was Margaret's voice, bidding me come in, and see how peaceful and how lovely was our departed friend in death. But I could not comply. I went forth, and wandered about the fields till nightfall; and then, on my return, crept up into the silent chamber of Liesby, where no one lingered now but the hireling watchers, with their solitary deathlight. And there lay the cold, narrow, sorrow-wasted form, beneath the folded sheet, with the long, fair tresses extended over either arm. The moan of pain was hushed; the tears of bitterness were wiped away; nothing was left, but the smile on the marble lips -the dew on the tranquil brow, and the holy halo of immortalized humanity. I ventured not even to imprint a parting kiss upon the face I loved. Our last had been a kiss of sin. I would not blight the purity of her resurrection with the stain of remorse. "Margaret it was who, with gentle persuasions, led me away from the dead; she was eager to place the infant of her friend in my arms, and claim for it a father's protection. Poor trusting Margaret !-how little did she dream what agony was inflicted by every word she uttered! But I did take the babe to my bosom; I did swear to provide for it as my own; and Dietrich sat by, weeping in all the helplessness of grief; while you, Gottfried, you alone, my son, unconscious of the calamity which had befallen, kept bestowing unnumbered welcomes on your new companion Your own pretty little Liesby!' "My poor wife won strangely upon my feelings in those early days of bereavement. Her tears for the departed were so tender and true, and her devotedness to the motherless babe so touching, that I became at last fully conscious of her excellence. To yourself, I had thought her a cold and careless parent,-to little Liesby she was all goodness and consideration. But she survived not longer than to train the poor innocent in the earliest paths of childhood. The spectacle of Madame Brenzel's untimely end had shaken her health-our house was now cheerless; nor had I the heart to devote to her those attentions which she so much needed. Within a few years of the great event, she died, leaving me doubly desolate; and with her last breath, she commended to me our girl,' with no less love and fervour than our boy, and entreated, as a parting request, that her remains might be laid by those of Liesby. But in this, as no one but myself had heard the petition, I ventured to frustrate her wishes. I felt that compliance would have been a new injury-that I had no right to mingle the tears I shed for the woman I had loved, with those due to the memory of the wife I respected. A space of many tombs separates their places of sepulture; and when I go hence, my beloved son, lay me not, oh! lay me not where they lie! "And now, Gottfried, I was left alone with my motherless children; and dearly did I love ye both, and fervently did I pray that in your virtues the errors of your father might be redeemed. You were ever hand in hand,--heart in heart; when, one day, half earnest, half bantering, Dietrich, who remained by necessity my constant companion, was pleased to designate Elzbeth by the name of your little wife. thousand perils were revealed to me in the word. Often, unable to bear the weight of my burthen of hypocrisy, when I saw him lavishing his caresses on Liesby, and Liesby bestowing her's in return, I longed to divulge the truth to him and claim my own. But pride overcame the prompt A "I had still one awful duty to discharge. The bitter task was mine to support her husband's faltering steps, when, on the following day, we proceeded to lay her head in the grave; and loved as she was by all, and respected as were those of whom she died the inmate, hundreds of the townspeople of St. Gall joined in the sad procession. The white emblems that proclaimed her death in child-birth-so young, so fair, so gentle-appeared to touch the hearts of the very rabble with compassion; and, lo! when the service began, with my eyes fixed upon the coffin that contained her remains, I heard the tenderings of my heart. I dreaded lest, in his indignachant of the young choristers proclaim that, When the ear heard her, then it blessed her,' and the voice of the preacher declare that, Happy were they, who died, like her, in the Lord;' and I knew that her spirit was standing at the tribunal of God, stained with the plaguespot of sin; and that her body was going down to the dust, with the milk congealed in her bosom, which had been destined to nourish the offspring of adultery; and as the author of this great wickedness, I trembled, rebuked by judg ment to come. tion, he should rush forth into the city and proclaim me an arch impostor, and cry aloud, Such and such is the man whom you honour with your reverence. One only means, therefore, remained to prevent the possibility of further evil. Liesby was a tender girl,—I had pledged myself to my victim to watch over her with more than a mother's reverence; and to estrange her from the security of my roof-tree was impossible. It was your fate, therefore, to be exiled from home in retribution of your father's offences,-and such, Gottfried, was the motive of your alienation from your sister's side. "But the fatal sentence was recorded! Both were to suffer; and all my efforts to keep you asunder have failed to frustrate the vengeance of God! You came to Engafeld; yuo saw and loved her; and even then, but for the prompt "Oh! Gottfried, Gottfried! little dreamed I how soon, how heavily, that judgment would overtake me! Little dreamed I, when day after day I entered your chamber of childhood, and you flew to lead me to the cradle, and uncover to my kisses the brow of the babe, and point out to me how fair she was, and how like to the|ings of my pride, I should have pointed out the mamma Liesby, who was dead and gone,-that, precipice you were approaching. But the dread in your person, the curse would be accomplished. of disclosure-of betrayal-of forfeiting the es teem and applause of the world, overcame the better suggestions of nature. Forgive me, my son-forgive me! I have rendered you more miserable, if less guilty, than myself. I have broken my word to her to those I loved! The reflection maddens me! Adultery,-incest,—a broken vow, a broken heart. Oh, mighty God! for what am I not accountable! Give me strength to bear with this new trial; or the struggle of my despair must seek refuge in the darkness of the abyss of eternity. "I rave, Gottfried; but can you marvel at my distraction? That I could but see you once more before I die! That I could but hear you pronounce my pardon! Yet, wherefore did you disobey my injunctions? Said I not-sware I not that there existed an all-powerful obstacle to your marriage? And you attributed all to pride, to avarice, to an old man's wanton coveting! Oh, shame! shame! shame! "Farewell, then, my children! my miserable children! The peace and pardon of God be with you!" Inferring from the incoherence of these last sentences some new calamity, Gottfried, whom the fatal intelligence conveyed by the earlier pages of his father's letter had stricken to the dust, strove to regain sufficient mastery over his feelings to enable him to reach Berne, and pacify the agony of his guilty parent. But he arrived too late. A livid corse had already been withdrawn from the waters of the Reuss, which the officials of the city recognised as the body of the respected representative of St. Gall. His disastrous end was, of course, carefully attributed to accident, lest the dignity of the senatorial estate should be infringed by the admission of an act of suicide, and his remains were interred in the Cathedral with military and civil honours. In due time a handsome monument was erected to his memory, as a member of the Helvetic Senate, a friend of the people, and a defender of the national liberties of the Canton. It was perhaps to accident that nothing was added in testimony to his virtues as a husband and a father. The unhappy Gottfried returned no more to St. Gall; and Liesby, ignorant to the last of the horrible truth, attributed his estrangement to remorse for having caused by his disobedience the dreadful catastrophe of his father's death. Having accepted a commission in the French army, he fell, the very first victim, in the attack upon Algiers. The English traveller, therefore, who pauses at St. Gall to admire the fabric of its delicate Argandy, and the creamy tissues of its Swiss muslin, is duly informed by the foreman of the establishment that the factory is the valuabie | property of the Widow Morier; and should he subsequently become a wanderer on the shores of the Wallensee, there is every chance that he will behold, seated on the granite steps of the landingplace at Engafeld, the slender figure of one who seems to be looking out upon the lake, in expectation of some distant boat. But it is Gottfried's coming which the bewildered soul of Liesby expects, and will long expect in vain. She has refused to attire herself in mourning; she has refused to give ear to the tidings of his death. But, at five-and-twenty, her hair is white as snow with watchfulness and grief; and no man passes her by, without a suppressed exclamation of pity. The young marksmen of the Canton, in deference to her sorrows, have removed their place of rendezvous for the annual Tirage from the adjacent meadow; it having been noticed that the discharge of the rifles, or the sound of distant music, excites her to frenzy. For Liesby is now alone in the world. Father, brother, friend are gone! and hard indeed must be the heart that entertains not a sensation of sympathy for the terrible destinies of the sister-wife,-the blameless victim, the gentle widow of Engafeld. AN ALTERNATIVE FOR THE CLERGY OF THE ESTABLISHMENTS IN ENGLAND AND IRELAND.* "Ye cannot serve God and Mammon."-New Testament. ners of pomp and luxury, such cynics in the matters of the kitchen and cellar, so austerely temperate, so severely simple, so unpurchasably honest, that we are entitled to arraign the clergy, or any other set of men, for bowing down to the golden image, or hankering after the fleshpots? We trow not. What, then, is our charge against reverend, and right reverend men? Why, no more than this,-that the declaration of their lips is unsustained by the evidence of their livesthat deeds are unattuned to doctrine-that there is one god upon their lips, and another in their hearts. In a word, the sin of churchmen is inconsistency. It is this that has made their name a stench in the nostrils; it is because of this that "Fie!" men wag their heads at mitres, and cry in the streets on the shovel-hat. The Establish ment has no party. The worldly are for the clergy no more than the unworldly. The latter might tolerate them had they the straightforwardness to preach Mammon-the former would respect them had they the decency to practise Christ; but preaching Christ and practising Mammon, they have the countenance of neither saint nor sinner: the saint turns them out, and the sinner takes them not in. This is, perhaps, as ugly a predicament as ever a church, or a clergy, was placed in. There are obviously but two ways of getting out of it; and it is for reverend and right reverend men, not for us, to say which is the more eligible. The two ways are obviously these :-The first is, To keep the doctrine and reform the practice: the second, To keep the practice and reform the doctrine. And, now, a word or two upon each plan. Upon the former we enter with fear and much trembling, not unapprehensive of a cell in St. Luke's; for to what does the proposal amount, but to a call upon the body Ecclesiastic-of all bodies of men, the Ecclesiastic!-to assimilate their lives to the gospel model, and regulate their doings by the canon of the New Testament; renouncing the world, the flesh, and the devil; discharging their cooks and cup-bearers; treading vanity under their feet; turning the deaf adder's ear to the syren voice of the strumpet lucre, their old and obscene love? Amounts it not to this?-Rectors, forswear tithes; Deans, forsake your dinners; venerable Archdeacons, think of the widow and the orphan; right reverend Prelates, alight from your chariots, come down from the upper chamber, adorn your lives with holiness, and your brows no more with mitres; lay by pride, and assume humility; divorce wealth, and wed godly poverty; remember, with the "Good Parson," in Dryden's or Chaucer's fable, (alas! it is but in fable the "Good Parson" is to be met with,) that- "The Saviour came not with a gaudy show, They that contend for place and high degree, A shuddering comes upon us, as we talk in this strain to churchmen. To be sure, were this advice taken, many fair results might come of it. The spectacle, for instance, of a clergy, not merely embellishing their hebdomadal discourses with the praises of Christian morality, but actually decking out their daily lives with its practice -who can say what reformation it might not work in this world? Who can tell what wondrous amendments might not be wrought in the ways of this money-worshipping, rank-adoring nation, by the exhibition of an eminent piety, spurning with the scorn, and rebuking with the power, of a Paul, a Peter, or a Stephen, the contumely of riches, the arrogance of pedigree, the pride of rank, the futility of fashion? How might not religion enlarge her borders, were there to be a revival of apostolic sanctity, and a relapse into the manners of the fishermen? Why, Sir An drew Agnew would have a sinecure; Robert Taylor would hang himself on the nearest lamppost; the crusades of the Attorney-General in the King's Bench would be heard of no more in this holy land; the Church would resemble no longer Atalanta, in the classic legend, losing the race while she stooped to the glittering allurements flung into her path by the wily adversary: "Declinat cursum, aurumque volubile tollit." There would be an end of stooping for mitres, and of the picking up of fat livings. Heaven would outstrip earth in the race for souls. But a truce to these Utopian visions, and dreams of the ivory portal! Bishops cease to love pelf! Deans imitate evangelists! Rectors change estate with curates! The Church pass "a self-denying ordinance!" Suggestions of Mab! Speculations of Laputa! Amiable projects, but resolvable into air" into thin air!" Imagine Philpotts tentmaking; conceive Blomfield saying, with truth, as St. John said at the gate of the temple,"Silver and gold have I none;" figure to yourself the Fowlers and Beresfords sitting down to incorruptible Marvel's blade-bone of mutton, and wetting their episcopal lips with the drink of the Nazarenes. The Flying Island hath no flight like this! A very "midsummer madness!" How shall we escape a cell and keeper? Have mercy upon us, good churchmen! our Lords the Bishops, have mercy upon us!—the other side of the alternative is made of the metal you love. It is a golden project. Your hearts will dance within you as we unfold it. Good churchmen! pardon us for the mention of the blade-bone of mutton, and we shall try to please you. What we now propose is, to reform the creed and doctrine of the Church, so as to make them conformable with the structure of that edifice, and with the lives and conversations of the clergy. The first step, then, (since the Gospel neither is, nor is capable, by any ingenuity, of being twisted into "a gay religion, full of pomp and gold,” such a religion as we want in order to make the parsons living sermons" on the truths they utter,) the first step, we say, must be, to declare Mammon the god of the Establishment! Let John Milton be amongst the blasphemers, when he describes that Deity as "The least erected spirit that fell From Heaven;" let the New Testament be repealed by Act of Parliament; let a new liturgy be composed; let the golden image be set up; let the furnace be thrice-heated; and let the starveling curates, like Shadrach, Meshac, and Abednego, be consigned to it, as so many affronts to the god of fatness and the genius of the reformed faith. With the exception of the curates, who must be burned, not a stone of the fabric need be disturbed. The money-theory will render all square. The godship of Mammon will make all things regular, symmetrical, and comely. Anomaly will disappear from the altar; the end will make music with the means; the shrine suit the di vinity; the opulence and the splendour, the pride and the luxury, the vast domains, and the full coffers, that to Christianity are disgraces and wounds, will be of the new dispensation the appropriate ornaments and needful supports. When pelf shall be piety, who shall find fault with a spiritual peerage, or the princely affluence of the see of Durham? The Bench of Bishops will be, of the creed of lucre, true defenders; and it shall no more be said of the Church with justice," Take away its battlements, for they are not the Lord's." Then extortion will be zeal, and rapacity holy fervour; accordingly, the reproach of the rector will be taken away, and the very tithe-proctor will be a sacred personage. There will be no more talk of wolves in sheep's clothing, or "Of those who for their belly's sake, The character of the "good parson" will no more be a poet's raving; for the best divine will be the largest maw, and the closest shearer the most faithful shepherd. Non-residence will be no scandal; pluralities no shame; fox-hunting no abomination; a reverend magistrate no indecorum; a ghostly gormandizer or a spiritual swindler nothing offensive or disgusting. The Church, in a word, by the simple substitution of Mammon for Christ, instead of an enormity at which decency revolts, will be considered a model of a moral edifice; in the propriety of whose architecture, and the adaptation of all the parts to the effect of the whole, not Zoilus himself, were he to turn critic of Churches, could find a flaw. No doubt the purity of the creed would be open to attack, and the morality of the whole system would be very questionable; but the grand point would be secured,-there would no more exist the slightest foundation for charging the Establishment and its ministers with the foul crime of which they are now so clearly guilty-a repugnance between the words they preach and the deeds they do, irreconcileable as the spirit with the flesh, or the hate of the Theban brothers, whose very ashes refused to mingle in the funeral urn. The Church would still have foes; a few schismatics would obstinately cling to the Cross, and resist all the seductions of the " god of the world;" but then the hostility even of these would be mitigated by a feeling of respect. All men respect candour. It is only when villany goes vizored that the measure of our detestation is full. Satan affecting the angel is twice Satan. Philpotts assuming the apostle is twice Philpotts. Let the renovation we propose get a fair trial; let the Mammon of unrighteousness, (now served only in thought and act,) be once openly, avowedly, simply, honestly worshipped in the reading desk, preached in the pulpit, and have his praises and hosannahs chanted by the vocal clerk, and pealed from the organ-loft in swelling anthem, and-we do not say the change would be an elixir of life, and operate as a grant of immortality-but we do say that the radical would be deprived of one of the levers, which, even while we write, he is introducing under the pillars of the temple, with a view to open to the ecclesiastical antiquary of a century hence a very interesting field of speculation and inquiry. SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH'S HISTORY OF THE REVOLUTION OF 1688. As soon as Sir James Mackintosh had abjured his early principles, he chose to be considered a Whig of the Revolution; which, now that the old breed of Tories is extinct, the Passive obedience and Divine right men, differs in nothing from a modern Tory, save the letters that compose the word. Sir Robert Peel, and even the member for Oxford University, are exactly Whigs of the Revolution: that first Reform Bill, which established a great Constitutional principle, but bore few fruits in the reform of institutions; and of which the most remarkable consequence, as concerned the people, was, that the Whigs ousted the Tories. The Glorious Revolution of 1688 has been shorn of its beams in these latter days. The Septennial Act alone neutralized its best advantages; as the principle "of cashiering Kings" for misconduct, recognised by the Revolution, is only to be acted upon in extreme cases, and at long intervals, while the power of the people over their representatives, secured by short Parliaments, is the constantly circulating life's blood of liberty. We | have recently seen how much more powerful a check the prospect of a speedy day of account with constituents proves, than any other countervailing force whatever. The history of this Revolution forms the ostensible and prominent part of this large quarto volume. It is a fragment of that history of England, for so many years promised by Sir James Mackintosh; and on the faith of which some ill-natured people now say he long drew wind-bills on fame. The fragment, which occupies only about 350 pages of lordly print, or less than a half of the volume, unluckily for "the immortal memory," closes at a very ticklish juncture; as the editor and biographer of Sir James Mackintosh does not sympathize in his unqualified and inordinate admiration of the Prince of Orange. To the volume is prefixed a life of Sir James Mackintosh, and a notice of his writings and speeches, which will probably be the portion of this expensive work, most generally read. It is well written, in a candid and liberal spirit, and contains a fair and impartial estimate of the man in public and in private life. The notices of a private kind are, however, so very meagre that we feel inclined to increase the amount, though we should travel somewhat out of the record. The very first sentence assigns the memory of Sir James the exact place it will occupy with posterity. "Sir James Mackintosh will be remembered as a man of letters, and a member of the House of Commons." He held that prominent station in public life, in which a man is sure to be either over-estimated or unduly depreciated, and both, probably, at dif. ferent periods of his course; and though this quarto is a favourable augury, we should not imagine that his reputation, which, to some extent, was that of society, of juxtaposition, and of talk, is likely ever to be much higher than at present. The fervent admirers of Sir James, if the rising generation numbers many, may consider the estimate of his biographer frigid, if not ungenerous, though it will be more difficult to point out inaccuracy either in the facts or reasoning; and the sceptics to the overweening merits ascribed to a Whig oracle of long standing, may conceive the praise tending to excess; leaving the author of the memoir in that juste milieu, which is generally as true a position, in a moral sense, as it is equivocal in a political one. The former class cannot say that his summing up and judgments are not candid and impartial; but the latter may object that he throws in too many words for the prisoner. The most remarkable feature in the public character of Sir James Mackintosh, was, that, though he hung loosely on party, no one ever dreamed of calling him an independent member of Parliament. A very moderate Whig, as we have seen, ever after he abandoned the unthriv ing opinions of his youth, he seemed to stand upon neutral ground; but he stood fettered by contingencies, expectations, and the difficulties of his personal affairs. No man in England need set up pretensions to disinterested patriotism, if, like Mackintosh, a political adventurer without fortune, unless he make up his mind, with Andrew Marvel, to live in a garret, and dine on a bladebone of mutton. There is no disrespect intended in styling Sir James Mackintosh a political adventu. rer, while the same term is applied to the most distinguished of his contemporaries; the true question being how he and they conducted themselves in the field of adventure open to every man, and not the equipments which graced their entrance. Sir James Mackintosh was the son of Captain Mackintosh of Killachie, an officer in the army, and the representative of one of the families of the Clan Mackintosh. No Highland gentleman need want a goodly-spread family-tree. Sir James was born to a long pedigree and a narrow patrimony. His mother was named Macgillivray; she was a native of Carolina, and died at Gibraltar, whither she accompanied her husband from Scotland, while her eldest son, James, was still a child. He was born upon the 24th October, 1765, at his grandmother's residence, the farm of Aldourie, a spot of enchanting beauty at that end of Loch Ness which is next the town of Inverness. Sir James discovered that early passion for reading which is the uniform symptom of talent, wherever there is the least opportunity for its development. He was sent to the Grammar School of Fortrose, then the most reputable seminary in that country, and made such proficiency that his friends resolved to train him for one of the learned professions, instead of the army, the ordinary destination of the great heads of small Highland Houses. He accordingly went to Aberdeen, where he was supported by a legacy left him by an uncle; his father, with the free and careless habits of his profession, being unable to do anything for his children. At King's College, Mackintosh became the intimate friend of his fellow-student, the late illustrious Robert Hall of Leicester the Baptist minister. Though they rarely met in after life, they occasionally | corresponded, and their friendship remained unimpaired. One of its worst consequences was, that Sir James, on his political defection, for a time, drew young Hall after him. The matter offensive to the friends of freedom, in the celebrated sermon on Modern Infidelity, was but an eloquent and powerful amplification of the new ideas imbibed by the author of the Vindicia Gallica, suddenly and inexplicably converted, not alone into the enthusiastic admirer of the genius of Burke, but also into an admirer of his opinions. Having finished his classical education at Aberdeen, Mackintosh came to Edinburgh to study medicine: and, in the Speculative Society, first essayed the art of oratory. "The study of medicine is said to have occupied the lesser, whilst literature, philosophy, and dissipation occupied the greater portion of his time;" and so much was he distinguished among the students, that it became a fashion to copy the negligence of his dress. In 1787, he took his degree as Doctor of Medicine; and having spent the whole of his uncle's legacy, "the world was all before him." After thinking of Bath as a place to commence practice, he came to London, and began practice by writing a pamphlet on the Whig side of the Regency question, which then divided the nation. Dr. Mackintosh was now left to his own resources, and, at the age of twenty-four, an unfriended adventurer for fame and fortune,-but, in the first place, for bread. Having nothing better to do, he fell in love, and married,-not as the prudent would call wisely, but, as it turned out, most happily and fortunately, for his rash marriage proved his salvation. The brothers of the lady, Miss Stuart, were displeased with their sister clandestinely allying herself to a young man who had neither fortune nor industry, and of whose capacity they had yet no idea. "Young, careless, and dissipated," he had squandered all his own means; and his family shewed their resentment at his marriage in the manner ungenerous relatives too often do,-by withholding all assistance at the moment it became most necessary. His wife had some little fund, and the young couple went to the Netherlands, and |