Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 331, May, 1843

For example, in the spring of 1837, Mr Young marked a great quantity of descending smolts, by making a perforation in their caudal fins with a small pair of nipping-irons constructed for the purpose, and in the ensuing months of June and July he recaptured a considerable number on their return to the rivers, all in the condition of grilse, and varying from 3lbs. to 8lbs., "according to the time which had elapsed since their first departure from the fresh water, or, in other words, the length of their sojourn in the sea." In the spring of 1842, he likewise marked a number of descending smolts, by clipping off what is called the adipose fin upon the back. In the course of the ensuing June and July, he caught them returning up the river, bearing his peculiar mark, and agreeing with those of 1837 both in respect to size, and the relation which that size bore to the lapse of time.

The following list from Mr Young's note-book, affords a few examples of the rate of growth:—

List of Smolts marked in the River, and recaptured as Grilse on their first ascent from the Sea.

These two specimens are now preserved in the Museum of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.

We may now proceed to consider the final change,—that of the grilse into the adult salmon. We have just seen that smolts return to the rivers as grilse, (of the weights above noted,) during the summer and autumn of the same season in which they had descended for the first time to the sea. Such as seek the rivers in the earlier part of summer are of small size, because they have sojourned for but a short time in the sea:—such as abide in the sea till autumn, attain of course a larger size. But it appears to be an established, though till now an unknown fact, that with the exception of the early state of parr, in which the growth has been shown to be extremely slow, salmon actually never do grow in fresh water at all, either as grilse or in the adult state. All their growth in these two most important later stages, takes place during their sojourn in the sea. "Not only," says Mr Young, "is this the case, but I have also ascertained that they actually decrease in dimensions after entering the river, and that the higher they ascend the more they deteriorate both in weight and quality. In corroboration of this I may refer to the extensive fisheries of the Duke of Sutherland, where the fish of each station of the same river are kept distinct from those of another station, and where we have had ample proof that salmon habitually decrease in weight in proportion to their time and distance from the sea."[18 - The existence in the rivers during spring, of grilse which have spawned, and which weigh only three or four pounds, is itself a conclusive proof of this retardation of growth in fresh water. These fish had run, as anglers say—that is, had entered the rivers about midsummer of the preceding year—and yet had made no progress. Had they remained in the sea till autumn, their size on entering the fresh waters would have been much greater; or had they spawned early in winter, and descended speedily to the sea, they might have returned again to the river in spring as small salmon, while their more sluggish brethren of the same age were still in the streams under the form of grilse. All their growth, then, seems to take place during their sojourn in the sea, usually from eight to twelve weeks. The length of time spent in the salt waters, by grilse and salmon which have spawned, corresponds nearly to the time during which smolts remain in these waters; the former two returning as clean salmon, the last-named making their first appearance in our rivers as grilse.]

Mr Young commenced marking grilses, with a view to ascertain that they became salmon, as far back as 1837, and has continued to do so ever since, though never two seasons with the same mark. We shall here record only the results of the two preceding years. In the spring of 1841, he marked a number of spawned grilse soon after the conclusion of the spawning period. Taking his "net and coble," he fished the river for the special purpose, and all the spawned grilse of 4 lb. weight were marked by putting a peculiarly twisted piece of wire through the dorsal fin. They were immediately thrown into the river, and of course disappeared, making their way downwards with other spawned fish towards the sea. "In the course of the next summer we again caught several of those fish which we had thus marked with wire as 4 lb. grilse, grown in the short period of four or five months into beautiful full-formed salmon, ranging from 9 lb. to 14 lb. in weight, the difference still depending on the length of their sojourn in the sea."

In January 1842, he repeated the same process of marking 4 lb. grilse which had spawned, and were therefore about to seek the sea; but, instead of placing the wire in the back fin, he this year fixed it in the upper lobe of the tail, or caudal fin. On their return from the sea, he caught many of these quondam grilse converted into salmon as before. The following lists will serve to illustrate the rate of growth:—

List of Grilse marked after having spawned, and re-captured as Salmon, on their second ascent from the Sea.

These two specimens, with their wire marks in situ, may now be seen in the Museum of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.

During both these seasons, Mr Young informs us, he caught far more marked grilse returning with the form and attributes of perfect salmon, than are recorded in the preceding lists. "In many specimens the wires had been torn from the fins, either by the action of the nets or other casualties; and, although I could myself recognise distinctly that they were the fish I had marked, I kept no note of them. All those recorded in my lists returned and were captured with the twisted wires complete, the same as the specimens transmitted for your examination."

We agree with Mr Young in thinking that the preceding facts, viewed in connexion with Mr Shaw's prior observations, entitle us to say, that we are now well acquainted with the history and habits of the salmon, and its usual rate of growth from the ovum to the adult state. The young are hatched after a period which admits of considerable range, according to the temperature of the season, or the modifying character of special localities.[19 - Mr Shaw, for example, states the following various periods as those which he found to elapse between the deposition of the ova and the hatching of the fry—90, 101, 108, and 131 days. In the last instance, the average temperature of the river for eight weeks, had not exceeded 33°.] They usually burst the capsule of the egg in 90 to 100 days after deposition, but they still continue for a considerable time beneath the gravel, with the yelk or vitelline portion of the egg adhering to the body; and from this appendage, which Mr Shaw likens to a red currant, they probably derive their sole nourishment for several weeks. But though the lapse of 140 or even 150 days from the period of deposition is frequently required to perfect the form of these little fishes, which even then measure scarcely more than an inch in length, their subsequent growth is still extremely slow; and the silvery aspect of the smolt is seldom assumed till after the expiry of a couple of years. The great mass of these smolts descend to the sea during the months of April and May,—the varying range of the spawning and hatching season carrying with it a somewhat corresponding range in the assumption of the first signal change, and the consequent movement to the sea. They return under the greatly enlarged form of grilse, as already stated, and these grilse spawn that same season in common with the salmon, and then both the one and the other re-descend into the sea in the course of the winter or ensuing spring. They all return again to the rivers sooner or later, in accordance, as we believe, with the time they had previously left it after spawning, early or late. The grilse have now become salmon by the time of their second ascent from the sea; and no further change takes place in their character or attributes, except that such as survive the snares of the fishermen, the wily chambers of the cruives, the angler's gaudy hook, or the poacher's spear, continue to increase in size from year to year. Such, however, is now the perfection of our fisheries, and the facilities for conveying this princely species even from our northern rivers, and the "distant islands of the sea," to the luxurious cities of more populous districts, that we greatly doubt if any salmon ever attains a good old age, or is allowed to die a natural death. We are not possessed of sufficient data from which to judge either of their natural term of life, or of their ultimate increase of size. They are occasionally, though rarely, killed in Britain of the weight of forty and even fifty pounds. In the comparatively unfished rivers of Scandinavia large salmon are much more frequent, although the largest we ever heard of was an English fish which came into the possession of Mr Groves, of Bond Street. It was a female, and weighed eighty-three pounds. In the year 1841, Mr Young marked a few spawned salmon along with his grilse, employing as a distinctive mark copper wire instead of brass. One of these, weighing twelve pounds, was marked on the 4th of March, and was recaptured on returning from the sea on the 10th of July, weighing eighteen pounds. But as we know not whether it made its way to the sea immediately after being marked, we cannot accurately infer the rate of increase. It probably becomes slower every year, after the assumption of the adult state. Why the salmon of one river should greatly exceed the average weight of those of another into which it flows, is a problem which we cannot solve. The fact, for example, of the river Shin flowing from a large lake, with a course of only a few miles, into the Oykel, although it accounts for its being an early river, owing to the receptive depth, and consequently higher temperature of its great nursing mother, Loch Shin, in no way, so far at least as we can see, explains the great size of the Shin fish, which are taken in scores of twenty pounds' weight. They have little or nothing to do with the loch itself, haunting habitually the brawling stream, and spawning in the shallower fords, at some distance up, but still below the great basin;[20 - If we are rightly informed, salmon were not in the habit of spawning in the rivulets which run into Loch Shin, till under the direction of Lord Francis Egerton some full-grown fish were carried there previous to the breeding season. These spawned; and their produce, as was to be expected, after descending to the sea, returned in due course, and, making their way through the loch, ascended their native tributaries.] and there are no physical peculiarities which in any way distinguish the Shin from many other lake born northern rivers, where salmon do not average half the size.

Leaving the country of the Morer Chatt (the Celtic title of the Earls of Sutherland) we shall now return to the retainer of the "bold Buccleuch." We have already mentioned that Mr Shaw, having so successfully illustrated the early history of salmon, next turned his attention to a cognate subject, that of the sea-trout (Salmo-trutta?) Although no positive observations of any value, anterior to those now before us, had been made upon this species, it is obvious that as soon as his discoveries regarding salmon fry had afforded, as it were, the key to this portion of nature's secrets, it was easy for any one to infer that the old notions regarding the former fish were equally erroneous. Various modifications of these views took place accordingly; but no one ascertained the truth by observation. Mr Shaw was, therefore, entitled to proceed as if the matter were solely in his own hands; and he makes no mention either of the "vain imaginations" of Dr Knox, the more careful compilation of Mr Yarrell, or the still closer, but by no means approximate calculations of Richard Parnell, M.D. In this he has acted wisely, seeing that his own essay professes to be simply a statement of facts, and not an historical exposition of the progress of error.

It would, indeed, have been singular if two species, in many respects so closely allied in their general structure any economy, had been found to differ very materially in any essential point. It now appears, however, that Mr Shaw's original discovery of the slow growth of salmon fry in fresh water, applies equally to sea trout; and, indeed, his observations on the latter are valuable not only in themselves, but as confirmatory of his remarks upon the former species. The same principle has been found to regulate the growth and migrations of both, and Mr Shaw's two contributions thus mutually strengthen and support each other.

The sea trout is well known to anglers as one of the liveliest of all the fishes subject to his lure. Two species are supposed by naturalists to haunt our rivers—Salmo eriox, the bull trout of the Tweed, comparatively rare on the western and northern coasts of Scotland, and Salmo trutta, commonly called the sea or white trout, but, like the other species, also known under a variety of provincial names, somewhat vaguely applied. In its various and progressive stages, it passes under the names of fry, smolt, orange-fin, phinock, herling, whitling, sea-trout, and salmon-trout. It is likewise the "Fordwich trout" of Izaak Walton, described by that poetical old piscator as "rare good meat." As an article of diet it indeed ranks next to the salmon, and is much superior in that respect to its near relation, S. eriox. It is taken in the more seaward pools of our northern rivers, sometimes in several hundreds at a single haul; and vast quantities, after being boiled, and hermetically sealed in tin cases, are extensively consumed both in our home and foreign markets. But, notwithstanding its great commercial value, naturalists have failed to present us with any accurate account of its consecutive history from the ovum to the adult state. This desideratum we are now enabled to supply through Mr Shaw.

On the 1st of November 1839, this ingenious observer perceived a pair of sea-trouts engaged together in depositing their spawn among the gravel of one of the tributaries of the river Nith, and being unprovided at the moment with any apparatus for their capture, he had recourse to his fowling-piece. Watching the moment when they lay parallel to each other, he fired across the heads of the devoted pair, and immediately secured them both, although, as it afterwards appeared, rather by the influence of concussion than the more immediate action of the shot. They were about six inches under water. Having obtained a sufficient supply of the impregnated spawn, he removed it in a bag of wire gauze to his experimental ponds. At this period the temperature of the water was about 47°, but in the course of the winter it ranged a few degrees lower. By the fortieth day the embryo fish were visible to the naked eye, and, on the 14th January, (seventy-five days after deposition,) the fry were excluded from the egg. At this early period, the brood exhibit no perceptible difference from that of the salmon, except that they are somewhat smaller, and of paler hue. In two months they were an inch long, and had then assumed those lateral markings so characteristic of the young of all the known Salmonidæ. They increased in size slowly, measuring only three inches in length by the month of October, at which time they were nine months old. In January 1841, they had increased to three and a half inches, exhibiting a somewhat defective condition during the winter months, in one or more of which, Mr Shaw seems to think, they scarcely grow at all. We need not here go through the entire detail of these experiments.[21 - A complete series of specimens, from the day of hatching till about the middle of the sixth year, has been deposited by Mr Shaw in the Museum of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.] In October (twenty-one months) they measured six inches in length, and had lost those lateral bars, or transverse markings, which characterise the general family in their early state. At this period they greatly resembled certain varieties of the common river-trout, and the males had now attained the age of sexual completion, although none of the females had matured the roe. This physiological fact is also observable in the true salmon. In the month of May, three-fourths of the brood (being now upwards of two years old, and seven inches long) assumed the fine clear silvery lustre which characterises the migratory condition, being thus converted into smolts, closely resembling those of salmon in their general aspect, although easily to be distinguished by the orange tips of the pectoral fins, and other characters with which we shall not here afflict our readers.

The natural economy of the sea-trout thus far approximates that of the genuine salmon, but with the following exception. Mr Shaw is of opinion that about one-fourth of each brood never assume the silvery lustre; and, as they are never seen to migrate in a dusky state towards the sea, he infers that a certain portion of the species may be permanent residents in fresh water.[22 - Mr Shaw informs us, moreover, that if those individuals which have assumed the silvery lustre be forcibly detained for a month or two in fresh water, they will resume the coloured coating which they formerly bore. The captive females, he adds, manifested symptoms of being in a breeding state by the beginning of the autumn of their third year. They were, in truth, at this time as old as herlings, though not of corresponding size, owing to the entire absence of marine agency.] In this respect, then, they resemble the river-trout, and afford an example of those numerous gradations, both of form and instinct, which compose the harmonious chain of nature's perfect kingdom. In support of this power of adaptation to fresh water possessed by sea-trout, Mr Shaw refers to a statement by the late Dr McCulloch, that these fish had become permanent inhabitants of a loch in the island of Lismore, Argyllshire. Similar facts have been recorded by other naturalists, though, upon the whole, in a somewhat vague and inconclusive manner. We have it in our power to mention a very marked example. When certain springs were conducted, about twenty years ago, from the slopes of the Pentland Hills, near Edinburgh, into that city, which Dr Johnson regarded as by no means abundantly supplied with the "pure element of water," it was necessary to compensate the mill-owners by another supply. Accordingly a valley, (the supposed scene of Allan Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd,") through which there flowed a small stream, had a great embankment thrown across it. After this operation, of course the waters of the upper portion of the stream speedily rose to a level with the sluices, thus forming a small lake, commonly called the "Compensation Pond." The flow of water now escapes by throwing itself over the outer side of the embankment, which is lofty and precipitous, in the form of a cataract, up which no fish can possibly ascend. Yet in the pond itself we have recently ascertained the existence of sea-trout in a healthy state, although such as we have examined, being young, were of small size. These attributes, however, were all the more important as proving the breeding condition of the parents in a state of prolonged captivity. It is obvious that sea-trout must have made their way (in fulfilment of their natural migratory instinct) into the higher portions of the stream prior to the completion of the obstructing dam; and as none could have ascended since, it follows that the individuals in question (themselves and their descendants) must have lived and bred in fresh water, without access to the sea, for a continuous period of nearly twenty years. This is not only a curious fact in the natural history of the species, but it is one of some importance in an economical point of view. Sea-trout, as an article of diet, are much more valuable than river-trout; and if it can be ascertained that they breed freely, and live healthily, without the necessity of access to the sea, it would then become the duty, as it would doubtless be the desire, of those engaged in the construction of artificial ponds, to stock those receptacles rather with the former than the latter.[23 - Another interesting result may be noticed in connexion with this Compensation Pond. The original streamlet, like most others, was naturally stocked with small "burn-trout," which never exceeded a few ounces in weight, as their ultimate term of growth. But, in consequence of the formation above referred to, and the great increase of their productive feeding-ground, and tranquil places for repose and play, these tiny creatures have, in some instances, attained to an enormous size. We lately examined one which weighed six pounds. It was not a sea-trout, but a common fresh-water one—Salmo fario. This strongly exemplifies the conformable nature of fishes; that is, their power of adaptation to a change of external circumstances. It is as if a small Shetland pony, by being turned into a clover field, could be expanded into the gigantic dimensions of a brewer's horse.]

Having narrated the result of Mr Shaw's experiment up to the migratory state of his brood, we shall now refer to the further progress of the species. This, of course, we can only do by turning our attention to the corresponding condition of the fry in their natural places in the river. So far back as the 9th of May 1836, our observer noticed salmon fry descending seawards, and he took occasion to capture a considerable number by admitting them into the salmon cruive. On examination, he found about one-fifth of each shoal to be what he considered sea-trout. Wisely regarding this as a favourable opportunity of ascertaining to what extent they would afterwards "suffer a sea change," he marked all the smolts of that species (about ninety in number) by cutting off the whole of the adipose fin, and three-quarters of the dorsal. At a distance, by the course of the river, of twenty-five miles from the sea, he was not sanguine of recapturing many of these individuals, and in this expectation he was not agreeably surprised by any better success than he expected. However, on the 16th of July, exactly eighty days afterwards, he recaptured as a herling (the next progressive stage) an individual bearing the marks he had inflicted on the young sea-trout in the previous May. It measured twelve inches in length, and weighed ten ounces. As the average weight of the migrating fry is about three and a half ounces, it had thus gained an increase of six and a half ounces in about eighty days' residence in salt water, supposing it to have descended to the sea immediately after its markings were imposed. In this condition of herlings or phinocks, young sea-trout enter many of our rivers in great abundance in the months of July and August.

On the 1st of August 1837—fifteen months after being marked as fry, on its way to the sea—another individual was caught, and recognised by the absence of one fin, and the curtailment of another. This specimen, as well as others, had no doubt returned, and escaped detection as a herling, in 1836; but it was born for greater things, and when captured, as above stated, weighed two pounds and a half. "He may be supposed," says Mr Shaw, "to represent pretty correctly the average size of sea-trout on their second migration from the sea." In this state they usually make their appearance in our rivers, (we refer at present particularly to those of Scotland,) in greatest abundance in the months of May and June. This view of the progress of the species clearly accounts for a fact well known to anglers, that in spring and the commencement of summer, larger sea-trout are caught than in July and August, which would not be the case if they were all fish of the same season. But the former are herlings which have descended, after spawning early, to the sea, and returned with the increase just mentioned; the latter were nothing more than smolts in May, and have only once enjoyed the benefit of sea bathing. They are a year younger than the others.

As herlings (sea-trout in their third year) abounded in the river Nith during the summer of 1834, Mr Shaw marked a great number (524) by cutting off the adipose fin. "During the following summer (1835) I recaptured sixty-eight of the above number as sea-trout, weighing on an average about two and a half pounds. On these I put a second distinct mark, and again returned them to the river, and on the next ensuing summer (1836) I recaptured a portion of them, about one in twenty, averaging a weight of four pounds. I now marked them distinctively for the third time, and once more returned them to the river, also for the third time. On the following season (23d day of August 1837) I recaptured the individual now exhibited, for the fourth time.[24 - The specimen is preserved in the Museum of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.] It then weighed six pounds." This is indeed an eventful history, and we question if any Salmo trutta ever before felt himself so often out of his element. However, the individual referred to must undoubtedly be regarded as extremely interesting to the naturalist. It exhibits, at a single glance, the various marks put upon itself and its companions, as they were successively recaptured, from year to year, on their return to the river—viz. 1st, The absence of the adipose fin, (herling of ten or twelve ounces in 1834;) 2dly, One-third part of the dorsal fin removed, (sea-trout of two and a half pounds in 1835;) 3dly, A portion of the anal fin clipt off (large sea-trout of four pounds in 1836). In the 4th and last place, it shows, in its own proper person, as leader of the forlorn hope of 1837, the state in which it was finally captured and killed, of the weight of six pounds. It was then in its sixth year, and, representing the adult condition of this migratory species, we think it renders further investigation unnecessary.

From these and other experiments of a similar nature, which Mr Shaw has been conducting for many years, he has come to the conclusion, that the small fry called "Orange-fins," which are found journeying to the sea with smolts of the true salmon, are the young of sea-trout of the age of two years;—that the same individuals, after nine or ten weeks' sojourn in salt water, ascend the rivers as herlings, weighing ten or twelve ounces and on the approach of autumn pass into our smaller tributaries with a view to the continuance of their kind;—that, having spawned, they re-descend into the sea, where their increase of size (about one and a half pound per annum) is almost totally obtained;—and that they return annually, with an accession of size, for several seasons, to the rivers in which their parents gave them birth. In proof of this last point, Mr Shaw informs us, that of the many hundred sea-trout of different ages which he has marked in various modes, he is not aware that even a single individual has ever found its way into any tributary of the Solway, saving that of the river Nith.

CALEB STUKELY

PART THE LAST

TRANQUILITY

The sudden and unlooked-for appearance of James Temple threw light upon a mystery. Further explanation awaited me in the house from which the unfortunate man had rushed to meet instant death and all its consequences. It will be remembered that, in the narrative of his victim, mention is made of one Mrs Wybrow, with whom the poor girl, upon the loss of her father and of all means of support, obtained a temporary home. It appeared that Fredrick Harrington, a few months after his flight, returned secretly to the village, and, at the house of that benevolent woman, made earnest application for his sister. He was then excited and half insane, speaking extravagantly of his views and his intentions in respect of her he came to take away. "She should be a duchess," he said, "and must take precedence of every lady in the land. He was a king himself and could command it so. He could perform wonders, if he chose to use the power with which he was invested; but he would wait until his sister might reap the benefit of his acquired wealth." In this strain he continued, alarming the placid Mrs Wybrow, who knew not what to do to moderate the wildness and the vehemence of his demeanour. Hoping, however, to appease him, she told him of the good fortune of his sister—how she had obtained a happy home, and how grateful he ought to be to Providence for its kind care of her. Much more she said, only to increase the anger of the man, whose insane pride was roused to fury the moment that he heard his sister was doomed to eat the bread of a dependent. He disdained the assistance of Mrs Temple—swore it was an artifice, a cheat, and that he would drag her from the net into which they had enticed her. When afterwards he learned that it was through the mediation of James Temple that his sister had been provided for, the truth burst instantly upon him, and he foresaw at once all that actually took place. He vowed that he would become himself the avenger of his sister, and that he would not let her betrayer sleep until he had wrung from him deep atonement for his crime. It was in vain that Mrs Wybrow sought to convince him of his delusion. He would not be advised—he would not listen—he would not linger another moment in the house, but quitted it, wrought to the highest pitch of rage, and speaking only of vengeance on the seducer. He set out for London. Mrs Wybrow, agitated more than she had been at any time since her birth, and herself almost deprived of reason by her fears for the safety of Miss Harrington, James Temple, and the furious lunatic himself, wrote immediately to Emma, then resident in Cambridge, explaining the sad condition of her brother, and warning her of his approach—Emma having already (without acquainting Mrs Wybrow with her fallen state) forwarded her address, with a strict injunction to her humble friend to convey to her all information of her absent brother which she could possibly obtain. The threatened danger was communicated to the lover—darkened his days for a time with anxiety and dread, but ceased as time wore on, and as no visitant appeared to affect the easy tenor of his immoral life. The reader will not have forgotten, perhaps, that when for the first time I beheld James Temple, he was accompanied by an elder brother. It was from the latter, his friend and confidant, that the above particulars, and those which follow in respect of the deceased, were gathered. The house in which, for a second time, I encountered my ancient college friends, was their uncle's. Parents they had none. Of father and of mother both they had been deprived in infancy; and, from that period, their home had been with their relative and guardian. The conduct of one charge, at least, had been from boyhood such as to cause the greatest pain to him who had assumed a parent's cares. Hypocrisy, sensuality, and—for his years and social station—unparalleled dishonesty, had characterised James Temple's short career. By some inexplicable tortuosity of mind, with every natural endowment, with every acquired advantage, graced with the borrowed as well as native ornaments of humanity, he found no joy in his inheritance, but sacrificed it all, and crawled through life a gross and earthy man. The seduction of Emma, young as he was when he committed that offence, was, by many, not the first crime for which—not, thank Heaven! without some preparation for his trial—he was called suddenly to answer. As a boy, he had grown aged is vice. It has been stated that he quitted the university the very instant he disencumbered himself of the girl whom he had sacrificed. He crept to the metropolis, and for a time there hid himself. But it was there that he was discovered by Frederick Harrington, who had pursued the destroyer with a perseverance that was indomitable, and scoffed at disappointment. How the lunatic existed no one knew; how he steered clear of transgression and restraint was equally difficult to explain. It was evident enough that he made himself acquainted with the haunts of his former schoolfellow; and, in one of them, he rushed furiously and unexpectedly upon him, affrighting his intended victim, but failing in his purpose of vengeance by the very impetuosity of his assault. Temple escaped. Then it was that the latter, shaken by fear, revealed to his brother the rise of progress of his intimacy with the discarded girl, and, in his extremity, called upon him for advice and help. He could afford him none; and the seducer found himself in the world without an hour's happiness or quiet. What quails so readily as the heartiest soul of the sensualist? Who so cowardly as the man only courageous in his oppression of the weak? The spirit of Temple was laid prostrate. He walked, and eat, and slept, in base and dastard fear. Locks and bolts could not secure him from dismal apprehensions. A sound shook him, as the unseen wind makes the tall poplar shudder—a voice struck terror in his ear, and sickness to recreant heart. He could not be alone—for alarm was heightened by the speaking conscience that pronounced it just. He journeyed from place to place, his brother ever at his side, and the shadow of the avenger ever stalking in the rear, and impelling the weary wanderer still onward. The health of the sufferer gave way. To preserve his life, he was ordered to the south-western coast. His faithful brother was his companion still. He had not received a week's benefit from the mild and grateful climate—he was scarcely settled in the tranquil village in which they had fixed their residence, before the old terror was made manifest, and hunted the unhappy man away. Whilst sitting at his window, and gazing with something of delight upon the broad and smooth blue sea—for who can look, criminal though he be, upon that glorious sheet in summer time, when the sky is bright with beauty, and the golden sun is high, and not lose somewhat of the heavy sense of guilt—not glow, it may be, with returning gush of childhood's innocence, long absent, and coming now only to reproach and then depart?—whilst sitting there and thus, the sick man's notice was invited to a crowd of yelling boys, who had amongst them one, the tallest of their number, whom they dragged along for punishment or sport. He was an idiot. Who he was none knew so well as the pale man that looked upon him, who could not drag his eye away, so lost was it in wonder, so transfixed with horror. The invalid remained no longer there. Fast as horses could convey him, he journeyed homeward; and, in the bosom of his natural protectors, he sought for peace he could not gain elsewhere. Here he remained, the slave of fear, the conscience-stricken, diseased in body—almost spent; and here he would have died, had not Providence directed the impotent mind of the imbecile to the spot, and willed it otherwise. I have narrated, as shortly as I might, the history of my earliest college friend, as I received it from his brother's lips. There remain but a few words to say—the pleasantest that I have had to speak of him James Temple did not die a hardened man. If there be truth in tears, in prayers of penitence that fall from him who stand upon the borders of eternity—who can gain nothing by hypocrisy, and may lose by it the priceless treasure of an immortal soul—if serenity and joy are signs of a repentance spoken, a forgiveness felt, then Heaven had assuredly been merciful with the culprit, and had remitted his offences, as Heaven can, and will, remit the vilest.

I remained in the village of Belton until I saw all that remained of the schoolfellows deposited in the earth. Their bodies had been easily obtained—that of the idiot, indeed, before life had quitted it. The evening that followed their burial, I passed with William Temple. Many a sad reminiscence occurred to him which he communicated to me without reserve, many a wanton act of coarse licentiousness, many a warning unheeded, laughed at, spurned. It is a mournful pleasure for the mind, as it dwells upon the doings of the departed, to build up its own theories, and to work out a history of what might have been in happier circumstances—a useless history of ifs. "If my brother had been looked to when he was young," said William Temple more than once, "he would have turned out differently. My uncle spoiled him. As a child, he was never corrected. If he wished for a toy, he had but to scream for it. If, at school, he had been fortunate enough to contract his friendships with young men of worth and character, their example would have won him to rectitude, for he was always a lad easily led." And again, "If he had but listened to the advice which, when it would have served him, I did not fail daily and hourly to offer him, he might have lived for years, and been respected—for many know, I lost no opportunity to draw him from his course of error." Alas! how vain, how idle was this talk—how little it could help the clod that was already crumbling in the earth—the soul already at the judgment-seat; yet with untiring earnestness the brother persisted in this strain, and with every new hypothesis found fresh satisfaction. There was more reason for gratification when, at the close of the evening, the surviving relative turned from his barren discourse and referred to the last days of the deceased. There was comfort and consolation to the living in the evidences which he produced of his most blessed change. It was a joy to me to hear of his repentance, and to listen to the terms in which he made it known. I did not easily forget them. I journeyed homeward. When I arrived at the house of Doctor Mayhew, I was surprised to find how little I could remember of the country over which I had travelled. The scenes through which I had passed were forgotten—had not been noticed. Absorbed by the thoughts which possessed my brain, I had suffered myself to be carried forward, conscious of nothing but the waking dreams. I was prepared, however, to see my friend. Still influenced by the latent hope of meeting once more with Miss Fairman, still believing in the happy issue of my love, I had resolved to keep my own connexion with the idiot as secret as the grave. There was no reason why I should betray myself. His fate was independent of my act—my conduct formed no link in the chain which must be presented to make the history clear: and shame would have withheld the gratuitous confession, had not the ever present, never-dying promise forbade the disclosure of one convicting syllable. As may be supposed, the surprise of Doctor Mayhew, upon hearing the narrative, was no less than the regret which he experienced at the violent death of the poor creature in whom he had taken so kind and deep an interest. But a few days sufficed to sustain his concern for one who had come to him a stranger, and whom he had known so short a time. The pursuits and cares of life gradually withdrew the incident from his mind, and all thoughts of the idiot. He ceased to speak of him. To me, the last scene of his life was present for many a year. I could not remove it. By day and night it came before my eyes, without one effort on my part to invoke it. It has started up, suddenly and mysteriously, in the midst of enjoyment and serene delight, to mingle bitterness in the cup of earthly bliss. It has come in the season of sorrow to heighten the distress. Amongst men, and in the din of business, the vision has intruded, and in solitude it has followed me to throw its shadows across the bright green fields, beautiful in their freshness. Night after night—I cannot count their number—it has been the form and substance of my dreams, and I have gone to rest—yes, for months—with the sure and natural expectation of beholding the melancholy repetition of an act which I would have given any thing, and all I had, to forget and drive away for ever.

A week passed pleasantly with my host. I spoke of departure at the end of it. He smiled when I did so, bade me hold my tongue and be patient. I suffered another week to glide away, and then hinted once more that I had trespassed long enough upon his hospitality. The doctor placed his hand upon my arm, and answered quickly, "all in good time—do not hurry." His tone and manner confirmed, I know not why, the strong hope within me, and his words passed with meaning to my heart. I already built upon the aerial foundation, and looked forward with joyous confidence and expectation. The arguments and shows of truth are few that love requires. The poorest logic is the soundest reasoning—if it conclude for him. The visits to the parsonage were, meanwhile, continued. Upon my return, I gained no news. I asked if all were well there, and the simple, monosyllable, "Yes," answered with unusual quickness and decision, was all that escaped the doctor's lips. He did not wish to be interrogated further, and was displeased. I perceived this and was silent. For some days, no mention was made of his dear friend the minister. He was accustomed to speak often of that man, and most affectionately. What was the inference? A breach had taken place. If I entertained the idea for a day, it was dissipated on the next; for the doctor, a week having elapsed since his last visit, rode over to the parsonage as usual, remained there some hours, and returned in his best and gayest spirits. He spoke of the Fairmans during the evening with the same kind feeling and good-humour that had always accompanied his allusions to them and their proceedings, and grew at length eloquent in the praises of them both. The increasing beauty of the young mistress, he said, was marvellous. "Ah," he added slyly, and with more truth, perhaps, than he suspected, "it would have done your eyes good to-day, only to have got one peep at her." I sighed, and he tantalized me further. He pretended to pity me for the inconsiderate haste with which I had thrown up my employment, and to condole with me for all I had lost in consequence. "As for himself," he said, "he had, upon further consideration, given up all thought of marriage for the present. He should live a little longer and grow wiser; but it was not a pleasant thing, by any means, to see so sweet a girl taken coolly off by a young fellow, who, if all he heard was true, was very likely to have an early opportunity." I sighed again, and asked permission to retire to rest; but my tormentor did not grant it, until he had spoken for half an hour longer, when he dismissed me in a state of misery incompatible with rest, in bed, or out of it. My heart was bursting when I left him. He could not fail to mark it. To my surprise, he made another excursion to the parsonage on the following day; and, as before, he joined me in the evening with nothing on his lips but commendation of the young lady whom he had seen, and complaint at the cruel act which was about to rob them of their treasure; for he said, regardless of my presence or the desperate state of my feelings, "that the matter was now all but settled. Fairman had made up his mind, and was ready to give his consent the very moment the young fellow was bold enough to ask it. And lucky dog he is too," added the kind physician, by way of a conclusion, "for little puss herself is over head and ears in love with him, or else I never made a right prognosis."

"I am much obliged to you, sir," I answered, when Doctor Mayhew paused; "very grateful for your hospitality. If you please, I will depart to-morrow. I trust you will ask me to remain no longer. I cannot do so. My business in London"——

"Oh, very well! but that can wait, you know," replied the doctor, interrupting me. "I can't spare you to-morrow. I have asked a friend to dinner, and you must meet him."

"Do not think me ungrateful, doctor," I answered; "but positively I must and will depart to-morrow. I cannot stay."

"Nonsense, man, you shall. Come, say you will, and I engage, if your intention holds, to release you as early as you like the next day. I have promised my friend that you will give him the meeting, and you must not refuse me. Let me have my way to-morrow, and you shall be your own master afterwards."

"Upon such terms, sir," I answered immediately, "it would he unpardonable if I persisted. You shall command me; on the following day, I will seek my fortunes in the world again."

"Just so," replied the doctor, and so we separated.

The character of Dr Mayhew was little known to me. His goodness of heart I had reason to be acquainted with, but his long established love of jesting, his intense appreciation of a joke, practical or otherwise, I had yet to learn. In few men are united, as happily as they were in him, a steady application to the business of the world, and an almost unrestrained indulgence in its harmless pleasantries. The grave doctor was a boy at his fireside. I spent my last day in preparing for my removal, and in rambling for some hours amongst the hills, with which I had become too familiar to separate without a pang. Long was our leave-taking. I lingered and hovered from nook to nook, until I had expended the latest moment which it was mine to give. With a burdened spirit I returned to the house, as my thoughts shifted to the less pleasing prospect afforded by my new position. I shuddered to think of London, and the fresh vicissitudes that awaited me.

It wanted but a few minutes to dinner when I stepped into the drawing-room. The doctor had just reached home, after being absent on professional duty since the morning. The visitor had already arrived; I had heard his knock whilst I was dressing. Having lost all interest in the doings of the place, I had not even cared to enquire his name. What was it to me? What difference could the chance visitor of a night make to me, who was on the eve of exile? None. I walked despondingly into the room, and advanced with distant civility towards the stranger. His face was from me, but he turned instantly upon hearing my step, and I beheld——Mr Fairman. I could scarcely trust my eyes. I started, and retreated. My reverend friend, however, betrayed neither surprise nor discomposure. He smiled kindly, held out his hand, and spoke as he was wont in the days of cordiality and confidence. What did it mean?

"It is a lovely afternoon, Stukely," began the minister, "worthy of the ripe summer in which it is born."

"It is, sir," I replied; "but I shall see no more of them," I added instantly, anxious to assure him that I was not lurking with sinister design so near the parsonage—that I was on the eve of flight. "I quit our friend to-morrow, and must travel many miles away."

"You will come to us, Caleb," answered Mr Fairman mildly.

"Sir!" said I, doubting if I heard aright.

"Has Dr Mayhew said nothing then?" he asked.

I trembled in every limb.

"Nothing, sir," I answered. "Oh, yes! I recollect—he did—he has—but what have I—I have no wish—no business"——

The door opened, and Dr Mayhew himself joined us, rubbing his hands, and smiling, in the best of good tempers. In his rear followed the faithful Williams. Before a word of explanation could be offered, the latter functionary announced "dinner," and summoned us away. The presence of the servants during the meal interfered with the gratification of my unutterable curiosity. Mr Fairman spoke most affably on different matters, but did not once revert to the previous subject of discourse. I was on thorns. I could not eat. I could not look at the minister without anxiety and shame, and whenever my eye caught that of the doctor, I was abashed by a look of meaning and good-humoured cunning, that was half intelligible and half obscure. Rays of hope penetrated to my heart's core, and illuminated my existence. The presence of Mr Fairman could not be without a purpose. What was it, then? Oh, I dared not trust myself to ask the question! The answer bred intoxication and delight, too sweet for earth. What meant that wicked smile upon the doctor's cheek? He was too generous and good to laugh at my calamity. He could not do it. Yet the undisturbed demeanour of the minister confounded me. If there had been connected with this visit so important an object as that which I longed to believe was linked with it, there surely would have been some evidence in his speech and manner, and he continued as cheerful and undisturbed as if his mind were free from every care and weighty thought. "What can it mean?" I asked myself, again and again. "How can he coolly bid me to his house, after what has passed, after his fearful anxiety to get me out of it? Will he hazard another meeting with his beloved daughter?—Ah, I see it!" I suddenly and mentally exclaimed; "it is clear enough—she is absent—she is away. He wishes to evince his friendly disposition at parting, and now he can do it without risk or cost." It was a plain elucidation of the mystery—it was enough, and all my airy castles tumbled to the earth, and left me there in wretchedness. Glad was I when the dinner was concluded, and eager to withdraw. I had resolved to decline, at the first opportunity, the invitation of the incumbent. I did not wish to grieve my heart in feasting my eyes upon a scene crowded with fond associations, to revoke feelings in which it would be folly to indulge again, and which it were well to annihilate and forget. I was about to beg permission to leave the table, when Dr Mayhew rose; he looked archly at me when I followed his example, and requested me not to be in haste; "he had business to transact, and would rejoin us shortly." Saying these words, he smiled and vanished. I remained silent. To be left alone with Mr Fairman, was the most annoying circumstance that could happen in my present mood. There were a hundred things which I burned to know, whilst I lacked the courage to enquire concerning one. But I had waited for an opportunity to decline his invitation. Here it was, and I had not power to lift my head and look at him. Mr Fairman himself did not speak for some minutes. He sat thoughtfully, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand—his elbow on the table. At length he raised his eyes, and whilst my own were still bent downward, I could feel that his were fixed upon me.

"Caleb," said the minister.

It was the first time that the incumbent had called me by my Christian name. How strangely it sounded from his lips! How exquisitely grateful it dropt upon my ear!

"Tell me, Caleb," continued Mr Fairman, "did I understand you right? Is it true that Mayhew has told you nothing?"

"Nothing distinctly, sir," I answered—"I have gathered something from his hints, but I know not what he says in jest and what in earnest."

"I have only her happiness at heart, Stukely—from the moment that you spoke to me on the subject, I have acted solely with regard to that. I hoped to have smothered this passion in the bud. In attempting it, I believed I was acting as a father should, and doing my duty by her."

The room began to swim round me, and my head grew dizzy.

"I am to blame, perhaps, as Mayhew says, for having brought you together, and for surrounding her with danger. I should have known that to trifle with a heart so guileless and so pure was cruel and unjust, and fraught with perilous consequences. I was blind, and I am punished for my act."

I looked at him at length.