You will go home now, Génifrede," said her father. "With Madame Dessalines you will go. You will go to your mother and sister."

"Home" she exclaimed, with loathing. "Yes, I must go home," she said, hurriedly. "You love Pongaudin, you call it paradise. I wish you joy of it now! You have put an evil spirit into it. I wish you joy of your paradise !"

She disengaged herself from him as she spoke, and walked away.

Every scene is not so animated as this; and some of the long dialogues between the nuas and their guests, and the conversations of Toussaint's family, though illustrative of feeling and opinion among the different classes and colours of the colony, or rather of Miss Martineau's sentiments, seem tedious and languid in contrast with the fire and passion of the interviews between the dark lovers, and those of the righteous and sympathizing father and his despairing child.

"Then we will perish," replied Henri. "Undoubtedly it is not much to perish, if that were all. But the world will be the worse, for ever. France

is deceived. She comes, in an error, to avenge herself, and to enslave the blacks. France has been deceived." "If we were but all together," said Henri, so that there were no moments of weakness to fear . . . If your sons were but with us.

"Fear no moments of weakness from me," said Toussaint, its wonted fire now glowing in his eye. "My colour imposes on me duties above nature; and while my boys are hostages, they shall be to me as if they no longer existed."

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"They may possibly be on board this fleet," said Christophe. If, by caution, we could obtain possession of them

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Speak no more of them now," said Toussaint.-Presently, as if thinking aloud, and with his eyes still bent on the moving ships, he went on:

No, those on board those ships are not boys, with life before them, and eager alike for arts and arms. I see who they are that are there. There are the troops of the Rhine-troops that have conquered a fairer river than our Artibonite, storming the castles on her steeps, and crowning themselves from her vineyards. There are the troops of the Alps--troops that have soared above the eagle, and stormed the clouds, and plucked the iceking by the beard upon his throne. There are the troops of Italy-troops that have trodden the old Roman ways, and fought over again the old Roman wars-that have of the Danube. There are the troops of Egypt-troops drunk of the Tiber, and once more conquered the armies that have heard the war-cry of the desert tribes, and encamped in the shadow of the pyramids."

"Yet he is not afraid," said Henri to himself, as he watched the countenance of his friend.

"All these," continued Toussaint, "all these are brought hither against a poor, depressed, insulted, ignorant race;-brought as conquerors, eager for the spoil before a blow is struck. They come to disembarrass our paradise of us, as they would clear a fragrant and that it takes longer than they supposed to crush and fruitful wood of apes and reptiles. And if they find disperse us, France has more thousands ready to come and help. The labourer will leave his plough at a word, and the vine-dresser his harvest, and the artisan his shop,

A fearful change was now impending in the colony. The peace of Amiens had left Buonaparte at leisure to turn his attention to St Domingo, and the fate of the colony was sealed in that of Toussaint. Intelligence of an expedition from France to reduce the island to its former condition, and crush the power of Toussaint, had been received, and the negro chief took measures to receive the invaders. The conduct of Buonaparte was such-France will pour out the youth of all her villages, to that the path of duty now lay before him clear and well-defined, though the upbraiding of Jacques Dessalines could not yet convince him that his trust, forbearance, and moderation with the whites had been wrong, or even bad in policy. "Though Buonaparte," he said, "betrays and oppresses, the gospel stands."

The time when compromise was no longer possible, when submission would have been the betrayal of freedom and of his race, had arrived, and Toussaint resolved to proclaim war. The people he governed would, he said, have loved and served France for ever as a protector, but they should cast her off when she became an incubus on their free dom. In providing for the defence of the colony, Toussaint and his officers were now occupied night and day, and at length the French expedition was discovered making for the shores of the island. It was first seen by Toussaint and his friend Henri Christophe, who were watching for it on the mountainous promontory of Samna. The scene is picturesque, and morally grand. As the vast fleet came gradually into view, Toussaint, counting up the number of the war ships and transports as he gazed through his glass, exclaimed-

"Henri, we must all perish. All France has come to St Domingo!"

the savages, as they are represented by the emigrants seize upon the delights of the tropics, and the wealth of who will not take me for a friend, but eat their own' hearts far away, with hatred and jealousy. All France is coming to St Domingo!"

"But,"

interposed Christophe.

"But, Henri," interrupted his friend, laying his hand on his shoulder, not all France, with her troops of the Rhine, of the Alps, of the Nile, nor with all Europe to help her, can extinguish the soul of Africa. That soul, when once the soul of a man, and no longer that of a slave, can overthrow the pyramids and the Alps themselves, sooner than be again crushed down into slavery!"

"With God's help," said Christophe, crossing himself. "With God's help," repeated Toussaint. "See here," he continued, taking up a handful of earth from the brohas done! See, here are shells from the depth of yonder ken ground on which they stood, "see here, what God ocean, lying on the mountain top. Cannot he who thus uprears the dust of his ocean-floor, and lifts it above the clouds, create the societies of men anew, and set their lowest order but a little below the stars?"

"He can," said Christophe, again crossing himself. "Then let all France come to St Domingo! She may yet be undeceived-What now?" he resumed, after a pause of observation. "What manoeuvre is this?"

The sons of Toussaint had been sent back from

Paris with the expedition, which was under the command of General Leclerc, and they are politically used to embarrass their father, and induce him to submit unconditionally to the wishes of Buonaparte. Dissension is artfully sown among

One pretext which history assigns for the cruel and execrable persecution of the unfortunate negro chief, was the belief entertained by Buonaparte and the French, that he had vast treasures, the Not a word more was necessary. Every one fled who could, except Thérèse, who would not go fester than her plunder of the richest island of the West Indies, husband's strength permitted him to proceed. The voiceburied in the Moines. Doniel was in vain:

though on board ship, as, when afterwards interro- | interest which it excites as a romance, will, indigated by the agents of Buonaparte, in the prisons rectly, be effectual as a moral stimulus.

of Paris, Toussaint's noble reply was still the So much of our space has been occupied with same; and the First Consul, offended by the the beauties and excellencies of this romance, that brave spirit which soared above his own, gave we have neither room nor leisure left for its imthe final order for that secret imprisonment at perfections, if-keeping in view the whole scope Joux which issued in his murder. Joux was of the author's design-it can be said to have any. visited by Miss Martineau last year, during a tour Want of probability will be the most urgent obin Switzerland; but little light was obtained by jection. Nor do we imagine that the freed negroes, her inquiries concerning the prisoner; and the or the wives and daughters of either slaves or closing incidents in the life of the illustrious negro planters, were likely to have imbibed the elevated are thus left free to fancy. They are delicately sentiments, or spoken the pure language put into touched, and yet dwelt upon so long as to mar the their lips. But the business of the poet and the highest effects of tragic art. If the soul of the fictionist, who write with a moral purpose, is the great negro rises superior to his unmerited fate; possible, as much as the probable, of humanity :if he triumph in his concluded work; and pos- not merely with what imperfect and corrupted men sess his spirit in Christian patience and philoso- and women now are, at their best, but with what phic equanimity, ordinary minds cannot contem- they are capable of becoming, when their hearts are plate his protracted sufferings, and lingering death brought under the same blessed influences which by famine, without emotions which it is not de-animated and swayed those of the imaginary Eusirable to excite. Yet is the character wonder-phrosyne, and the perhaps not less imaginary Tousfully well sustained. From the depths of his soli- saint of this high-toned romance. tary dungeon, the dying Christian hero thus adjures those whom he loves :

My wife, my children! I may name you all nowname you in my thoughts and in my song. Placide! are you rousing the nations to ask the tyrant where I am? Henri! have you buried the dead whites yet in St Domingo and have your rains done weeping the treason of those dead against freedom? Let it be so, Henri! Your rains have washed out the blood of this treason; and your dews have brought forth the verdure of your plains, to cover the graves of the guilty and the fallen. Take this lesson home, Henri! Forget-not me, for you must remember me in carrying on my work -but forget how you lost me. Believe that I fell in the Mornes, and that you buried me there; believe this, rather than shed one drop of blood for me. Learn of God, not of Buonaparte, how to bless our race. Poison their souls no more with blood! The sword and the fever have done their work, and tamed your tyrants. As for the rest, act with God for our people! Give them harvests to their hands; and open the universe of knowledge before their eyes. Give them rest and stillness in the summer heats: and shelter them in virtuous and busy homes from the sheeted rains. It is enough that blood was the price of freedom-a heavy price which has been paid. Let there be no such barter for vengeance My children, hear me ! Wherever you are, in the court of our tyrant, or on the wide sea, or on the mountain-top, where the very storms cannot make themselves heard so high, yet let your father's voice reach you from his living grave! No vengeance! Freedom, freedom to the last drop of blood in the veins of our race! Let our island be left to the wild herds and the reptiles, rather than be the habitation of slaves: but, if you have established freedom there, it is holy ground, and no vengeance must profane it. If you love me and my race, you must forgive my murderers.-Yes, murderers," he pursued in thought, after dwelling awhile on the images of home and familiar faces-"murderers they already are, doubtless, in intent."

And they were soon murderers in fact-Toussaint was found dead in his dungeon. The deliverer was himself delivered. If the yoke of bondage still lies " heavy on his race," the good work which he began, and carried forward, whatever and howsoever mixed his motives might have been, has never since lacked champions, both of the Sword and the Pen. Among the latter, Miss Martincau holds no mean rank. Nor can we doubt, that her work which will be eagerly prized for the

THE CONSPIRATORS is a series of unconnected tales “Romances of Military Life," far above the average gauge of such productions, whether we regard the power, knowledge, or artistic skill of their author, Mr Quillinan. The readers of Tait's Magazine were, in May last, made acquainted with that singular and mysterious person, James Joseph Oudet, the soul and centre of those secret Philadelphic societies which were said to exist in the army of Napoleon, and of which the object was the overthrow of the emperor and the restoration of the Bourbons. The Philadelphic societies, if not altogether apocryphal, were undoubtedly greatly mystified and exaggerated; though they are not, on this account, the less adapted to the purposes of fiction, as is proved by these tales. Mr Quillinan has made excellent use of their agency and machinery. The scene of the tales is Spain, Portugal, Germany, Switzerland, and the Tyrol, during Napoleon's wars. Though conspirators figure in each of them, they are in nowise connected, save by the common epithet. The scene of one very effective and life-like story, The Connaught Rangers, is Ireland during the insurrection of 1798. This is now a rather hackneyed period in fiction, and yet the simple story, though much less romantic than the Sisters of the Douro, or the splendid tale of The Royalist, and composed in a more subdued tone than any of the series, will, we venture to think, affect many readers more deeply, by its truthfulness and simple pathos, than the more brilliant and highly-wrought compositions, by their passion and poetry. Yet it possesses no new elements nor combinations, and narrates no startling or improbable events. The unhappy, and the more devoted because ill-starred, love of a Catholic disaffected gentleman and a Protestant lady, has often before been told. Gerald Fitzmaurice O'Neil, the eldest son of a Catholic family, is the object of the causeless but rooted dislike of his father, who destines him to holy orders. The young man, who feels no vocation, returns from Douay

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to his churlish home in Connaught; and while | Douay, Gerald had been intimate with several of hanging on in comfortless idleness, is introduced his disaffected countrymen, with whom he still at Dromore, the seat of Sir Guy Vernon, a bigoted maintained a dangerous correspondence; and many Orange Protestant, blessed with one fair daughter circumstances now combined to urge him on a desand no other child. Love for the exquisitely wo- perate course, while pride whispered that he had manly, and, shall we say, consequently the spoiled returned for some loftier purpose than sighing for and somewhat capricious, Mary Vernon, had grown an Orange bigot's daughter." The enthusiastic into impassioned strength in the breast of Gerald attachment of the peasantry to Gerald had its before the danger of his position is apprehended; nor effect in urging him forward, and he became a is Mary longer heart-free; and the change and state secret leader of the insurgents of the West, or The of her affections is so naturally, and so simply and Connaught Rangers. From the night that his religracefully traced, that we choose this in preference gion and his country had been insulted, Gerald to more brilliant extracts. dropt all intercourse with Sir Guy; though to his secret protection the Vernon family owed their safety when danger and alarm had spread through the district, and the Protestants were deserting their homes. Were we in search of merely romantic or exciting specimens from these beautiful tales, we should at once turn to The Royalist; but this simpler Irish story, if less highly-wrought and imaginative, is not less affecting.

A change of manner soon began to be observable in Mary. At times she seemed no longer the giddy girl, fresh as the strawberry just ripened on the sunny slope beneath her window, and blithe as the young thrush that was pecking at the fruit. The animation of her cheek and eye often deserted her. She appeared to court solitude, and frequently rode to the coast, where, dismissing her pony and attendant to a hut about half a mile distant, she would take her station on some stupendous cliff, and sit for hours gazing on the tumultuous mass of waters, and indulging the spirit of her thoughts till her heart was full, almost to oppression, with a sweet and melancholy pleasure. And this was happiness-exquisite happiness!

Gerald Fitzmaurice did not always suffer her to enjoy this luxury without participation. He grew bolder in his approaches, by degrees, as he was more and more convinced that the prize was really worth winning, and willing to be won. He became a still more constant visiter at Dromore, where he was civilly enough received by Sir Guy, when he happened to be in the way, and always frankly welcomed by Lady Vernon, who frequently invited him to dinner. His walks with Mary were more frequent than before, and Lady Vernon was seldom particular in her inquiries as to the cause of her daughter's protracted absence on these occasions. In such intimate association they passed many hours of many weeks delightfully, and Fitzmaurice was every day more enchanted with the charms of his companion, and her peculiar graceful originality of manner and expression, which was even more captivating than her beauty. But he could not but be conscious that Sir Guy might not, with his Orange party-spirit, be at all willing to have a Catholic son-in-law.

And here was the luckless blot in Mary's conduct. She deceived her father, and was not ingenuous with her mother. Nothing is more common than this sort of dissimulation in a daughter towards a parent.

Among their favourite walks was a little spot which they called the Well among the Mountains, whose spring was believed to possess a holy virtue, and to which the country people, therefore, resorted on the anniversary of Saint Patrick, to whom it was dedicated. Except on that day of pilgrimage it was little frequented, but by Mary and Fitzmaurice; and the redbreast, singing to himself, was usually the only preoccupant they found. This rustic shrine, with its most rudely carved little crucifix of wood, in its quiet nook, may be still seen within its circular shade of sycamores and thorns; and its bubbling waters still tinkle as of yore,

"basoned in an unsunned cleft,

A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears." These flowery days were sweet and transient.

The Orange prejudices and predilections of Sir Guy, and some of his guests, became at length offensively apparent to Gerald; and at one loyal carouse their opinions and sentiments were so rancorously and insultingly manifested, while the party were discussing rumours of an insurrection in the West, that the young Catholic rose indignantly from the table, and left the house in fury and despair. At

Fears of personal danger gradually subsiding in Sir Guy's establishment, Mary, whom confinement and the absence of Fitzmaurice rendered miserable, was allowed to take her accustomed walks. She was almost idolized by the surrounding tenantry, and so far as her own safety was concerned, had never entertained any fear at all. But the conduct of Fitzmaurice was unaccountable to her; and, as she wandered again among the scenes of her childhood, she felt that their charm was no longer the same. He whose presence had of late afforded her in her walks or rides a novelty of delight, of which she was too inexperienced in the subtleties of love to analyze the cause, was no longer at her side; and every prospect looked dreary and forlorn. She had, one day, in this mournful state of spirits, rode towards the sea-shore, and sent her pony home, saying that she would return on foot.

Lovelier than Naiad by the side

Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere Sole sitting by the shores of old Romance, she sat down on the edge of one of the dark frightful precipices of Altbo, and the grandeur of the scenes around her could not divest her thoughts of their deep sadness. At her feet the waters of the Atlantic dashed against the rocks, and receded with hoarse unceasing murmurs. Before her, across the heaving waters, the mountains of Donegal rose, purple in the distance. On the left swelled her own wild height, the hill of the heart, and on her right Knocknaree and Benbulbin. The strong beams of the sun were darted under and between rich masses of dark clouds. The broad decided lines and sheets of light thus thrown upon the hills and waves gave them a magical character. Any mind but the lovestruck mind of Mary might have been enchanted. But scenery, however sublime, and however efficient to raise for awhile the spirit that droops under worldly troubles, cannot win a youthful heart from the earnest tenderness with which it dwells on its first and most spiritual passion. It rather co-operates with solitude to strengthen, and almost to sanctify, the feeling.

The love of a young women (such love as deserves the name) is no sordid calculation of selfish interests; the happiness of its object is her first, her own the second consideration only, depending on the first. It is this absence of self, this generous devotedness in woman, that makes her first passion so pure and so delightful.

Every thing near her reminded Mary Vernon of the absence of Fitzmaurice. On that very rock where she was now scated he had, at various times, read to her the Odes of Collins, the Pastor Fido of Guarini, and St Pierre's affecting tale of the Mauritius. Along that coast they had often strayed together, and often had she ventured too near the edges of the precipice to be secret

ly delighted with his vigilance in drawing her away, and his reproachful petulance in exaggerating her temerity. From one of the neighbouring acclivities most difficult of access, he had procured for her a young merlin-hawk, having heard her express a wish to possess one of those beautiful birds. It had grown so tame under her care as frequently to fly after her in her rambles, sometimes perching on her neck, yet showing all its native fierceness to strangers, and permitting the familiarity of no one but its mistress. In short, there was not a spot around her which had not been endeared, of late, beyond its early charm by some association with Fitzmaurice. She had continued musing on the pleasures that were past, till her dejection became insupportable, and she rose to return home. On looking at the sun she was astonished to find him in the west, and her watch converted her surprise into agitation, by showing her the lateness of the hour. She resolved to hurry home; but a disappointment that weighed down her mind seemed also to retard her steps; for, however unreasonable the expectation, she had almost unconsciously indulged a hope of encountering Fitzmaurice on his favourite coast. The shades of evening were gathering fast, as she entered the avenue of oaks, whose usual gloom was already nearly deepened into the obscurity of midnight. Appalled at the darkness, and eager to terminate the solicitude that her long absence must have occasioned, she was hastening on, when a well-known voice arrested her and fixed her in amazement to the spot-"Mary!" And the hand of Fitzmaurice held her's while he spoke: "Pity and forgive a wretch whose destiny forces him from you, and hurries him to destruction. I would say, forget me too, but I cannot bear that Mary should quite forget me.You will be told

He was proceeding when the swift approach of horsemen was heard. He raised to his lips the hand which he had taken, and in a moment vanished. Poor Mary - remained motionless till the horsemen came up; and, in the exclamation of inquiry which they uttered, she recognized the voices of two of her father's servants who had been sent in quest of her, and had met each other in returning from their unsuccessful search. In a state of emotion, easily imagined, she preceded them to the house, and rushed into the arms of her mother. Lady Vernon was prepared to reprove her, and began to inquire peremptorily into the cause of an absence so extraordinary; but the excited girl burst into tears and entreated to be spared. The tears of Mary were ever irresistible, and at once silenced both question and reproach from the too-indulgent mother.

Sir Guy was gone to Sligo on magisterial business, and was not expected back for two days.

impatient step, watching for the return of the messenger who was daily despatched to the Post-office at Sligo, a distance of twelve miles. She was not long without intelligence concerning Fitzmaurice. After a few daysages to her-an account arrived of an engagement in which the insurgents had been totally routed by the king's troops. Fitzmaurice, when all was over, had effected his escape from the field, or at least such was the general belief, as he was not recognized among the prisoners or killed, though he had been noticed in the act of attempting to rally a small body of the fugitives towards the close of the contest. The newspapers contained a proclamation offering rewards of various amount for the apprehension of such of the insurgent leaders as were supposed to have absconded; and on the list of proclaimed was the name of Gerald Fitzmaurice O'Neil, for the seizure of whom the sum of a thousand pounds was offered. A mortal numbness of frame awhile arrested the sensibility to mental suffering in Mary after this was read. But the kindly stupor did not last long; and the unhappy girl was for some days in a state of horrible excitement that threatened to subvert her reason. The constant and judicious attention of her mother saved her from this worst calamity, and so touched the warm grateful heart of Mary, that, by efforts infinitely painful, she forced herself into an appearance of resignation in her presence. But when alone, she gave way without reserve to the anguish of her heart.

While in this condition, and wandering like a ghost in her lonely haunts, she is startled by hearing her name breathed in "that deep, sweet tone which could not be mistaken," and a letter

fell at her feet, in which the fugitive Gerald, about to escape, implored a last interview "with almost the only person upon earth the forfeiture of whose society could make him regret the part he had taken in a just though unprosperous cause."

Nor could Mary refuse this last prayer of her unhappy lover. On the extract which follows we are content to rest our admiration of these tales, although their merits are of a varied and comprehensive, as well as a high character.

At as early an hour on the following morning as Mary could quit the house without exciting remark or curiosity she set forward with a beating heart. Numerous were the times that she paused and looked round to see if she were followed or observed. The lark that sprung The next day Sir Guy Vernon returned, and the in- from her feet startled and affrighted her, and the faint telligence that he brought completed the misery of his sound of her own quick footsteps seemed to be unusualdaughter, and struck Lady Vernon with dismay. Gerald ly loud, and likely to betray her course and its object Fitzmaurice O'Neil had joined the rebels at and to some enemy of Fitzmaurice. At length she arrived two or three hundred of his father's tenants had followed at the coast, and she had scarcely seated herself on one him. A considerable body of troops was in motion to of the rocks overhanging the sea, when her expectation attack them, and it was confidently expected that the was roused by one of those shrill piercing whistles that insurgents would be put down before they could concen- the Irish peasants blow between their fingers, and by trate much strength in that portion of the island. which they convey signals to a distance beyond which the blast of a bugie-horn would hardly be heard. Though she could perceive no person near, she had not the least doubt but that this notice proceeded from some one in the confidence of Fitzmaurice; and, accordingly, in a few moments, she discerned her friend, approaching round the beach below, not so disguised but that the quick eye of fondness knew him. He was dressed in the

Sir Guy was now among the most active in watching the proscribed Fitzmaurice. He had never once suspected his daughter's attachment to the rebel, but Lady Vernon was not so blind to her child's past feelings, nor to her present misery. She was no bigot, and she had tacitly allowed that grow-common garb of a sailor. He surmounted the steep with ing affection between the young people from which she had not anticipated such fatal results. The mother and daughter thus understood each other's secret feelings; and though both avoided explanation, it was to Mary blessed relief to shed her tears on the bosom of her mother, unquestioned and unblamed.

ease, and was almost immediately at the side of Mary, whose hand he took fervently and silently, and whom he at once conducted down the rocks by a descent dizzy and difficult, though somewhat less abrupt than the crags which he had climbed. Supported by the arm of Fitzmaurice, she felt no personal fear. When they had descended but a little way, they became enveloped as it were amid the dark cliffs, till, at a sudden turn, they found themselves, near the edge of a tremendous preciMary now passed a considerable portion of each morn-pice, on a rock, which, jutting considerably beyond the ing in the avenue, where she walked with a quick and rest, stretched over upon the ocean. This is the fa