Chapter XV: Scraps Of History (2)

“I merely point it out,” she interrupted, “as a proof of my perfect belief in Charles’s principle and Lady Alice’s affection for you. If a word passes that militates against that belief, I will renounce it.”

A sneer distorted Sir John’s features. When not blinded by passion, he saw clearly through character and motives. He had by this discerned Clara’s dislike to Lady Alice, and now felt convinced she suggested the scheme as she guessed he would have his suspicions confirmed. He saw thus far, but he did not see through a far darker plot—he did not see that, in the deep game they played against him, Charles and Clara were confederates.

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That was a pleasant room; without, through bayed windows, lay a wide and fertile prospect of sunny landscape; within, it was handsomely and luxuriously furnished. There were books in gorgeous bindings; a range of marble pillars swept its length; stands of flowers, vases of agate and alabaster, were scattered on every side; and after breakfast Mardyn and Lady Alice made it their sitting-room. The morning after the scheme suggested by Clara, they were sitting in earnest converse, Lady Alice, looking pale and care-worn, was weeping convulsively.

“You tell me you must go,” she said; “and were it a few months later, I would forsake all and accompany you. But for the sake of my unborn infant, you must leave me. At another time return, and you may claim me.”

“Dear Alice,” he whispered softly, “dear, dear Alice, why did you not know me sooner? Why did you not love me more, and you would now have been my own, my wife?”

“I was mad,” she replied, sadly; “but I have paid the penalty of my sin against you. The last year has been one of utter misery to me. If there is a being on earth I loathe, it is the man I must call my husband; my hatred to him is alone inferior to my love for you. When I think what I sacrificed for him,” she continued, passionately, “the bliss of being your wife, resigned to unite myself to a vapid sensualist, a man who was a spendthrift of his passions in youth, and yet asks to be loved, as if the woman most lost to herself could feel love for him.”

It was what he wished. Lady Alice had spoken with all the extravagance of woman’s exaggeration; her companion smiled; she understood its meaning.

“You despise, me,” she said, “that I could marry the man of whom I speak thus.”

“No,” he replied; “but perhaps you judge Sir John harshly. We must own he has some cause for jealousy.”

Despite his guarded accent, something smote on Lady Alice’s ear in that last sentence. She turned deadly pale—was she deceived? But in a moment the sense of her utter helplessness rushed upon her. If he were false, nothing but destruction lay before her—she desperately closed her eyes on her danger.

“You are too generous,” she replied. “If I had known what I sacrificed—”

Poor, wretched woman, what fear was in her heart as she strove to utter words of confidence. He saw her apprehensions, and drawing her toward him, whispered loving words, and showered burning kisses on her brow. She leant her head on his breast, and her long hair fell over his arm as she lay like a child in his embrace.

A few minutes later the library was empty, when the curtains that shrouded a recess near where the lovers had sat were drawn back, and Sir John Daventry emerged from his concealment. His countenance betrayed little of what passed within; every other feeling was swallowed up in a thirst for revenge—a thirst that would have risked life itself to accomplish its object—for his suspicions had gone beyond the truth, black, dreadful as was that truth to a husband’s ears, and he fancied that his unborn infant owed its origin to Charles Mardyn; when, for that infant’s sake, where no other consideration could have restrained her, Lady Alice had endured her woman’s wrong, and while confessing her love for Mardyn, refused to listen to his solicitations, or to fly with him; and the reference she had made to this, and which he had overheard, appeared to him but a base design to palm the offspring of her love to Mardyn as the heir to the wealth and name of Daventry.

It wanted now but a month of Lady Alice’s confinement, and even Mardyn and Clara were perplexed and indecisive as to the effect their stratagem had upon Sir John. No word or sign escaped him to betray what passed within—he seemed stricken with sudden age, so stern and hard had his countenance become, so fixed his icy calmness. They knew not the volcanoes that burned beneath their undisturbed surface. A sudden fear fell upon them; they were but wicked—they were not great in wickedness. Much of what they had done appeared to them clumsy and ill-contrived; yet their very fears lest they might be seen through urged on another attempt, contrived to give confirmation to Sir John’s suspicions, should his mind waver. So great at this time was Mardyn’s dread of detection that he suddenly left the Hall. He know Sir John’s vengeance, if once roused, would be desperate, and feared some attempts on his life. In truth his position was a perilous one, and this lull of fierce elements seemed to forerun some terrible explosion—where the storm might spend its fury was as yet hid in darkness. Happy was it for the Lady Alice Daventry that she knew none of these things, or hers would have been a position of unparalleled wretchedness, as over the plotters, the deceived, and the foredoomed ones, glided on the rapid moments that brought them nearer and nearer, till they stood on the threshold of crime and death.

And now, through the dark channels of fraud and jealousy, we have come to the eve of that strange and wild page in our story, which long attached a tragic interest to the hails of Daventry, and swept all but the name of that ancient race into obscurity.

On the fifteenth of December, Lady Alice Daventry was confined of a son. All the usual demonstrations of joy were forbidden by Sir John, on the plea of Lady Alice’s precarious situation. Her health, weakened by the events of the past year, had nearly proved unequal to this trial of her married life, and the fifth morning after her illness was the first on which the physician held out confident hopes of her having strength to carry her through. Up to that time the survival of the infant had been a matter of doubt; but on that morning, as though the one slender thread had bound both to existence, fear was laid aside, and calmness reigned through the mansion of Daventry. On that morning, too, arrived a letter directed to “The Lady Alice Daventry.” A dark shade flitted over Sir John’s face as he read the direction; then placing it among his other letters reserved for private perusal, he left the room.

The day wore on, each hour giving increasing strength to the Lady Alice and her boy-heir. During its progress, it was noticed, even by the servants, that their master seemed unusually discomposed, and that his countenance wore an expression of ghastly paleness. As he sat alone, after dinner, he drank glass after glass of wine, but they brought no flush to his cheek—wrought no change in his appearance; some mightier spirit seemed to bid defiance to the effects of drink. At a late hour he retired to his room. The physician had previously paid his last visit to the chamber of his patient; she was in a calm sleep, and the last doubt as to her condition faded from his mind, as, in a confident tone, he reiterated his assurance to the nurse-tender “that she might lie down and take some rest—that nothing more was to be feared.”

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The gloom of a December’s night had closed, dark and dreary, around the Hall, while, through the darkness, the wind drove the heavy rain against the easements; but, undisturbed by the rain and winds, the Lady Alice and her infant lay in a tranquil sleep; doubt and danger had passed from them; the grave had seemed to yawn toward the mother and child, but the clear color on the transparent cheek, the soft and regular breathing caught through the stillness of the chamber, when the wind had died in the distance, gave assurance to the nurse that all danger was past; and, wearied with the watching of the last four nights, she retired to a closet opening from Lady Alice’s apartment, and was soon buried in the heavy slumber of exhaustion.

That profound sleep was rudely broken through by wild, loud cries, reaching over the rage of the elements, which had now risen to a storm. The terrified woman staggered to the bedroom, to witness there a fearful change—sudden, not to be accounted for. A night-lamp shed its dim light through the apartment on a scene of horror and mystery. All was silence now—and the Lady Alice stood erect on the floor, half shrouded in the heavy curtains of the bed, and clasping her infant in her arms. By this time the attendants, roused from sleep, had reached the apartment, and assisted in taking the child from its mother’s stiff embrace; it had uttered no cry, and when they brought it to the light, the blaze fell on features swollen and lifeless—it was dead in its helplessness—dead by violence, for on its throat were the marks of strong and sudden pressure; but how, by whom, was a horrid mystery. They laid the mother on the bed, and as they did so, a letter fell from her grasp—a wild fit of delirium succeeded, followed by a heavy swoon, from which the physician failed in awaking her—before the night had passed, Lady Alice Daventry had been summoned to her rest. The sole clew to the events of that night was the letter which had fallen from Lady Alice; it the physician had picked up and read, but positively refused to reveal its contents, more than to hint that they betrayed guilt that rendered his wife and child’s removal more a blessing than a misfortune to Sir John Daventry. Yet somehow rumors were heard that the letter was in Charles Mardyn’s hand; that it had fallen in Sir John’s way, and revealed to him a guilty attachment between Mardyn and his wife; but how it came into her hands, or how productive of such a catastrophe as the destruction of her infant, her frenzy, and death, remained unknown: but one further gleam of light was ever thrown on that dark tragedy. The nurse-tender, who had first come to her mistress’s assistance, declared that, as she entered the room, she had heard steps in quick retreat along the gallery leading from Lady Alice’s room, and a few surmised that, in the dead of night, her husband had placed that letter in her hand, and told her he knew her guilt. This was but conjecture—a wild and improbable one, perhaps.

Charles Mardyn came not again to the Hall. What he and Clara Daventry thought of what had passed, was known only to themselves. A year went on, and Clara and her father lived alone—a year of terror to the former, for from that terrible night her father had become subject to bursts of savage passion that filled her with alarm for her own safety: these, followed by long fits of moody silence, rendered her life, for a year, harassed and wretched; but then settling into confirmed insanity, released her from his violence. Sir John Daventry was removed to an asylum, and Clara was mistress of the Hall. Another year passed, and she became the wife of Charles Mardyn. It was now the harvest of their labors, and reaped as such harvests must be. The pleasures and amusements of a London life had grown distasteful to Mardyn—they palled on his senses, and he sought change in a residence at the Hall; but here greater discontent awaited him. The force of conscience allowed them not happiness in a place peopled with such associations: they were childless, they lived in solitary state, unvisited by those of their own rank, who were deterred from making overtures of intimacy by the stories that were whispered affixing discredit to his name; his pride and violent temper were ill fitted to brook this neglect; in disgust, they left Daventry, and went to Mardyn Park, an old seat left him by his mother, on the coast of Dorsetshire. It was wildly situated, and had been long uninhabited; and in this lonely residence the cup of Clara’s wretchedness was filled to overflowing. In Mardyn there was now no trace left of the man who had once captivated her fancy; prematurely old, soured in temper, he had become brutal and overbearing; for Clara he had cast off every semblance of decency, and indifference was now usurped by hate and violence; their childless condition was made a constant, source of bitter reproach from her husband. Time brought no alleviation to this state of wretchedness, but rather increased their evil passions and mutual abhorrence. They had long and bitterly disputed one day, after dinner, and each reminded the other of their sins with a vehemence of reproach that, from the lips of any other, must have, overwhelmed the guilty pair with shame and terror. Driven from the room by Mardyn’s unmanly violence and coarse epithets, Clara reached the drawing-room, and spent some hours struggling with the stings of conscience aroused by Mardyn’s taunts. They had heard that morning of Sir John Daventry’s death, and the removal of the only being who lived to suffer for their sin had seemed but to add a deeper gloom to their miserable existence—the time was past when any thing could bid them hope. Her past career passed through the guilty woman’s mind, and filled her with dread, and a fearful looking out for judgment. She had not noticed how time had fled, till she saw it was long past Mardyn’s hour for retiring, and that he had not come up stairs yet. Another hour passed, and then a vague fear seized upon her mind—she felt frightened at being alone, and descended to the parlor. She had brought no light with her, and when she reached the door she paused; all in the house seemed so still she trembled, and turning the lock, entered the room. The candles had burnt out, and the faint red glare of the fire alone shone through the darkness; by the dim light she saw that Mardyn was sitting, his arms folded on the table, and his head reclined as if in sleep. She touched him, he stirred not, and her hand, slipping from his shoulder, fell upon the table and was wet; she saw that a decanter had been overturned, and fancied Mardyn had been drinking, and fallen asleep; she hastened from the room for a candle. As she seized a light burning in the passage, she saw that the hand she had extended was crimsoned with blood. Almost delirious with terror, she regained the room. The light from her hand fell on the table—it was covered with a pool of blood, that was falling slowly to the floor. With a wild effort she raised her husband—his head fell on her arm—the throat was severed from ear to ear—the countenance set, and distorted in death.

In that moment the curse of an offended God worked its final vengeance on guilt—Clara Mardyn was a lunatic.

MIRABEAU. AN ANECDOTE OF HIS PRIVATE LIFE. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.)

The public life as well as the private character of Mirabeau are universally known, but the following anecdote has not, we believe, been recorded in any of the biographies. The particulars were included in the brief furnished to M. de Galitzane, advocate-general in the parliament of Provence, when he was retained for the defense of Madame Mirabeau in her husband’s process against her. M. de Galitzane afterward followed the Bourbons into exile, and returned with them in 1814; and it is on his authority that the story is given as fact.

Mirabeau had just been released from the dungeon of the castle of Vincennes near Paris. He had been confined there for three years and a half, by virtue of that most odious mandate, a _lettre-de-cachet_. His imprisonment had been of a most painful nature; and it was prolonged at the instance of his father, the Marquis de Mirabeau. On his being reconciled to his father, the confinement terminated, in the year 1780, when Mirabeau was thirty-one years of age.

One of his father’s conditions was, that Mirabeau should reside for some time at a distance from Paris; and it was settled that he should go on a visit to his brother-in-law, Count du Saillant, whose estate was situated a few leagues from the city of Limoges, the capital of the Limousin. Accordingly, the count went to Vincennes to receive Mirabeau on the day of his liberation, and they pursued their journey at once with all speed.

The arrival of Mirabeau at the ancient manorial château created a great sensation in that remote part of France. The country gentlemen residing in the neighborhood had often heard him spoken of as a remarkable man, not only on account of his brilliant talents, but also for his violent passions; and they hastened to the château to contemplate a being who had excited their curiosity to an extraordinary pitch. The greater portion of these country squires were mere sportsmen, whose knowledge did not extend much beyond the names and qualities of their dogs and horses, and in whose houses it would have been almost in vain to seek for any other book than the local almanac, containing the list of the fairs and markets, to which they repaired with the utmost punctuality, to loiter away their time, talk about their rural affairs, dine abundantly, and wash down their food with strong Auvergne wine.

Count du Saillant was quite of a different stamp from his neighbors. He had seen the world, he commanded a regiment, and at that period his château was perhaps the most civilized country residence in the Limousin. People came from a considerable distance to visit its hospitable owner; and among the guests there was a curious mixture of provincial oddities, clad in their quaint costumes. At that epoch, indeed, the young Lismousin noblemen, when they joined their regiments, to don their sword and epaulets for the first time, were very slightly to be distinguished, either by their manners or appearance, from their rustic retainers.

It will easily be imagined, then, that Mirabeau, who was gifted with brilliant natural qualities, cultivated and polished by education—a man, moreover, who had seen much of the world, and had been engaged in several strange and perilous adventures—occupied the most conspicuous post in this society, many of the component members whereof seemed to have barely reached the first degrees in the scale of civilization. His vigorous frame; his enormous head, augmented in bulk by a lofty frizzled _coiffure_; his huge face, indented with scars, and furrowed with seams, from the effect of small-pox injudiciously treated in his childhood; his piercing eyes, the reflection of the tumultuous passions at war within him; his mouth, whose expression indicated in turn irony, disdain, indignation, and benevolence; his dress, always carefully attended to, but in an exaggerated style, giving him somewhat the air of a traveling charlatan decked out with embroidery, large frill, and ruffles; in short, this extraordinary-looking individual astonished the country-folks even before he opened his mouth. But when his sonorous voice was heard, and his imagination, heated by some interesting subject of conversation, imparted a high degree of energy to his eloquence, some of the worthy rustic hearers felt as though they were in the presence of a saint, others in that of a devil; and according to their several impressions, they were tempted either to fall down at his feet, or to exorcise him by making the sign of the cross, and uttering a prayer.

Seated in a large antique arm-chair, with his feet stretched out on the floor, Mirabeau often contemplated, with a smile playing on his lips, those men who seemed to belong to the primitive ages; so simple, frank, and at the same time clownish, were they in their manners. He listened to their conversations, which generally turned upon the chase, the exploits of their dogs, or the excellence of their horses, of whose breed and qualifications they were very proud. Mirabeau entered freely into their notions; took an interest in the success of their sporting projects; talked, too, about crops; chestnuts, of which large quantities are produced in the Limousin; live and dead stock; ameliorations in husbandry; and so forth; and he quite won the hearts of the company by his familiarity with the topics in which they felt the most interest, and by his good nature.

This monotonous life was, however, frequently wearisome to Mirabeau; and in order to vary it, and for the sake of exercise, after being occupied for several hours in writing, he was in the habit of taking a fowling-piece, according to the custom of the country, and putting a book into his game-bag, he would frequently make long excursions on foot in every direction. He admired the noble forests of chestnut-trees which abound in the Limousin; the vast meadows, where numerous herds of cattle of a superior breed are reared; and the running streams by which that picturesque country is intersected. He generally returned to the château long after sunset, saying that night scenery was peculiarly attractive to him.

It was during and after supper that those conversations took place for which Mirabeau supplied the principal and the most interesting materials. He possessed the knack of provoking objections to what he might advance, in order to combat them, as he did with great force of logic and in energetic language; and thus he gave himself lessons in argument, caring little about his auditory, his sole aim being to exercise his mental ingenuity and to cultivate eloquence. Above all, he was fond of discussing religious matters with the curé of the parish. Without displaying much latitudinarianism, he disputed several points of doctrine and certain pretensions of the church so acutely, that the pastor could say but little in reply. This astonished the Limousin gentry, who, up to that time, had listened to nothing but the drowsy discourses of their curés, or the sermons of some obscure mendicant friars, and who placed implicit faith in the dogmas of the church. The faith of a few was shaken, but the greater number of his hearers were very much tempted to look upon the visitor as an emissary of Satan sent to the château to destroy them. The curé, however, did not despair of eventually converting Mirabeau.

At this period several robberies had taken place at no great distance from the château: four or five farmers had been stopped shortly after nightfall on their return from the market-towns, and robbed of their purses. Not one of these persons had offered any resistance, for each preferred to make a sacrifice rather than run the risk of a struggle in a country full of ravines, and covered with a rank vegetation very favorable to the exploits of brigands, who might be lying in wait to massacre any individual who might resist the one detached from the band to demand the traveler’s money or his life. These outrages ceased for a short time, but they soon recommenced, and the robbers remained undiscovered.

One evening, about an hour after sunset, a guest arrived at the château. He was one of Count du Saillant’s most intimate friends, and was on his way home from a neighboring fair. This gentleman appeared to be very thoughtful, and spoke but little, which surprised every body, inasmuch as he was usually a merry companion. His gasconades had frequently roused Mirabeau from his reveries, and of this he was not a little proud. He had not the reputation of being particularly courageous, however, though he often told glowing tales about his own exploits; and it must be admitted that he took the roars of laughter with which they were usually received very good-humoredly.

Count du Saillant being much surprised at this sudden change in his friend’s manner, took him aside after supper, and begged that he would accompany him to another room. When they were there alone, he tried in vain for a long time to obtain a satisfactory answer to his anxious inquiries as to the cause of his friend’s unwonted melancholy and taciturnity. At length the visitor said—“Nay, nay; you would never believe it. You would declare that I was telling you one of my fables, as you are pleased to call them; and perhaps _this_ time we might fall out.”

“What do you mean?” cried Count de Saillant; “this seems to be a serious affair. Am _I_, then, connected with your presentiments?”

“Not exactly _you_; but—”

“What does this _but_ mean? Has it any thing to do with my wife? Explain yourself.”

“Not the least in the world. Madame du Saillant is in nowise concerned in the matter: but—”

“_But!_—_but!_ you tire me out with your _buts_. Are you resolved still to worry me with your mysteries? Tell me at once what has occurred—what has happened to you?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing at all. No doubt I was frightened.”

“Frightened!—and at what? By whom? For God’s sake, my dear friend, do not prolong this painful state of uncertainty.”

“Do you really wish me to speak out?”

“Not only so, but I demand this of you as an act of friendship.”

“Well, I was stopped to-night at about the distance of half a league from your château.”

“Stopped! In what way? By whom?”

“Why, stopped as people are stopped by footpads. A gun was leveled at me; I was peremptorily ordered to deliver up my purse; I threw it down on the ground, and galloped off. Do not ask me any more questions.”

“Why not? I wish to know all. Should you know the robber again? Did you notice his figure and general appearance?”

“It being dark, I could not exactly discover: I can not positively say. However, it seems to me—”

“_What_ seems to you? What or whom do you think you saw?”

“I never can tell _you_.”

“Speak—speak; you can not surely wish to screen a malefactor from justice?”

“No; but if the said malefactor should be—”

“If he were my own son, I should insist upon your telling me.”

“Well, then, it appeared to me that the robber was your brother-in-law, MIRABEAU! But I might be mistaken; and, as I said before, fear—”

“Impossible: no, it can not be. Mirabeau a footpad! No, no. You _are_ mistaken, my good friend.”

“Certainly—certainly.”

“Let us not speak any more of this,” said Count du Saillant. “We will return to the drawing-room, and I hope you will be as gay as usual; if not, I shall set you down as a mad-man. I will so manage that our absence shall not be thought any thing of.” And the gentlemen re-entered the drawing room, one a short time before the other.

The visitor succeeded in resuming his accustomed manner; but the count fell into a gloomy reverie, in spite of all his efforts. He could not banish from his mind the extraordinary story he had heard: it haunted him; and at last, worn out with the most painful conjectures, he again took his friend aside, questioned him afresh, and the result was, that a plan was agreed upon for solving the mystery. It was arranged that M. De —— should in the course of the evening mention casually, as it were, that he was engaged on a certain day to meet a party at a friend’s house to dinner, and that he purposed coming afterward to take a bed at the château, where he hoped to arrive at about nine in the evening. The announcement was accordingly made in the course of conversation, when all the guests were present—good care being taken that it should be heard by Mirabeau, who at the time was playing a game of chess with the curé.

A week passed away, in the course of which a farmer was stopped and robbed of his purse; and at length the critical night arrived.

Count du Saillant was upon the rack the whole evening; and his anxiety became almost unbearable when the hour for his friend’s promised arrival had passed without his having made his appearance. Neither had Mirabeau returned from his nocturnal promenade. Presently a storm of lightning, thunder, and heavy rain came on; in the midst of it the bell at the gate of the court-yard rang loudly. The count rushed out of the room into the court-yard, heedless of the contending elements; and before the groom could arrive to take his friend’s horse, the anxious host was at his side. His guest was in the act of dismounting.

“Well,” said M. De ——, “I have been stopped. It is really he. I recognized him perfectly.”

Not a word more was spoken then; but as soon as the groom had led the horse to the stables, M. De —— rapidly told the count that, during the storm, and as he was riding along, a man, who was half-concealed behind a very large tree, ordered him to throw down his purse. At that moment a flash of lightning enabled him to discover a portion of the robber’s person, and M. De —— rode at him; but the robber retreated a few paces, and then leveling his gun at the horseman, cried with a powerful voice, which it was impossible to mistake, “Pass on, or you are a dead man!” Another flash of lightning showed the whole of the robber’s figure: it was Mirabeau, whose voice had already betrayed him! The wayfarer, having no inclination to be shot, put spurs to his horse, and soon reached the château.

The count enjoined strict silence, and begged of his friend to avoid displaying any change in his usual demeanor when in company with the other guests; he then ordered his valet to come again to him as soon as Mirabeau should return. Half an hour afterward Mirabeau arrived. He was wet to the skin, and hastened to his own room; he told the servant to inform the count that he could not join the company at the evening meal, and begged that his supper might be brought to his room; and he went to bed as soon as he had supped.

All went on as usual with the party assembled below, excepting that the gentleman who had had so unpleasant an adventure on the road appeared more gay than usual.

When his guests had all departed, the master of the house repaired alone to his brother-in-law’s apartment. He found him fast asleep, and was obliged to shake him rather violently before he could rouse him.

“What’s the matter? Who’s there? What do you want with me?” cried Mirabeau, staring at his brother-in-law, whose eyes were flashing with rage and disgust.

“What do I want? I want, to tell you that you are a wretch!”

“A fine compliment, truly!” replied Mirabeau, with the greatest coolness. “It was scarcely worth while to awaken me only to abuse me: go away, and let me sleep.”

“_Can_ you sleep after having committed so bad an action? Tell me—where did you pass the evening? Why did you not join us at the supper-table?”

“I was wet through—tired—harassed: I had been overtaken by the storm. Are you satisfied now? Go, and let me get some sleep: do you want to keep me chattering all night?”

“I insist upon an explanation of your strange conduct. You stopped Monsieur De —— on his way hither this evening: this is the second time you have attacked that gentleman, for he recognized you as the same man who robbed him a week ago. You have turned highwayman, then!”

“Would it not have been all in good time to tell me this to-morrow morning?” said Mirabeau, with inimitable _sang-froid_. “Supposing that I _did_ stop your friend, what of that?”

“That you are a wretch!”

“And that you are a fool, my dear Du Saillant. Do you imagine that it was for the sake of his money that I stopped this poor country squire? I wished to put him to the proof, and to put myself to the proof. I wished to ascertain what degree of resolution was necessary in order to place one’s self in formal opposition to the most sacred laws of society: the trial was a dangerous one; but I have made it several times. I am satisfied with myself—but your friend is a coward.” He then felt in the pocket of his waistcoat, which lay on a chair by his bedside, and drawing a key from it, said, “Take this key, open my _scrutoire_, and bring me the second drawer on the left hand.”

The count, astounded at so much coolness, and carried away by an irresistible impulse—for Mirabeau spoke with the greatest firmness—unlocked the cabinet, and brought the drawer to Mirabeau. It contained nine purses; some made of leather, others of silk; each purse was encircled by a label on which was written a date—it was that of the day on which the owner had been stopped and robbed; the sum contained in the purse was also written down.

“You see,” said Mirabeau, “that I did not wish to reap any pecuniary benefit from my proceedings. A timid person, my dear friend, could never become a highwayman; a soldier who fights in the ranks does not require half so much courage as a footpad. _You_ are not the kind of man to understand me, therefore I will not attempt to make myself more intelligible. You would talk to me about honor—about religion; but these have never stood in the way of a well-considered and a firm resolve. Tell me, Du Saillant, when you lead your regiment into the heat of battle, to conquer a province to which he whom you call your master has no right whatever, do you consider that you are performing a better action than mine, in stopping your friend on the king’s highway, and demanding his purse?”

“I obey without reasoning,” replied the count.

“And I reason without obeying, when obedience appears to me to be contrary to reason,” rejoined Mirabeau. “I study all kinds of social positions, in order to appreciate them justly. I do not neglect even those positions or cases which are in decided opposition to the established order of things; for established order is merely conventional, and may be changed when it is generally admitted to be faulty. Such a study is a dangerous, but it is a necessary one for him who wishes to gain a perfect knowledge of men and things. You are living within the boundary of the law, whether it be for good or evil. I study the law, and I endeavor to acquire strength enough to combat it if it be bad when the proper time shall arrive.”

“You wish for a convulsion then?” cried the count.

“I neither wish to bring it about nor do I desire to witness it; but should it come to pass through the force of public opinion, I would second it to the full extent of my power. In such a case you will hear me spoken of. Adieu. I shall depart to-morrow; but pray leave me now, and let me have a little sleep.”

Count du Saillant left the room without saying another word. Very early on the following morning Mirabeau was on his way to Paris.

TERRESTRIAL MAGNETISM. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.)

It is proposed in the following article to give the reader some idea of one of the greatest and most extensive scientific works going on at the present time in this country—namely, the examination of the phenomenon of the earth’s magnetism; but before doing so, it will be necessary to make a few prefatory observations respecting magnetism generally.

The attractive power of the natural magnet or loadstone over fragments of iron seems to have been known from the remotest antiquity. It is distinctly referred to by ancient writers, and Pliny mentions a chain of iron rings suspended from one another, the first being upheld by a loadstone. It is singular that although the common properties of the loadstone were known, and even studied, during the dark ages, its directive power, or that of a needle touched or rubbed by it, seems to be the discovery of modern times, notwithstanding the claims of the Chinese and Arabians to an early acquaintance with this peculiarity.

There is no doubt that the mariner’s compass was known in the twelfth century, for several authors of that period make special allusion to it; but centuries elapsed before its variation from pointing precisely to the poles became noticed. If a magnet be suspended by a thread, in such a manner as to enable it to move freely, it will, when all other magnetic bodies are entirely removed from it, settle in a fixed position, which, in this country, is about 25° to the west of north; this deviation of the needle from the north is called its variation. Again, if, in place of suspending a magnetized needle, making it move horizontally on a pivot, we balance it upon a horizontal axis, as the beam of a pair of scales, we shall find that it no longer remains horizontal, but that one end will incline downward, or, as it is called, _dip_, and this dip or inclination from a horizontal line is about 70° in this country.

Thus we are presented with two distinct magnetical phenomena: 1. The variation or declination of the needle; 2. Its dip or inclination; and to these we may add the intensity or force which draws the needle from pointing to the north, and which varies in different latitudes. These phenomena constitute what has been called terrestrial magnetism.

Recent writers, and among them the great philosopher Humboldt, have shown that in all probability the declination or variation of the magnet was known as early as the twelfth century; but this important discovery has been generally ascribed to Columbus. His son Ferdinand states that on the 14th September 1492, his father, when about 200 leagues from the island of Ferro, noticed for the first time the variation of the needle. “A phenomenon,” says Washington Irving, “that had never before been remarked.” “He perceived,” adds this author, “about nightfall that the needle, instead of pointing to the north star, varied half a point, or between five and six degrees, to the northwest, and still more on the following morning. Struck with this circumstance, he observed it attentively for three days, and found that the variation increased as he advanced. He at first made no mention of this phenomenon, knowing how ready his people were to take alarm; but it soon attracted the attention of the pilots, and filled them with consternation. It seemed as if the laws of nature were changing as they advanced, and that they were entering another world, subject to unknown influences. They apprehended that the compass was about to lose its mysterious virtues; and without this guide, what was to become of them in a vast and trackless ocean? Columbus tasked his science and ingenuity for reasons with which to allay their terrors. He told them that the direction of the needle was not the polar star, but to some fixed and invisible point: the variation was not caused by any failing in the compass, but because this point, like the heavenly bodies, had its changes and revolutions, and every day described a circle round the pole. The high opinion that the pilots entertained of Columbus as a profound astronomer gave weight to his theory, and their alarm subsided.”

Thus, although it is possible that the variation of the needle had been noticed before the time of Columbus, it is evident that he had discovered the amount of the variation, and that it varied in different latitudes. The great philosopher Humboldt observes on this point, that “Columbus has not only the incontestible merit of having first discovered a line without magnetic variation, but also of having, by his considerations on the progressive increase of westerly declination in receding from that line, given the first impulse to the study of terrestrial magnetism in Europe.”

With respect to the dip or inclination of the magnetic needle, which must be regarded as the other element of magnetic direction, there is little doubt that it was known long before the period usually assigned as the date of its discovery—namely, in 1576; for it is difficult to conceive how the variation of the needle should be observed and noted, and not its deviation from a horizontal line. In the above year a person of the name of Robert Norman, who styled himself “hydrographer,” published a book containing an account of this phenomenon. The title of this work is sufficiently curious to be quoted. It runs: “The New Attractive; containing a short Discourse of the Magnes or Loadstone, and amongst others his Virtues, of a neue discovered Secret and Subtill Propertie, concerning the Declination of the Needle touched therewith under the Plaine of the Horizon, now first found out by Robert Norman, Hydrographer.” In the third chapter we are told “by what meanes the rare and straunge declyning of the needle from the plaine of the horison was first found.”

“Having made many and diuers compasses, and using always to finish and end them before I touched the needle, I found continually that after I had touched the yrons with the stone, that presently the north point thereof would bend or declyne downwards under the horison in some quantity, insomuch that I was constrained to putt some small piece of waxe in the south parts thereof, to counterpoise this declyning, and to make it equal againe. Which effecte hauing many times passed my hands without any greate regarde thereunto, as ignorant of any such properties in the stone, and not before hauing heard or read of any such matter, it chanced at length that there came to my handes an instrument to be made with a needle of sixe inches long, which needle, after I had polished, cutt off at full length, and made it to stand leuel upon the pinn, so that nothing rested but only the touching of it with the stone. When I hadde touched the same, presently the north part thereof declyned down in such sort, that being constrained to cut away some of that part to make it equall againe in the end, I cut it too short, and so spoiled the needle wherein I had taken so much paines.

“Hereby being straken into some cholar, I applyed myself to seek farther into this effecte; and making certain learned and expert men, my friends, acquainted in this matter, they advised me to frame some instrument to make some exact triall how much the needle touched with the stone would declyne, or what greatest angle it would make with the plaine of the horison.”

The author then proceeds to give a number of experiments which he made with his instrument, and which may be regarded as the dipping-needle in its first and rudest form. By it he found the inclination or dip to be 71° 50’.

It is remarkable, that until within the last seventy years, it appears to have been the received opinion that the intensity of terrestrial magnetism was the same at all parts of the earth’s surface; or, in other words, that in all countries the needle was similarly affected. And yet few things are more inconstant; for, not only is the magnetic force widely different in various parts of our globe, but the magnetic condition itself is one of swift and ceaseless change.

The first person who attempted to collect and generalize observations on the variation of the needle, was Robert Halley, who constructed a chart, showing a series of lines drawn through the points or places where the needle exhibited the same variation. This chart was published in 1700, and was preceded by some exceedingly curious papers, communicated to the Royal Society, in which he expresses his belief that he has put it past doubt that the globe of the earth is one great magnet, having four magnetic poles or points of attraction, two near each pole of the equator; and that in those parts of the world which lie adjacent to any one of those magnetical poles, the needle is chiefly governed thereby, the nearest pole being always predominant over the more remote.

The great importance of collecting as much information as possible respecting the laws of magnetism, with a view to the proper understanding of its effects, was fully understood by Halley, as the following passage, taken from one of his papers, read before the Royal Society in 1692, singularly attests: “The nice determination of the variation, and several other particulars in the magnetic system, is reserved for a remote posterity. All that we can hope to do is, to leave behind us observations that may be confided in, and to propose hypotheses which after-ages may examine, amend, or refute; only here I must take leave to recommend to all masters of ships, and all others, lovers of natural truths, that they use their utmost diligence to make, or procure to be made, observations of these variations in all parts of the world, as well in the north as south latitude, after the laudable custom of our East India commanders; and that they please to communicate them to the Royal Society, in order to leave as complete a history as may be to those that are hereafter to compare all together, and to complete and perfect this abstruse theory.”

Halley’s theory, or rather hypothesis, which regarded our globe as a great piece of clockwork, by which the poles of an internal magnet were carried round in a cycle of determinate but unknown period, was so far confirmed, that his variation chart had been hardly forty years completed, when, by the effect of these changes, it had already become obsolete; and to satisfy the requirements of navigation, it became necessary to reconstruct it. This was performed by the aid of various observations furnished by the Commissioners of the Navy, and the East India, Africa, and Hudson’s Bay Companies. But the chart was far from satisfactory, and, in consequence of the discordant nature of the observations, no dependence could be placed on it.

No further steps were taken to ascertain the magnetism of the earth until the close of the last century, when the French government undertook the first comprehensive experimental inquiry on the subject. When the exploring expedition of La Pérouse was organized, the French Academy of Sciences prepared instructions for the expedition, containing a recommendation that observations with the dipping-needle should be made at stations widely remote, as a test of the equality or difference of the magnetic intensity; suggesting also, with a sagacity anticipating the result, that such observations should particularly be made at those parts of the earth where the dip was greatest, and where it was least. The experiments, whatever their results may have been, which, in compliance with this recommendation, were made in the expedition of La Pérouse, perished in its general catastrophe, neither ships nor navigators having ever been heard of; but the instructions survived.

Our knowledge of the laws of magnetism was not increased until 1811, when, on the occasion of a prize proposed by the Royal Danish Academy, M. Hansteen, whose attention had for many years been turned to magnetic phenomena, undertook its re-examination. With indefatigable labor M. Hansteen traced back the history of the subject, and filled up the interval from Halley’s time, and even from an earlier epoch (1600). The results appeared in his very remarkable and celebrated work, published in 1819, entitled, “Upon the Magnetism of the Earth;” in which he clearly demonstrates, by a great number of facts, the fluctuation which the magnetical element has undergone during the last two centuries, confirming in great detail the position of Halley—that the whole magnetical system is in motion; that the moving force is very great, extending its effects from pole to pole; and its that motion is not sudden, but gradual and regular.

In the magnetic atlas which accompanies M. Hansteen’s work there is a variation chart for 1787, showing the magnetic force at that period. In this chart the western line of no variation, or that which passes through all places on the globe when the needle points to the true north, begins in latitude 60° to the west of Hudson’s Bay; proceeds in a southeast direction through the North American Lakes, passes the Antilles and Cape St. Roque, till it reaches the South Atlantic Ocean, when it cuts the meridian of Greenwich in about 65° of south latitude. This line of no variation is extremely regular, being almost straight, till it bends round the eastern part of South America, a little south of the equator. The eastern line of no variation is exceedingly irregular, being full of curves and contortions of the most extraordinary kind, indicating plainly the action of local magnetic forces. It begins in latitude 60° south, below New Holland; crosses that island through its centre; extends through the Indian Archipelago with a double sinuosity, so as to cross the equator three times—first passing north of it to the east of Borneo, then returning to it, and passing south between Sumatra and Borneo, and then crossing it again south of Ceylon, from which it passes to the east through the Yellow Sea. It then stretches along the coast of China, making a semicircular sweep to the west, till it reaches the latitude of 71°, when it descends again to the south, and returns northwards with a great semicircular bend, which terminates in the White Sea. Thus it is demonstrated that in the northern hemisphere the general motion of the variation lines is from west to east, in the southern hemisphere from east to west.