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pair of stairs, and thought I would be high enough in the world before I reached my own easy-chair.

One o'clock. A good deal fatigued, and very much blown-damned all public rights, and all public mendon't care a fig about the magistrates, or commissioners of police-won't subscribe a penny, or set my foot again on the banks of Clyde-nothing like the steam-boat, where you can have exercise, without making your face red; and where the engine keeps all the puffing and blowing to itself-my patent shoes quite full of mud-just a portable puddle-hate patents-clever man Mr Huskisson, who is to do away with them, and make all trade free forgot the starving silk-weavers, who are without food just now, but recollected I had not taken much myself gave instant orders about dinner-nature must be recruited-Belly a very clamorous creditor, but generally comes off with a good composition.

Two o'clock.-In the coffee-roomall my friends curious to know where I had been-something vain to find I was missed-Mr Heddles quite astonished to hear I had been so far in the country-asked my opinion about the Corn Laws-silly body that Mr Heddles, did he think I had been as far as Poland ?

Every one pushed a newspaper into my hand, and I had nearly forgotten my own side of politics in the confusion. Had I been the Seven Years Sleeper just awaked, they could not have been more anxious to supply me with intelligence-heard the Duke of York was getting too fat, and would not take advice; very foolish that, when his physician is paid by the yearwas told the Catholic Association had met; all that is left of it I meanbut a Rump Parliament that, else I mistake-Mr Lawless had a set-to with Mr O'Connell-all fudge-fancy they shake hands when done, or fight with mufflers, not to hurt each other. Affairs look glum in the North-tallow rising funds drooping-butter steady-iron looking up-pork going off-soft goods hard sale and they who have the largest stock of whisky have the smallest stock of spirits crept into a corner to enjoy a crim. con. affair, and was home to dinner at Three o'clock.-Beef-steak, with shred onions-very ticklish dish that, where there is only one on the table

always overdone, or underdone; and in a world where, as Johnson says, "evil predominates," seldom well done-too little fat, and a paucity of potatoes-sweet pudding, good though -never think when I am eatingspoils digestion-too great division of labour-mind and body don't feed out of the same dish-all your great thinkers lean people-daresay the "living skeleton," though the shallowest man, may be the deepest philosopher in the world-wish he would come to our Glasgow Fair-he wouldn't crowd it much.

Mem.-To stop something from the butcher for last leg of mutton-talking of legs, remarked, that Mr Sapling, wood-merchant, had got a pair of new breeches, with continuations* had no less than need of them-was very shabby thereabouts, after the fire at Miramichi.

Four, Five, and Six o'clock.-Gave orders to be denied-haven't forgotten that fellow spoiling my breakfasthope to hear some day he is superannuated, or at least suspended-don't mean hanged, though.—Cursed bad lemon that-quite sweet, and has made me quite sour-something like a pun that-hate puns-won't blot it out though, but bring it in naturally at the club to-night.-Don't agree with Dr Johnson, that "he who puns would pick a pocket"-don't think so ill of either of our two great wits in Glasgow-at least, never heard them suspected of it.-Capital punch that second tumbler-really good-scarcely know whether I should drink it fast or slow. What a damned rumbling these coaches make-have spilled that glass with shaking the table-hear the evening arrival of the mails has hurt the revenue-no time now to sit after dinner-dreadful job to answer letters in the evening-a man can't have his head full, both of punch and pullicates -have heard it whispered, it is all a plot of the saints with ministry to break up convivial parties-don't like these people-perfect Marplots-feel heavy-but mustn't forget club-hour.

Seven o'clock.-Have a notion I've been sleeping-wig all awry-suspect that last tumbler was stiffish-won't have the lantern, but may need it when I come home.-Must be off to the "What you please."+-Can't find my blotsheet.-Put out the candle, Kirstie-and come for me at ten o'clock.

• We believe the honest man means long gaiters; and are not sure if this has found its way into " John Bee's Slang Dictionary."

+ A club in Glasgow; neither the best nor the worst of its kind.

THE VENDEANS.

IN the autumn of 1823, being at Thours, where I resolved to spend the succeeding winter, I amused myself, during several walks of delightful weather, by frequent excursions into the surrounding districts, especially those which had been the theatre of the heroic struggles made by the Royalists of La Vendée in the first months of the Revolution. The face of the country has undergone but little change since that period, and I recognized, as I explored it, the scenes of many of the tragedies recorded in the Memoirs of the Marchioness De la Rochejaquelein, with that faithful, yet brief simplicity, which none but a sufferer can give to a tale of real sorrow. To one who has ever read her sad recital, every part of this region is full of interest, but for an ordinary tourist, it possesses few attractions. It presents only a succession of low hills (or rather swells), all of nearly equal elevation, sometimes bare and rocky, with a few patches of verdure, sometimes partially clothed with heath and furze, but generally containing clusters of small fields, divided and fenced by low thick hedges. These hedges are, at irregular distances, planted with trees, which would give the landscape a look of richness and high culture, but the branches being constantly lopped off before they can spread to any considerable size, the trees are furnished only with a scanty and feathery foliage, that seems at first view the stunted growth of a cold and unkindly soil, while at a distance it presents the shape of cypresses or aged poplars, giving to the whole region some resemblance to a vast succession of church-yards; no inapt image of La Vendée when the vengeance of the Revolutionary leaders had been satiated by strewing it with its own dead. The inhabitants are an innocent and simple race. of people, who seldom travel many miles from their native farms; cheerful, though not quite so gay as their countrymen in other provinces; grateful for kindness, and, rude as they are, susceptible of attach ments, strong and devoted in proportion to the narrowness of the circle within which their affections have room to play.

Among the villages thinly scattered over these districts, there was one

which I often visited, and in which I had formed an acquaintance with a gentleman of rather a singular character, its only respectable inhabitant. He was a thin, middle-sized man, who seemed, to judge from his hardy constitution and firm step, to be little more than fifty, though his face was so worn and wrinkled, whether from age, hardship, or sorrow, that he looked at least ten years older. He had come a total stranger to the village about two years before, and had purchased a small property in the neighbourhood, part of which he farmed himself. Still he continued to reside in the village, where he practised as an apothecary and surgeon, though, as he never took fees from the lower ranks, and as there were scarcely any families of opulence within a circuit of many miles, every one wondered that he should have settled in a place so remote and so poor, that his professional gains could hardly support the expense of his establishment. He was known to be in general rather straightened in his means, with which, however, he contrived to distribute much in charity; and he had lately made himself exceedingly popular in the village by establishing a school, in which he took great interest, and which he visited daily.

M. St Julien (for so he was called) was a sensible well-informed man, and though he came to the neighbourhood a perfect stranger to all its inhabitants, he seemed well acquainted with the local history of the country, and especially with the transactions of the Vendean revolutionary war. In the rambles which we often took together, he pointed out many a spot which had witnessed some deed of heroic valour or merciless atrocity, and seemed to take a melancholy pleasure in recounting the feats and the sufferings of the unhappy Royalists in those terrible times. The family who were then the owners of the little estate of which he was now the proprietor, had been peculiarly unfortunate; and one day, when I accompanied him in a visit to his farm, after he had, according to his custom, looked in upon his few tenants, to inquire, as he said himself, "if they wanted to speak either with the landlord or the doctor," he gave me, as we returned to the vil

lage, the following account of his predecessors in the property.

"There is not at this day," he began, after some minutes silence, "there is not at this day a human creature in this country but myself who remembers Joseph Tarrant, his family, and his misfortunes. He was, as I have told you, a small proprietor, with little fortune besides the estate which I now hold. He was descended from a family who had once been of some note in the province; but for many generations the Tarrants had shared the fate of the proud castle of their forefathers, the ruins of which are hardly visible on yonder swell; they had fallen down and mixed with the nameless mass, out of which, like all the great ones of the earth, they must have originally risen. They were, however, much respected; and Joseph, who was a man of strong sound sense, and who had contrived, with very scanty opportunities, to acquire a tolerable education, was a constant and favourite guest at the houses of the seigneurs and nobles of the neigh bourhood. Indeed, before the Revolution, there was a less marked distinction of rank (at least in their behaviour towards each other) among the inhabitants of this province, than in any other part of France. The landlords, even the highest of the nobility, would visit their tenants, converse with them cordially and freely, and even occasionally take part in their rustic amusements. You perceive that in my humble way I endeavour to hold up old customs; but times are sadly changed.

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"M. Tarrant, with his wife, two sons, and a daughter, led, in this retired spot, a life which might be well deemed happy, if to want but little, and to have that little supplied, be a test of happiness. Indeed, he used to say, sitting with his wife under that large elm yonder, which stands before what was once his dwelling, and looking on delightedly at the gambols of his children, that if he could only assure himself of making his little Henri an avocat, and so give his degraded house a chance of becoming again distinguished in their native province, he would not desire, and could scarcely imagine, an addition to his enjoyments.

"This was indeed his ruling wish and chief weakness, for it flattered at once his family pride and his partialities

as a father. He fancied that he saw some early marks of genius in his eldest and favourite boy, and from the child's youngest years he cherished certain undefined hopes, that this son would in some way be instrumental in restoring the lost rank and fallen fortunes of his family. He therefore lavished all that he could spare from his immediate necessities upon Henri's education; and to this object he actually sacrificed the interests of Marie and Gabriel, his two other children. He could not afford to give them the advantages which he was barely able to purchase for Henri; and he preferred depriving them of those which were indispensable for their education, to distributing fairly among all his children such means of equal instruction as his fortune allowed. He lived to repent his error.

"I knew Henri from his boyhood. I speak from memory, and at the distance of five-and-thirty years; but he then seemed to me, with much volatility, to possess qualities that, under judicious culture, might have ripened into virtues. His chief fault was an extravagant opinion of his own powers, which not only made him careless of their cultivation, but led at times to a mulish stubbornness of conduct, very inconsistent with his usual, and I believe his natural, temper, which was frank, generous, and complying. The excessive praises lavished upon every instance of success in his studies made him negligent of deserving what it was so easy to obtain; and the extreme indulgence with which he was treated, showed its fruits at a very early age in a pettish intolerance of all contradiction. He certainly had talents; but when, at the age of nineteen, he prepared to leave his father's house, to pursue the study of the law in Paris, his information, not obtained gradually and with patient attention, but snatched in fits and starts of brief but intense application, was in part forgotten, and such as he retained floated in lights and shades over his mind, enabling him to do little more than dispute with that positiveness which is the sure mark of half-knowledge.

66

Long before the period of Henri's departure his father had become conscious of the mistake he had committed in his son's education, and of his injustice to his other children. He was a man of a serious, and rather a religious turn, and some trifling acts

of disobedience in his favourite boy seemed at once a just retribution for his errors as a parent, and an omen of future and still more bitter disappointments. He felt, in the conduct of his son, how keen is the sense of ill-requited kindness, a feeling which it is in all cases hard enough to bear, but which wounds with a venom, for which nature affords no cure, when it stings the heart of a father. The dutiful and affectionate behaviour of his other children, too young to have observed his neglect, would have given a solace in other griefs, but to Tarrant only furnished additional motives for selfreproach, by showing that the children who deserved the most, had received the least of their parents' kindness.

"Unhappily, too, Madame Tarrant had more than shared her husband's weakness. Henri had been rather sickly when an infant, and the cares and anxieties she then felt, gave him an interest in her affections, which became still stronger and more exclusive as he grew up to manhood. Besides, he had in personal appearance much the advantage of his brother, and Madame Tarrant was not the first mother who contracted an unreasonable partiality for the superior beauties of one beloved child.

“But though Henri had been spoiled by indulgence, it had not destroyed his affections. His habits, though not yet actually vicious, were so far depraved, that he was in general the headlong victim of his own selfwill; but the heart was still untainted; and as the time approached when he was to bid a long adieu to his family and home, to the haunts and the friends of his boyhood,-he betrayed a seriousness and softening of temper, from which his father formed the most flattering auguries. It seemed as if, in pondering upon some part of his past conduct, his own reflections charged him with faults, for which he desired to atone in the short space during which he was now to remain with his family.

"The 19th of October 1790 was the day appointed for his departure. The preceding day was spent by his mother and sister in preparing matters for his journey, a task which is always a painful one, even when friends part for a shorter period than three years, the time which Henri was to devote to his professional studies in Paris. He

was the darling of his sister, whom he in turn tenderly loved; and he continued the whole day in the apartment where she and his mother were busy in arranging his trunks, books, and clothes-sometimes mingling his tears with theirs-sometimes cheering them with gay anticipations of many a merry and happy meeting. Marie occasionally joined in these comforting topics, but Madame Tarrant could not. There seemed a load upon her heart, heavier than the mere thoughts of the present hour could make it, and appearing to take much of its weight from some sad forebodings, which she sometimes expressed, for which she knew not how to account, but which she could not stifle.

"Such hours as these, my young friend," continued M. St Julien, "full as they are of painful tenderness, are some of the purest, the holiest, the best of our existence. All the sluices of the affections are opened, and the heart pours out the full tide of its emotions, unrestrained by that cold and hardening mockery, with which the world, by an absurd and cruel inconsistency, seeks to extinguish the feelings that every human creature in it at some time or other loves to cherish. It is to times and scenes like these that the mind will turn, with a sickening sense of reproach and humiliation, when conscience points to something committed, or about to be committed, which would give shame and sorrow to those who, at some such time, have joined with us in feelings of pure and earnest affection. So it is that Providence moulds and governs nations; so it is that domestic sympathies fence and warn virtue; so it is that the child who is reared under his parents' eyes, and in company with those who are bound to him in blood and fondness, carries with him to his grave a train of early and cherished recollections,— a foundation of morals and religion which no mere systems ever did or ever will supply. As far as I can judge, and I have had good means of knowing it, Henri Tarrant never wholly lost the remembrance of that day, and of the evening that closed it.

"The family, after they had finished their frugal and early supper, were collected upon seats drawn round a large parlour window, within which it was M. Tarrant's custom, on summer and autumn evenings, to sit upon his

arm-chair with his family about him, looking on at the various arrangements made at the approach of night upon his farm, of a great part of which the window afforded a prospect. Their family meal had been silent and mournful,-for, it was the last, for three years, which Henri was to partake with them ;-and they continued for some time gazing upon the little landscape of their native spot, over which night was now drawing her curtain. The moon had just risen, and shone full and clear upon the thoughtful group; and now and then showed, by a tear glistening in the eye, or falling upon some part of the dress, what were the reflections which engaged them all in common. The hushed stillness of the hour, broken only by the bleating of a sheep, or the rushing of a little waterfall that tumbled and sparkled at the bottom of the lawn, the pale pure cold light of an October moon, looking mournfully down from a clear, and, as yet, a starless sky, were so much in character with their feelings, that all were disinclined, by speaking, or by moving, to interrupt the silence. At length M. Tarrant spoke :

"Henri, my child, 'tis growing late, and you have still some arrangements to make for to-morrow ;-come near me.'

"Henri approached his father, but he did not conceal his emotion.

"Cheer up; cheer up, my boy!We shall all meet happily yet. It is not manly to grieve so for a three years' absence. Many sad things may, doubtless, happen during that time; but I hope I hope-'

"It was an ineffectual effort at firmness. Nature burst her way;-and before M. Tarrant ceased to speak, the son and the father were sobbing on each other's bosoms.

"This is mere folly,' said M. Tarrant, after a few seconds' indulgence. And yet I believe I would not wholly suppress it. Look round you, Henri; see these streaming eyes;-hear the sound of your sister's and your mother's weeping;-see the weakness of your elder but not more firm father; -and, oh, my child! remember this hour -may the time never come when your heart can tell you, you do not deserve this fondness!'

"Henri sunk upon his knees at his father's feet; but he was too full for utterance. Perhaps no youth ever

made a more sincere and earnest vow than he did at that moment, never to forfeit his title to those affections, for the loss of which it seemed that this wide world could afford no compensation.

"Henri,' continued M. Tarrant, attend to me. I have delayed till this last hour to offer you,-not the injunction or commands merely, my dear boy, but the earnest and solemn request of an anxious parent. You are going to a place full of temptations of all kinds. From many of them, I trust in God, your religion, and the moral habits in which you have been reared, will secure you. But there are two dangers which I here give you my parental and solemn warning to shun: the gambling companies,-nurseries for the prison and the scaffold,—that abound in Paris; and the political clubs that it is said are now forming there. As to gaming, Henri, I shall not now urge the miseries to which it leads, often and often I have spoken to you on this theme; but remember, that what I give you for your support, and to defray the charges of your studies, is wrung from our hard savings. If you remember that, I know you will never put upon the hazard of a die, what your father only affords you at the expense of many privations. Beware, then, on that account, of the vice of gaming; but beware of it for this also;-that of all the vices which debase human nature, it is perhaps that which steels the heart in the hardest insensibility to all the charities and sympathies that make the world worth living for. Politics you will learn, as you learn the laws and history of your country. Go not into these new clubs and societies. Your ancestors fought and bled, and sacrificed their fortunes and lives in the cause of loyalty. Do not tempt the danger of being perverted from this sacred cause ;-a cause dear to all true Frenchmen; a cause which patriotism and religion unite to consecrate. These new philosophers, who would change, or, as they say, reform a condition in which we have been glorious as well as happy, are to be feared in this, Henri,-that they are levelling their deadliest blows at religion; a clear proof that they attack the state more through a hatred of piety than from mere hostility to pretended political abuses. They are yet cautious and moderate; but do not trust them. There are signs as if some

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