COUNTRY FAIRS, AND PEASANTRY.

What an unjoyous, solid, rude, suffocating, deafening, head-ache giving thing a fair in the country is :-(let me just except Greenwich fair, if Greenwich be in the country —or rather the accidental adjunct of the noble old park, and the freaks it irresistibly inspires.) The street of the little village stuffed with people who will walk over you if you do not push them about as they do you: girls scrambling on by themselves, and men and lads by themselves; and no one laughing nor yet smiling, but on the contrary, the greater number either half-scowling at one another, or else looking nervously shy of having it appear that they are such fools as to allow themselves to be pleased. Peep into one of the inns, of which all the lower rooms are flung open to genteelish company, among the rows of happy creatures sitting on forms by the walls, drinking porter, or ale, or brandy and hot water, and nearly all look discontented still; -peep into a dancing booth, as you pass by, and you will see, perhaps, a dozen girls exerting themselves to the utmost in a work-and-labour way, for the edification of three or four bumpkins, who walk from side to side among them with very disdainful faces, and now and then lift up their legs, and let them down again, one after another, as if they were plodding over a stubble-field, or at best turning the tread-mill at slow time. And how I abhor that smock frock into the bargain! the most unpicturesque, unmanly, unlovely, sheep-faced piece of costume in the world. Ay, and the close-laced bumpkin buskins, too, which, from constant pressure, impoverish the most considerable muscles of the leg, and leave an English peasant the worst-limbed peasant I have yet seen.

"But what has become of the power, or the will, or the zest for natural and innocent enjoyment of the villagers of Old England ?-merry Old England it used to be, we are told-can I call it so, at present? Why don't these hardworked, simple-minded poor fellows, take delight in the few holidays left open to them?-for, as to Sunday, it has now become, to all outward appearance, the saddest day out of the seven. And, stop:-perhaps it is this very pharisaical observance of the sabbath, at first imposed upon them against their natures and wishes, and since grown into a sullen, sulky habit, which at length incapacitates them from relishing even their annual play days. At all events, Graves, you know my notions of old, as to the good sense, good feeling, nay, good religion, of making it criminal in a poor man or lad, to sing a harmless song, play at quoits or cricket, or be seen dancing with his sweetheart, or-if he and she like-his arm round her neck of a Sunday. None of those acts would be in themselves unholy, and therefore would not break the command for keeping holy the sabbath. Farther I do sincerely believe that after due worship of God, or in the intervals of the different times set apart for His worship, on His own Day, a joyous and a contented heart giving vent, according to the common manifestations of human nature, to its joy and to its content, would not be odious in the sight of Him who loves His creatures with a surpassing love, and who has contrived a wondrous plan for even their earthly happiness. There is joy in Heaven,' where reigns an eternal sabbath :—and I WILL insist, that it was upon the first earthly sabbath day, after the foundations of the earth were laid,' and 'the corner stone there,' that the morning stars praised Him together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy!'

"As to the good feeling and good sense of compelling poor Johnny-raw to be triste and demure-looking upon the only day of the week that he is not bent double with labour, follow him for a good part of a Sunday, and draw your own conclusions. See him first, after church or chapel service, moping alone, or with a group of his own sex, at one side of the village street, or of a green field, while flocks of pretty, and, (if they durst) merry-hearted girls, move in a somewhat more active manner, at the other side: see him thus, and you pity his lot,-(pray do not fall into the mistake of always quarrelling with him for stupidity.) When he tires of his unenlivening lounge, stand near the Tap, and you will catch a glimpse of him, however, slipping into its ever open or only latched door, round a corner; and you do not greatly pity him now,-but how CAN you blame him? What are his means of enjoyment in the open air? And, if he had some means of enjoyment in the open air, would he be in the Tap-in it, at least, so often, or so long at a time? And-(take human nature as it is, as it has ever been, and as it ever must be)--which is the greatest breach of the sabbath, dancing happily on the green sod, ay, and with one of those nice village beauties before him, or spending his money on the heavy, stupifying national drink of England? (Graves, have not the porter and the ale of England, the light wines or the light beer of France, and the whiskey of Ireland, a point of impression upon the very different characters of the three people?) And can this methodized avoidance of the cherry companionship of the other sex, openly, and in the face of heaven and of man, upon a sabbath-day-to say nothing of his self-control in different matters-be much better, very often, than a system of demoralizing hypocrisy? Ask the parish overseer, and he may, perhaps, tell you that more seeds of care and trouble to him are sown of a Sunday evening, take the seasons through)-than upon any other evening of the week. And does he, or do you expect it otherwise? I think, in my conscience, it is evident that the natural gallantry common to all men, gentle and simple, might, in seven cases out of ten, be diverted from concentrating itself into a downright breach of parish law, if it were allowed to evaporate, gradually, in the hundred harmless little courtesies which are matters of course amongst men and women, lads and girls, in less disciplined communities. This, however, you will say, is rather a stretching of my theory,-very well. Give me back our fine merry Old England national character, among the lower orders, ay, and some of the middle too, and that is what I want, and you may effect it as you like, and as you can. Make our smock-frocked compatriots look less unhappy, less jealous of a free-hearted, natural existence, less sulky while a charming girl of the same street and parish stops him, as he plods along, and almost by force detains him a few moments, while she tries her very best to tell him pleasant stories and anecdotes, and to look up, laughing into his face,-in fact-(inverted man that he is to suffer it!)-to court him. Let me finish my wandering chapter with a really serious sentence or two. Make your villagers enjoy their lives as their forefathers did theirs, or, at least, make them more moral than their forefathers were, as a set-off against their sad and sour pretensions to outward decorum. Convince them that one thing with another they have more facilities for happiness than the people of any second country under the sun, and yet that— not in seeming, merely, but in downright fact, and in their hearts, and livers, brains, spleens, and gall-bladders, they are the least joyous people under the same sun."

THE INCENDIARY.

Richard Mayne was a wealthy yeoman of the old school, sturdy, boisterous, bold, and kind, always generous, and generally good-natured, but cross-grained and obstinate by fits, and sometimes purse-proud-after the fashion of men who have made money by their own industry and shrewdness. He had married late in life, and above him in station, and had now been for two or three years a widower with only one daughter, a girl of nineteen, of whom he was almost as fond as of his greyhound Mayfly, and for pretty much the same reason— -that both were beautiful and gentle, and his own, and both admired and coveted by others--that Mayfly had won three cups, and that Lucy had refused four offers.

'A sweet and graceful creature was Lucy Mayne. Her mother, a refined and cultivated woman, the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman, had communicated, perhaps unconsciously, much of her own taste to her daughter. It is true, that most young ladies, even of her own station, would have looked with great contempt on Lucy's acquirements, who neither played nor drew, and was wholly, in the phrase of the day, unaccomplished; but then she read Shakspeare and Milton, and the poets and prose-writers of the James's and Charles's times, with a perception and relish of their beauty very uncommon in a damsel under twenty; and when her father boasted of his Lucy as the cleverest as well as the prettiest lass within ten miles, he was not so far wrong as many of his hearers were apt to think him.

‘After all, the person to whom Lucy's education owed most, was a relation of her mother's, a poor relation, who, being left a widow with two children almost totally destitute, was permitted by Richard Mayne to occupy one end of a small farm-house, about a mile from the old substantial manorial residence which he himself inhabited, whilst he farmed the land belonging to both. Nothing could exceed his kindness to the widow and her family; and Mrs. Owen, a delicate and broken-spirited woman, who had known Letter days, and was now left with a sickly daughter and a promising son, dependant on the precarious charity of relatives and friends, found in the free-handed and openhearted farmer and his charming little girl, her only comfort. He even restored to her the blessing of her son's society, who had hitherto earned his living by writing for an attorney in the neighbouring town, but whom her wealthy kinsman now brought home to her, and established as the present assistant and future successor of the master of a well-endowed grammar-school in the parish, farmer Mayne being one of the trustees, and all powerful with the other functionaries joined in the trust, and the then schoolmaster in so wretched a state of health as almost to ensure a speedy vacancy.

In most instances, such an exertion of an assumed rather than a legitimate authority, would have occasioned no small prejudice against the party protected; but George Owen was not to be made unpopular, even by the unpopularity of his patron. Gentle, amiable, true, and kind-kind, both in word and deed-it was found absolutely impossible to dislike him. He was clever, too-very clever-with a remarkable aptitude for teaching, as both parents and boys soon found to their mutual satisfaction; for the progress of one half-year of his instruction equalled that made in a

twelvemonth under the old regime. He must also, one should think, have been fond of teaching, for after a hard day's fagging at Latin and English, and writing and accounts, and all the drudgery of a boy's school, he would make a circuit of a mile and a half home in order to give Lucy Mayne a lesson in French or Italian. For a certainty, George Owen must have had a strong natural turn for playing the pedagogue, or he never would have gone so far out of his way just to read Fenelon and Alfieri with Lucy Mayne. At the ex

'So for two happy years matters continued. piration of that time, just as the old schoolmaster, who declared that nothing but George's attention had kept him alive so long, was evidently on his death-bed, farmer Mayne turned Mrs. Owen, her son, and her sick daughter out of the house, which by his permission they had hitherto occupied; and declared publicly, that whilst he had an acre of land in the parish, George Owen should never be elected master of the grammar-school-a threat which there was no doubt of his being able to carry into effect. The young man, however, stood his ground; and sending off his mother and sister to an uncle in Wales, who had lately written kindly to them, hired a room at a cottage in the village, determined to try the event of an election, which the languishing state of the incumbent rendered inevitable.

'The cause of farmer Mayne's inveterate dislike to one whom he had so warmly protected, and whose conduct, manners, and temper had procured him friends wherever he was known, nobody could assign with any certainty. Perhaps he had unwittingly trodden on Mayfly's toe, or on a prejudice of her master's-but his general carefulness not to hurt any thing, or offend anybody, rendered either of these conjectures equally impossible;-perhaps he had been found only too amiable by the farmer's other pet-those lessons in languages were dangerous things!-and when Lucy was seen at church with a pale face and red eyes, and when his landlord Squire Hawkins's blood hunter was seen every day at farmer Mayne's door, it became currently reported and confidently believed, that the cause of the quarrel was a love affair between the cousins, which the farmer was determined to break off, in order to bestow his daughter on the young lord of the manor.

'Affairs had been in this posture for about a fortnight, and the old schoolmaster was just dead, when a fire broke out in the rick-yard of Farley Court, and George Owen was apprehended and committed as the incendiary! The astonishment of the neighbourhood was excessive; the rector and half the farmers of the place offered to become bail ; but the offence was not bailable; and the only consolation left for the friends of the unhappy young man, was the knowledge that the trial would speedily come on, and their internal conviction that an acquittal was certain.

As time wore on, however, their confidence diminished. The evidence against him was terribly strong. He had been observed lurking about the rick-yard with a lanthorn in which a light was burning, by a lad in the employ of farmer Mayne, who had gone thither for hay to fodder his cattle, about an hour before the fire broke out. At eleven o'clock the hay-stack was on fire, and at ten Robert Doyle had mentioned to James White, another boy in farmer Mayne's service, that he had seen Mr. George Owen behind the great rick. Farmer Mayne, himself, had met him at half-past ten (as he was returning from B. market) in the lane leading from the rick-yard towards the village, and

B

had observed him throw something he held in his hand into the ditch. Hepton Harris, a constable employed to seek for evidence, had found the next morning a lanthorn, answering to that described by Robert Doyle, in the part of the ditch indicated by farmer Mayne, which Thomas Brown, the village shopkeeper, in whose house Owen slept, identified as having lent to his lodger in the early part of the evening. A silver pencil, given to Owen by the mother of one of his pupils, and bearing his full name on the seal at the end, was found close to where the fire was discovered; and to crown all, the Curate of the village, with whom the young man's talents and character had rendered him a deserved favourite, had, unwillingly, deposed that he had said 'it might be in his power to take a great revenge on farmer Mayne,' or words to that effect: whilst a letter was produced from the accused to the farmer himself, intimating that one day he would be sorry for the oppression which he had exercised towards him and his. These two last facts were much relied upon as evincing malice, and implying a purpose of revenge from the accused towards the prosecutor: yet there were many who thought that the previous circumstances might well account for them, without reference to the present occurrence, and that the conflagration of the ricks and farm-buildings might, under the spirit of the time, (for fires were raging every night in the surrounding villages) be merely a remarkable coincidence. The young man himself simply denied the fact of setting fire to any part of the property or premises; enquired earnestly whether any lives had been lost, and still more earnestly after the health of Miss Lucy; and on finding that she had been confined to her bed by fever and delirium occasioned, as was supposed, by the fright, ever since that unhappy occurrence, relapsed into a gloomy silence, and seemed to feel no concern or interest in the issue of the trial.

His friends, nevertheless, took kind and zealous measures for his defence,-engaged counsel, sifted testimony, and used every possible means, in the assurance of his innocence, to trace out the true incendiary. Nothing, however could be discovered to weaken the strong chain of circumstantial evidence, or to impeach the credit of the witnesses, who, with the exception of the farmer himself, seemed all friendly to the accused, and most distressed at being obliged to bear testimony against him. On the eve of the trial the most zealous of his friends could find no ground of hope, except in the chances of the day; Lucy, for whom alone the prisoner asked, being still confined by severe illness.

The judges arrived, the whole terrible array of the special commission; the introductory ceremonies were gone through; the cause was called on, and the case proceeded with little or no deviation from the evidence already cited. When called upon for his defence, the prisoner again asked if Lucy Mayne were in court? and hearing that she was ill in her father's house, declined entering into any defence whatsoever. Witnesses to character however pressed forward--his old master, the attorney, the rector and curate of the parish, half the farmers of the village, everybody, in short, who ever had an opportunity of knowing him, even his reputed rival, Mr. Hawkins, who, speaking, he said, on the authority of one who knew him well, professed himself confident that he could not be guilty of a bad action-a piece of testimony that seemed to strike and affect the prisoner more than any thing that had passed;evidence to character crowded into court;-but all was of no avail against the strong chain of concurrent facts; and

the judge was preparing to sum up, and the jury looking as if they had condemned, when suddenly a piercing shriek was heard in the court, and pale, tottering, disheveled, Lucy Mayne rushed into her father's arms, and cried out with a shrill despairing voice, that 'she was the only guilty; that she had set fire to the rick; and that if they killed George Owen for her crime, they would be guilty of murder.'

'The general consternation may be imagined, especially that of the farmer, who had left his daughter almost insensible with illness, and still thought her light-headed. Medical assistance, however, was immediately summoned, and it then appeared that what she said was not true; that the lovers, for such they were, had been accustomed to deposit letters in one corner of that unlucky hay-rick; that having seen from her chamber-window George Owen leaving the yard, she had flown with a taper in her hand to secure the expected letter, and, alarmed at her father's voice, had run away so hastily, that she had, as she now remembered, left the lighted taper amidst the hay; that then the fire came, and all was a blank to her, until recovering that morning from the stupor succeeding to delirium, she had heard that George Owen was to be tried for his life for the effect of her carelessness, and had flown to save him she knew not how!'

The sequel may be guessed: George was of course acquitted every body, even the very judge, pleaded for the lovers; the young landlord and generous rival added his good word; and the schoolmaster of Farley and his pretty wife are at this moment one of the best and happiest couples in his Majesty's dominions.

COUNT LAVALETTE'S ESCAPE.

'I listened to her and looked at her in silence. Her manner was calm, and her voice firm. She appeared so convinced of the success of her plan, that it was sometime before I dared to reply. I looked, however, upon the whole as a mad undertaking. I was at last obliged to tell her so; but she interrupted me at the first word by saying: 'I will hear of no objections. I die if you die. Do not therefore reject my plan. I know it will succeed. I feel that God supports me!' 'What will they do,' I said, 'when they discover that I am gone? These brutes, in their blind rage, will they not forget themselves and perhaps strike you?' I was going on, but I soon saw, by the paleness of her countenance and the movements of convulsive impatience that were beginning to agitate her, that I ought to put an end to all objections. I remained silent for a few minutes, at the end of which I continued thus: 'Well, then, I shall do as you please; but if you want to succeed, permit me to make at least one observation. The cabriolet is too far off. I shall be scarcely gone when my flight will be discovered, and I shall most undoubtedly be stopped in the chair, for near an hour is required to go to the Rue des St. Peres. I cannot escape on foot with your clothes.' This reflection seemed to strike her. 'Change,' I added, that part of your plan. The whole of to-morrow is still at our disposal: I promise to do to-morrow all you wish, and in the manner you wish it. This promise made her easy, and we separated.

'At five o'clock Emilie came, accompanied by Josephine. She was dressed in a pelisse of merino, richly lined with fur, which she was accustomed to put on over her light dress on leaving a ball room, She had taken in her reticule a black silk petticoat. This is quite sufficient,' she said, 'to disguise you completely.' She then sent my daughter to the window, and added in a low voice,' At seven o'clock precisely you must be ready; all is well prepared. In going out you will take hold of Josephine's arm. Take care to walk very slowly; and when you cross in the large registering room, you will put on my gloves and cover your face with my handkerchief. I had some thoughts of putting on a veil, but unfortunately I have not been accustomed to wear one when I come here; it is therefore no use to think of it. Take great care, when you pass under the doors, which are very low, not to break the feathers of your bonnet, for then all would be lost. I always find the turnkeys in the registering-room, and the jailor generally hands me to my chair, which constantly stands near the entrance door; but this time it will be in the yard, at the top of the grand staircase. There you will be met after a short time by M. Baudus, who will lead you to the cabriolet, and will acquaint you with the place where you are to remain concealed. Afterwards, let God's will be done, my dear. Do exactly all I tell you. But above all things,' she added, 'let us not give way to our feelings, that would be our ruin.' 'She then called my daughter, and said to her, 'I shall go away this evening at seven o'clock instead of eight; you must walk behind me, because you know that the doors are narrow; but when we enter the long registering room, take care to place yourself on my left hand.

When we are out of the iron gate, and ready to go up the outside staircase, then pass to my right hand, that those impertinent gendarmes of the guard-house may not stare in my face as they always do. Have you understood me well? The child repeated the instructions with wonderful exact

A part of my room was divided off by a screen, and formed a sort of dressing-closet. We stepped behind the screen, and in less than three minutes my toilet was complete. We went back to the room, and Emilie said to her daughter, 'What do you think of your father?' A smile of surprise and incredulity escaped the poor girl. I am serious my dear, what do you think of him?' 'He looks very well,' she answered; and her her head fell again oppressed on her bosom. We all advanced in silence towards the door. I said to Emilie, The jailer comes in every evening after you are gone. Place yourself behind the screen, and make a little noise. He will think it is I, and will go out again. By that means I shall gain a few minutes, which are necessary for me to get away.' 'Adieu!' she said, raising her eyes to heaven. I pressed her arm with my trembling hand, and we exchanged a look. The turnkey was heard, Emilie flew behind the screen; the door opened-I passed first, then my daughter, and lastly Madame Dutoit.

After having crossed the passage, I arrived at the door of the registering room. I was obliged, at the same time to raise my foot and to stoop lest the feathers of my bonnet should catch at the top of the door. I succeeded; but, on raising myself again, I found myself in the large appart

ment, in the presence of five turnkeys, sitting, standing, and coming in my way. I put my handkerchief to my face, and was waiting for my daughter to place herself on my left hand; the child, however, took my right hand, and the jailor coming down the stairs of his apartment, which was on the left hand, came up to me without hindrance, and, putting his hand on my arm, said to me, 'You are going away early, madame.' He appeared much affected, and undoubtedly thought my wife had taken an everlasting leave of her husband. I at last reached the end of the room. A turnkey sits there day and night; this man looked at me without opening his doors. I passed my right hand between the bars, to shew him I wished to go out. He turned, at last, his two keys, and we got out. We had a few steps to ascend to come to the yard; but, at the bottom of the staircase there is a guard-house of Gendearms. About twenty soldiers, headed by their officer, had placed themselves a few paces from me, to see Madame de Lavallette pass.、

At last, I slowly reached the last step, and went into the chair that stood a yard or two distant. But no chairman, no servant was there. My daughter and the old woman remained standing next to the vehicle, with a sentry at six paces from them, immoveable, and his eyes fixed on me. A violent degree of agitation began to mingle with my astonishment. My looks were directed towards the sentry's musket, like those of a serpent towards its prey. It almost seemed to me that I held that musket in my grasp. At the first motion, at the first noise, I was resolved to seize it. I felt as if I possessed the strength of ten men; and I would most certainly have killed whoever had attempted to lay hands on me. This terrible situation lasted about two minutes; but they seemed to me as long as a whole night. At last I heard Bonneville's voice saying to me, 'One of the chairman was not punctual, but I have found another.' At the same instant I felt myself raised. The chair passed through the great court, and on getting out, turned to the right. We proceeded to the Quai des Orfevres, facing the Rue de Harlay. There the chair stopped; and my friend Baudus, offering me his arm, said aloud, 'You know, Madam, you have a visit to pay to the President.' I got out, and he pointed to a cabriolet that stood at some distance in that dark street. I jumped into it, and the driver said to me, 'Give me my whip.' I looked for it in vain ; he had dropped it. 'Never mind,' said my companion. A motion of the reins made the horse start off in a quick trot. In passing by I saw Josephine on the Quai, her hands clasped, and fervently offering up prayers to God. We crossed the Pont St. Michel, the Rue de la Harpe, and we soon reached the Rue de Vaugirard, behind the Odeon theatre. It was not till then that I breathed at ease. In looking at the driver of the cabriolet, how great was my astonishment to recognise Count Chassenon, whom I was very far from expecting to find there. 'What!' I said, 'is it you?' 'Yes, and you have behind you four double-barrelled pistols, well loaded; I hope you will make use of them.' 'No, indeed, I will not compromise you.' 'Then I shall set you the example, and woe to whoever shall attempt to stop your flight,'

MARRIAGE.

"But happy they-the happiest of their kind

Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate

Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend."

THOMPSON.

That the poet is right, there can be no doubt. The matrimonial state, when entered into at the proper time and between suitable parties, is certainly conducive to health and happiness. It is a state for which man is formed, and in entering into which, therefore, he obeys the Organic and moral laws-disobedience to which, as I have shewn, must inevitably be attended with evil of some kind or other.

This opinion, however, is not based on general principles alone, but is supported by statistical researches, the results of which were published a short time ago by Dr. Casper of Berlin, who informs us that Odier, who first set on foot exact enquiries respecting the influence of marriage on longevity, found that, in the case of females, the mean duration of life for the married woman of 25 was above 36 years; while for the unmarried it was about 30%. At 30 there was a difference of four years in favour of the married; and at 33 two years, and so on. With regard to men, we gather from Deparcieux's and the Amsterdam tables, that the mortality of those from 30 to 45 years, is 27 per cent. for the unmarried, while it is but 18 for the married; and that for 41 bachelors who attain the age of 40, there are 78 married men. The difference becomes still more striking as life advances. At the age of 60 there are but 22 unmarried men alive for 48 married; at 70, 11 bachelors for 27 married men; and at 80, for the three bachelors who may chance to be alive, there are nine Benedicts. The same proportion very nearly holds good with respect to the female sex: 72 married women, for example, attain the age of 45, while only 52 unmarried reach the same term of life. M. Casper in conclusion, considers the point as now incontestibly settled, that in both sexes marriage is conducive to longevity.

That the marriage-state is favourable to mental as well as to bodily health, is strongly shewn by the fact noticed in the lecture of M. Andral, from which I have already quoted: viz. that in France two-thirds of the suicides are committed by bachelors; and he adds that the same remark has been made in this country.

But "to make marriages answer the purpose of health, and the other objects to be kept in view in the connubial state, there ought to be a parity of station, a similarity of temper, and no material disproportion in years. It is owing to the want of some of these most essential requisites, that the married state proves so often the source of misery, instead of joy and comfort."

The opinions of physiologists as to the earliest age at which the contraction of marriage in this country is advisable, are various—some fixing it for the male at the age of 21, others at 25, and others even at 23; but most writers on the subject agree in regarding the 18th year of the female as the earliest at which it ought to take place. This, however, is a point which must depend upon a great variety of circumstances; and though marriages entered into while the frame is still rapidly developing are undoubtedly injurious, yet varieties in constitution are so numerous and so

great, that it is impossible to lay down a rule universally applicable. It may, however, be considered as certain, that marriages on the part of males before the age of 21 are hurtful.

If we regard marriages as they affect the offspring, we must take into account many circumstances which do not affect the parties marrying.

It appears to be a law of nature, that frequent intermarriages among a particular family, class, or nation, have a tendency to produce mental and bodily degeneracy; and the more limited the circle to which they are confined, the greater is the degeneracy. This accounts for the fact that the children of cousins, or other near relations, are so often weak in intellect--sometimes even idiotic. It is well known that idiotcy is by no means rare in some of the royal and noble families of Spain and Portugal, among which the practice of marrying nieces and cousins prevails.

The predominant states of mind of the mother during the period of gestation seem to exercise great influence on the character, bodily and mental, of the child. If such be the case, the following advice, given by the Margravine of Anspach in her Memoirs, deserves serious attention:"When a female is likely to become a mother, she ought to be doubly careful of her temper; and, in particular, to indulge no ideas that are not cheerful, and no sentiments that are not kind. Such is the connexion between the mind and body, that the features of the face are commonly moulded into an expression of the internal disposition; and is it not natural to think that an infant, before it is born, may be affected by the temper of its mother?"

I cannot refrain from quoting the following excellent remarks on this subject from Dr. Caldwell's Treatise on Physical Education. "The avoidance by females, while pregnant, of every thing that might injure them, cannot be too strict. Nor is this all. They should take more exercise in the open air than they usually do. The feeling which induces many of them to shut themselves up in their rooms for weeks and months before parturition, is an excess of delicacy—were the term less exceptionable, I would say false delicacy and ought not to be indulged. Their food should be wholesome, nourishing, and easy of digestion, and should be taken in quantities sufficient to give them their entire strength, and maintain all their functions in full vigour. Their minds ought to be kept in a state of tranquillity. In a particular manner, the effects of frightful appearances, alarming accidents, and agitating and impassioned tales and narratives, should be carefully guarded against by them. The blighting operation of the reign of terror,' in Paris, on the children born during that period, furnishes fearful evidence of the influence of the distracted and horrified condition of the mother over the system of the unborn infant. An unusual number of them was stillborn. Of those who were not so, a number equally uncommon died at an early age; and of those who attained adult life, an unusual proportion were subject to epilepsy, madness or some other form of cerebral disease."

The late Dr. Curtis, who practised as an accoucheur for upwards of fifty years, used to assert, that if females when pregnant would move about and take exercise in the open air, instead of lounging upon sofas, 99 births out of 100 would be natural, and deformities would rarely occur.Such was also the opinion of his grandfather, Mr. John Curtis, who followed the same profession.

The transmission of mental qualities may still be somewhat