with sufficient motives to take the utmost pains with their own intellects and morals, had the like motives to take pains with the intellects and morals of the people; to do whatever could be done for rendering their early education perfect; to take the utmost care of their morals through life, by a correct use of their approbation and disapprobation, as well as their power of giving and withholding good; to watch over the instruction given to them; to take them out of the hands of those who have an interest in giving them wrong opinions, to use the press with skill and activity, for the producing all sorts of salutary impressions, and obviating every impression of a different kind; what delightful consequences would ensue? We should then have a community, through which wisdom and virtue would be universally diffused; and of which the different classes would be knit together by the ties of mutual benefaction. In those circumstances, the order and harmony of society would be perfect. The business of government would be carried on with the utmost simplicity, because purely for the good of all. Every individual would exert himself in his sphere to provide for his own wants, and have wherewithal to benefit others; and few men would be destitute of that prudence and energy which would place, and keep him, in that situation.

Nor in all this is there one Utopian idea. There is not a consequence here anticipated, which does not flow from the principles of human nature, as necessarily as the actual effects, so woefully different, which we now experience. All that is necessary is, so to alter the position of the leading classes with. respect to the rest of the community, that they may have an interest in the wisdom and virtue both of themselves and others. It is not more extraordinary, than true, that this is to be accomplished, and all its admirable consequences may be insured, by placing the Suffrage for Representatives on a proper foundation.

The evidence of all this is so clear and irrefragable, that it ought to obtain attention. The time is coming when it will obtain all the attention which it deserves. At present we believe it has little chance.

ART. II. Carwell; or, Crime and Sorrow.

1 vol. post 8vo. 1830.

Colburn and Bentley.

THERE is a point at which the sympathy excited by an affecting story becomes absolutely painful. A perusal of this Tale will inform the sensitive reader whereabout it lies. If it be a purifying exercise of the feelings, as the ancients thought,

The

to enter into the fictitious woe of the poet's creatures even to a pitch of anguish, a strong course of Carwell may be recommended to all corrupt natures: it will be found the true sarsaparilla of the Materia Poetica. It is sad, desperately sad, and unfortunately very like the truth; not the truth meant by founded on fact,' which we see inscribed on the title-page of some novels -but the truth founded upon a large experience of the chances and changes of life. The complexion of the Tale is of the dull colour of Newgate, the new drop brings about the denouement, and the plains of flowing asphodel' that spread themselves in the bosom of the Polynesian seas, form the Eden of the wandering spirit, whose unhappy doom is here recorded. heroine is hanged, and the hero transported! The law could not have picked out two worthier people for an example. It is true that they were both guilty of uttering forged notes, but Carwell, worthy soul! did it out of complaisance to his friends, and she out of pure love for her husband. It is not a mere invention of the authoress that the wife commits a crime, in order to join her husband on the coast of Australasia, opposite to that on which the new colony of Swan River is founded. We have it on good authority, that this step has been taken more than once, and succeeded. Mrs. Carwell, however, makes an error. in her calculations, and is left for execution. With the authoress's leave, however, it is she and not Mrs. Carwell, who commits the blunder. In uttering a forged note, Mrs. C. knew well that the offence was not visited with death; and as we have scarcely any thing else to find fault with, we must pick a hole in the accomplished writer's law. In her power of touching the heart by the beautiful picture of a wife's affection triumphing over every species of trial, enduring and rejoicing in the midst of circumstances which would have alienated all other friends, and most wives, she is much more correct than in her notions of the criminal code. There is something consolatory in the idea that even the felon has a sacred circle, within which the laws of society cannot penetrate; no man, however bad, is thought so by his family; either he is kind to them and they cannot look harshly on his crime, or they do not believe he is guilty. His misfortunes as they call them, which make him an object of horror to others, only draw the bonds of blood more strictly. This is right, the man is lord of his community: he is amenable to society for his deeds, but his family are answerable to him round the patriarchal hearth. The curious memoirs of James Hardy Vaux, who is now running a new career somewhere near the Antipodes, show a singular picture of this kind, carried however a good deal too far. To listen to Vaux it might be supposed

that he and his wife were the most virtuous couple in the world. They are full of affection for each other in prosperity, or sympathy in distress. Their menage is exemplary: when they go out a shopping, the expedition is spoken of with the coolness that an ordinary person would talk of the most innocent of promenades, and when the lady is the adroitest of the two, the admiration of the husband is unfeigned; their little plunder is carefully disposed of, the couple return to a comfortable fire-side, with the satisfaction of having provided for their family. This partnership in crime is, however, far from being similar to the unhappy circumstances of Carwell and his wife: she loves her husband in spite of poverty and crime, she will not look at him with the eyes of society, he is to her good and affectionate, and she will insist upon regarding solely the relationship between them; but she retains her own innocence, she is pure in thought and deed, until her very love causes her to commit an act of crime, for the purpose of being sent to join him in his place of transportation.

It may be seen that the history of an affection existing under such circumstances, is a very delicate task. The authoress has succeeded in keeping down every thing that might shock or disgust the most sensitive ear. We forget the degrading situation into which bad connections and too great a facility of character have plunged the hero, and only remember him as his wife always saw him, kind, open, and generous. In the midst, in short, of crime and sorrow, of which the Tale is overflowing, we are alive only to the beauty of love and truth. To the pure all things are pure; there are those who can handle pitch and not be defiled.. Without anticipating the details of the story, and thus forestalling the pleasure of curiosity to the reader, it will be but justice to the authoress to give a specimen of her power of managing an incident of an affecting nature. A wife returns to her home with a heart yearning with affection for a kind husband, and finding all deserted and melancholy, learns at length that the officers of justice have been there, and that he is apprehended on a charge of forgery, and already lodged in gaol.

'I was surprised to see that our street-door was open; and, upon entering, observed an unusual air of disorder and confusion. The parlour-door was also open, the fire extinguished, the table-drawers drawn out and placed upon the tables, and the carpet ruffled. Some written papers were dispersed on the floor; the chairs were placed in different directions, and the marks of muddy shoes were obvious. I concluded that our usual visitors had been there.

'But why had their visit been so early, that they had parted before the accustomed hour of meeting? I called the maid-there was no reply. In the kitchen, also, the fire was extinguished. Carwell,

Parkhurst, Mrs. Lyle, all were absent. Though I had frequently been entirely alone for many hours, there was something particularly dispiriting in the forsaken look of the house, which at the same time proved that it had so lately been occupied. In spite of my fatigue, I restored order, and prepared my solitary tea, though not without a hope that Carwell would join me before it should be drunk. The blazing fire (which is almost a companion to the lonely) restored my spirits, and after an hour or two I felt quite recovered.

The evening passed; and at midnight, finding none of our inmates return, I prepared some supper for Carwell, and having lighted a candle, retired to rest. He had for some time been in the habit of letting himself into the house by a key he carried with him; I therefore resigned myself to sleep, though not without vexation at the conduct of our only domestic in thus prolonging her absence.

My astonishment on arising the next morning, and finding every thing as I had placed it over night, was very soon mingled with great uneasiness. I was still alone! Carwell had scarcely ever passed twenty-four hours at once away from home. Something must have happened; but of what nature? Mrs. Lyle was also absent: Parkhurst's and the servant's rooms were unoccupied. The one same circumstance, whatever it might be, was very unlikely to influence the conduct of the whole family, whose pursuits and engagements were apparently different. Was it possible Mrs. Lyle had induced Carwell to leave me? Had Parkhurst and he been consequently excited to dissension? and what might have been the result?

'These heart-breaking doubts weighed heavily on my mind, though I could hardly resolve to own to myself that I had admitted them. My suspicions concerning Mrs. Lyle had rarely returned since I had observed Carwell's earnest solicitude and jealousy regarding my conduct, and perhaps would not have recurred now, had my situation been less singular.

'When I reconsidered the matter, it was more probable that Parkhurst had suddenly learned Mrs. Lyle's infidelity, and that his distress in consequence had obliged Carwell to remain with him. But Parkhurst's attachment did not appear of a nature to distress him deeply under such circumstances, and I had often observed that he must long since have entertained suspicions very little short of conviction. Alas! every cause of their absence but that which really existed suggested itself to me.

'The truth, the woeful truth, was soon revealed! After vainly considering whether there was not some one whose advice I might ask, whose judgment might direct me; the certainty, that except Carwell, and the strange companions with whom he had linked himself, the whole universe was unknown to me, impressed me with a feeling of despondence that drew forth floods of bitter tears.

A solitary and fearful step ascending the stairs, and frequently pausing, at length raised the hope of my husband's return: I hastily dried my tears, and blushed for my past terror, which now appeared most childish to my eyes; I flew to meet him, but the person who had

entered quickly endeavoured to retreat, apparently alarmed at the sound of my tread.

'My eager pursuit was, however, successful; I found it was our maid. Instead of the excuses her conduct seemed to require, she seemed amazed at seeing me, and expressed surprise at finding me still there. When I began some reproof, "Surely, Madam, you do not know what has happened? Ah, Ma'am-when you were out, my

master

'It was my turn to gaze in terror and astonishment; I besought an explanation.

"You don't know then, Ma'am, that my master is taken up for forgery?"

For some minutes I stood unable to believe that I had really heard those appalling words. At length she told me, that soon after my departure from home, the Jew, Balthasar Levi, had entered and sat some time with my unhappy Carwell; Parkhurst, Hargood, and Dunning were also there. While they were engaged in conversation, a ringing at the door called her down: when she opened it, three men rushed forward into the parlour. The alarm was general; all endeavoured to escape except Carwell. The only persons who succeeded in doing so were Hargood and Parkhurst.

'The officers searched every part of the house for notes,—she could not tell with what success, as, after they had searched her, she had departed, and had not ventured to return until the moment of our meeting, when she had come to carry off her clothes. I listened to this appalling information with a sick feeling of horror, which deprived me of the power of utterance. A few months back my confidence in Carwell's character would have led me boldly to aver and trust in his innocence; but now, the recollection of a thousand trifling circumstances, in spite of my wishes, obliged me to dread the justice of the accusation.

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'Oh, then," I exclaimed, in the bitterness and despair of my soul, is it possible! the sense of integrity is lost to that kind and feeling heart! the pride and confidence that cannot abide with remorse -the vague hope and expectation from the future, which is the portion of those to whom the past offers no self-reproach, must never more be the lot of Carwell. If his misconduct does not endanger his safety-still, to obtain even momentary peace, even amidst years spent in the stainless fulfilment of every duty, the past must be absent from his mind! self-esteem he must never more know! And how will he bear his deserved abasement?"

Having learned from the girl whither the officers of justice had taken Carwell, I hastened to him. The difficulties of obtaining admission were rendered more formidable by the contemptuous familiarity of those who profit by the sorrows of their captives.

"At length I reached the dreary chamber in which he was confined. Knowing how much my sorrow would add to his, I made an effort to suppress the sensations his situation called forth, and in some measure succeeded.

"Charlotte," he exclaimed, "you know all-the worst!-I en