necessary to keep up the places (Sierra Leone chiefly) where they are placed, cost this country above £270,000. Notwithstanding this enormous outlay, they do nothing. This country does not derive the benefit of one shilling from the proceeds of their labour in any manner whatever. They do no good to themselves or this country; and in working with them, as we have hiherto done, we do no good to Africa, nor advance one inch in our way to bring round her civilization. Why are not the whole of these people collected, and by degrees settled on FERNANDO Po, and there compelled to work and to be industrious-compelled to labour, for compelled they must be, it is now publicly acknowledged, before they can be made to undertake labour in Sierra Leone? Since we must commence a totally new system in our settlements in Africa, in order to render them either advantageous to themselves, useful to Africa, and useful to this country, why not begin our new system upon a new and a more judicious, commanding, and healthy spot? Surely the most ordinary penetration and judgment, if once brought to deliberate on the matter, would lead us to adopt such a course. Fernando Po, besides being an excellent anchorage, a safe port, easily fortified and protected, and a most judicious station for a rendezvous for our navy, stationed on the south-west coasts of Africa, would also, in a very short time, become such a rendezvous for traders to and from the adjacent coasts, and such a commercial depot for the trade with all the interior of Northern Central Africa, that very moderate duties levied upon that trade would go far, perhaps be adequate, to defray the public expenditure which would be necessary to maintain the place. With trade and commerce, knowledge and civilization would march into the interior of Africa. While we remain settled on and centred in Sierra Leone, none of these things can ever take place, nor any such results follow any one of our operations undertaken to do good to Africa. The markets of the old world, and also several of those in the new, are rapidly either closing against us, or becoming unprofitable to us, from the industry and ingenuity of other nations coming in competition with us in almost every article of commerce and manufactures. It behoves this country, therefore, before it is too late, to look round her for new markets, to which she can send the productions of her skill, her capital, and her industry. Africa is, we think, that country, where, under judicious proceedings, advantages, at present considerable, and ultimately most extensive, may be found. There, we never can meet with any competition from native manufac turers or articles. The population will continue to supply us with various raw materials for our manufactures of the most valuable kinds, and take back from us, in exchange and in return, our raw produce, and their own manufactured by our superior intelli gence, capital, and skill, Africa abounds, and as her population become more enlightened and civilized, will still more abound, with articles of the most valuable kinds, and indispensably necessary for every mercantile and manufacturing country to procure and to possess. All kinds of tropical produce the most coveted in the temperate zones, are, or may soon be made, most abundant. Cotton, coffee, cocoa, sugar, dye-woods, dye stuffs of the most valuable kinds, medicinal drugs, and herbs, and plants, gold, silver, &c. &c. are to be found, or can be raised, in Africa, to any extent, providing her population were better protected, and saw it their interest to labour to produce such articles, and were taught the value of industry, and a desire for the refinements and the luxuries of civilized life. These things, we think, might be accomplished by example and persuasion, and coercion, judiciously mingled, and steadily applied. But to bring round such desirable results, in such a country, we must go about the great and important work in a rational way-we must go about it like men and politicians, and not like school-boys and fanatics. And to conclude; the important work must not be intrusted to hands such as those alluded to and described by the Governor of Sierra Leone-GOVERNOR LUDLAM, namely, UNPRINCIPLED MEN sent out to make a fortune, PARTLY BY OPPRESSING THE PEOPLE, AND PARTLY BY FLEECING THE PUBLIC"!!* * Ludlam's Letter to Macaulay, Sierra Leone, April 14, 1807. TALES OF THE WEDDING. No. II. THE little Baron's tale was received with much applause by an auditory, in too good humour to be fastidious; and, besides, chiefly of an age and description to relish, with peculiar zest, a college joke. I wish I could add that we drank his health; but this, alas! the exhaustion of our supplies did not permit. The dearth of physical, however, only increased our thirst for mental excitement, and the narrator was unanimously requested to call on some one else. His choice fell on the pastor, who declined the precedence, on the score of being, for the present at least, our host; but promised to follow up, should the time permit, with some simple village anecdote, the more interesting communication which he already read in the eloquent countenance of his righthand neighbour, the young officer of the Cent Suisses. This young man, whom a year's service in Paris had not yet robbed of the ingenuous modesty of his years and country, then requested permission to relate circumstances which had come under his knowledge during a late visit in the south of France, where he had passed a few days in company with the parties concerned, whose singularly amiable and fascinating manners had, he feared, lent in his eyes an interest to their history beyond its intrinsic merits. Presaging, from this opening, and the pensive turn of the narrator's mind, that something of a sentimental cast was to be expected, we composed our features accordingly; even the little baron looked grave, (on one side of the face, at least,) and the blushing, but soon animated, and even eloquent young Swiss, thus began :— A WEDDING IN HOSPITAL. Among the numerous emigrants whom the terrors of the revolution hurried into a precipitate flight from their native soil, but who availed themselves of the facilities subsequently af forded them to return, as these subsided, to their still dear country, was Madame de Montorin, the widow of one of the most respectable of those ennobled magistrates, whose recent elevation, and closer connexion with the middle ranks of society, while it emancipated them from many of the prejudices of the ancient aristocracy, rendered them also less obnoxious to popular fury. Her husband, whose wealth alone marked him for destruction, had anticipated the guillotine by a natural death; and Madame de Montorin, at the expiration of the Reign of Terror, gladly availed herself, for the sake of an only daughter, of the encouragement, held out by Buonaparte, to expatriated females, to return, and receive from a liberal policy such relics of her former ample property as had not passed into private hands. These, together with a considerable sum, lodged, previous to her quitting France, in foreign funds, enabled her to resume, in the chateau to which she had originally been heiress, a style of living, in which domestic comfort, borrowed from a long residence in England, was blended with an elegance which, at that time, few provincial families could support. At a period when parties still ran high in her unhappy country, and when, of course, opinions diametrically opposite to those in which she had been educated, had the ascendancy, Madame de Montorin judged it prudent to admit to her select society the truly respectable of both sides, prohibiting, as far as possible, al politi cal discussions, and abstaining from infusing into the mind of her daughter such decided monarchical prepos sessions as might unfit her for becoming the wife of a conscientious and bona fide advocate of rational liberty. Her own bias, however, was too decided, not insensibly to influence her conduct as well as her wishes; and on the return of some near relations who had emigrated to Germany, with an only son, a little older than her Cecile, she gladly listened to their ancien régime proposal of a future union between the young people, provided it should be consistent with their mutual inclination, which her own forced marriage had determined her never to control. Cecile, therefore, at twelve years old, was introduced to her cousin Victor, as one who was at some future period to be her husband, and being naturally of a docile and affectionate disposition, she did not think it necessary, on that account, to overlook or reject his very obvious claims on her good will, and even admiration. To one of her gentle and retiring turn, a bold and manly character, and frank manners, often prove peculiarly at tractive; and, as to the handsomest person imaginable, Victor soon added the fondest devotion to his cousin, which she returned with her softest smiles, all seemed to go on as well as the parents on both sides could desire. It is true, even then, Victor would be thoughtless, and Cecile would look grave; Victor would forget a promise, and Cecile shake her head reproachfully; but as heaven and earth were ransacked for a peace-offering, and Cecile impatient to be reconciled, these little incidents only endeared the cou sins to each other. Victor's mother, the widow of a general officer, had vainly flattered her self with the hope of inducing her darling son to follow a less perilous profession. Independently of its dangers, she had the strongest political objections to his serving in a republican army, under an ostensibly republican chief; but the rising glory of Napoleon baffled all her efforts to counteract its influence; and Victor, headstrong as indulgence could make him, by the threat of taking up a musket, forced his mother into procuring him a commission. At the end of the brilliant campaign of Italy, he returned with all the improvement in manner and person, which military service usually confers; modest in recounting his own share in the exploits with which the world resounded, but so enthusiastically devoted to his leader, that Madame de Montorin had reason to rejoice in the foresight which had kept Cecile's mind free from ultra prepossessions. To his mother, on the contrary, these expressions of admiration were most painful; and her mind was oddly balanced between joy that her son had distinguished himself, and regret that it should have been under the standard of a Parvenu. Cecile, of whose character it is time to give some idea, was of a disposition rare indeed in France, and not common anywhere. She united to a gentleness of manners, and facility of VOL. XIX. yielding in trifles, sometimes mistaken for indifference, an energy and warmth of character, and a strength of mind, which circumstances were alone wanting to call forth. Early misfortune had perhaps concurred to impress on her character a pensive cast; the counsels of an amiable English lady, under whose hospitable roof her mother passed the greater part of her stay in England, sunk deep into her grateful heart; while the pure principles of Protestantism, in which her mother had herself been educated, and which she instilled into her child, gave to her virtues a solid basis, which is too often wanting to the amiable feelings and vague piety of the Catholic female. A two years' absence on a distant and dangerous expedition had its usual effect, in greatly endearing the young hero of many a perilous affair to his destined bride; and none who have not known how thoroughly in the pure soul of woman every thought and feeling becomes entwined with the idea of an affianced lover; how intensely, when once bestowed, her affections centre on one beloved object, can easily figure with what transports of joy his approaching return was at length hailed. Far less can they adequately appreciate the sickness of the heart with which, when these transports had subsided, Cecile reluctantly, but distinctly, whispered to herself, that Victor, in all but external accomplishments, was no longer the same; or rather, that those latent defects of character which partial affection had once barely suspected, had developed themselves under the fostering influence of depraved companions, in all their native deformity. The thoughtless and petulant boy had called forth many a reproachful smile; but the arrogance and self-sufficiency of the man extorted more than one bitter tear! Victor, naturally ductile, and fortified by no steady principle, had unfortunately fallen into a dissipated and profligate society, where the proverbial licence of the camp in all ages, was now no longer shaded with that thin veil of courtly refinement which formerly rendered the French soldier, at least an aimable roué. Poor Cecile was destined to be wounded in many a tender point, by the change in her lover's conduct and sentiments. Her 4 X heart bled to find that though still admired and flattered, she was no longer loved as alone she could wish to besincerely, devotedly, and rationally. Her pride revolted from the insolent security which seemed to anticipate no possibility of change in her feelings and affections; and, lastly, her pure and pious mind recoiled from the free opinions, both on morals and religion, which the unhappy Victor was at little pains to conceal. All this, however, was not the work of a moment. Partiality lingered over the wrecks of a promising disposition blasted; and during the hurry of the fêtes which celebrated his return, the fairer side of a still brilliant and fascinating character dazzled awhile even the penetrating eye of affection. It was not until the veil was entirely rent aside, and the gay gallant Victor, "her beautiful, her brave," stood forth the unblushing advocate of rapine and aggression; the unrepenting, nay boasting, seducer of innocence; yet still the presumptuous and undoubting aspirant to her own pure hand and heart; that the heart found, in its native resources, dignity to spurn its unworthy tenant, and the hand strength to sign its own recovered freedom. Let none who have not loved seven years, with more than woman's constancy and devotion, marvel, if even, spite of deep conviction of unworthiness, a tear fell on the packet containing the childish ringlet of golden hair-which successive years had fancifully enclosed within others of still deepening brown-from an eye which saw in them the emblems of a dawn overcast, and a darkened character! There were letters too, of equally various cast; and on reperusing with painful interest some of the later ones, Cecile half wondered she should ever have mistaken gratified vanity and ambitious prospects for the language of disinterested love. The packet was sealed and dispatched; and the last tear of unrequited and misplaced affection for ever wiped away! But Cecile, in following the dictates of principle and feeling, was destined to experience the usual vexations attendant on a departure from the beaten track of female conduct. Her mother, though too conscientious to blame her decisions, yet would have delayed it, in vague hopes of amendment, and lingering predilection for a favourite alliance; the mother of Victor, wholly blinded by maternal partiality, resented a step which she imputed to fickleness and levity; while Victor himself, whose self-complacency and confidence in his own-attractions knew no bounds, passed from abject entreaties, dictated by momentary humiliation and regrets for the loss of a splendid fortune, to a frenzy of invective and insolent affectation of joy at his release, which, though confirming Cecile's opinion, lacerated her already harassed feelings. The world, as usual, sided with the loser; and Mademoiselle Montorin was generally pronounced a prude and a jilt, and M. de Beaumarchais the most interesting and ill-used of men. To escape from the comments of a society thus disposed, and from rencontres, rather ostentatiously courted, than delicately avoided, Madame de Montorin carried her drooping daughter to the waters of B, where in seclusion, it not being yet the gay season, she hoped soon to see her well-regulated mind recover its tone, and her cheek its wonted bloom. Cecile, though under the influence of rectitude and principle she had "plucked out a right eye," was not a heroine; and she felt that, for some time at least, she must be a mourner over blasted hopes and shipwrecked affections. What little society the place afforded she had less inclination to cultivate, till the arrival of a Madame de S- an old acquaintance of her mother's, broke in upon a solitude, perhaps too complete to be salutary. , Madame de S was a widow, but a few years older than Cecile, having lost in very early life a husband, whom she had little cause to lament. Her conduct had since been exemplary; but as it was naturally to be expected that she would sooner or later form a fresh connexion, it was matter of more regret than surprise to Cecile, (who had become very partial to her society,) to find, on her return from a short excursion in the vicinity, that a young officer, of genteel manners and interesting appearance, had become nearly a daily visitor at her friend's. Cecile, whose heart had for so many long years instinctively warmed to everything connected with the military profession, now felt equal pain in the associations excited by the presence of Colonel Adhémar, and declined, as much as was consistent with good-breeding or friendship, all opportunities of meeting him; till, perceiving that her friend was hurt by the avoidance, she naturally concluded it to proceed from partiality to this apparently amiable young man, and with her usual sweetness of disposition, struggled against, and finally conquered, her own reluctance to form his acquaintance. This was the more easy, as the singularly unobtrusive, yet ele gant manners of the Colonel, formed a complete contrast with the more offensive features of modern military tournure; and, instead of being reminded by similarity of conduct and sentiments that he and her cousin belonged to the same school, Adhémar, whom Fame reported to be as brave as a lion, was certainly, in ladies' bower, as gentle as a lamb. His attentions to Madame de S, though unremitting and abundantly polite, did not appear to Cecile at all decisive of attachment; and her fears for her friend's peace of mind, under this suspicion, led her to bestow more minute attention on her new acquaintance, than in any other circumstances he could have called forth. All she saw was in the highest degree seductive and delightful. There was the manliness, the frankness, and the spirit of a soldier, with an almost feminine softness and delicacy of taste and pursuits. Music, drawing, literature, were all successfully and gracefully cultivated; and over a person of per fect symmetry, and features of exquisite expression, recent indisposition from honourable wounds had thrown precisely the most interesting kind and degree of languor. Cecile, tremblingly alive to her friend's destiny, watched in vain for unequivocal marks of more than general gallantry on the part of her supposed admirer; but was relieved to find, that at the end of some weeks of daily intercourse with so fascinating a person, the happiness of the lively Madame de S seemed in no way affected by the now obvious indifference of one whom she had apparently considered only in the light of a friend. Satisfied on this head, Cecile did not, however, immediately discontinue her course of observation. On whose account it was now carried on, she had not yet asked herself; but its result was, that all military men were not empty, profligate, and presuming, and that the hero, and the man of feeling and refinement, might be happily and successfully combined. From considering Adhémar as a probable suitor to her friend, she had insensibly admitted him to a degree of innocent familiarity, as soon as her painful prejudice against his profession had given way before the charms of his conversation; and this had materially increased from his diffidence in presuming upon it, and his avoidance of any common-place gallantry or more distressing individual attentions. It was therefore with a complication of feelings in which surprise predominated, though the painful and pleasura ble were strangely blended, that Cecile one day, on raising her eyes from a book which Adhémar had requested her to look at, and which contained one of the most eloquent descriptions ever penned of suppressed and almost hopeless attachment, perceived his eyes fixed upon her with an expression, of which the words of the impassioned writer were a poor and faint reflection !-To misunderstand that glance was impossible-to encourage it was as far from Cecile's thoughts as to resent it was repugnant to her gentle spirit. She had therefore no rcsource but to find in the volume in her hand a vehicle for sentiments sufficiently explicit to serve as an answer. "Monsieur Adhémar," said she, returning him the book she had been perusing," the eloquent author you so much admire does indeed lend all the graces of fiction to a passion which it is easier to paint than to feel; but when once this illusion has been painfully dispelled, his gorgeous colouring seems fading as the rainbow, and unsubstantial as the gossamer's web. It is as easy for man to talk of love, as for woman to die for it; both are easier than to survive, with lacerated feelings, a disenchanted imagination, and a heart which feels that to love and suffer are synonymous terms! Your novel," said she, faintly smiling, and gathering courage as she proceeded, "will do very well for the happy novice who has not yet found the book of life dark and mysterious, or watered its pages with bitter tears!" The earnest tone in which these words were spoken, scemcd altogether |