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were still fixed upon my countenance—“If I were sure of that ' But you are misleading me.” "Believe me, I am not. I speak in persect sincerity. Take time to consider the matter, I will look in again in about an hour; and pray, do not forget that it is your sole and last chance.” I left her, and did not return till more than three hours had passed away. Sarah Purday was pacing the cell in a frenzy of inquietude. “I thought you had forgotten me. Now,” she continued with rapid vehemence, “tell me, on your word and honor as a man, do you truly believe that if I can effectually assist you it will avail me with Her Majesty” “I am as positive it will as I am of my own life.” “Well, then, I will assist you. First, then, Jackson was a confederate with Dawkins and myself, and received the plate and jewelry, for which he paid us less than onethird of the value.” “Rogers and his wife were not, I hope, cognizant of this 2° “Certainly not; but Jackson's wife and the woman servant, Riddet, were. I have been turning the other business over in my mind," she continued, speaking with increasing emotion and rapidity; “and oh, believe me, Mr. Waters, if you can, that it is not solely a selfish motive which induces me to did in saving Mary Rogers from destruction. I was once myself—Ah, God!” Tears welled up to the fierce eyes, but they were quickly brushed away, and she Continued somewhat more calmly: “You have heard, I dare say, that Jackson has a strange habit of talking in his sleep?” “I have, and that he once consulted Morgan as to whether there was any cure for it. It was that which partly suggested xx. “It is, I believe, a mere fancy of his,” she Interrupted; “ or at any rate the habit is not 50 frequent, nor what he says so intelligible, * he thoroughly believes and fears it, from some former circumstance, to be. His deaf wife cannot undeceive him, and he takes care o even to doze except in her presence only." “This is not, then, so promising as I hoped.” “Have patience. It is full of promise, as We will manage. Every evening Jackson solents a low gambling-house, where he almost invariably wins small sums at cards -by craft, no doubt, as he never drinks there. When he returns home at about ten

o'clock, his constant habit is to go into the front-parlor, where his wife is sure to be sitting at that hour. He carefully locks the door, helps himself to brandy and water— plentifully of late—and falls asleep in his arm-chair; and there they both doze away, sometimes till one o'clock—always till past twelve.” “Well: but I do not see how 22 “Hear me out, if you please. Jackson never wastes a candle to drink or sleep by, and at this time of the year there will be no fire. If he speaks to his wife he does not expect her, from her wooden deafness, to answer him. Do you begin to perceive my drift 2" “Upon my word, I do not.” “What, if upon awaking, Jackson finds that his wife is Mr. Waters, and that Mr. Waters relates to him all that he has disclosed in his sleep: that Mr. Hursley's plate is buried in the garden near the lilactree; that he, Jackson, received a thousand pounds six weeks ago of Henry Rogers's fortune, and that the money is now in the recess on the top-landing, the key of which is in his breast-pocket; that he was the receiver of the plate stolen from a house in the close at Salisbury a twelve-month ago, and sold in London for four hundred and fifty pounds. All this hurled at him,” continued the woman with wild energy and flashing eyes, “what else might not a bold, quick-witted man make him believe he had confessed, revealed in his brief sleep 2" I had been sitting on a bench; but as these rapid disclosures burst from her lips, and I saw the use to which they might be turned, I rose slowly and in some sort involuntarily to my feet, lifted up, as it were, by the energy of her fiery words. “God reward you!” I exclaimed, shaking both her hands in mine. “You have, unless I blunder, rescued an innocent woman from the scaffold. I see it all. Farewell " “Mr. Waters,” she exclaimed, in a changed, palpitating voice, as I was passing forth, “when all is done, you will not forget me?” “That I will not, by my own hopes of mercy in the hereafter. Adieu !” At a quarter past nine that evening I, accompanied by two Farnham constables, knocked at the door of Jackson's house. Henry Rogers, I should state, had been removed to the village. The door was opened by the woman-servant, and we went in. “I have a warrant for your arrest, Jane Riddet,” I said, “as an accomplice in the plate-stealing the other day. There, don't scream, but listen to me.” I then intimated the terms upon which alone she could expect favor. She tremblingly promised compliance; and after placing the constables outside, in concealment, but within hearing, I proceeded to the parlor, secured the terrified old woman, and confined her safely in a distant out-house. “Now, Riddet,” I said, “quick with one of the old lady's gowns, a shawl, cap, et cetera.” These were brought, and I returned to the parlor. It was a roomy apartment, with small, diamond-paned windows, and just then but very faintly illumined by the star-light. There were two large highbacked easy-chairs, and I prepared to take possession of the one recently vacated by Jackson's wife. “You must perfectly understand,” were my parting words to the trembling servant, “that we intend standing no nonsense with either you or your master. You cannot escape; but if you will let Mr. Jackson in as usual, and he enters this room as usual, no harm will befall you: if otherwise, you will be unquestionably transported. Now, go.” My toilet was not so easily accomplished as I thought it would be. The gown did not meet at the back by about a foot; that, however, was of little eonsequence, as the high chair concealed the deficiency; neither did the shortness of the sleeves matter much, as the ample shawl could be made to hide my too great length of arm ; but the skirt was scarcely lower than a Highlander's, and how the deuce I was to crook my booted legs up out of view, even in that gloomy starlight, I could hardly imagine. The cap also was far too small; still, with an ample kerchief in my hand, my whiskers might, I thought, be concealed. I was still fidgeting with these arrangements when Jackson knocked at his door. The servant admitted him without remark, and he presently entered the room, carefully locked the door, and jolted down, so to speak, in the fellow easy-chair to mine. He was silent for a few moments, and then he bawled out: “She’ll swing for it, they say—swing for it, d'ye hear, dame 2 But no, of course she don't—deafer and deafer, deafer and deafer every day. It'll be a precious good job when the parson says his last prayers over her as well as others.” He then got up, and went to a cupboard. I could hear—for I dared not look up— by the jingling of glasses and the outpouring of liquids, that he was helping himself to his spirituous sleeping-draughts. ... He reseated himself, and drank in moody silence, except now and then mumbling drowsily to himself,tion with that country; 2 vols.--a work of great importance, and evidently well done. The critical journals are unanimous in awarding it high praise. The Athenaeum commences its long critique:— “There have been abundance of narratives and memoirs drawn up in illustration of that disastrous and disgraceful episode in our Indian annals which extended from 1838 to 1841,--but to Mr. Kaye has been reserved the honor of writing its first complete history. We may add, that he has accomplished his task so well, and has had the advantage of sources of information so copious and authentic, that in all probability the book now before us will be the last separate work of consequence which will be written on the Afghan War. We ought to consider ourselves fortunate, that at so early a period after the conclusion of that great political and military enterprise we are put in possession of all the facts and circumstances which are of sufficient consequence to deserve remembrance;—that the origin and the failure of an indefensible war—a war which we are bound never to forget—has been described to us by a writer who at once embellishes and exhausts the subject.” The Literary Gazette also says: “The political history is full and well supported; the military history neither over technical nor unduly loaded with knapsack minutiae. The tone is moderate, but free, with a settled air of prophecy from the beginning.” Other journals speak as decisively.

but in so low a tone that I could make nothing out of it save an occasional curse or blasphemy. It was nearly eleven o'clock before the muttered self-communing ceased, and his heavy head sank upon the back of the easy-chair. He was very restless, and it was evident that even his sleeping brain labored with affrighting and oppressive images; but the mutterings, as before he slept, were confused and indistinct. At length—half an hour had perhaps thus passed—the troubled moaning became for a few moments clearly audible. “Ha—ha— ha!” he burst out, “how are you off for soap 2 Ho–ho! done there, my boy; ha— hal But no—no. Wall-plaster! Who could have thought it? But for that I— I What do you stare at me so for, you . infernal blue-bottle 2 You—you” Again the dream-utterance sank into indistinctness, and I comprehended nothing more. About half-past twelve o'clock he awoke, rose, stretched himself, and said: “Come, dame, let's to bed; it's getting chilly here.” “Dame” did not answer, and he again went towards the cupboard. “Here's a candle-end will do for us,” he muttered. A lucifer-match was drawn across the wall, he lit the candle, and stumbled towards me, for he was scarcely yet awake. “Come, dame, come ! Why, the beast sleeping like a dead un Wake up, will thee—-Ah, murder thieves | mur > * My grasp was on the wretch's throat, but there was no occasion to use force; he recognized me, and nerveless, paralyzed, sank on the floor incapable of motion, much less of resistance, and could only gaze in my face in dumb affright and horror. “Give me the key of the recess up stairs, which you carry in your breast-pocket. In your sleep, unhappy man, you have revealed everything.” An inarticulate shriek of terror replied to me. I was silent; and presently he gasped, “Wha—at, what have I said 2’’ “That Mr. Hursley's plate is buried in the garden by the lilac-tree; that you have received a thousand pounds belonging to the man you tried to poison; that you netted four hundred and fifty pounds by the plate stolen at Salisbury; that you dex: terously contrived to slip the sulphuric acid into the tea unseen by Henry Rogers's wife." The shriek or scream was repeated, and he was for several moments speechless with consternation. A ray of hope gleamed sud. denly in his flaming eyes. “It is true—it is true!” he hurriedly ejaculated; “useless

—useless—useless to deny it. But you are alone, and poor, poor, no doubt. A thousand pounds!—more, more than that : two thousand pounds in gold, all in gold—I will give you to spare me, to let me escape" “Where did you hide the soap on the day when you confess you tried to poison Henry Rogers?” "In the recess you spoke of. But think Two thousand pounds in gold—all in gold.” As he spoke, I suddenly grasped the vilhin's hands, pressed them together, and in another instant the snapping of a handcuff pronounced my answer. A yell of anguish burst from the miserable man, so loud and piercing, that the constables outside hurried w the outer door, and knocked hastily for admittance. They were let in by the serWant woman, and in half an hour afterwards the three prisoners—Jackson, his wife, and Jane Riddet—were safe in Farnham prison. A few sentences will conclude this narrative. Mary Rogers was brought up on the following day, and, on my evidence, discharged. Her husband, I have heard, has since proved a better and a wiser man. Jackson was convicted at the Guilford assize of guiltily receiving the Hursley plate, and sentenced

to transportation for life. This being so, the graver charge of attempting to poison was not pressed. There was no moral doubt of his guilt; but the legal proof of it rested solely on his own hurried confession, which counsel would no doubt have contended ought not to be received. His wife and the servant were leniently dealt with. Sarah Purday was convicted, and sentenced to transportation. I did not forget my promise; and a statement of the previously narrated circumstances having been drawn up and forwarded to the Queen and the Home Secretary, a pardon, after some delay, was issued. There were painful circumstances in her history which, after strict inquiry, told favorably for her. Several benevolent persons interested themselves in her behalf, and she was sent out to Canada, where she had some relatives, and has, I believe, prospered there. This affair caused considerable hubbub at the time, and much admiration was expressed by the country people at the boldness and dexterity of the London “runner;” whereas, in fact, the successful result was entirely attributable to the opportune revelations of Sarah Purday.

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Ansayrii, or Assassins; with Travels in the Further East, including a visit to Nineveh, by Lieut. the Hon. Frederick Walpole, R. N. 3 vols. The Athenaeum thus describes the locale of this novel and much-praised book of travels: “Marco Polo, the old traveller, gives a romantic account of the followers of Hassan #. Sabah, known in uropean history under the name of Assassins,—of their mountain home at Alamoot, -and of the means by which they were wrought on by their chief to the perpetration of their terrible crimes. He describes one of the devotees of this strange sect, who had been selected by the Sheikh al Jebel for a dangerous mission, being carried, while under the influence of a powerful opiate, to the gardens of Alamoot, where, on awaking, he found himself surrounded by every luxury that could excite and gratify the human senses, and was then told that this was but a foretaste of the bliss secured to all who sought death in the service of his lord. This sect was at one time spread over half the Islam world. The sheikh established a branch of his power in the mountains of Lebanon; and for more than a century and a half the repose of the greatest princes in Europe and in Asia was disturbed by incessant fears of poison and the dagger. But the time of retribution came. The Mongol conquerors rooted the sect out of Persia:–fourteen years later, they were subdued in Syria by the Mameluke Sultan of Egypt. A remnant, as is generally supposed, survived this terrible chastisement, taking refuge in the wild ranges and recesses of the mountains, where they have continued to reside apart from all the other sects and populations of Syria, hating all and hated by all, Jew, Greek, Catholic, and Mohammedan, down to our own time. Certain it is, that up in the northern spurs of Lebanon there dwells a peole, known as the Ansayrii, whose tenets resemble in some respects those of the Assassins. Of this people—and of the tract of country which they occupy—little is known in Europe. Our best maps

are there left blank,+our most adventurous travellers tell as little of that region. The Turks them. selves, sovereigns of the country, seldom or never venture into it. In ancient times, the inhabitants called themselves the children of Ishmael; and the old announcement that the hand of the son of that chief should be against every man, and every man's hand against him, has been literally fulfilled in regard to the Ansayrii. Their district is consequently virgin ground for the adventurous tourist. Books will tell a man little or nothing of the country,< road-books, maps, and traveller's companions there are none. Even Burckhardt stayed but one night in an Ansayrii village. Nearly all that Pococke could learn about the people was, that they drank good wine. Mr. Walpole has consequently a novel and curious theme on which to employ his narrative powers;–and he brings to it, let us add, a riper mind and steadier o than he displayed in his ‘Four Years in the Pacific.’” Arctic Searching Expedition: a Journal of a Boat Voyage through Rupert's Land and the Arctic Sea, in search of the Discovery Ships under the command of Sir John Franklin,-a work that has met a warm reception. The Literary Gazette eulogizes it and its author in these words: “This work af. fords a glorious instance of genuine hearty philan; thropy. With a self-devotion seldom equalled, and certainly never surpassed, the author of these vol. umes, at a time of life when most men think seriously of exchanging the cares and anxieties of an arduous profession, or of an official occupation, for repose, adventured forth to the terrible regions of Arctic America, to seek, and, if possible, to rescue, a cherished friend. And this was done with no other incentive than friendship, hallowed by former companionship in the same régions, and the social intercourse of many years.”

Travels from the Rocky Mountains to California, by the Hon. Henry Coke.

LITERATURE. In the department of Literature the number of recent works is more limited, though embracing some of great interest.

The Life of Lord George Bentinck, a political biography of the distinguished Protectionist leader, by his successor, D'Israeli.

A great variety of novels have recently appeared in the English market, of which the following are the more important: Florence Sackville, by Mrs. Bunbury; Mrs. Matthews, or Family Mysteries, by Mrs. Trollope; The Livingstones; Cecile, or the Pervert, by the author of Rockingham; Lady Avice; Smugglers and Foresters; the Convent an the Harem, by Madame Pisani; The Old Engagement, by Julia Day; The Pappenheimers, by Capt. Ashton.

Lectures on the History of France, by the Right Hon. Sir James Stephen, the celebrated contributor to the Edinburgh Review, and the most successful rival of Macaulay in that great department of com: position. This is a work which attracts great atten: tion, and should be reprinted. The best critical judges speak of it as follows. The Athenæum says: “The style has both nerve and fluency, easily adjusts itself to speculation and description,--is occasionally brilliant, and generally eloquent. It has nearly all the merits that belong to good popular writing, addressed to the multitude of readers—and

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The Grenville Papers, being the Private Correspondence of Richard Grenville, Earl Temple, and his brother, George Grenville, their Friends and Contemporaries; including Mr. Grenville's Diary of Political Events, 1763–65. Edited by Wm. J. Smith. The first two volumes of this important contribution to the political and personal history of this stirring and eventful period, have been published. Among the contents are letters from King George the Third; William, Duke of Cumberland; Dukes of Newcastle, Devonshire, Grafton, Bedford; Marquess Granby; Earls Bute, Temple, Sandwich, Egremont, Halifax, Hardwicke, Chatham, Mansfield, Northington, Suffolk, Hillsborough, Hertford; Lords Lyttleton, Camden, Holland, Olive, George Sackville; Marshal Conway; Horace Walpole; Edmund Burke; Geo. Grenville; John Wilkes; William Gerard Hamilton; Augustus Hervey; Mr. Jenkinson, (first Earl of Liverpool;) Mr. Whately; Mr. Wedderburn, (Earl of Roslyn;) Mr. Charles Yorke; Mr. Hans Stanley; Mr. Charles Townsend; Mr. Calcraft; Mr. Rigby; Mr. Knox; Mr. Charles Lloyd, and the author of the Letters of Junius.

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cannot say that Mr. Hildreth's two bulky volumes are either the one or other. While they present, and even in an increased degree, the good qualities of the volumes which preceded them—fulness, conscientiousness, and accuracy of detail,-they exhibit in quite an equal degree the faults which we complained of in their predecessors—dryness, insipidity, want of power to arrest the reader's attention or stir his feelings, and absence of scientific breadth and generality. It is positively a matter of surprise to us how Mr. Hildreth could go over a period of history so abounding in notable men and incidents,

- with such fidelity to all the minutiae which make

up their series, and yet with such absolute o: city to convey any strong interest in them to his readers—such imperturbable apathy with regard to every person, place, or thing named or referred to. Here is a work treating—and treating with laborious and scrupulous amplitude—of the lives and actions of Washington, Jefferson, Adams, Hamilton, and their American coevals—men, surely, whose lineaments are worthy of being scanned and remembered by every member of the Anglo-Saxon race, as well as by many who do not belong to that race —and yet the execution of the work is so dull, stolid, and jejune, that the most wakeful reader will hardly be able to keep himself from falling ło, while perusing it. In the Preface to the fourth volume the author observes, that “the nature of the subject must necessarily give to some portions of the work somewhat more of an emotional character than was consistent with the multiplicity and rapid succession of events in the former volumes:'—and adds, that ‘very likely the charge of partisanship may now be urged by some of those same critics who thought those volumes too apathetic and coldly impartial.' The remark might have been spared. The charge of partisanship we care not particularly to bring forward; but we find not one trait of that ‘emotional character of which Mr. Hildreth desires thus apologetically to apprise us. Were he making out an inventory of goods for a sale, or copying a lexicon, Mr. Hildreth could not be more unemotional. American history ought to be written in the spirit of social philosoo :—it ought to be viewed both by writer and y reader less as the epic of the fortunes of a special nation (in any case the epic element is but small) than as an illustration on a large scale of the doctrines of political science. But as Mr. Hildreth's work is deficient in the one species of interest, so it is deficient in the other, . For philosophic views of the political progress of America, and of the function of the American race in human civilization, we must go to such writers as I), Tocque. ville,_not to Mr. Hildreth, whose work may be described rather as a laborious résumé of the minutes of the meetings of Congress than as a his. tory of what the great American people did, thought and said, from 1788 to 1807.”

The Literature and Literary Men of Great Britain and Ireland, by Abraham Mills, originally published by the HARPERs, has also been republished in Lon. don. . It receives a review from the Athenaeum, which regards it as a fair work, but too superficial to give the book anything more than a quali. fied value as a literary treatise, “Considerable pains have been taken in gathering materials from various available sources; by which the author says he has been enlarging and verifying his lectures during their successive repetition for the

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