anxieties, which beset the mind of the freeman, who leaves his children without protection, and that considerate concern, which the black well knows, must belong to the relations of the slave and master.

Religious immunities are also secured to the Carolina slave. Independent of the full enjoyment of the sabbath, which the law yields him, whenever his tasks have been completed-and these, as will be seen, are of easy performance--he is permitted to attend any religious meeting properly conducted. Whenever he has been restricted in this privilege, the cause can be traced to the impolitic and unwise interference of ministers, who have brought him lessons, as inconsistent with their Christian mission, as they have been dangerous to the quietude of the hearer. If indiscreet or evil men will penetrate into a country so situated, and, forgetful of those divine precepts, which teach diligence and faithfulness to the slave, and lenity and mildness to the master-if, forgetful of such precepts, they will step aside from their calling, to interfere with the domestic and political institutions of a nation, and excite its dependants, and ignorant castes, to the bloodiest insurrections, they must expect, not only to lose their privilege in this particular, but that the liberty of the slave will be abridged. The same conduct, in an European community, among freemen, which these teachers have been for years exercising in reference to the people of South Carolina, would immediately call forth the most rigid interposition of government. It is something unreasonable, then, to censure those, who, in placing certain laws in their statute books for their protection and safety, have only sought to provide for, and to meet, such exigencies. The case is perfectly unknown, in Carolina, where, with a judicious teacher and proper religious instruction, the slave has been withheld from the full enjoyment of these immunities. It is to the interest of the master that he should be thus instructed, for experience has taught, that religious education makes him more honest and faithful to all the purposes of his employer. The impression too, which so many entertain, that the slave is precluded from partaking of the same Christian rites with the freeman, is grossly unjust, and is abundantly refuted, in the fact, that in all our churches, the same communion is indiscriminately administered from the same cup to black and white alike. In extending our remark in this place, we do it with the awkward consciousness, when called upon to admit, that it does not unfrequently occur, that the number of the former participants greatly exceeds that of the latter.

Touching his education, in addition to this, the author tells us, that whenever the permission has been extended, "the slave has always been deluded;" and the first lessons of his teacher have "been those of disaffection and revolt." Oral instruction, the author goes on to say, has not been denied him. "Able and efficient teachers are provided him for this purpose. He hears the Bible read, along with the whites, at every religious meeting; and, at stated times and places, he is catechised in a manner suited to his capacity." The rest of the pamphlet is devoted to the consideration of the fourth proposition, and to a summing up of the whole. The views of the writer may, or may not, be correct, as to the consequences of a present change in the condition of the slave. We are inclined rather to agree with him. But the subject has too many ramifications, and is quite too expansive to admit of examination here. We may look into it at a future period, and it may be well that others should do so too. We recommend the pamphlet for this purpose. The texts are numerous which it lays down for consideration, and the arguments contradictory enough, which the mind suggests on the merest glance at the subject. It may be only necessary to add, that the essay is written gently, though with spirit, in a mood calm, reflecting, and decidedly pacific. The style is easy and graceful, and the treatment of the subject methodical and clear. The author is said to be a member of the Charleston (South Carolina) Bar.

TWO OLD MEN'S TALES. THE DEFORMED, and THE ADMIRAL'S DAUGHter. 2 vols. 12mo., pp. 418. Harper & Brothers, Cliff-street, New York.

THE above title, which by the way is in some degree a misnomer, is affixed to one of the most powerful and pathetic works of the season. It has been assigned, by common report, to the pen of Sir Francis Head, the author of several esteemed publications, of which the "Rough Rides over the Pampas," and the "Bubbles from the Brunnen's of Nassau," have acquired a reputation of no ephemeral character; and who—if these beautiful tales be justly attributed to him,-must undoubtedly receive a fresh measure of popularity. It matters, indeed, but little to the reader of the novels in question, whether they be, in truth, the production of this or that writer; but we can scarcely conceive the possibility of any author proving so careless of public praise, as to withhold his name from the titlepage of a book, which must necessarily minister in so large a degree to his reputation. So high, indeed, is our estimate of the merits of the Old Men's Tales, that we fear not to assert, that there is not a single novelist of the day, whether in the circle of English or American literati, who might not exult in the consciousness of having given birth to the volumes in question. As passionate and powerful delineations of the mightier feelings which disturb the serenity, and sometimes even tear asunder the heart-strings, of society, we are acquainted with nothing superior to the Deformed, or its associate tale, in the whole range of English literature. The only fault, which we have discovered, of a material nature, is a want of probability, which in the former story unquestionably detracts from the pleasure derived from its originality and striking incident, no less than from the actual merit of the work as a literary composition. In the Admiral's Daughter, the same deficiency may be detected, although by no means so glaringly as to offend the eye of any other than the professed critic. In our perusal of the latter novel we experienced no sensations but those of unmixed delight, until we had closed the last page, and composed our mind, from the intoxication in which it had been steeped, to a calm and dispassionate consideration of the tale by which we confess ourselves to have been moved almost to tears, unused as we may be considered, in our critical capacity, to such womanish displays of sympathy. The plot of the Deformed is decidedly the most original in its conception, and, were it not for the want of truth, to which we have alluded above, in the catastrophe, and to some violations of character, would be perhaps entitled to the higher praise. Of the Admiral's Daughter the whole charm lies in the exquisite taste, feeling, and pathos, which are discoverable in almost every line, and to the absolute identity and truth, with a single trifling exception, of every character introduced upon the scene: plot it can hardly be said to possess, unless that can be termed a plot, which, it is to be feared, is a matter of daily, nay, of almost hourly occur

rence, in the polished but licentious circles of European aristocracy. We will, however, come at once to the point, and endeavor, by a short analysis of either story, to render our ideas more intelligible to the reader. The narrator of the tale entitled the Deformed is supposed to be the medical practitioner in the small country town of Carstones, who, having been involved, by means of his professional intimacy, in the fortunes of a noble family of the neighborhood, is irresistibly compelled to lay a record of their sins and their misfortunes before the public. In the commencement of his story he relates how the Marquis of Brandon, a youthful noble of no particular character, save that of easy and pleasing amiability, married the daughter of his banker, and had by her one child, deformed, and subject from his earliest years to an agonizing and dangerous disorder. The character of Lady Brandon is one of the most exquisite conceptions we have ever encountered on paper. She is one of those sweet, pious, benevolent, and truly charitable women, endowed with high talents, and all that ought to excite the admiration and love of the world, who nevertheless pass onward, in their path of kindness and utility, equally aloof from the envy or the applause of men, and only to be traced, like the gentle rivulet, by the happiness and verdure which blesses and beautifies their course. This admirable lady is, however, removed from the little circle of which she had formed the beloved centre, by a disease which-neglecting herself while ministering to all around her-she has suffered to gain such head, that, when it is at length called in, all human aid is unavailing. She dies, leaving the helpless little creature, whose existence seems only to be a source of misery to itself and all around it, save that devoted mother, provided for to the utmost extent of human forethought and motherly affection. Years elapse, and the Marquis forgets the humble and unpretending virtues, the sweet charities, and domestic affections of his departed wife in the nuptials of a proud and patrician beauty. The deformed child, left under the peculiar care of a lady, the friend alike of the parent and the babe, is brought up beneath the paternal roof, an object of sympathy. to few, of love to none. Not absolutely neglected by his father, nor as yet openly slighted by his haughty mother-in-law, he is suffered to proceed much according to the impulses of his own heart, and to the discretion of the excellent woman who has charge of his helplessness. Gradually a family, beautiful, fashionable, and proud, grow up around the second bride, and gradually her feelings towards the deformed heir are changed from simple carelessness to envy and hatred. That this miserable helpless cripple should dare to live on, despite of every prognostic, of every probability, excluding her fair son from the demesnes which she has ever considered his due, is too much for her worldly mind and little ambition to endure. Meanwhile, as he grows up to manhood, the Deformed grows ripe in all the richest and most rare endowments of manhood; to the meek virtues of his mother, the humility which springs from sorrow, he unites deep scholarship, mines of poetic fancy, and philosophic lore; gradually he outgrows the more painful assaults of his disease, and, although still curtailed of the fair proportions, he gains much of the health and vigor of a man, while he possesses the mind, we had almost said, of a God. One

being, too, he has discovered, who loves him, and in whose love he is happy; the pure fraternal love, as he believes it, of an orphan niece, reared by the cold charity of his step-mother. This child he has taken to his heart, has made it his pupil, his companion, the idol of his affections. The child matures to lovely girlhood, and an accident reveals to the Deformed the real state of his mind, while it goes nigh to ruin his all of earthly happiness. A fete is to be given at the castle in honor of the majority of Lord Louis, his half-brother, a noble-spirited, though more than half-spoiled minion of the fashionable world. To procure for his ward a share in the festivities of the ball, St. Germains resolves to break from his retirement, he goes from the solitude of his chamber a happy and contented being, and he returns a very wretch. His talents, his manners, his situation, have gained for him, in that single evening, the love of half a county; but he has discovered that the affection, which he has ever fancied to be of a paternal cast, is in truth of a far warmer nature. The delight which the admiration of Lord Louis has created in the breast of Lilia, has awakened-not his jealousy, for in his noble breast there is no room for that least and lowest of all human littlenesses-but his consciousness that he loves, where he can reasonably hope for no return. By degrees he alters his demeanor to the one being he adores; she, loving him in secret no less than he dotes upon her, attributes his "altered eye" to displeasure, when it is in truth attributable to despair. An accident reveals to each the nature of the other's feelings, and all for a while is rapture. Their marriage, despite the interested opposition of the step-mother, meets the warmest approbation of the father, ever affectionate and kind-hearted, though deficient in moral energy which might control the evil temper of his misproud wife. The despair, the madness, the hatred, of the disappointed matron, can be equalled only by the sweet and holy happiness of the affianced lovers. Had the novel ended here, it would have been perfection. The catastrophe is great, dark, dreadful-but unnatural. It excites our feelings to the utmost, but offends our judgment, and while we shudder at the power of language and conception, we must condemn the introduction of incidents quite too improbable for the wildest legends of romance. The mother-in-law, who is throughout described as a vain, weak, selfish beauty, suddenly becomes a monster of cruelty and guiltthe deformed heir is poisoned-his bride dies in despair, and-as if this were not too impossible for the nineteenth century-we have a direct interposition of providence in the death of Lord Louis, who is struck dead by lightning at his mother's feet, and in the frenzy and misery of the guilty parent.

To give an idea of the force with which the whole piece is written, and to mark our admiration of the manner, even where we disapprove of the matter, we have extracted the whole of the poison scene, which, although out of place and character, as it seems to us when considered as the part of a whole, is nevertheless, as a single passage, magnificently terrible.

The rest of that evening the marchioness spent alone with Mrs. Holdfast in her dressing-room. Lord Louis, having found his brother, and congratulated him with his usual warmth and frankness, had begun, for the first time, to under

stand that something was amiss-and, having learned that it arose from the violent opposition offered by the marchioness to the marriage, and having, in spite of his carelessness, in some way divined the disappointment which lay at the bottom of all this ebullition of feeling, he felt mortified, and very angry; for he had a good and right heart, with all his faults, a heart from which jealousy and envy were as distant as one pole from the other. He was vexed at his mother, and he spent the rest of the evening with St. Germains, Mrs. Cartwright, and Lilia.

They had all been disturbed, more especially Lilia, by what had passed in the morning. Her cheeks were yet flushed, and her eyes sad and heavy-but Lord Louis, all gaiety and affection, soon restored the smiles to her innocent countenance. St. Germains appeared consoled by the generous conduct of his brother for the pain and mortification he had experienced. He was evidently, as Mrs. Cartwright told me, much gratified by the behavior of Lord Louis, whom he had always loved with the tenderest affection-gratified not only for his own sake, but in finding the bosom of the son unstained by the selfishness and meanness of the mother.

He had been strangely ruffled, but his usual composure was now restored. "He sat," said she, "in that antique window (which I so well remember)-in his large chair, looking tranquilly on the declining sun, whose broad red orb was sinking behind the horizon-while a glow of the richest crimson, gold and purple, illumined the sky. At his feet on a low stool was Lilia-the last rays of the evening gleaming upon the vines and twisted plants that ornamented the apartment, and falling softened upon that hair of which it is impossible not to think whenever one is imaging her-so peculiar was the charm it added to her beauty-so rich its floating folds, so unspeakably graceful all its affluence of curls, waves, and ringlets. By her side was Lord Louis, on the ground, amusing himself by whispering in her ear a thousand innocent malicious trifles-which sent the crimson into her cheeks in glowing streaks, bright as the heavens they were looking on-and," said Mrs. Cartwright, "I thought she resembled one of those inhabitants of heaven, with their sweet cherubic faces, that the old masters love to represent--leaning from the clouds of the sky amid the angelic host-happiness, love, tenderness, beamed upon that ruby lip and smiled in that eye, investing her with a sort of radiance of feeling and purity. Lord Louis, too-I was so much pleased with him and all his ways, that I thought he looked something almost too beautiful, and too good for this world. I sat half-shaded by the curtain, myself regarding them.-It was a moment, Mr. Wilson, that paid me for many pains--I saw the eyes of St. Germains raised, as if to Heaven, once or twice.--He was offering the thanks of his righteous and grateful spirit to the Being he worshipped in the depths of his inmost soul. He looked round, and seeing where I was--without moving so as to disturb the two whisperers at his feet--he held out his hand-took mine and pressed it-I understood him well."

The marchioness, while this scene of peace was passing at one end of the castle, remained as I have said, in her room; she was heard to pace the floor with vehemence--her voice was elevated, so as even to penetrate the well-fitted doors of these splendid apartments. She was evidently talking and gesticulating with violence. After a while, however, all this ceased, and Mrs. Holdfast was seen to go down stairs, and, contrary to her usual custom, at that time of the evening, to leave the

house.

It was autumn, and the day was closing in--but no candles were ordered into the marchioness' dressing room. The young ladies were assembled as usual in the saloon, but the lady mother did not appear. The daughters were not in the habit of attending her when she was indisposed, either in body or mind. Such care always devolved upon Mrs. Holdfast. So they spent the evening, dawdling a bout the room with their French governess-playing now and then a few notes on their pianoforte-humming opera airs--hanging over the fire-and so on. They were all sad and dull after the excitement of the morning.

At length, says one, "I suppose mamma won't come down again, and as for Louis, it is too bad, he has been in St. Germains' room all the evening; I never thought he would have taken that side."

"So foolish, and so ill-natured!" said another. "But I shall go to bed, for I don't know what's amiss, but I never felt so uncomfortable in my life."

"Ah! c'est que vous avez tant de sensibilité!" said one of the French ladies: "et moi aussi, je n'en puis plus."

Lady Geraldine, the picture of gloomy discontent, now rose to go. As they went to their rooms, they stumbled upon Holdfast.