capped 
 and culprit thing of ignominy which they 
 would make me, in the eyes of that morbid 
 rabble. I am free from the dishonor of such 
 a death. Ah, Harding, thou hast almost re 
 deemed thy fault thou hast almost taught me 
 to forgive thce for thy offending. Nay 1 
 could almost forbear to howl my curses in thy 
 ears, and avoid saying to tlicc, as I do may 
 the furies tug at thy vitals, like snakes, in all 
 hours " 
 
MARTIN FADER. 170 
 
 44 Forbear, forbear!" he shrieked oh, cruel; 
 wantonly cruel as thou art where is thy 
 promise, Martin where is thy honor wilt 
 thou deceive me ?" 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha !- fool that thou art didst 
 thou not deceive and betray me ? \Vhcrc was 
 thy honor, false hypocrite where was thy 
 forbearing mercy ? \Vcrl thou not cruel, 
 wantonly cruel then ? Hell s curses be upon 
 thce I would have thec live forever to enjoy 
 them thou should*! have an eternity of tor 
 ment thou shouldst have an exaggerated 
 sense of life for its better appreciation. For 
 bearance, indeed ! No I would invent a 
 curse for thce that and ha ! thou art come in 
 season, at the lit moment, to be my help in 
 imprecation. Come forward tliou hast lips 
 
180 MARTIN FABER. 
 
 would make an oath tell and tell to the quick. 
 Come hither, come hither, my Constance !" 
 
 And he dragged forward the young and ter 
 rified wife, who had just then made her appear 
 ance in the dungeon, and forcing her upon 
 her knees before him, he stood over her, wa 
 ving the gleaming dagger in her eyes. 
 
 " Thou shalt kneel, Constance ! it is a 
 solemn moment, and thou hast that to perform 
 which requires that word and action should 
 well suit its solemnity. Ay, fold thy hands 
 upon thy breast yet I ask thee not to pray 
 thou must curse and not pray. Speak then 
 as I tell thee speak and palter with me not, 
 for, doomed as I am to death, and hopeless of 
 escape, as I have nothing now to hope, I have 
 nothing now to apprehend from man. Speak 
 after me, then, as thou hast a love for life as 
 
MARTIN FABER. 181 
 
 tliou hast a leading and a lasting terror of a 
 horrible death ! 
 
 Agonized with the situation of Constance, 
 Harding advanced to interfere, but with a 
 giant-like strength, the criminal hurled him 
 back with a single arm, while he threatened, if 
 he again approached, to bury the weapon in 
 the bosom of the kneeling and terror-stricken 
 woman. On a sudden, she recovered her 
 energies, and in coherent but feeble tones, she 
 called upon her husband to proceed. 
 
 " It is well thou art thus docile. Thou art 
 wise, Constance thou art obedient, as thou 
 hast ever been. Keep thy hands folded, and 
 speak after me say, in thy wonted manner to 
 thy God bid him hearken to thy prayer bid 
 him, in tenderness and love for thee, to grant 
 it aa thou makest it. Promise him largely of 
 
182 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 thy increased love and obedience for this. 
 Promise him thy exclusive devotion say 
 thou wilt live only for him ; and strive to for 
 get all the other attractions, whatever they 
 may be, of life and society. I care not if thou 
 keepest these pledges, it is enough for me 
 that thou makest them." 
 
 She did as she was required. She implor 
 ed the Father, krvenlly to sanction the 
 prayer she was about to make she vowed 
 her whole love and duty, in return, so far as 
 her poor capacities would permit, entirely to 
 him. She spoke in the fullness of accumu 
 lated feelings, and with a devotion as deep and 
 touching, as it was tearless and dignified. 
 
 "Well that is enough. Thou hast been 
 as liberal in promises, as I could well desire 
 thee ; and now for the prayer and petition thou 
 
MARTIN FABER. 183 
 
 hast to offer. Look on this man the mur 
 derer of thy husband the wretch, who, 
 wouldst thou believe it, my Constance, has 
 the audacity to have a love even for thee, in 
 his cruel heart the wretch, whom thou wilt 
 be slow to think so, my Constance, but it is 
 true whom thou dost love " 
 
 She looked up to him, as he proceeded, with 
 a most imploring expression but he had no 
 touch of pity in his soul. lie proceeded 
 
 " It is true, and you dare not deny it, my 
 Constance. You love the wretch who has 
 murdered your husband, and, perhaps, when 
 my bloody grave, which his hands have dug, 
 has been well covered over, you will take 
 shelter in his bosom " 
 
 The wretched woman shrieked in agony, 
 and fell at length upon the floor but he al- 
 
184 MARTIN FADER. 
 
 lowed her no respite. After a few moments, 
 making her resume her position upon her 
 knees, he continued 
 
 "Him, ihou must curse ! Say after me 
 God of heaven and earth, if ihou be, as thou 
 art said to be, just in thy provisions Say 
 
 She repeated : He went on. 
 
 " If the power be in tlicc, as 1 believe, to do 
 the will of thy creatures on earth 
 
 She repeated. . 
 
 "If thou canst curse and bless build up and 
 destroy yield pleasure or pain make happy 
 or miserable " 
 
 She repeated. 
 
 " I call upon thee, with thy agents and min 
 istering powers to curse with thy eternal 
 wrath to blister with thy unceasing sevcri- 
 
MARTIN FADER. 185 
 
 ties lo torture with thy utmost varieties of 
 pain 10 make sore the body to make bitter 
 the life to make wretched the spirit to pur 
 sue at all seasons and in all lands, with thy 
 unerasing and most aggravated asperities, this 
 bloody man, the destroyer of my husband." 
 
 The youth, upon whom this imprecation 
 was to fall, rushed forward 
 
 " Speak it not ! oh, speak it not, lady ! in 
 charity speak it nor. I can bear with the 
 curse from his lips from any lips but thine. 
 Sanction not, I pray you, this wnntoncss of 
 cruelty pardon rather, and forgive me that I 
 have been the unwilling, and, in all times, the 
 sad instrument of Providence in this pro 
 ceeding." 
 
 " Back, back, William Harding the curse 
 
 must be uttered it must be felt it must be 
 17 
 
186 MARTIN F ABE K. 
 
 borne. Speak on, Constance Fabcr speak 
 on as I have told it thee. She looked up in 
 his face with the calm resignation of a saint 
 and, as one entering upon the pilgrimage of 
 martyrdom, she proceeded regularly in the 
 formula, sentence after sentence, which he 
 had prescribed; while he, standing above, mut 
 tered his gratification as every added word 
 seemed to arouse new agonies in the bosom 
 of the denounced. Bijit, as she reached the 
 part assigned to the application of the curse, 
 she entreated these curses upon the head ot 
 Constance I abcr, if she should ever teach 
 her lips to invoke other than blessings upon 
 any being of the human family, whatever, in 
 the sight of heaven or of earth, his oilencc 
 might be ! The glare from the eyes of the 
 disappointed criminal was that of a hvcnn, 
 
MARTIN FADER. 187 
 
 robbed of his prey. A malignant shriek burst 
 from his lips, as, with uplifted arm and furious 
 stroke, he aimed the weapon at her bosom. 
 Harding sprang forward, but the weapon, as 
 she swooned away from the blow, had pene 
 trated her side. The youth, with unlocked for 
 power, tore her from his grasp, before his blow 
 < ould bo repeated, and bore her out of his 
 roach lo the opposite part of the cell. The 
 keeper and his assistants rushed in upon the 
 prisoner. As they approached, he aimed the 
 bloody dagger at his own bosom, but, at thai 
 instant, fear came over his heart the fates had 
 paralyzed him he was a coward! he shrunk 
 hack from the stroke and the dagger fell from 
 his hands. Without difficulty he was in a 
 moment secured. Constance was but slightly 
 wounded, yet happily, enough so, to be en- 
 
188 MARTIN FADE R. 
 
 tirely ignorant of the horrors of the scene so 
 malignantly forced upon her. In his cell, the 
 wretch howled over the unperforming weak 
 ness of his hand, which had not only failed to 
 secure him his victim, but had left, him with 
 out the ability to defeat his doom. 
 ******** 
 
 The hour is come ! O cursed weakness, that 
 T should fail at that moment of escape But 
 the fates had written it I must fulfil my des 
 tiny. My eyes grow dim I fail to see any 
 longer the crowd all is confused and terrible. 
 What spectres are these that surround me ? It 
 is Emily, and why does the old father shake 
 his palsied hand in my face will no one keep 
 off the intruders ? they have no concern here. 
 I have raved but now all is before me. What a 
 multitude does this suffering of a fellow crea- 
 
MARTIN FADER. ISO 
 
 lure give them pleasure ! Should I ask I who 
 have lived in that enjoyment ! Would I had also 
 been weak; I. should have escaped this ex 
 posure this pain. It is but for a moment, how 
 ever but a momentary thrill ; and then fate 
 will have no secrets. I shall no longer be its 
 blind victim its slave. There is an old man 
 at the foot of the scaffold, that I would not see 
 there! It is old Andrews. Would he were 
 gone or that I could look elsewhere. But no 
 matter it will soon be over. I would I had 
 r\ (iod at this moment better to have believed 
 on earth there is nothing for me such a 
 faith, though folly, had been grateful. But 
 now now it is too late. The hour is come ! 
 The sunlight and the skies are gone gone 
 gone gone." 
 
. 
 
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 HISTORY OF THE JEWS. By the Rev. H. H 
 
 MILMAN. In 3 vols. ISino. Illustrated with original Map* 
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LIFE AND TIMES OF GEORGE IV. By the Rer 
 
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 t 
 
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 tsijrs. 18ino. With a Map and Engravings. 
 
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HISTORY OP CHIVALRY AND THE CRUSADES. 
 
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 LIFE OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. By H. G. BELL. 
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HISTORY OF POLAND. By JAMKS FLETCHER, Esq. 
 18 mo. With a Portrait of Kosciusko. 
 
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 FESTIVALS, GAMES, AND AMUSEMENTS, Ancient 
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 and the steps by which they were accomplished ; and has been re 
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 reader*, 
 
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PALESTINE, OR THE HOLY LAND. By the Rcr. 
 M. KUSMELL, LL.D. 18ino. With a Map and Engravinga. 
 
 The early history of that most interesting portion of the globe 
 the theatre of those wonderful events from which our religion is de 
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 the greatest accuracy. The places of many of the incidents recorded 
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 MEMOIRS OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE. By 
 JOHN S. MBMBI, LL.D. IHmo. With Portraits. 
 
 Amid the turmoils, the vast achievements, the ambitious* Aspiring*, 
 and the complicated intrigues winch mark the cm of Napoleon s 
 
 5reatne.Hs, it is refreshing to pursue the elegant and gentle course of 
 osephine, whose affection for the conqueror and native g>odnesM of 
 heart were so often made the instruments of mercy, and whose pe r 
 suacive voice was ever ready to interpose between Jus wrath and ita 
 trembling object. Placid in situations peculiarly trying, Josephine 
 preserved her character unsullied, and the. utory of her life abounds 
 with occasions for the respect and admiration of the reader. Tlie 
 author has performed his task with great ability, and the public IB 
 indebted to him for oau of the most delightful biographies. 
 
 ** This is the only complete biography which has ever appear .*! 
 of that much admired woman." A r . 1 . Constellation. 
 
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 cnth ol into 
 kind can claim." Boston Traveller. 
 
 cinaiion of style, and a depth ol inter at which few works of thi* 
 
 COURT AND CAMP op BONAPARTE. 18mo. Wit 
 
 a Portrait of Prince Tulleyrund. 
 
 This volume has been carefully prepared as a suitable and indis- 
 pensuhle companion t( the Life of Napoleon. Jt contains the sub- 
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 anecdotes, tVc., connected with the career ol Napoleon, with which 
 tho press of France has I wen MO prolilir during the last fifteen years. 
 It present* rapid but vigorously diawn sketches of the emperor s 
 brothers, wives, sisters, ministers, maishals, and generals; ami 
 those who wish to gam a competent knowledge, ol " N<tjx>leon and h* 
 timei" will lind no work in any language which conveys so much 
 information in so little space or in a more lively and agreeable 
 manner. 
 
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LIVES AND VOYAGES OF DRAKE, CAVENDISH, 
 AND DAMPIER; including the History of the Bucaniers. 
 18mo. With Portraits. 
 
 The relation of the voyages, discoveries, and adventures of early 
 and celebratoi English navigators is, in so far, a history of the rise 
 of her naval power. In this volume are contained the lives of three 
 of the most eminent ; and, from the very nature of the subject, it pre 
 sents murh runous and valuable information, gleaned from many 
 source*, and in every instance verified by scrupulous examination 
 and reference to original documents. Early Spanish Discovery in 
 the South Seas, and the first circumnavigation ol the globe by Ma 
 gellan, form a subordinate but appropriate branch of the work ; and 
 the subject is completed by the History of the Hucanirrs, thos, 
 dannir rovers whose wild adventures afford so rnurh to charm the 
 youthful mind, and form one of the most interesting chapters in the 
 annals of maritime enterprise and adventure. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF PITCAIRN S ISLAND AND ITS 
 INHABITANTS ; with an authentic Account of the Mutiny 
 of the Ship Bounty, and of the subsequent Fortunes of the 
 Mutineers. By JOHN BARROW, Esq. J8ino. With Engra 
 vings. 
 
 The author of thin Tolumn ha* brought into one connected view 
 wh.it had heretofore appeared only in detnrhed fragments, and some 
 ol these even not generally accessible. The story is replfte with in 
 terest. We are taught by the Hook of Sacred History that the diso- 
 beiiirnce of our first parents entailed upon our globe a sinful and 
 Kiirtermg nice ; in our own time there has sprung 1 up from the most 
 abandoned of this depraved family from pirates, mutineers, and 
 murderers a little society which, under the prrcrpts of that Sacred 
 Volume, is characterized by religion, morality, and innocence. The 
 discovery of this happy people, as unexpected as it was accidental, 
 and everything relating to their condition and history, partake so 
 much of the romantic as to render the story not ill-adapted lor an 
 epic jHH in. 
 
 SACRED HISTORY OF THE WORLD; as displayed 
 in the Creation and subsequent Events to the Deluge. By 
 TURNER, F.S.A. 18mo. 
 
 To exhibit the Divine Mind in connexion with the production and 
 preservation, and with the laws and agencies of visible nature, 
 and to lead the inquirer to perceive the clc.ar and universal dis 
 tinction which prevails U twem the material and immaterial ub- 
 stanres m our world, both in their phenomena and their principle!. 
 is the mam object of this admirable volume. In it religious and 
 scientific instruction are skilfully and strikingly blended, and facts 
 and principles are so made to illustrate each other that the mind and 
 heart are equally improved by its perusal, and the cause of science is, 
 as it were, identified with that of religion. The information con 
 tained in it chiefly relates to Natural History, and it is extremely 
 copious, accurate, and interesting, white the reflections are eminent 
 for their depth, wisdom, and piety. 
 
MEMOIRS OP CELEBRATED FEMALE SOVE 
 REIGNS. Bj Mr. JAMESON. In 2 vols. 18mo. 
 
 The intention of this work is to illustrate the influence which a 
 female government has had generally on men and nations, and that 
 \\hich the possession of power has had individually on the female 
 character. The didactic lorm of history or biography has not always 
 been adhered to; incidents and characters are treated rather in a 
 moral than in a political or historical point of view ; and public 
 affairs and national events are not dwelt upon, except as connected 
 with the destiny, or emanating from the passions or prejudices of the 
 individual or sovereign. The Lives form an admirable illustration 
 of the female character, and the lessons they furnish abound with in 
 struction, while the incidents recorded are interesting, not only in 
 themselves, but as authentic details of remarkable personages whom 
 circumstances or personal qualities have invested with claims to our 
 attention. 
 
 AN EXPEDITION TO EXPLORE THE COURSE 
 AND TERMINATION OF THE NIGER. By RICHARD 
 and JOHN LANDER. In 2 vols. 18mo. With Maps and En 
 gravings. 
 
 With encouragement and assistance of a very limited description 
 these adventurous young men embarked in an enterprise which in 
 every previous instance had terminated fatally ; and all who knew 
 the nature of the climate, and the grievous hardships they must en 
 counter, predicted that the only intelligence ever received of them 
 would be some obscure rumour of their destruction. The narrative 
 shows how often these predictions were on the point of being verified. 
 They were assailed by sickness, imprisoned in filthy huts, sold as 
 slaves, plundered, abused, and nearly sacrificed to the cupidity and 
 revenge of the ferocious savages. In suite of all these obstacles, l>v 
 means of patience, perseverance, enthusiasm, and courage, they 
 filially triumphed over every difliculty and compUtely gamed the 
 object of their mission, thus cllectini; the most important and appar 
 ently the most hopeless geographical discovery of the age. 
 
 LIVES OF CELEBRATED TRAVELLERS. By 
 JAMES A* ST. JOHN. In 3 vols. 18aio. 
 
 Every man whose mind can sympathize with human nature under 
 all its various aspects, and can detect passions, weaknesses, and vir 
 tues like his own through the endless disguises effected by strange 
 religions, policies, manners, or climates, must peruse the relations 
 of veracious travellers with satisfaction and advantage. The author 
 of these volumes has with great industry and judgment compiled a 
 series of highly interesting narratives, containing the most striking 
 incidents in the lives and wanderings of all the celebrated travellers 
 that have flourished within the last eight centuries, taking them up 
 in their regular order of succession, presenting only the attracti\ 
 portions*, and omitting all useless and unnecessary details. The 
 reader will find in these volumes the substance of many ponderous 
 tomes, most of which are rare, and only to be found in the extensive 
 European libraries. 
 
INQUIRIES CONCERNING THE INTELLECTUAL 
 POWERS AND THE INVESTIGATION OF TRUTH. 
 13y JOHN ABKRCROMHIE, M.D. 18rno. 
 
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 LIFE OF FREDERICK IT., KING OF PRUSSIA. By 
 
 LORD DOVER. In 2 vols. 1 81110. With a Portrait. 
 
 Frrdf rick II. lived in an age among the most remarkable in the 
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SKETCHES FROM VENETIAN HISTORY. By the 
 Rev. E. SMKDLBY. In 2 vola. 18mo. With Engraving*. 
 
 Few have the knowledge, the time, or the means to explore for 
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 gleaning from them ihe most characteristic incidents, amusing sto 
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 INDIAN BIOGRAPHY; OR AN HISTORICAL AC 
 COUNT OF THE NORTH AMERICAN NATIVE 
 ORATORS, WARRIORS, 8TATESM EN, &c. By B. B. 
 THATCHER, Esq. In 2 vols. 18mo. With Engravings. 
 
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 ber was very limited, and it might be said that all knowledge of their 
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 of the highest character for candour, exter.t, and accuracy. It has 
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 of their historian, full justice had never been done to the characters 
 and actions of the aborigines. 
 
 HISTORICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE ACCOUNT OF 
 
 BRITISH INDIA; from the most remote Period to the 
 
 present Time. By several eminent Authors. In 3 vol. 
 
 l~.ao. With a Map and Engravings. 
 
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LETTERS ON NATURAL MAGIC. By Sir DAVID 
 BRKWHTKR, LLD., F.R.S. 18mo. With numerous Engra- 
 viiig*. 
 
 The author of this volume passes under review the principal phe 
 nomena of nature, and tho lending contrivances of art which bear the 
 impress of a Bupernatuial character, and more especially those sin 
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 form their Junctions, or perform them unfaithfully. These are themes 
 full of interest, and worthy of the labour bestowed upon them by the 
 philosophic writer. 
 
 The eye and ear are, of course, the chief organs of deception, and, 
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 volume. Those depending on the ear succeed, and, alter these have 
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 of the more popular wonders of chymistry. Under each of these di 
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 explanations, anil no subject in itself grave and important was ever 
 treated m a more captivating manner. 
 
 HISTORY OF IRELAND. By VV. C. TAYLOR, Esq. 
 With Additions. By WILLIAM SAMPSON, Esq. In 2 vols. 
 I8mo. With Plates. 
 
 Before its rcmihheation, this work was submitted for examination 
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 tr;i< > thesr origin, and lor their talents and acquirements. Their 
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 republlshed m the United States a work so lair, so copious, 
 and so accurate. The public at large has continued their sentence, 
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 the additions of William Sampson, Ksq., whose reputation is too well 
 known in the country of his adoption to require eulogy. 
 
 HISTORICAL VIEW OF THE PROGRESS OF DIS 
 COVERY OX THE MORE NORTHERN COASTS OF 
 .NORTH AMERICA. By P. F. TYTLER, Esq., and Prof. 
 WILSON. 19mo. With a Map and Engravings. 
 Among the most remarkable occurrences of the nineteenth century 
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 western continent, so important, although not perfectly satisfactory 
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 does he behold so peculiar an aspect of nature : it follows, therefore, 
 of course, that expeditions to no other part of the world furnish to 
 the historian such ample and interesting materials. The present 
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 modem knowledge of the most remote territories of North America, 
 and may IKJ considered as forminc a sequel to tho " Polar Seas and 
 Regions," and as tarnishing all that was wanting to a complete ac- 
 count fit the wholo series ot northern discoveries bv land :\nt\ water. 
 
BOLDT. By W. MACOILLIVKAY. 18mo. Engraving*. 
 
 The celebrity enjoyed by Baron Humboldt, earned by a life of 
 laborious investigation and perilous enterprise, and by the most ex 
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 sorhy ; and his works are ranked among the very first for the splen 
 did pictures of scenery which they contain, the diversified informa 
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 the graceful attractions with which lie has invested the majesty of 
 science. The present volume contains p- indeed account of all 
 the travels and researches of this eminent observer of nature, in 
 which nothing is omitted that can *>o either interesting or useful to 
 the gem.ial reader, while the several narratives are. sufficiently con 
 densed to bring them within the compass of a convenient volume. 
 
 LETTERS OF EULER ON NATURAL PHILOSOPHY ; 
 WITH NOTES AND A LITE OF EULER. By Mr 
 DAVID BRKWSTKK, LL.I)., F.K.S. With additional Notes. 
 By J. GKISCOM, LL.D. In 2 vols. 18mo. With Engraving*. 
 
 Of all tho treatises on Natural Philosophy that have l>een pub. 
 limbed in the various languages of Europe mere is none th.it has en 
 joyed a more extensive and permanent celibritv than that of tho 
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 Europe with still increasing reputation. The most eminent sar>m* 
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 cellence, not only by the strongest expressions of approbation, but by 
 assuming the task of editing the \vork : the latest who has bestowed 
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 are copious and valuable ; and the publishers of the American 
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 numerous and of great utility. 
 
 A POPULAR GUIDE- TO THE OBSERVATION OF 
 NATURE. By ROBERT MUDIE. With Engravings, 18mo. 
 
 The author is an ardent lover of nature, and a close observer of the 
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 lull enjouaelii of the innumerable charms that he scattered so 
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 In the accomplishment of his undertaking be has produml a work, 
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 interest with which it fills the mind ol the delighted reader. To 
 tho tyro this guide is of incalculable value, and even to the accom 
 plished bcholur, it recommends it >clf by the now and Making features 
 with winch it invests tho exhaustlcsa subject of which it tieats. 
 
PUBLISHED BY J. & J. HARPER, NEW-YORK. 
 
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FAMILY CLASSICAL LIBRARY. 
 
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 M We have here the commencement of another undertaking for the more 
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LIBRARY OF SELECT NOVELS. 
 
 FJCTITIOPB composition la now admitted to form an txtenslve and la 
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 TU strong and vivid exhibition* of unsMitu and of character which they 
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 It may bo added, the ad ecuou* of evur> class of render* ; for not only a 
 entertammttiit in all the various mood* of tragedy and comedy provided in 
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 the tuiterness and danger of rx|irnriii-, that kni<v\.f l^e ol Inn lellow- 
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 c^uirvd at a period Of Ufa (ou late to turn it to account. 
 
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 encouragemenl from thu pnMic pdin>n.i.:u nn will cuaMc them In the 
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 including mot ul lhe n-all) valualilc novels and romances u.;it iiuvt- tK-en 
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 There is warcvly un> ^u^lion conin-.-trd vkiid the ntcredlM of literatura 
 Which has hvt-n morv! tliorou^lil) du usrl ind mvc^atralfd tlmn tint of 
 the utilitv or evil of novel rending. In .is ftvour muci nav f>< and haa 
 been Haul, and it must t>- adiiniu-d tli.it tlif r a^oiimgn o hixe who t>e- 
 lieve novelH to be injurious, or nt Iwisl unt-U^.H, are. nol wiu i force and 
 plausibility. Yet, U Uic ai-ttitic,iti. tt^mnsi novels ar clvxse. vanniii d, 
 11 will be liiund thai they ire mort) n|iji,u uhlo in gem-ntl to ex. <ive n- 
 dulyeHcu m the ple:i>ur:a ulforded t>) (h<- prru-..ii ol (t>-iitious an. iiiurm 
 th:tn to the works llii HIM INCH ; mid th:l the r\,h which can be ji>tly 
 as-Tilntl to them HDM* almost *\clustvei>, not from any pecuhnr noxiou* 
 qualilivM ihnl -un be fairly tiliributed lo novels a* a -IKX :><, but Ihun !!n^ 
 Individual worki which in iheir cUs mu.si bo pionounccJ lo bo mdif- 
 farent. 
 
 But even were U oth.Twi-K- were novels of every kind, the good aa 
 well a the bad, the atnkmg and animated not len.t than the puerile, in 
 deed liable lo the charge of enfeebling or iKTvennig the mind ; and wer 
 there no ijualilieb in any which mi^ln render I hem instructive t* well aa 
 ajnusmg ihe universal accepialion which they have ever received, ar.d 
 anil conlinufl to receive, from all axe* and t ia->N<- of men. would prove 
 an irresihtible incentive to their uro<luction. The remonstrances of morHi- 
 btts and the reasonings of philosophy have ever been, ind will still b 
 found, unavailing agmn>i the desire to paruke of un rnj<i>iiteni /o attrac 
 tive. Men will read novel* ; and therrfoib the utmost thai wiadum and 
 philanthropy ran do IH to cater prudently lor the public appetite, and, u 
 U hopeleH to alien. jit the exclusion of nctitiouh wnungn Inttn the shelve* 
 of the library, lo HO- thai they are encumbered with the leeuft poMibl* 
 Dumber of Huch aa have no other inent than llial of novntty. 
 
 TE7 Sixtetn works, by eminent author*, Ant?* already betn pub- 
 liihrd in the " library of Select Nwell," which are ivld tejtsi 
 r in cmtfleit itli. For tht titUt ttv tht Fublutun catalog**. 
 
K7 The following works are printed and bound uniformly, and 
 may be obtained either separately or in complete Be*?. 
 
 YOUTH AND MANHOOD OF CYRIL THORNTON. 
 
 In 2 vols. l-Jino. 
 
 TUB DUTCHMAN S FIRESIDE. By J. K. PAULDINO 
 Esq. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 THE YOUNG DUKE. By the Author of "Vivian 
 Grey." In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 CALEB WILLIAMS. By the Author of " Cloudesley," 
 &c. In 2 vols. l-Jnio. 
 
 PHILIP AUGUSTUS. By G. P. R. JAMES, Esq. In 
 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 THE CLUB-BOOK. By several popular Authors. r n 
 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 I)E VERE. By the Author of " Tremaine." In 2 
 vols. 12 mo. 
 
 THE SMUGGLER. By the Author of " The O Hara 
 
 Tales," &c. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 EUGENE ARAM. By the Author of " Pelham." In 
 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 EVELINA. By Miss BURNEY. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 THE SPY: A Tale of the Neutral Ground. By the 
 Author of " Precaution/ In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 WESTWARD HO! By the Author of "The Dutch 
 man s Fireside," &c. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 TALES OF GLAUBER-SPA. By Miss SEDGWICR. 
 Messrs. PAULDIKG, BRYANT, SANDS, LKGOBTT, &c. In 2 
 vols. 12mo. 
 
 HENRY MASTERTON. By G. P. R. JAMKS, Esq, 
 Author of " Philip Augustus," &c. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 MARY OF BURGUNDY; Or, the Revolt of Ghent. 
 By the Author of " Philip Augustus," " Henry Ma- 
 terton," &c. In 2 vols. 12mo 
 
PUBLISHED BY J. & J. HARPER, 82 CLUT-STEMT, 
 NKW-YORK. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF MODERN EUROPE, from the 
 
 Rise of the Modern Kingdoms to the ^resent IVri xI. Hy WILLIAM KrsavLL, 
 LL.l)., and WILLIAM JUNKS, Es<} With . \nnoianon8, by an Amrnean. In 
 S vols 8vo. 
 
 THE HISTORICAL WORKS OF THE REV. WIL- 
 
 LIAM KOHK11TSON. D.U.; coiii|trismi! ins 11(8 TORY UK AMRK1CA ; 
 CHARI.RS V.; SCOTLAND, and INDIA. In 3 volv cvo. With IMam. 
 
 (SIMON S HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND 
 
 FAU, OF Hit: ROMAN KMNKK. in 4 voi. M-O. wmiM^* ana rum 
 
 ENGLISH SYNONYMES, with copious Illustrations 
 
 and Explanations, drawn I rmn llie heal Writers. Uj (J.ORUS CKABHK, M.A 
 6va \ 
 
 LIFE OF LORD MYRON. Uy THOMAS MOORE, Esq. 
 
 In U vols. 8vo. VViiU a I orirail. 
 
 THE HOOK OF NATFRE; hein? a popular Illus- 
 
 trillion of Ha; v-i Mrr.tl I.:t\vs ami IMionoiiK on ol reaiion, v.i-. H> Jn* 
 MAMON (iuop, Ml) und IK S. >M . \Vnli his l.iic. 
 
 HOOPER S MEDICAL DICTIONARY. From the 
 
 basl London Kdiliou. Wall AtlduioiiM, by SAM TEL AKCRI.Y, M.D. bo. 
 
 COOPER S SURCilCAL DICTIONARY. In 2 vote. 
 
 New and inijuovrd Edition, bvo. 
 
 GOOD S (Da. JOHN MASON) STl DY OF MEDICINE. 
 
 In 5 vols. Svo. A new Ivlnion." With Addiiionn, hy SVMTICL COOPKR. 
 
 DOMESTIC DUTIES; or Instructions to Married 
 
 Ladie.s. H\ Mrs. PAKKLI. TJiiK). 
 
 WORKS OF THE REV. ROIJERT HALL, with 
 
 MfinoirH of his Lite, by (xukuoHv and FuMkit. I onipkio cdiiiou. la 3 
 ols. BVO. I orir.nt. 
 
 A MEMOIR OF THE LIFE OF WILLIAM LIV- 
 
 INdSTnN, I.I..D. Menitn-r of Con^rrss m ITTJ, 1775. and 177(>; Dflfpaie t* 
 llie Ffdrril Convention in 17*7; svntl (iovernor of i ho Siut- of New Jersey 
 from 1770 to 17 jy. Uy TIIILOIIOKK SKKUWH K, Jr. bvo. 1 urtruil. 
 
 THE LIFE OF JOHN JAY, with Selections from his 
 
 CorrCN|Mii)doilCQ and Misfflluncoua ra|H-r. Hy In* son \V.vt. JAV. ln 2 vol. 
 Ovu. i ortruiti 
 
 THE PERCY ANECDOTES. Revise*! edition. To 
 
 which IH udd>d, u Vulnalilc Colloriioii of Aineni-un Ant-cdoics, original ti.d 
 n.kftfd. I onr.iiM. >\i>, 
 
 POLYNESIAN RESEARCHES, iluriuyr a Residence 
 
 f l ihi Yar in iliu SiKieiy and tSandwiclt l^laiuU. Uy WILLIAM KI.I.IB. 
 lu 4 vols. 12ino. Plates. 
 
 THE COMPLETE WORKS OF MARIA EDGE- 
 WORTH. In tf vols. ISino. With Enjrravmjfn 
 
 KEITH ON THE EVIDENCE OF PROPHECY. 
 
 From tuo lat Luudoo Edition. Hiux 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED BY J. & J. HARPER. 5 
 
 THE INVALID S ORACLE ; OR, ART OF INVIGO- 
 
 RATINC AM) Pltni.OVilMi LIFE. Hy WILLUM KIUHINICR, M.D 
 Wild Nou-i* b> a Ph>sir;an ol New -York. Ibmo. 
 
 THE COOK S ORACLE, AM) HOUSEKEEPER S 
 
 MAM AL. H) WiiitAM KMMII-^H. M.I). Adnplol to the Atntrican 
 Public l>) a Mnln al (iptilleinnii of New- York. l?mo. 
 
 AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON MUCH AN- 
 
 |cs. Iriin-liii: d in. 111 i IK- h n-nrh of M. Uourharlit. \\ \\\\ Addition* and 
 KIIICMI HIIOIIH h) l n.% tun II. COI-KIKNAV. Wvo. Numerous Plati-M. 
 
 LIKE OF W1CLIF. By C. W. LE BAS, A.M. 18mo. 
 THE CONSISTENCY OF REVELATION with 
 
 il*eH HIM! with Human Reason. Hy P. N. f*iu TTi,kWiKi n. IHino. 
 
 Lt THER AM) THE LUTHERAN REFORMA 
 TION. 11} Kev. J. S OIT. 1n2volR. PorirailH. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE REFORMED RELIC.ION IN 
 
 FU\NTK. By Rev. UhWAKH SMKDI.KV. In 3 voH. IHino. Portrnim. 
 
 THE COM FORTE R ; or, Consolation for the Afflicted. 
 
 Uy 11 Villu^f Pastor. IV HKV 
 
 LETTERS TO THE YOUNG. By MARIA JAN* 
 
 JKKMITKV. Prom the third Kilinon revised and enlarged. 18r:io. 
 
 BROWN S DICTIONARY OF THE HOLY BIBLE 
 
 8vo Only ro:ni>!ttt Ld.tion publistud in thin country.] 
 
 BROWN S (.I.) BIBLE CONCORDANCE. 32mo. 
 GIBSON S SURVEYING. Improved and enlarged. 
 
 Hy .UM>- K * A-.. b\o. 
 
 ELEMENTS OF SURVEYING. \Vith the necessary 
 
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 DESCRIPTIVE (iEOMETRY AND SPHERICAL 
 
 PKO.IIX I lONS li> fnKi - iKxit-. Hvo. 
 
 TREATISE ON SHADOWS AND PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 Hy CIIAMO- I)vus. bvo. 
 
 FOUR VOYAGES IN THE CHINESE SEA, AT- 
 
 LAN Tit . PA< 1FH 1 , INDIAN, AND ANTARCTIC OCEANS Together 
 vu!ia Hiogrm.hu al skftc^ of the Author. Hy apt. HLNJAMIN MORKKLL, Jr. 
 b^ o With Purl rail. 
 
 NARRATIVE OF A VOYAGE TO THE ETHIOPIC 
 
 AND HOITM ATLANTIC u< KAN. INDIAN OCEAN, CHINESE t<EA, 
 AND NOKTII AND SOITH PACIFIC OCEAN. Uy ABBY JAMC MIIKRKLL. 
 Win a Portrait. I ^mo. 
 
 WESLEY S SERMONS ^nd MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 WORKS. 6 vols. bvo. 
 
 MASSINGER S PLAYS. In 3 vols. 18mo. With a 
 
 Portrait. 
 
 THE PLAYS OF JOHN FORD. 2 vols. 18mo 
 MODERN AMERICAN COOKERY. 16mo. 
 SURVEYORS TABLES. fCarefullv r>renared.l 
 
6 WORKS PUBLISHED BY J. & J. HARPER. 
 
 VERPLANCK S HISTORICAL AND LITERARY 
 
 DISCOURSE*. 12ii.o. 
 
 A TREATISE ON THE MILLENNIUM. By Rev. 
 
 GBOHUK Urmi. 12tno. 
 
 THREE YEARS IN NORTH AMERICA. By JAMES 
 
 BTUAKT, KMJ. In it vols. Jilnm, 
 
 SKETCHES OF TURKEY IN 1831 and 1832. By 
 
 an American, 8vo. With Engravings. 
 
 LETTERS OF THE BRITISH SPY. By WM. 
 
 WIKT, Esq. With a Portrait and Biography of the Author. 12mo. 
 
 THE LITERARY REMAINS OF THE LATE 
 
 IIEMtY NEELE, Author of " Romance of History," Ac. Ac. 8vo. 
 
 LIVES AND EXPLOITS OF BANDITTI AND 
 
 ROBHERS IN ALL PARTS OF THE WORLD. By C. MACFARLAHK. 
 
 In 2 vol*. 12nio. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN THEATRE. By 
 
 WM. DINLAP. 8vo. 
 
 SMART S HORACE. 2 vols. 18mo. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE DUCHESS D ABRANTES. 
 
 Written by herself. 8vo. 
 
 CAMPBELL S ANNALS OF TRYON COUNTY. 
 
 With Maps, &.c. bvo. 
 
 LETTERS FROM THE AEGEAN. By J. EMERSON, 
 
 Esq. Bvo. 
 
 THE DOOM OF DEVORCOIL; and AUCIIIN- 
 
 DRANE. U> the Author of " YVavtrley." l. iiio. 
 
 THE CONDITION OF GREECE IN 18-J7 and 1828. 
 
 By J. MLI.KK, Esq. With a Map. 1 iino. 
 
 FULL ANNALS OF THE FRENCH REVOLU 
 TION IN I RANCK IN l3l. To which is <!i!<-d u Full Account of u Cilt-- 
 bratio.i in Nev\-Voik. By Mtkk Mn.-k.*. li!i:u). 
 
 LIFE OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD. By 
 
 THOMAS MOUIIK, Esi 4 . In 2 vols. I . ino. With a Portrait. 
 
 THE LIFE AND REMAINS OF EDWARD DAN 
 IEL CLARKE. By the Rev. \V . Ori-m, A.M., F.L.S. bvo. 
 
 RECORDS OF MY LIFE. By the late JOHN TAYLOR, 
 
 Esq. bvo. 
 
 RELIGIOUS DISCOURSES. By SIR WALTER Sc OTT, 
 
 18mo. 
 
 PRESENT STATE OF CHRISTIANITY, and of 
 
 the Missionary Establishments for its Propagation in all parts of the "WorK!. 
 By.lhe Rev. FRtutmr SiiuBtRL. 12mo. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS on Professions, Literature, Man 
 ners, and Emigration, in the Vnittd Stairs nrf Canada. Made during a rv.-i- 
 ence there in Ib3 2. By the Rev. ISAM FIDLKR. 12.no. 
 
 Rk OOKS POEMS. l-Jmo. WILLIS POEMS, ftvo. 
 
THE DENOUNCED. By the Author of The 
 
 in 2 voK 12mo. 
 
 TIIK OXONIANS. By the Author of " The Roue." 
 
 In 8 Tula. 12mo 
 
 THE COUNTRY CURATE. By the Author of 
 
 "The Subaltern." In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 THE INCOGNITO; OR, SINS AND PECCADIL 
 
 LOES. In 2 void. 12tno. 
 
 WAVERLKY; OR, TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE 
 
 In 3 vein. 12mo. Krviard, corwtrd, and onlarged by the Author. 
 
 STORIES OK A BRIDE. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 FRANCE, IN 1829-30. By Lady MORGAN. In 9 
 
 roll. 12mo. 
 
 THE SCHOOL OF FASHION. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 RYBRENT I)E CRUCE. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 Tin: ENGLISH AT HOME. In 2 voh. 12mo. 
 THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS. AnHis- 
 
 toriral Komanrr. In 2 vo!. 12rno. 
 
 PRIVATE LIFE. In 2 vols. 12rao. 
 
 A PIOI AN MORSELS; OR, TALES OF THE TABLE, 
 
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 MAXWELL. By the Author of " Sayings and Do- 
 
 injtu." In 2 Tols. 12mo. 
 
 \VALTER COLYTON. By HORACE SMITH. In 2 
 
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 THE HEIRESS OF BRUGES. A Tale. By T. C- 
 
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 TALKS AND SKETCHES. By a Country School 
 
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 \VALDEGRAVE. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 SEPARATION. By Lady BURY. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 THE ADVENTURES OF A KING S PAGE. In 3 
 
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 THE LOST HEIR; AND THE PREDICTION. By 
 
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 FOSCARINL In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 POSTHUMOUS PAPERS, FACETIOUS AND FAN- 
 
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 ARLINGTON. By the Author of "Granby," &c. 
 
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 ADVENTURES OF A YOUNGER SON. By E 
 
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 HAVERHILL. By J. A. JONES, Esq. 2 vols. 12mO. 
 ECARTE ; or, the Salons of Paris, In 2 vols, 12mo 
 
8 NOVELS AND TALES. 
 
 THE TALBA. By Mrs. BRAT. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 THK WHIGS OF SCOTLAND. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF A CHAPERON. Edited 
 
 by I.ADY D.\< HK. In 2 vol. 12mo. 
 
 AFFECTING SCENES; being Passages from the 
 
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 THE REFUGEE IN AMERICA. By Mrs. TROLLOP*. 
 
 In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 ZOIIRAB THE HOSTAGE. By JAMES MORIER, Esq. 
 
 In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 MISERRIMUS. A Tale. 18mo. 
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITY. By L. E. L. In 2 
 
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 TALES OF THE WEST. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 LAWRIE TODD; or, the Settlers. By JOHN GALT. 
 
 la 2 vols. 12iuo. 
 
 CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE. By SCOTT. 
 
 In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 TALES OF MY LANDLORD. By SCOTT. 4th Se- 
 
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 DREAMS AND REVERIES OF A QUIET MAN. 
 
 ByT. S. FAY, Esq. In 2 vol. 12mo. 
 
 THK FALSE STEP AND ^TIIE SISTERS. In 2 
 
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 TRAITS OF TRAVEL. By T. C. GRATTAN. In 2 
 
 vols. linio. 
 
 (M)NTARINI FLEMING. A Psycolopical Auto- 
 
 B:o .:ra]hy. By ihe Author of " Vivian Grey," " The Young Duke," &.c. In 
 2 vols. 12nio. 
 
 SOUTHKNNAN. By GALT. In 2 vols. 12mo. 
 
 Ill E N EW FOR EST. By the Author of " Bramble- 
 
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 THE RIVALS. By the Author of "The Collegian s," 
 
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 HUNGARIAN TALES. By Mrs. GORE. Svols. 12mo. 
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 TALES OF MILITARY LIFE. In 2 vols. 12rno. 
 PEACE CAMPAIGNS OF A CORNET. In 2 vols. 
 
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 JACQUELINE OF HOLLAND. ByT. C. GRATTAN, 
 
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 CLOUDESLEY. By the Author of "Caleb Wil- 
 
 liams." A- 1!. In 2 vola. 12tno. 
 
BOY S AND GIRL S LIBRARY. 
 
 PROSPECTUS. 
 
 THE publishers of the "Boy s AND GIRL S LI 
 BRARY" propose, under this title, to issue a series 
 of cheap but attractive volumes, designed espe 
 cially for the young. The undertaking originates 
 not in the impression that there does not already 
 exist in the treasures of the reading world a large 
 provision for thi* class of the community. They are 
 fully aware of the deep interest excited at the present 
 day on the subject of the mental and moral training 
 of the young, and of the amount of talent and labour 
 bestowed upon the production of works aiming 
 both at the solid culture and the innocent entertain 
 ment of the inquisitive minds of children. They 
 would not therefore have their projected enterprise 
 construed into an implication of the slightest dis 
 paragement of the merits of their predecessors in th< 
 same department Indeed it is to the fact of the 
 growing abundance rather than to the scarcity o 
 useful productions of tins description that the de 
 sign of the present work is to be traced ; as they 
 are desirous of creating a channel through which 
 the products of the many able pens enlisted in the 
 
PROSPECTUS. 
 
 aervice of the young may be advantageously con 
 veyed to the public. 
 
 The contemplated course of publications will 
 more especially embrace such works as are adapt 
 ed, not to the extremes of early childhood or of 
 advanced youth, but to that intermediate space 
 which lies between childhood and the opening of 
 maturity, when the trifles of the nursery and the 
 simple lessons of the school-room have ceased to 
 exercise their beneficial influence, but before the 
 taste for a higher order of mental pleasure has es 
 tablished a fixed ascendency in their stead. In the 
 selection of works intended for the rising genera 
 tion in this plastic period of their existence, when 
 the elements of future character are receiving their 
 moulding impress, the publishers pledge themselves 
 that the utmost care and scrupulosity shall be exer 
 cised. They are fixed in their determination that 
 nothing of a questionable tendency on the score of 
 sentiment shall find admission into pages conse 
 crated to the holy purpose of instructing the thoughts, 
 regulating the passions, and settling the principles 
 of the young. 
 
 In fine, the publishers of the "Boy s and Girl * 
 library" would assure the public that nn adequate 
 patronage alone is wanting to induce and enable 
 them to secure the services of the most gifted pens 
 in our country in the proposed publication, and thus 
 to render it altogether worthy of the iige and the 
 object which call it forth, and of the countenance 
 which they solicit for it. 
 
DOTS AND GIRL S LIBRARY. 
 
 Number* already Published. Each Work can It had 
 separately. 
 
 LIVES or TIT APOSTLES AKD EARLY MAR 
 TYRS or THB CHURCH. 18mo. [No. I. of the Boy 
 and GirP* Library. Designed for Sunday Rending.] 
 This, a* well a* some of the subsequent numbers of the Boy i 
 and Girl * Library, is especially designed for Sunday reading, 
 and the object of the writer has been to direct the minds of 
 youthful renders to the Bible, by exciting an interest in the live* 
 and actions of thn eminent apostles and martyrs who bore testi 
 mony to the truth of their missions and of the Redeemer by 
 their preaching and their righteous death. Tho rlylo is beauti 
 fully simple, and tho narrative is intersperncd with comment* 
 and reflection* romirka jio for tbe>r devout spirit, and for the 
 clearness with which thf y elucidate whatever might appear to 
 tho tender mind either contradictory or unintelligible. It i 
 Impossible for any child to read these affecting histories without 
 becoming interested ; and tho interest is so directed and im 
 proved M to implant and foster the purest principle* of religion 
 and morality. The most esteemed religious publication* 
 throughout the Union hare united in cordial expressions of 
 praise to this a* well as the other Scriptural numbers of tht) 
 Library, and tho publisher* hare had the gratification of re 
 ceiving from individual* eminent for pi*ty, the warmest con* 
 mend* ti on* not only of the plan, but al*o of th* wanner ha 
 which it ha* boao *o far axocutad. 
 
JUVENILE WORKS. 
 
 THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON; on, ADVEN 
 TURES or A FATHER AND MOTHER AND FOUR 
 SONS ON A DESERT ISLAND. In 2 TO!*. 18mo. 
 [No. II. & III. of the Boy s and Girl * Library.] 
 The purpose of this pleasing story is to convey instruction In 
 the arts and Natural History, end, at the same time, to inculcate 
 by example principles which tend to the promotion of social 
 happiness. Every on^ has read or heard of Robinson Crusoe, 
 and the unrivalled and lonpr continued popu aiity of that admi 
 rable narrative, proves that the tastes and feelings to which it 
 addresses itself are among the strongest and most universal 
 which belong to human nature. The adventures of the Swiss 
 family are somewhat similar in character, and, of course, in in 
 terest; and they illustrate, in the most forcible and pleasing 
 manner, the efficacy of piety, industry, ingenuity, and good- 
 temper, in smoothing diflicuities and procuring enjoyments 
 under the most adverse circumstances. The story abounds 
 with instruction and entertainment, and well deserves the high 
 encomium that has been passed upon it, of being one of the 
 best children s books ever written. 
 
 "This little work is so much of a story, that it will seem a 
 relaxation rather than a school-task, and at the same time it 
 will give the juvenile reader more practical instruction in 
 natural history, economy, and thr means of contriving and helping 
 one * tflf, than many books of the very best pretensions in the 
 department of instruction." Boston Daily Advocate. 
 
 " We do not think a parent could select a more acceptable or 
 judicious gift." New-Haven Keiigitnu Intelligencer. 
 
 ** The story has all that wild charm of adventure and dis 
 covery which has made Robinson Crusoe such a wonder to 
 every generation since it was written." Baptist Rrjwsitory. 
 " This work is interesting stud truly \a!uable." U. 6\ Gaistt*. 
 Well calculated to claim the attention of the interesting 
 part of the community to winch it is addressed." A . Y 
 Adroeot*, 
 
/UVJZNIL* WORKS. 
 
 SUNDAY EVENINGS ; OR, AN EASY INTRO- 
 
 DIJCTION TO TJIIC READING or TUB BIBLE. [Noi. 
 
 IV. and XIV. of the Boy s and Girl s Library.] 
 
 The title of this excellent little work sufficiently explain* 
 its object. As an introduction to the knowledge of Scripture 
 History, and an incentive to the ntudy of the Sacred Volume, 
 it is calculated to produce the most happy effects upon the 
 mi ud n of children ; mid th > simplicity of thn language pre 
 serves to the story nil thoso charms which are inherent in the 
 narrative, but r.n 1 sometimes lost to very youthful readers by 
 their want of a perfect understanding of tho words they read. 
 Besides a developed and connected view, in easy language, 
 of the Script :re story itself, the author has endeavoured to in- 
 tersperso in the narrative s\;ch notices of the countries spoken 
 of, together \vith such references to the New Testament and 
 practical remarks, as would tend to make the book cither more 
 interesting, more intellectually improving, or more valuable in 
 a moral and religious light: and it cannot fail of obtaining the 
 approbation of all judicious and pious parents, and of proving, 
 by the blessing of God, an assistance to the Christian mother, 
 in giving to her children an early knowledge and love of his 
 Sacred Word. 
 
 "The style is simple, the sentiments expressed Scriptural, 
 and the l>ook every way Calculated cs an assistant in the in 
 struct ion of children. The Prrsliytrrian. 
 
 "To be commended cordially." The Churchman. 
 
 "We recommend it particularly to mothers and guardians 
 of the young, confident that it will obtain their approbation, and 
 prove an assistance to them in giving those under their care an 
 ea ly knowledge and love of the Sacred Word." Am. Traveller 
 
 " The work is well worthy the attention of parents and in- 
 trartera, to whom we most cheerfully recommend it." Bottom 
 Mirror. 
 
 " It will be found, we think, a useful auxiliary in the hands 
 f patents, and moct winning book to children. 
 
i JUTENILK WOUKB. 
 
 THE SON or A GENIUS. BY MM. Hominx 
 
 [No. V. of the Boy s and Girl * Library.] 
 
 Thin admirable story baa been too long familiar to the pub 
 licat least to that portion of it which haa advanced beyond 
 the period of childhood to require either eulogy or description. 
 It has for many years maintained its place among the best and 
 most esteemed juvenile works in the English language ; and ks 
 popularity is easily accounted for by the touching interest of the 
 incidents, and the purity of the principles it inculcates both 
 of wisdom and religion. The publishers were induced to re 
 print it as one of the numbers of the Boy s and Girl s Library, 
 partly by the advice and solicitations of many of their friends, 
 and their own knowledge of its merits, and partly by the con 
 sideration that it has long been out of pnnt, and that it waa very 
 difficult to procure a copy. 
 
 " The Son of a Genius will afford a profitable study to 
 paron s, as well as an exquisite treat to youths. It is an admi 
 rable tale : fascinating in its delineations, admirable in it> moral, 
 just as a picture of the mind, a faitliful and Vue portraiture 
 of the results of genius vaccilatmg, unapplied, and turning to 
 ruin, and the same genius supported by sound moral principle, 
 strengthened by judicious exercise and continuous eftort, useful 
 and triumphant. It is a striking illustration of the importance 
 of method, perseverance, and industry to produce the perfect 
 fruits of genius; and the utter uselessuess of delicate taste, 
 vivid conception, rapid performance, aided by generous afTec 
 tions and engaging manner, to the attainment of excellence, 
 without that tteady application, which nothing but just moral 
 principle can ensure. The story is not, however, a refined, met 
 aphysical disquisition on genius ; but a simple, engaging tale, 
 which lets in upon the reader a soil experience worth a hun 
 dred essays." Connecticut Journal. 
 
 "To youth of both sexes this work forms an exrollent piece 
 Of reading." The Pennsylranian. 
 
 To our young friends U will afford much entertainment"* 
 tiotton, J/i/ror. 
 
JUVENILE WORK*. 
 
 NATURAL HISTORY; OR UNCLE PHILIP S 
 CONVERSATION S WITH THK CHILDREN ABOUT 
 TOOLS AND TRADES AMONG THB INFERIOR 
 ANIMALS. [No VI. of the Boy s and Girl s Library.] 
 The wonders of God s providence, as they ore manifested 
 in the figures, habits, and performances of the various creatures 
 which fill the earth, the air, and the waters, the endless varieties 
 of form, the accuracy and ingenuity of their contrivances, 
 whether for security or sustenance, and the admirable adapta 
 tion of their instruments to the works their instinct prompts 
 thnm to construct, supply an exhaustless theme for observation 
 and astonishment, and call forth in the mind the most exalted 
 ideas of the Supreme wisdom and beneticence. In the capti- 
 7it ting volume which forms the sixth number of the Boy s and 
 Girl s Library, a portion of this department of science is treated 
 of with consummate ability, and the work has deservedly re 
 ceived the highest encomiums, not only for the extent, utility, 
 and interesting nature of the information it conveys, but also for 
 the skill with which the ideas and language are adapted to tho 
 tastes as well as the capacities of youthful readers. But these 
 aze not its only or Us greatest merits: its highest claims to 
 praise are the tone of sincere and earnest piety which pervades 
 the conversations, and the excellence of the precepts drawn 
 from the wonders they disclose. 
 
 " It is written with a thorough knowledge of the subject, and 
 with that delightful freshness of impression from natural sights 
 which revives tho days of our childhood. Here, then, is a 
 beautiful and appropriate present for the Christian parent." 
 The Presbyterian. 
 
 This work deserves high praise. It displayi much tact 
 and ingenuity, guided by sound judgment, and controlled by 
 fervent piety. Such books for the young are scarce, and likely 
 to bn so ; for few are able to pnxlr.ro them. Children will de 
 light in it, arxl prof t by it." The Churchman. 
 
 ** We look upon this as one among the best juvenile work* 
 w bar* met with." Boptut Ripontery. 
 
womzs. 
 
 INDIAN TRAITS; BKINO SKETCHES or m 
 MANNERS, CUSTOMS, AND CHARACTER or 
 THB NORTH AMERICAN NATIVES. BT B. B. 
 THATCHER, ESQ. [Nos. VII. and VIII. of the Boy e 
 nd Girl a Library.] 
 
 The appearance, character, and habits of the North American 
 Inc.ians have Ion? been a favourite and fortile theme for wntra 
 as -Bellas readers, and accurate descriptions of them are t^ualiy 
 instructive and agreeanle. These form the subject of the 
 eeventh and eighth numbers of the Library, and they are td- 
 mitted to contain mu< h correct and interesting information. A 
 larger work (in the Family Library)* by the same author, -:n 
 titled "Indian Biography," treats of tho history of thone re 
 markable members of the human family : the work now under 
 consideration makes no pretensions to that character, but is en 
 tirely descriptive; and it is entitled to high, praise, not only aa 
 being the first attempt to render the subject attractive to 
 youtliful readers, but also for the ability with which the object 
 ia accomplished, 
 
 "These two little volumes furnish the lending traits of Indian 
 character in a style adapted to instruct while it interest* the 
 youtliful reader." N. 1". Atntrica*. 
 
 " Most entertaining and excellent volurr.ee." X, y. WuJdy 
 
 "Tho author has produced a work which will not onlr be 
 T&luable to the young, but to all who wish for a concise and 
 just delineation of what is most desirable to be known respect 
 ing the character aud customs of the natives of North Aaienca,** 
 "-Boston Traveller. 
 
 "The An t iiago ia easy and fivmiliar, and the deecriptioae 
 quite interesting." Atkintcn t Evening Pott. 
 
 " Two volumes more interesting or more useful were n*vt 
 placed in the handa of American youth." Jlottun Jl/trryr. 
 
 M These little volumes equal in interest all that have gone 
 before .Ueiti in the sarn* family." 7V /y 
 
JTTENILB WORKS. 
 
 TALES FBOM AMERICAN HISTORY. [Nos. IX 
 X. and XL of the Boy s and Girl s Library.] 
 
 The writer of these Tales hps had .n riew two chief pur 
 poses, the one to convey to the juvenile reader a general idea 
 of the incidents connected with the discovery and subsequent 
 history of the American continent ; the other to ezcito an in 
 terest in the subject which shall create a desire for more minute 
 and extensive information. These purposes have been effected 
 with much success, and the volumes will be found instructive 
 and entertaining In the majority of instances, the Tales have 
 been selected with reference to the illustration of some moral 
 principle; and tne frequent opportunities afforded for the intro 
 duction of reflections leading to the cultivation of piety and re 
 ligion have been ably and zealously improved. As a school- 
 book this collection of Historical Tales is calculated to be emi 
 nently serviceable ; and there can be no doubt that their intro 
 duction into seminaries will be attended with both pleasure and 
 advantage to the scholars. 
 
 " It is sufficient praise for this work to say that it is by the 
 author of American Popular Lessons, of whose powers of pre 
 senting knowledge to the young mind in a graceful and attract 
 ive garb the public are not now to be informed." N. Y. Evening 
 Pott. 
 
 " A collection which is really deserving of its title. We have 
 looked over these Tales with great pleasure, and find them full 
 of interest and instruction." N. I". Adweate. 
 
 " One of the best works that can be put into the hands of our 
 youth. ... It presents all the circumstances respecting the dis 
 covery of this country, in a condensed form, clothtd in language 
 calculated to interest the young. It ought to be in the hands 
 of every youth ; and it cannot be too early or too extensively in 
 troduced into our schools." The Cabinet of Religion. 
 
 The stories are highly interesting, and abound with pleasing 
 illustrations and notices of the history, original inhabitants, pro- 
 ductions, and first settlert of our own portion of the globe." 
 COUTMT *d Ewpur*. 
 
UlTBXlBSTUfO BOOKS FOR YOUNG PERSON 
 
 ROXOBEL. By Mrs. SHERWOOD, Author of 
 The Lady of the Manor," &c. In 3 vols. 
 18mo. With engravings. 
 
 An interesting story It is in Mr. ShenrocxTa 
 
 happiest manner, and though intended for the instruction 
 ana amusement of the youusj, will rivet the attention of 
 readers of un\ hinted tasto of every n?e. ^ e recommend 
 it as an excellent and instructive book."- N. Y. American. 
 
 "There it not a pag or a line in this work that t;>e pure 
 and virtuous may not read with pleasure." Am. Traveller. 
 
 ** A vein of strict morality runs through her writings, and 
 all her sentiments upon the incidents which she chooocs 
 for subjects are calculated to draw forth the finest and most 
 honourable feelings of our nature." N. Y. Even. Journal. 
 
 NATURAL HISTORY OP INSECTS. 
 
 Illustrated by numerous engravings. ISmo. 
 
 ** Of all studies, perhaps, there is none more captivating 
 
 than that of animated nature The present volume is 
 
 peculiarly useful and agrecnble." N. Y. Mirror. 
 
 "The subject is full of interest cnJ sail-faction, and is 
 adapted la all classes of re a ers." J^ . ^tinirtg Jtntrnal, 
 
 " It is the duty of every person having a family to put thi* 
 excellent work into the hands of his children." Mer. ?<//>. 
 
 "It seems tons that it will prove at onct agreeable and 
 instructive to persons o( all classes. * JN r .,y. Daily Adt 
 
 SIR EDWARD SKAWAHl)^? NARRA 
 TIVE OF ins SHIPWRECK, <fcc. Ed^ 
 ited by ISliss JANE PORTI:R. 3 vois. 12mo. 
 
 "We have finished the pens: of this most njrreeahle 
 work, and almost regret that the jilt-asure of a first perusal 
 has gone by ; though it is one of ihose books which will 
 bear reading again and again." Cuiiiinf.rcial Advertiser. 
 
 " It is a narrative of croat interest, told in a plain, un- 
 gtvlo, in a rt ligioiiK uuJ luoru! tone." tita 
 
NEW RELIGIOUS BOOKS, FOR GENERAL READING/ 
 
 J. & J, HARPER. NEW-YORK, 
 
 ? MOW in THE COURSE OF RET t BLIOATIO* 
 THE 
 
 THEOLOGICAL LIBRARY. 
 
 THIi PUBLICATION WILL RE COMPRISKD IJ A LIMITKP NUMBEE OF 
 
 VOLUMES, ANU 18 IM k-M KI> TO FUKM, WHICH COMPLETED, 
 
 A IMOLWI Hi tYHTKM OF RELIGIOUS AND 
 
 K ri.LMAITl K AL K.NOWLCOOK. 
 
 THE LIFE OF W I C L I P. 
 
 BY CHART.KSi \vr.im LE BAR, M \. 
 
 Professor IQ the Last India Collcg*, Herts ; and late Fellow of Tnoitjr 
 College, Caintindge. 
 
 THE CONSISTENCY OF THE WHOLE SCHEME OF REVELA- 
 
 TION WITH ITSELF. AND WITH IH MAN REASON. 
 
 Itv T. N. SniiTf K\voKni, D.I). 
 
 Warden ui iNcw College, Oxford. 
 
 I U THE 11 AND THE 1,1 Tin. 11 AN REFORMATION 
 ily UCT. J. SUM T. In 9 voti. 1 i.rtraJia. 
 
 YOLVMES IN PREPARATION. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE INQUISITION 
 
 Br JoimrH BLANCO WJUTK, M.A. 
 Of liie University of Oxford. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE PRINCIPAL COUNCILS. 
 
 BY J. II. NEWMAN, M.A. 
 Feilow of Onl College, Oxford. 
 
THEOLOGICAL LIBRARY 
 THE LIVES OF THE CONTINENTAL REFORMER!*. 
 
 Ho. I. LIFE OF MARTIN LUTHER. 
 
 BY Hi on JAMI> RO-IC, D.D. 
 Christian Advocate in the University of Cambridge. 
 
 THE LATER DAYS OF THE JEWISH POLITY: 
 
 With a copious Introduction and Note* (chiefly derived from the Tsi- 
 
 inudiMH and Rabbinical WMUT*). U tili a view to illustrate 
 
 the Language, the Mariners, and iteiieral History 
 
 01 the Ntw TnTAMiLM. 
 
 BY THOMAS MITCHEI L, EQ. A.M. 
 
 Late Fellow of Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE vJHURCH IN IRELAND. 
 
 BY C. R. Et.iNciTON, D.D. 
 Regius Professor of Divinity in the University of Dublin. 
 
 THE DIVINE ORIGIN OF THE CHRISTIAN REVELATION 
 
 demonntrated in an analytical Inquiry into the Evidence on which ih 
 
 Belief of Chrutiaiut) lias bet-n cstabh&lied. 
 
 Bv \VH.MAM RUXVE I.YAI.I, M.A. 
 Archdeacon of Colchester, and Rector of FturMcad und Wwley in Essex. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE REFORMED RELIGION IN FRANCE. 
 
 BY EitWAKD SMKI>I .v, MA. 
 La> Fellow of Sidney Sussex Col oge, Cambridge. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS OF EASTERN MANNERS, SC RIPTURAL 
 
 PHRASEOLOGY, Ac. 
 
 Bv SAMt Ki LKK, B.D. F.R.S. M.R.A.S. 
 
 Regius Profusbor of Hebrew in tue I inversiiy of Cambridge. 
 
 HISTORY OF SECTS. 
 
 BY F. E. THOMPSON, M.A. 
 Perpetual Curate of Brentford. 
 
 SKETCH OF THE HISTORY OF LITURGIES: 
 comprising a Particular Account of ilie LITIROY of the CHURCH of 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 BY HKNRV JOHN jintiK, B.D. 
 Fellow of St. John s College, Cambridge. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE CHURCH IN SCOTLAND 
 
 IY MUUAKI. RrsKKt.1., I.L.D. 
 Author of the " Connexion of Sacred and Profane History . 
 
 THE LIFE OF GROTIU8. 
 
 BY JAMES Niciio .s, F.S.A. 
 Author of " Ariniiuaiusm and Caivuusu) compared. 
 
14 IJAI 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 T,T9.1 A-4-Om-8. 71 
 
 General Library 
 :rrc;-ir nf P.nlif ornia 
 
U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES