look out into the night for his coming, but could hear no sound, save the voice of the waters, and the footstep of the tempest as he rushed along the deep. She then went in again, and walked to and fro in the room with a restless step, but an unblanched check. At last the neighbours came to her house, knowing that her husband was one of them that had gone out that day, and told her they were going to walk down to the Clough, even in the mirk hour, to try if they could not hear some news of the boats. So she went with them, and we walked altogether along the road, it might be some twenty or thirty of us; but it was remarked that though she came not hurriedly nor in fear, yet she had not even thrown her cloak on her shoulders to defend her from the night air, but came forth with her head uncovered, and in her usual raiment of white, like a bride to the altar. And as we passed along, it must have been a strange sight to see so many pale faces, by the red glare of the torches they carried, and to hear so many human wailings filling up the pauses of the storm; but at the head of our melancholy procession there was a calm heart and a firm step, and they were Jeanie's. Sometimes, indeed, she would look back, as some cry of womanish foreboding from behind would smite on her ear, and strange thoughts would crowd into her mind; and once she was heard to mutter-if her prayer had but saved her husband to bind some other innocent victim on the mysterious altar of wrath and she stopped for a moment, as if in anguish at the wild imagination. But now as we drew nearer the rocks where the lighthouse is built, sounds were heard distinctly on the shore, and we waved the torches in the air, and gave a great shout, which was answered by kent voices-for they were some of our own people, and our journey was at an end. A number of us then went on before, and groped our way among the rocks, as well as we could for the darkness; but a woful tale met our ear; for one of the boats had been shattered to pieces, while endeavouring to land there, and when we went down, they were just dragging the body of a comrade, stiff and stark, from the sea. When the women behind heard it, there was a terrible cry of dismay, for no one knew but it might have been her own brother or son; and some who held torches dropped them for fear, trembling to have the terrors of their heart confirmed. There was one, however, who stood calm and unmoved by the side of the dead body. She spoke some words of holy comfort to the women, and they were silent at her voice. She then stepped lightly forward, and took a torch from the trembling hand that held it, and bent down with it beside the corpse. As the light fell one moment on her own fair face, it showed no signs of womanish feeling at the sight and touch of mortality; a bright and lovely bloom glowed on her cheek, and a heavenly lustre burned in her eye; and as she knelt there, her long dark hair floating far on the storm, there was that in her look which drew the gaze even of that terrified group from the object of their doubt and dread. The next moment the light streamed on the face of the dead-the torch dropped from her hand-and she fell on the body of her husband.

"Her prayer was granted. She held her husband in her arms that night, and although no struggles of parting life were heard or seen, she died on his breast."

AUTOGRAPHS AND NOTICES

OF DISTINGUISHED PERSONS.-No. V.

LORD MAHON.

THE noble lord, as most of our readers are aware, is a member of the House of Commons; but he will be known to posterity by his learned and elaborate work on

Dr. Maginn is one of the best classical scholars of the day. He was for many years one of the editors of "The Standard" newspaper, but has had no connexion with it for two or three years. He is, perhaps, the most extensive contributor to magazines of any literary character of the day. The articles he has written for Blackwood's and Fraser's Magazines would, if republished in a separate form, make a little library of themselves. He writes with great rapidity as well as much accuracy and talent. His penmanship has a degree of neatness about it, but the letters are not always sufficiently formed.

He is a well-made gentlemanly-looking man, about the usual height. His hair, which is not so abundant as it was some years ago, is of a light greyish complexion. He has a fine clear eye, with no lack of what Shakspeare would have called " speculation," in it. There is a mingled expression of reserve and distance in his countenance. His features are every year becoming more strongly marked. His face is something between the round and oblong shape. His age is between fifty and fifty-five,

MR. THOMAS WYSE.

Mr. Wyse, though we have placed his name in our gallery of literary characters, is better known as a legis lator than as an author. He is, however, a man of superior intellectual attainments, and has written a good deal for the press, though in the majority of cases anony mously. His largest work is a volume he brought out three or four years ago, on the subject of crime, educa tion, and moral statistics generally. He is a close and clear, and in some respects, original thinker. He is a great friend of education, and has contributed largely to propagate liberal and enlightened notions on the subject. He makes an able and elaborate speech in his place in Parliament, almost every session, in favour of a system of national education. He writes a bold and good, though angular hand.

Thurs. have

Mr. Wyse was lately member for Waterford, which he represented for a considerable period, but was ejected from its representation at the last election. He is a Roman Catholic, but remarkable for the liberality of his opinions, and the charitableness of his feelings to those who differ from him. He is slightly under the general height, and

rather slenderly made. His countenance has somewhat of a pale unhealthy hue, and reserved, if not melancholy, expression. His features are marked, especially about the eyes and upper part of his face. His hair, which is long and abundant, is of a sandy colour. We should suppose his age to be from forty-five to fifty.

MR. W. HARRISON AINSWORTH.

Few authors are better known than Mr. Ainsworth. His "Rookwood" first brought him into notice. "Crichton" was also a very popular production; but a great deal more has been said about his "Jack Sheppard" than about all his other works put together. Mr. Ainsworth has been most violently, and, in many respects most unjustly assailed, on account of that work. That its moral

Ir was one clear fine morning, towards the conclusion of the month of April, 1829 : the sun was shining brightly, and with a warmth and vigour rather unusual for that early season of the year. Not a cloud was to be seen throughout the whole expanse of the clear blue firmament; nor was there a single drawback of any kind to the beauty of the day, if we except the clouds of dust which occasionally arose, and almost blinded the numerous pedestrians which thronged the streets of the town of W. It was the third day of the spring assizes. Several cases of minor importance had on the two preceding days been settled, and the trial which now excited so much interest, and caused so many strangers to be directing their steps to the old town hall, was the principal on the calendar, one in which the life or death of three fellow-beings was concerned, and which would doubtless on that day be decided. Long before the hour appointed for the commencement of the proceedings, the doors of the above-mentioned building were completely besieged by crowds of well-dressed persons, who were fortunate enough to obtain the privilege of entré; each anxious to obtain those seats which would command the best view of the prisoners, and enable them to hear with distinctness the pleadings on both sides. The clock had hardly concluded striking the hour of ten, when the judge took his seat on the bench; the jury were already assembled, and never did those old walls witness such a spectacle, as was at this moment presented to their view. Throughout the length and breadth of the building, not a vacant spot was to be seen; the floor was literally darkened by a sea of human heads. The seats in the galleries, tier above tier, presented a similar appearance; and in fact every available spot, possessing either sitting or standing room, had its occupant. Many who were present, will not soon forget that day; the heat of the building was exces

tendency is decidedly objectionable there can be no question; but we do think it is most unjust, if not actually cruel, to represent Mr. Ainsworth as coolly and deliberately sitting down to write a book which he knew would lead to immoral results, merely for the sake of the money he would get for it. We believe that the possibility of "Jack Sheppard" producing immoral consequences never occurred to him; if it had, we are sure he would have abandoned the work at once. While we, therefore, think the tendency of the book decidedly bad, we acquit him entirely of any consciousness of the fact while writing it. His hand-writing has rather a bold aspect, though his letters are imperfectly formed. His penmanship is not difficult to read.

Ciscourt.

and the expression of his countenance gentlemanly and pleasing. He is making large sums of money by his literary labours, to which he devotes nearly his whole time, living a few miles north-west of London, in order that he may be beyond the reach of interruptions.

sive, being by no means freely ventilated: the confined breath of so many individuals, soon arose beyond the possibility of endurance; and again and again during the trial, its progress was momentarily interrupted by females being removed from the justice room in a fainting condition.

The indictment, with the reading of which the trial was opened, charged John Edwards, alias Hickerby, Henry Bowen, alias Glover, and Roger Stewart, with having on the night of the twentieth day of October last, or early in the morning of the twenty-first day, feloniously entered the private dwelling house of Henry Hamilton, esquire, of Rowdown Lodge, with intent to murder the said Henry Hamilton. The prisoners pleaded in a firm voice, "Not Guilty."

The evidence in support of the indictment was then proceeded with. It tended to prove most positively beyond the shadow of a doubt, the guilt of Edwards and Bowen, who, as my readers will remember, were taken prisoners in the very act of committing the crime. The evidence against Stewart (if we except the statement of his accomplices) was more circumstantial, but hardly less strong. Mr. Hamilton's gardener swore that to the best of his belief, he was one of the men who made the attack upon his master's house. It was proved that he was out upon that night, and did not return home till past two o'clock in the morning. A loaded pistol, which had been found in the room, the scene of the attack, a witness swore positively he had sold to Stewart on the preceding day. The officers informed the court, that when they went to arrest him, he first concealed himself from them, and when discovered actually admitted the crime, but told them he would sell his life dearly, and indeed resisted them in the most determined manner. It was well known also that he had been the principal ringleader in the strike, and Mr. Hamilton himself informed the court, that when he refused to re-admit him into his employment, he broke out into such a torrent of oaths and threats, that the aid of the police was necessary to remove him. "I acknowledge

it," interrupted Stewart, as this part of the evidence was being proceeded with, "I plead guilty to the charge, and now, sir, before this numerous assemblage, most sincerely ask your forgiveness. You were ever, sir, to me a kind and lenient master; you have often advised me as a friend, and I should not-I never could have abused you, as I then did, had I not been under the influence of drink and strong excitement."

Mr. Hamilton was evidently touched by this frank and open expression of feeling on the part of Stewart, and it produced a decided impression in his favour throughout the court, which was much increased when the evidence was concluded, and he, unassisted by counsel, called upon for his defence, by addressing the court in nearly the following terms.

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'My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury,-Since I have been standing at this bar before your lordship, since I have pleaded not guilty to the charge which has been brought against me, I have felt a weight pressing upon my conscience, which, if I am convicted, I cannot go with to the grave. Circumstances are unfortunately against me, and perhaps there are not many here who will give credence to my present narration, the plain statement of facts, which I am now about to lay before you; but it matters little whether they do or not. I feel that I have a duty to discharge, and that in accordance with the dictates of my conscience, I will endeavour to perform. My Lord, I desire to retract my plea of not guilty, and to plead guilty to the charge of entering the house, yet still not guilty of intent to murder. My resolution gave way before the commission of so foul a crime. I found myself incapable of committing it, and in proof of my statement, I myself informed Mr. Hamilton, by means of an anonymous letter, of the danger which awaited him." Stewart then entered into a detailed account of the proceedings of the meeting at which the death of Mr. Hamilton was resolved on, (suppressing only the names of the parties who were present,) repeated the oath by which they had bound each other to secrecy, and described the manner in which he had been chosen one of that number, who were to carry their decision into effect. He stated the reasons which induced him to accompany his comrades, the principal of which was, that had he shown a vacillating disposition, his own life would instantly have been sacrificed, and then went on to throw himself upon the merciful consideration of the court. "Yes," he continued, "I am well aware that I have no proof to offer that it was I who apprised Mr. Hamilton of his danger; would that I had. I have been already told to my face, that the fact was known far and wide, was in every one's mouth before I was even taken into custody, and that it is more than probable, that my tale is all assumption, founded upon the reports so freely circulated. Ah! no, my lord, I solemnly swear to you as one who probably has not many hours to live-one who may be at the brink of the grave, that my tale is truth, simple truth, and I beg of you to view it in as favourable a light as you are able. Remember, my lord, that I have ties, strong ties which bind me to this earthties which will sweeten the cup of life, even in banishment, and under the severe scourge of the taskmaster. My life is all I ask-spare it, I entreat you. Be merciful, my lord -oh, be as merciful as you can, and you shall obtain mercy."*

*Our readers must not suppose that Stewart was (as his wife considered) "almost guiltless," because he was the author of the anonymous letter. Though his soul abhorred the thought of shedding blood, yet he would have had no scruples, as he afterwards confessed, in setting fire to the house of Mr. Hamilton, and laying his property in ruins. It was only after

The judge then commenced summing up the evidence, a task which he performed in a most careful and masterly manner; wherever a doubt existed, he placed it so as to operate as much as possible in the prisoner's favour. He laid much stress upon the excellent character which Stewart had received, and dwelt at some length on the anonymous letter, of which he declared himself to be the bearer; and though it was very evident from the manner in which his lordship treated it, that he doubted very much the truth of the assertion, yet he left it in the hands of the jury to decide, who immediately he concluded, retired to consider their verdict.

It was nearly two hours after this that Roger Stewart and his companions, who had been removed from the court, were again summoned to the bar. A general stir throughout the building announced that the jury had returned.

"How say you, gentlemen," exclaimed the clerk of the court, when silence had been in a great measure restored, are the prisoners at the bar guilty or not guilty?"

A stillness that might be felt pervaded the building, as the last words of this sentence proceeded from his lips. Not a sound, save the low suppressed breathing of that thronging multitude, broke upon the ear. The eyes of all were directed towards the foreman of the jury, suspense written in every feature, who replied in a voice by no means loud, yet one which rung from roof to floor, from wall to wall," We find them guilty."

The judge, after having expressed his entire concurrence in the verdict, proceeded to pass sentence upon the prisoners. He told them that the law had been broken in a most aggravated manner; that they had, in the stillness and dead of night, attempted to take away the life of one of their fellow-beings, who had done them no harm, and would doubtless have effected their murderous design, had not the eye of an all-seeing Providence averted it-that now the punishment must follow. He could hold out no hope of mercy on this side the grave, and trusted that they would not buoy themselves up with an idea so deceitful. The sentence of the law, which they had incurred, and which would inevitably be executed upon them, was, that they be taken from this place to that from whence they came, and from thence to a place of execution, where they were to be hung by the neck till they were dead; "and may God," he concluded, " have mercy on your souls."

The time which elapsed between the condemnation and execution of a prisoner, at the period we are writing, was very short, compared with what it is at present. Three days was the utmost space which Roger Stewart had to live. Great efforts had been made by Mr. Hamilton, and a few other humane individuals, partly on account of his previous excellent character, partly on account of his wife and child, to obtain for him a commutation of the sentence: but the evening before the fatal day arrived, and no answer, no reprieve had been received. Alice, abandoning all hope of pardon for the guilty Stewart, had summoned up sufficient courage to bear the pang of a last farewell, and for this purpose, had received permission from the governor of the gaol to see her husband. But words are insufficient; language totally fails in endeavouring to describe their parting scene. The clock was striking seven as she stood before the door of the cell in which her husband was confined. It opened, and she was in his presence. Two months had nearly elapsed since their last interview, and what great ravages had sorrow made in that brief space of time in his once fine and manly form! and

several vain attempts to persuade his companions to abandon murder, and commit this crime, that in a fit of vexation more than any thing else, he sent the letter.

much had it changed the beautiful Alice too. Pale and emaciated, she staggered for a moment as she entered the prison. "Is it he? Is it he ?" she almost inaudibly exclaimed, and the next instant rushed into his arms. Loaded with irons, as Stewart was, he too instantly arose, and clasped her to his bosom with the warmth and energy of a lover. "Alice Alice Alice," he exclaimed, but that was all, the half-stifled sob found vent, the momentarily suppressed tears gushed forth, and his grief was terrible to behold. If upon this earth there is one scene more awful than another, one which speaks more loudly to the heart and to the feelings than any other earthly voice, it is that of a criminal on the eve of execution; one who in the prime of manhood, in the full enjoyment of health and strength; or perhaps at the bright period of youth, when life is most dear, is about to be sent by a sudden and ignominious death, prepared or unprepared, to meet his God. His heart beats high, his pulse is throbbing now; a few hours more, and they will both be still. Each muscle now obeys the impulse of the will, the whole machinery of life is in full action, in proper order-the main-spring will break before long. Now he is keenly sensible to pain or pleasure-now the feelings, the dear feelings of the heart are in full exercise, the tear gushes forth, the word of affection falls from the lips, but ere tomorrow's sun shall set, he will be stiff and cold-pain and pleasure all the same to him. How harrowing are such thoughts as these; what a touching effect are they calcnlated to produce even upon the heart of an unconcerned spectator unconcerned, if we except the common tie of human brotherhood. What must they then have been upon the fond and gentle Alice!

"But," said Stewart, after the first burst of feeling had in a measure subsided, "But, dear Alice, I must see our little girl—I must take my last look, my last kiss, my last farewell of her."

Alice, prepared for this request, had brought the child with her, leaving it in the care of an attendant, and now, upon communicating her wishes to the turnkey, it was speedily brought into the cell.

The sight of it aroused all those feelings in the breast of Stewart, which had for a moment been in some measure quelled. He caught in his arms the child, from whom he was now about to be for ever separated, and clasped it to his bosom, alive to feelings which a parent only knows. Anna, my child, my darling child," he exclaimed, as he placed her upon his knee, while the tears of affection quickly chased each other down his pallid cheeks, and fell in large drops upon her fair and innocent forehead, "May God in his mercy bless you-may he, my dearest little one, suffer your lot to fall in pleasant places, make you happy, make you useful,-spare you the taunts which your mother must receive, the look of scorn, the pointed finger, and the upturned lip-keep you through life, and in death- ""

But here he paused-his lip quivered, and his voice became choked with the violence of his emotions. Hugging the child to his bosom, he embraced it with more than parental tenderness, and then giving it to the attendant, requested that it might immediately be taken from his presence. The request was obeyed, and the agony of separation from his child was over; but a greater trial still he had yet to pass through. Turning towards Alice, who was sitting upon the bed, her face buried in her hands, the thought flashed across his dizzy brain-I must now soon part with her-I must say farewell to my first and only love. The idea was agonising; he tried to banish it, but it returned with tenfold force-he strove to turn his thoughts to another subject, but it only mocked his every effort. Covering his burning throbbing temples with his

hands, he rose from his seat and commenced pacing the narrow cell in which he was confined, with rapid steps. "Oh, Alice," he exclaimed, "had I but followed your advice, I might have been spared all this-this great, this unendurable misery. I might still have been living in our quiet blissful home, in our former state of happiness and peace. But now, despairing thought! all hope is at an end. "Now," he continued, stamping vehemently upon the ground, "Now-now they will hang me-yes, yes, they will hang me!" he almost shouted, and then suddenly pausing, turned towards Alice, and regarding her for a moment with a fearful unnatural look, burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. This terrible scene continued for some minutes, and whilst it lasted, Alice trembled like a leaf; each peal seemed to ring in her ears, more unnatural, more horrible than the preceding. She did not doubt for an instant but that reason was vacating its throne. Gradually, however, he became more collected, his feelings returned to their proper tone, and requesting those who were present to leave the room, he threw himself upon his knees by the bedside, and alternately sobbed and prayed. At last he rose, and proceeding to the spot where his wife was sitting weeping bitterly, he exclaimed with a forced air of calmness, "Alice, dear Alice, we must part-I can bear this no longer-I feel it already begins to affect my brain, and I must, I must be still. Farewell, dearest, dearest Alice," and he raised her from her seat"Farewell." Yet this momentary appearance of calmness which he had assumed, was not proof against the last torturing pang of separation. He embraced her-but the embrace lingered. He clung with the fondest tenderness to the wife of his bosom, but oh, the agonising thought! he was clasping her there for the last time. Önce Stewart tore himself from her-" Go, dearest, dearest, for the love of Heaven, go." But then again he drew her to his side, once more to mingle his sobs, to mingle his tears with hers. The very gaolers, used to such scenes of misery and suffering-scenes which gradually make the heart become callous, and the feelings grow cold, were obliged to turn away their heads to conceal the tear, which, spite of every effort to suppress it, rose. One of them, actuated by kind respectful feelings, and desirous to put an end to the misery which both endured, proceeded towards Alice, and after gently separating them, led her to the door. She suffered him-but as she crossed the threshold, paused to take one last look at Stewart. He was standing in the same position in which she left him; his eyes fixed upon her-every feeling concentrated in the gaze. A moment more, and the heavy door of the cell swung upon its iron hinges; the bolt was drawn, and she was parted from that guilty, yet still much-loved being, whom she was doomed to meet no more, on earth-no more till the last trumpet summoned her to the tribunal of her Maker.

The greater part of that truly solemn night was spent by Alice Stewart in fervent prayer for support for herself, for mercy for her husband. Evening, midnight, and the morning dawn found her upon her knees, and as the hour of execution drew nigh, she was still there—still wrestling at the mercy seat, her very soul embodied in her petitions. The house in which she was residing was not far from the prison; and during the night, the noise of the workmen employed in erecting the scaffold continually resounded in her ears. Each stroke of the hammer louder than the rest, went like a dagger to her heart, causing the uplifted eye of prayer to fill with tears. By and by, however, the noise ceased, and all was still-the scaffold was completed. Yet it was an almost momentary stillness; soon she began to distinguish the tramping of feet, the noise of an assembling multitude, mingled ever and anon with jests, and oaths, and shouts of laughter. But we will not prolong

THE BRAMIN'S WELL.

IN former days, the city of Hastinapur was the capital of India; but so destructive is time, that we cannot now discover a vestige of its ruins. It was very famous, and very magnificent. The markets blazed with silks, and fumed with oriental spices. Idlers and voluptuaries found them an agreeable place of resort; and the beauties of Hindostan were seen passing, in a state of irresolution, from one booth to another, while the cautious merchant adhered to his price, nor allowed himself to forget his interest, although beset by many a soft voice and beautiful pair of eyes.

One afternoon, a person of singular aspect entered the city. His dress resembled that of a Bramin; but he had a living serpent fastened round his waist instead of a girdle. Wherever he went, a crowd of spectators attended; and when he had come to a convenient place, he turned and addressed them as follows: "May Brama long continue to shower down favours on the citizens of Hastinapur. Their town is the fairest in the world; their societies are the most polished, and their women the most enchanting. But no spot, however favoured, can boast of exemption from the griefs and evils of humanity. I have heard that sickness groans even in these delightful palaces; and that the music of those who divert themselves at evening on the holy waters of the Ganges, comes to many an ear which is unable to participate in the general gladness. Health is the door to every other blessing; the gratifications of sense cannot reach us but through the medium of sound organs. Intellect is benumbed when a host of uneasy sensations is continually disturbing the regular sequence of our thoughts; and imagination, that capricious and easily offended power, requires that pain shall be driven off the stage, before any of her fairy pageants are exhibited.

"Listen, therefore, to what I am going to relate.-A Bramin, distinguished for his piety, has again discovered that miraculous well of which we read in the Puranas. For many ages it hath been concealed beneath a rock overblown with sand; and its healing influence has all the while been lost to the human species. A dream sent from the gods has now restored the knowledge of its situation, which is about a league eastward of Hastinapur. Let such, therefore, as are inclined follow me to the spot; they will find the venerable man of whom I have spoken, waiting with his gourd to dispense its waters, and communicate gaiety and lightsomeness, even to the most unhappy constitutions."

This harangue was received with shouts of satisfaction. Every invalid and hypochondriac went immediately to order his palanquin; and the news being spread with rapidity, produced a commotion over the whole city. Among other places, it reached the veranda of a young lady, whose name was Badoura, and who sat languishing under the influence of a half-pleasing, half-painful sensation, which she could not understand. The seat of it was in her bosom; and the first symptoms had occurred after looking at a very handsome youth, who sometimes came to amuse himself with dressing the parterres of a neighbouring garden. This charming girl thought she could do no

better than join the pilgrims, and get a cup of water along with the rest. In the mean time, as she could not have the use of a palanquin without imparting her design to a very peevish and untractable aunt, she called on a favourite slave to attend her as she walked, and shade her with an umbrella.

Towards evening, a large procession was seen to quit the walls of Hastinapur. It was led by the Bramin, who did not long continue to follow the public highway, but struck off towards a range of solitary mountains, where the town of Hastinapur was soon lost to view. Night began to thicken; a doleful breeze whistled among the rocks, and the faint-hearted citizens became dispirited at the length of the journey. They told their conductor that they had already gone more than a league, and desired to know when his well and his Bramin would become visible. To these clamours he replied in a soothing manner, drawing on the party step by step, until he had brought them within the jaws of a gloomy valley. There he left them, and his place was supplied by a troop of banditti. The rich palanquins were plundered. The women shrieked, and the slaves fled. Badoura took refuge in a thicket, and prayed to Vishnoo that she might rather fall into the paws of a leopard than a robber. She was in hopes that her female slave would observe where she had gone, and repair to the same spot; but after waiting with anxiety till the noise of the combat had ceased, and the sound of the voices had removed to a distance, she found she was still alone, in the midst of utter darkness. It seemed, therefore, prudent to seek for an outlet, and she went slowly forward, groping along the trunks of the trees, and shrinking back when the cold and rugged bark came in contact with her innocent bosom. After some time she cleared the wood, and found herself near one of those immense caves where the disciples of Buddha used to perform their devotions before that religion was expelled from Hindostan.

Badoura trembled and entered. An extraordinary scene broke upon her sight. The cave was illuminated with a profusion of chandeliers, and the whole party of invalids and hypochondriacs were sitting down to a collation formed of the choicest materials at that time used in the east. But what surprised her more than all, was to see the principal physician in Hastinapur taking his seat at the upper end of the table. Before doing the honours of the place, he addressed them in the following terms:

"I hope my fellow-citizens will pardon this innocent frolic, which has been contrived for no other purpose than their own advantage. My presence here excites astonishment; but that astonishment will cease, when it is known that I am the person, who under the disguise of a Bramin, led you astray among these mountains, and employed a troop of my own servants to bring you here by force, where you see that I have not neglected to prepare for your reception.

"During my practice in Hastinapur, I have a thousand times been consulted upon diseases which had no existence but in the fancy of the patient, and which arose from nothing but mere ennui and vacuity of mind. In cases like these, I have always frankly confessed that nothing could be done by medicine, and that the patient could only cure himself by finding out a better occupation for his thoughts. But the indolent are ever willing to be flattered with hopes of relief from other causes than their own exertions, and one promise after another has been held out to my worthy townsmen, by the most pernicious impostors. I have now led you a ramble which will render deception less easy for the future, and which I am convinced has for the present banished all remembrance of imaginary evils. Let us, therefore, spend the night with gaiety. To-mor