"True," said the old gentleman, "I believe that is the only criterion, for I have known publishers who made the strongest professions of religion and morality, giving to the world the seducing scenes of Tom Jones,' without scruple; scenes in which obscenity is only veiled sufficiently to be made more dangerous."

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"I think, sir, you can scarcely say it is veiled."

While thus conversing, an incident occurred which was a commentary on the subject of discussion. Our pedestrians had left at Cato's a set of revellers who were distinct from

those they had seen and moralized upon. And their conversation was interrupted by shouts, cracking of whips, clattering of hoofs, and the rushing sound of wheels. Two gigs rapidly passed them, and the same moment, while striving for the glory of precedence, came in collision. While yet the air resounded with riotous shouts, one of the youths who had uttered them, lay senseless and mangled by a rock which had received him upon the overturning of the carriage. His skull was fractured. The reasoning faculty which had been bestowed by the Creator, to preserve life, with life had fled, after having been driven from its post by the enemy of life and reason. The pedestrians hastened to the spot, and found the youth dead. That frame which a minute before was rioting in pulsation, and spurred to madness by wine, was senseless ;—irretrievably self-murdered. His immediate companion lay groaning at a short distance, unable to rise, but reserved, perhaps, to profit by the dreadful lesson. The hack horse had gladly stopped by the overturned gig. The votaries of reason and temperance busied themselves with endeavours to remedy the ills produced by the folly they detested.

And where were the companions of the dead, the rivals in the race?

On they went, shouting in triumph! With the recklessness of irrational beings. On they passed, either careless of their late associates in revelry, (for nothing hardens the heart so much as the practice of what is called goodfellowship,) or thinking lightly of the overturn, as of a frequent occurrence, in which they had no part.

One of the youths was dead, the other stunned by the fall. When assisted and led to the spot where the first lay a mangled corse; the full sense of his situation rushed with returning consciousness upon the survivor. The fumes of wine were dissipated, he recollected the past, saw the horrors of the present, and anticipated the scene that must ensue when the

parents should see a son brought into their presence a corpse, who had last been seen in all the pride of opening manhood. When the unhappy youth was thus suddenly restored to reason, he uttered with a cry of agony, "My brother!" and fell on the corse, senseless.

We pass over particulars. The brothers were placed in the carriage, late so triumphantly mounted and impelled. One brother supported the inanimate body of the other, while Mr. Littlejohn walked by the side of the gig, and Spiffard led the horse. They stopped at the first house on the road, and were received with kindness, but no assistance could be rendered, and in the same order they proceeded to town.

Our pedestrians left their charge at the house of the parents. It was not for them to intrude, and they retired unnoticed during a scene of confusion and misery too profound for us to attempt a description of.

Late in the evening, Mr. Littlejohn and his young friend, now united in intimacy by these chance circumstances, separated for their several places of rest. The rich merchant, after giving his card, and a hearty shake of the hand, to his young companion, wended his way to a towering house, (at a distance from his store-houses and compting-room,) where he found every comfort and luxury but those of domestic society: the poor player directed his steps to an humble dwelling, not far from the theatre which he enriched by his talents. He found society, but not such as was suited to him. That portion most immediately connected with his happiness had undergone a change in his eyes, and was daily deteriorating from that alluring appearance which had caused him to become one of the household.

CHAPTER XVI.

The Lunatic Asylum.

"There's rue for you, and here's some for me."

"As the morning steals upon the night
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clear reason."-Shakspeare.

"The praise of those who sleep in earth,
The pleasant memory of their worth,
The hope to meet when life is past,
Shall heal the tortured mind at last.
But ye, who for the living lost
That agony in secret bear,

Who shall with soothing words accost

The strength of your despair ?"-Bryant.

"One sees more devils than all hell can hold,
That is the madman."

"Prithee, nuncle, tell me, whether a madman be a gentleman or yeoman."-Shakspeare.

THE attachment felt by the two individuals who had been thrown together by what is called chance, at Cato's, was increased during their walk home, and each felt the desire to know more of the other. They were drawn to this first meeting by an inscrutable succession of links, (a chain unknown to themselves,) and although in most respects dissimilar, there was one point which, after being brought in contact united them; and caused a determination in both, although separated by diverse occupations and the numerous bars that society places between the rich and poor, to seek each other; and to commune freely on that subject which occupied their secret thoughts. A subject on which they could not-would notspeak to the crowds with whom they mingled in common worldly intercourse.

Spiffard had his feelings strongly interested in all that concerned Mr. Littlejohn; but particularly in the fate of his son. The father was habitually a visiter to the asylum. He had treasures on the sea and on the land; on every sea and every shore; but, where his greatest treasure was, there was his heart also; and that was in a small room surrounded by keepers, and bolts, locks and bars, the maniac's shriek, the idiot's

laugh, and the unmeaning gabble of unfortunate creatures, once rational. It was not difficult for Mr. Littlejohn to induce Spiffard, who cultivated the intimacy so strangely commenced, to accompany him on a visit to the place where the (not yet hopeless) wreck of his hopes-the ruins not irretrievable, as he thought, of his beloved son, were deposited.

They met the amiable physician of the institution at the door.

"How is he to-day?"

"Perfectly composed."

They found the unfortunate man reading his bible. He appeared between thirty and forty years of age. He looked up, but scarce noticed their presence, resuming his studies as if no one had entered the apartment. His fine features were colourless. His black, strait, thin hair, was smoothed on his forehead, and he repeatedly passed his hand over it, from the crown of the head nearly to the eyes, seemingly unconscious of the action. His left hand supported his head, or occasionally turned a leaf, as he appeared to seek a text. His tall and finely formed frame was clothed in sables. His bright, jet-black eyes had rested a moment on his father, and then glanced vacantly at Spiffard. No other motion indicated his knowledge of their

presence.

They unasked, took chairs; and had been seated several minutes, (the father's eye fixed on the son, and Spiffard earnestly observing both) when Mr. Littlejohn drew his chair nearer to the student-but the approach was not heeded.

"My son,-"

"I do not wish to be interrupted, sir."

"Is that all you have to say to your father?"

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now.

By no means, all. But I do not wish to discuss the subject I have been earnestly engaged for some time past in this particular study; and have been examining many texts. But although I do not feel that I owe any thing to you as a father, I owe to myself, to you, and to society, the attentions due from one gentleman to another."

So saying he paused and shut the book. He then fixed his penetrating eyes on the eyes of Spiffard for a moment; after which they wandered restlessly, and he burst forth wildly—

"You have brought a stranger with you to witness the havoc that you and I have made upon one of God's creatures. Why is it? You have caged me here like a wild-beast, and now bring the idle or curious to see the monster. Fine sport! Fine sport!"

"This gentleman, my son-"

"I want no apologies sir. He is excusable-let him go home and triumph in his own superior intellect-let him thank Heaven that he is not like others.-I am aware of the cause which did render it expedient to restrain me by bolts, and bars, and keepers-did? Perhaps does. But I am, as I think, capable of judging for myself, and have determined how long that restraint shall last. You have exerted an authority founded upon the supposed rights of a father: I have been inquiring into those rights and find them null, and the authority an usurpation. I owe you no obedience. I renounce what is miscalled filial duty. You are the cause of my existing in this world of folly and misery-I do not thank you for it."

This was said with more calm bitterness than might have been expected from his state, or than the words indicate. He had ceased the action of his right hand at the time that with his left, he closed the book; and clasping both, he now rested them on the Bible, and locked full in his father's face.

"The book on which you lean, bodily, and I hope mentally, bids you honour your father and your mother."

"That my days may be long in the land.' True. The promised reward is earthly. All the promises to the Jews were so. Warburton is right in that. That my days may be long. Is that a blessing ?-or a curse?"

"That depends upon ourselves," said Spiffard, seeing that the afflicted father remained silent.

"No sir! 'it is the cause my soul-it is the cause'-it is the hidden cause that controls all. I sought not this existence-I sought not any existence-here, I am-and-miserable!"

My son, the book on which you rest, and on which our hopes rest, has not inspired thoughts like these. They are suggested by that which would lead to thanklessness towards your God, as well as undutiful thoughts of your father and your mother."

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My poor mother!"

"Happily she has been spared-" The father checked himself, and the son proceeded.

"I did love her. Surely not because she was my mother. That was no more her choice than mine. I loved her because she was good, kind, affectionate-as I ought to love all my fellow-creatures-all-all-all-God's creatures placed here by his will, not their own: enjoying and suffering-all-all filled with life, and doomed to death by an unavoidable sentence, passed upon them before birth. A death they must as