toms of their victims. Yes:-but, though ence with inexhaustible arabesques, instead of the earth have lapped up the spilt blood-and being chained to one thought—and that though the corse have rotted in the ground, thought, MURDER! and returned to dust and ashes, though, also, justice hath not clenched the assassin with its iron grasp, and his fellow-men suspect not, when they gaze upon his countenance, that within his breast beats the heart of a murderer,-still-still is his punishment going on -aye-even in this life! But there are murders of various grades ; for even in the lowest depths of crime, there is a deeper still. For there be assassinations for jealousy-revenge-in self-defence-or through sudden anger,- as well as murders for gold-to conceal a crime-to remove the object of satisfied lust-or to enhance a variety of worldly objects,-aye-and murders in war, too-for war is but one tremendous scene of Whithersoever he goes, a grisly spectre pursues him-accompanies him-precedes and follows him with incomprehensible ubiquity-barbarian assassinations! And there is also hems him in all around. Does he behold a the murder which the law allows-the murder stain on his garment, even though it be of fruit of a culprit on the scaffold, the murder, by -yet to his morbid eye it appears like blood! the hand of the public executioner, of one who, When the sun rises in glory, or sets in splen- though criminal, has not the less been fashdour, he sees not the orange, the purple, the ioned in the image of God! All these are atrogolden, and the warm yellow tints:-to him cious-detestable-horrible. Can there be a the sun appears to rise or to set in blood! If murder more atrocious-more detestable— he read in a newspaper or a romance the nar- more horrible than any of all of these? Yesrative of a murder, the type is not black to his there is one from which even common murswimming eyes: the details seem printed in derers-Burkers-bravoes-hired assassinsblood! Even at the festival-the gay banquet poisoners, would shrink dismayed: and this -or the family entertainment, if he say, "I is-PARRICIDE! will pledge thee in this good red wine," that moment the spectre stoops and whispers in his ear-"No: it is blood!" No rest no repose for him! Though men see not the brand of Cain upon his brow-yet he feels it he knows it is there: it is like hot iron on his brow-iron heated red, and cooling never! He washes his hand-his friend takes it-his wife presses it-his children kiss it, and to them it may seem white and spotless; --but to him it is not the less the red right hand of Murder! Let him go down on his knees and pray! He pray!-no-no-he cannot-he dares not! Is he not on a level with Cain? in defacing the image of God, has he not placed himself in the same rank with Judas? Can such an one pray? Why--let him but kneel in the solitude of his chamber, and he dares not bury his face in his hands, for, is there not a hideous spectre standing behind him - looking over his shoulder? To him the stillness of night is awful. And how horrible to his ear sounds the bell which proclaims the hour of ONE! That deep-deep silence, a moment broken by the iron tongue of TIME, is succeeded by a silence more dreadful-more appalling still. Then must he turn on his feverish couch, and murmur to himself in a hollow-hoarse-sepulchral tone, "This was the hour!" And the spectre-ever vigilant near him-thrusts its skeleton-head between the curtains, and echoes in a tone more hollow-more hoarse-and more sepulchral still," Yes: this was the hour!" Oh! for the days of innocence,-Oh! for power to recall those stainless years, when the imagination saw every thing in the gayest colours, and not as through a dense mist of the hue of blood! Oh! to return to that epoch when fancy embroidered the frail web of exist The father dandles his infant boy upon his knee-smoothes down his glossy, shining, curling hair-forgets even the dignity of his own proud position of MAN, and responds with fond nonsense to the prattle of his little one. To that child only, of all living things, can the father stoop to tell silly tales or utter idle nothings-to throw off his calm, staid, business-like demeanour, and become a child himself,-aye, even romp with that dearlybeloved offspring. Then, what gives pleasure to the pain of the father's toils? The hope to earn bread or build up a fortune for that child. Oh! the anxious-waking-watchful hours which the fond father passes! And how great is the reward he reaps, when his smilingprattling-joyous-happy boy bounds to meet him at his well-known knock at the front door, and extends his little arms to greet his "dear papa!" Holy heaven! Can that child grow up to become-a parricide? Can those little hands ever have nerve sufficient to clasp the knife that shall be plunged into that paternal heart which has ached so often for the sake of this child? Can that child grow up to become a man capable of the most atrocious deed? Is human nature ever so base that it would seek to stifle the light of the orb of day, which warms and cheers its existence? And with the knowledge-the deeply-stamped conviction that there is a great God above, whose representative a father is on earth -But it is impossible to pursue this theme! The heart recoils from the reflection that there is such a crime as PARRICIDE! And yet there is! * SEDUCTION! Art thou, too, amidst the fell category of crimes whereof it is our painful province to treat in the forthcoming pages? Alas! thou art a blight which falls on many -Oh! too many-of Nature's fairest flowers! Gently glides the serpent whose sting is most surely fraught with death; and insidious are the wiles of the fame-blasting seducer! Oh! is the heart of woman--dear, fond, confiding woman- too often the worst spring of sorrow? Accursed be the villain who dares to tamper with that heart which God originally made so pure! Maledictions on him who can calmly sing the dirge of her reputation! For who that sees the brow of innocence encircled with a chaplet of white roses, would ruthlessly stretch forth his hand and tear away the fairest flower to gratify himself for a moment-a single moment with its perfume--that perfume which his own lust-heated breath destroys at the same time?-who could do this, and then boldly raise his head and say, I am a Man!" while the outraged girl lies, a ruined and life-loathing thing, at his feet? * CHAPTER I. 66 * ABOUT twenty years ago, there was situated a neat, though humble dwelling, some four or five miles on the London side of Bagshot. If its interior could not boast the royal splendour of nobles' palaces, it at least possessed comforts adequate to the wants and ideas of the principal inmates-we say principal, because one was dissatisfied, restless, and unhappy. It was in the summer time, when the epoch of this tale commences; and the jessamine hung luxuriantly over the portico. As the house retired nearly three dozen yards from the main road, a small garden filled the intermediate space. There bloomed the rose, the pink, the geranium, the wall-flower, and the magnificent peony: while divers other plants, shrubs, and botanic productions, of various colours, and of variegated species, afforded an agreeable spectacle to the eye of the traveller, and evinced the care which some female hand had taken of them. The hour of sunset was now drawing near: a golden glow pervaded the western horizon, tinged the morning of another hemisphere, and heralded in the wing of night to ours. issued from the dwelling, and slowly paced the garden walk. His air was thoughtful, and some what melancholy the long black lashes, which shaded his dark eyes, pointed to the ground-for he appeared to be wrapped in the deepest contemplation. When he had gained the gate, he partially roused himself, and gazed wistfully up the road towards London, as well as the increasing duskiness of the evening would permit. His figure, which was above the middle height, yet well if not gracefully formed, was bent over the palings, and his eye remained fixed upon the direction its glance had ere now taken. gate. Suddenly the sounds of a horse's feet approached; the steps came nearer and nearer; and in another minute a traveller dismounted at the He was a man who had perchance seen forty summers-one, that by exercise and repeated practice was accustomed to deeds requiring the greatest dexterity often mingled with daring, and consequently allied to danger. But his bosom could allow no sentiment of fear to enter its recesses; it was hardened to everything save the impression which beauty can make even on the savage monarch of the woods. The sharp flint is softer than the heart that bosom contained. His features, though not absolutely regular, would have been pleasing, had not his countenance seemed peculiarly marked with a studied sternness, calculated to repel the overtures of even the most impudent stranger in the world. But his manners were, notwithstanding, open and condescending to those he liked; and his bearing pronounced him to be a gentleman. With warmth and graciousness he extended his hand to the youth who so anxiously awaited his arrival: he then conducted his horse round to the stable, by means of a narrow lane, which, running by the side of the garden, from which it was separated by a small quick-hedge, led to the back of the house. "I thought you would never have come, Mr. Arnold," said the young man, as he struck a light for the candle he had already procured from a shelf in the stable. "I watched at the window till I was tired, and then descended to the garden. Here is the bag in its usual place; there is an abundance of provender, as you will find," he added, pointing to a corner of the stable. "I was detained by Rivingstone, at Hounlsow, my boy," returned the other in a kind voice, which appeared to accord but indifferently with the expression of his countenance. : "There is nothing on hand, however, is there?" "I will tell you more anon, James and as sure as your name is Crawford, I have something for your private ear which will delight you-a plan, a scheme, that will enrich us for ever, without endangering our necks." "If Rivingstone be the founder of it," said Few were the sounds that interrupted the still- Crawford, for such was the youth's name, "I dare ness of the evening: the occasional bleating of the swear it will be successful: and your last assursheep, as their guardian led them over the adja-ance is some comfort; for I would not have a repecent meadows to their fenced tenement-the tran-tition of that horrible night, when" sitory bark of an angry dog-or the step of a passing horse at intervals, alone broke the silence of the hour;—and while the God of day gradually sank down, Nature seemed to fall asleep by degrees in unison with him. Presently the door of the cottage opened; and a youth, probably nineteen or twenty years of age, He shuddered as he shook his head signifi cantly, while his usually pale cheek received a spectral hue from the working of certain internal emotions. "Peace, peace, my boy!" cried Arnold, glancing impatiently upon the individual for whom, it seemed, he had taken a great fancy "Why will you constantly recal such scenes to your memory?" "Because that memory is immortal!" solemnly rejoined Crawford. "Damnation !" thundered his companion: "I fancied you had the courage of a lion; why exemplify the spirit of a spaniel?" "I am bold-and to crime!" emphatically exclaimed James, raising his head, collecting himself, and looking proudly at his companion. "But how are the ladies?" enquired Arnold, willing to change the conversation to a livelier and far different strain. "As usual-always tormenting me upon what they call my altered looks and pensive demeanour; as if one were obliged to rouge himself daily, and laugh at nothing-and all this to appear gay! Gay, indeed-how I hate the word gay folly, ignorance, and ill-timed mirth are its component parts, in my view of the matter." "Yes, forsooth. But how I dread the piercing eyes of those women. Still, my dear James, I can trust you shield yourself well with the garment of hypocrisy. Be upon your guard, and fail not to study how to conceal yourself under false colours." "Never fear, my friend," answered the worthy pupil of such an excellent moral master. "Although I am but a youth, my mind is that of a man; and its daring is equal to its experience-aye, or even greater. However, you have now amply provided for the comforts of your horse-mine has been already attended to-" he pointed to another in the next stall: "let us therefore pay some regard to our own dinner, which has waited only for you." "Or supper, you should say," added Arnold, as they left the stable, crossed the court, and entered the dwelling. "I have almost finished the drawing you admired so much, Mr. Arnold; and my sister Emily has commenced the copy herself: she will do it better, of course, because she is two years older than I, you know." "Indeed, that does not follow," rejoined Arnold, smiling at the amiable naivete of Catherine. At this moment the door opened; and her mother and elder sister entered the room. Mrs. Crawford was a woman of nearly forty years of age in reality; but on her cheek lingered the bloom of youth, struggling with the advance of time, and anxious to retain its place, like the autumn flower combating against the nipping frosts which question its right to live. She had evidently been, if possible, more beautiful than her elder daughter, who chiefly resembled her parent, and of whom something shall be said presently; although a wrinkle were traced upon that parent's brow-almost imperceptible, it is truestill that line was there; and the hand of sorrow had marked it! We must now give our reader an idea, to the best of our endeavours, of James Crawford's elder sister, Emily. She was naturally of a less lively, and more retired disposition than Catherine; and perhaps an easier victim on that account for the insidious arts of the seducer-a being ever ready to pluck the virgin flower of innocence, and dash the ruined blossom to the ground after satiation. Her eyes were dark blue, and were characterised by a voluptuous languor that would have afforded ample scope for the effusions of a Catullus, or the encomiums of an Ovid. Her figure was less exquisitely shaped than that of her sister, although more modelled to the mature symmetry of womanhood. Her glowing bosom rose and sank rapidly, when her glance met the eye of Arnold; for des They hastily ascended the stairs, and passed through an empty room which led them to the parlour, where a table was spread for the repast al-pite the inequality of their years, he had obtained luded to. over her an influence, and exercised with regard to her a power of fascination, which had excited within her breast the most tender-the most impassioned love. And was that all to grace the apartment? Oh! no-for never did mortal eye glance upon so fair a being as the girl that sate reading upon a sofa. Long, luxuriant curls of the jettiest dye, glittering Did his heart respond to that profound affeclike hyperions, flowed over her ivory shoulders, tion? Emily knew not :-he had never told her which rather a low gown partially exposed, as well that he loved her. And yet his manner, whenas allowing transient glimpses of the whitest ever they were alone together, was marked by that bosom in the world. Her eyes were not particu- tenderness which was well calculated to inspire larly large, but dark, like her brother's, and re- her with hope. Before her relatives, however, he plete with fire and vivacity. Her complexion was paid no more attention to her than to her sister; healthy and clear. Her nose was exactly strait-and this conduct on his part often damped the her mouth small to a fault: and the vermillion lips, when opened, disclosed a set of the whitest teeth. Her figure was small and delicate, and as exquisitely proportioned as the critical eye of the most experienced sculptor could desire. Her little hands were employed in holding a book which she had been reading, but which was instantly laid aside when Arnold and his young companion entered the room. "Ah?" Mr. Arnold, how delighted-how happy I am to see you," exclaimed the beautiful girl, rising gaily, and clasping the hand of the visitor in her own; for she had scarcely seen sixteen years, and was accustomed to regard him almost as a parent. "James said he expected you to day, and we have waited anxiously for your arrival. My mother will be here directly-and Emily also." "'Tis well, my pretty Kate," returned Arnold, as he threw himself into a chair. "And what have been your amusements since I saw you last?" pleasure Emily felt in his society, and deteriorated from the joy she would otherwise have experienced in meeting him. Still he now greeted her as warmly as he had greeted Catherine; and perhaps he pressed with a little more enthusiasm the delicate hand held out to welcome his arrival. Arnold was well skilled in reading the human character, and in penetrating into its mysteries. The breast of no one was altogether a sealed book to him; for when he could glean nothing by means of words, he would study the countenance, watch all its varying expressions, and discover a language in the glances of the eyes. It was not astonishing, then, that he had for some time perceived the increasing passion Emily entertained for him; while he concealed his own, determining to wait for the first opportunity that might arrive to make himself the master of her charms. His heart was inured to form schemes far worse than this: he did not shrink at sacrificing the peace, the innocence, the respectability of a beautiful being that adored him, so long as he could satisfy his own selfish lusts. Mysterious as was his behaviour, he ever kept up, and indeed essentially added to, the favourable impression he had made upon the whole family during the very first week of their acquaintance; and he had thus formed a better basis whereon to erect those trophies that should declare the misery of the whole, and the ruin of one of that family's members. He cared not, if in cutting off a single branch, the entire tree should sympathetically perish: he thought not that sorrow and remorse might drive an affectionate brother, a loving sister, and a doting mother to the depths of despair. However, so well did this consummate villain and abandoned hypocrite sustain his part, that he dared to talk of honour and virtue, and other moral excellencies, during the period that intervened between his arrival and the appearance of dinner. At length the meal was announced; and the whole party present sate down to a homely but plentiful fare. Frequent were the amorous and languishing glances Emily cast, when she fancied herself unperceived, at the object of her affection: and the eye of him she loved was often fixed upon her, though none remarked its observation. Too much master of himself ever to be caught wandering, he never started when, after a minute's silence, a word was addressed to him, and when he was really gazing on the bewitching countenance of his Emily. Young Crawford ate but little, and seemed absorbed in thought. ate "My dear James." at length cried his affection66 parent, why do you thus seem wrapt up in contemplation? Why are you framing some idle theory, or dissecting some philosophical position, when your friend-your benefactor is with you? Mr. Arnold, join your influence with mine; and make him tell us the mighty topic of his thoughts." "Cheer up, James," ejaculated Arnold; "or at all events let those who love you be made the companions of your meditation." "Oh! no-it is nothing," replied Crawford. "I was merely thinking on a subject I had read of this morning." But this statement was far from the truth; it succeeded, however, in pacifying his mother. "You are too clever to be sociable, James," cried the lively Catherine, gaily touching her brother's shoulder. "I would not for the world sit down to dinner with half-a-dozen persons so sedate as yourself." see you, my boy-had he not deserted us-it is now three years ago-oh! how he would have loved "Talk not of that, mamma !" cried Emily. "The subject will not enliven us, you know: and why renew the melancholy tale ?" "No-no" exclaimed Arnold hastily; "he was unworthy your love, or he could not have left you as he did. However, we will turn the topic of conversation to something more agreeable." "It is growing late, sir," said Catherine; for the little clock in the passage had just struck half-past eleven. "Then, Crawford," cried Arnold," let us retire to the study for a few minutes: I wish to have a word with you on matters of importance.' Emily rang the bell. The only servant kept in the family, a middle-aged woman, entered the room; and according to the directions given, she carried lights to the library, whither the two friends retired. When left alone with her daughters, Mrs. Crawford could not help once more noticing the pensive disposition of her son. "Three years ago, dear girls," said she, "you remember that he was blythe and happy. Then, when your father, whom God prosper, if he be alive -deserted us, under pretence of visiting his cousin, Sir George Mornay, James was naturally and deeply grieved. But his looks began to change, and his manners to alter, not at that exact period. I date that sudden change-for it was suddenfrom the commencement of his acquaintance with Mr. Arnold." "Oh! no! impossible, mamma!" exclaimed Emily, with enthusiasm. "Do you not remember that he rescued James from the robbers the night he returned from making inquiries in London concerning my father? Did he not send my brother home in safety? and the next morning did he not find us in poverty and distress? Was it not his purse that relieved us? was it not his letter to Sir George Mornay that procured the pension we now enjoy? Your letters were always returned unopened: and had it not been for the accidental meeting and consequent acquaintance of Mr. Arnold and James, what should we now be ? where should we hide our heads from the cold blast of night?" "All this is perfectly true, my love," rejoined Mrs. Crawford, affected by the vehemence of her daughter's manner, and mistaking the spring of her eloquence for gratitude, instead of love. Rather, then," continued Emily, while her cheek glowed with a vivid crimson, and her eyes, temporarily losing their languor, were lighted up with fire, "rather let us attribute my brother's "Why are you not like Mr. Arnold?" demand-sensitiveness to incessant embarrassment and ed Emily, blushing slightly. "He is far more talented than you, has doubtless more upon his mind--" "Impossible! what can he?" exclaimed Crawford hastily. "Oh! oh! you are jealous," rejoined Emily, supposing him to allude to the comparative extent of their abilities. "But, as I was saying, be reasonable with all you know; and do not afford us grounds for supposing that too much study will make a man entirely a brute, my dear brother." "That's right, Emily-do not spare him," said Mrs. Crawford, noticing her son's eye brighten at the above rebukes. "Could your poor father doubt, the result of those abstruse studies into which he plunges without being of a proper age for the investigation of Nature's mysteries; and let us always consider Mr. Arnold to be our benefactor-our friend !" "We will we ever have," said the affectionate mother, wiping away her tears, and pressing her daughter's hand with parental warmth. "Perhaps, mamma," criel Catherine, gazing anxiously on Mrs. Crawford's countenance,"perhaps this retired and too secluded spot does not accord with the natural disposition of James perhaps a gayer scene would be more congenial to his inclinations?" "No, dear Kate: you are aware that he has frequently expressed the affection he bears for our comfortable abode; and Mr. Arnold always seconds him in recommending us to remain at the place to which we have become attached: besides, in the letter I received from Sir George Mornay, answering the one our benefactor wrote, that baronet advised us strongly to remain where we are, and not to dream of a removal." "How I detest the name of the vile man!" exclaimed Emily. "My father's cousin, supposed to be a man of some fortune at least, not to take care of the only-or nearest relatives he has on earth!" "Yes—it is unkind," rejoined Mrs. Crawford. "But he had a deadly quarrel with your father at an early age, when they were schoolboys together; and on that account would never see him after. Till then they were the greatest friends--" 66 "And what gave rise to so important a dispute?" asked Catherine : you have frequently been inclined to tell us ; but something has always intervened to prevent you." "I will tell you, my child, in a few words, because the particulars of the tale are not suited to your innocence and delicate ideas. They both, boy-like, loved the same girl: your father succeeded in carrying off the prize-" "He married her ?" “No-but let that pass. Sir George Mornay felt his vanity piqued; and accordingly he challenged your father. They fought with pointed foils, although they were but nineteen or twenty years of age; and the baronet was wounded in the arm. As for the young lady, she shortly after died. Your father left college: and in a few months I was united to him." And Mrs. Crawford hesitated for a minute, while a tear stole down her cheek. "Let us change the conversation," said Catherine. "On the contrary, I will finish my history," continued the mother, recovering her scattered ideas, which had been reflected back to scenes she could not ponder upon without emotion. "This marriage enraged Sir George Mornay more than ever against my unfortunate husband, because he had wedded poverty; and lately, as the baronet was not blessed with children, was separated from his wife, and could not marry again, your father was heir to the title in case of his death "And now James is the heir, mamma, is it not so?" enquired Catherine, deeply interested in a conversation some particulars of which she had never heard before. "Would to God he were !" exclaimed Mrs. Crawford. "That is if I could find however— no matter," added she, correcting herself. Fortunately for her situation, Arnold and his young companion again entered the room; so that she avoided any farther questions concerning the matter. There was a smile on the lips of both; and a gleam of satisfaction appeared in the countenance of young Crawford-probably the result of the communication Arnold had made to him, and to which he had previously alluded "as a glorious scheme." After mutual temporary adieus, and after a fond though timid glance from Emily to him she loved, the whole party retired to their respective chambers, one being always ready for Arnold whenever he paid a visit to the house, which he requently did since his acquaintance with the family-an acquaintance that commenced shortly after the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Crawford. CHAPTER II. The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose; ARISTOTLE was right when he reckoned love amongst the number of virtues. A young and beautiful girl's earliest passion is the tenderest that can be conceived. It is the attractive power to which her other ideas incline: it is the spring of all her thoughts-thoughts that ever connect themselves with the cherished affection! Such was the love of Emily for Arnold. But alas! poor girl-had she known that this love was reciprocally felt, though proceeding from different sources-the one emanating from purity, the other owing its existence to selfish lust,many a weary sigh, many a burning tear, had been spared her. She seldom caught his eye, but he turned it away, fearful of exciting a mother's suspicions: and that mother seldom left her daughters alone, not from distrust of her benefactor, but from a consciousness of the excellence of such a principle. What was Arnold's joy, then, when at the breakfast table on the following morning, Mrs. Crawford declared her intention of sending Emily on another visit to her aunt at Southampton, where she had passed the preceding summer? This relative, by her side, was the aged widow of an officer in the navy, and lived upon an income originally competent, but which her parsimonious habits had materially increased since the death of her husband. "But, mamma," exclaimed Emily, with tears in her eyes, for the idea of being separated from Arnold was to her heart like the sting of a scorpion in the most sensitive part of the body--" you cannot send me there alone: who will accompany me?" "Your brother, my love-will you not, James?" enquired Mrs. Crawford of her son, who was lounging idly by the window. "That is impossible!" returned the youth; and he hesitated, while he cast a rapid glance at Arnold. Why is it impossible?" demanded the mother. "I had intended this day to have taken your son to London with me," interrupted Arnold: "but as his services will be required At this instant the servant entered the apartment with a letter for Mrs. Crawford, who accordingly sat down to peruse it; and this put an end for the present to the discussion that was going forward. "Nothing could be more fortunate to suit the wishes of all parties," exclaimed the fond parent, as she laid aside the epistle. "On Saturday next, Emily, your aunt, who is actually now in London, will pass this way. She reminds me of my promise that you should spend this as well as the last summer with her, and declares her intention of calling for you, having a seat in her carriage very much at your disposal. But wherefore that mournful look?" "Because I was contemplating-that is, I was |