away, or the kindred may leave us behind. Donagh Ghasta, that brought the news, told me that if we cannot keep the hills by strong hand, we must take the road before sunset, for the nigh paths are wondrous hard to tread, and the cattle could not keep them in the dark." "It is well for the cattle that God created them the brute animals they are," said brother Virgil, his mind still engrossed in the contemplation of his misfortune. "Ay, but, father," cried the boy, in increased distress, "you'll find the Clan Savage wickeder cattle to deal with than any bulls you ever saw; and if you come not now they will catch us before we can get to the kindred, and us sure as they do, Black Alan will kill us both!" "What of Black Alan, my son?" said the Franciscan, scarce yet comprehending the nature of the danger which had left him so suddenly deserted; "did they say that Black Alan Savage was coming?" "Man, man!" exclaimed the boy, impatient with an ignorance which was to him incomprehensible, "do you not know that the black Mac Seneschal has fired the woods beyond Carrick Mac Art, and that if the wind doesn't fall he will have a passage into our strength before an hour?" Holy and blessed Francis!" exclaimed the monk, setting his face to the hill with such speed as his dress would permit. Holy and blessed Francis! what will become of the poor lady and the sick chief?" 66 They will carry MacGillmore on a litter, if need be," said the boy, running lightly beside, "and my mother has travelled the road often before." 66 Good, Good," said brother Virgil, the steep ascent preventing his using many words. 66 Now," said the boy, pointing to the left, as they rose into a more extensive prospect of the south side of the hill, "look past the foot of the high rock between you and the slack of the black mountain beyond: don't you see a thin blue smoke driving towards us? That's where the Clan Savage are: they are burning their road before them. Donagh says he saw it from the Carrick top, and that the whole wood is in a blaze; though it lies so low, we can only see some of the smoke of it from here.” The weary Franciscan by this time could only utter an ejaculation of assent as his youthful guide pointed out the indications of their danger. He was spent and out of breath, for the hill was smooth and the grass slippery, and the ascent so steep, that at last he was fairly forced to stop and breathe himself. This was rather a drawback on the reverence with which Harry Oge had regarded him. The flush upon Harry's cheek might have been heightened by the excitement of approaching danger, but he would have coursed the hill round and not have drawn a shorter breath than when he started. He would fain have been in the camp, too, with his people at such a time; yet he scarce liked to leave the poor monk without guidance, although now within a little distance of shelter. Father," he said, "if you had been bred with us you would not be so scant of breath. Owen Grumach makes us run up and down the hill every morning before meat; some of us can sing, too, going at the top of our speed. I'll tell you what: I'll run and get some of the kindred to help you, and I'll come back with them myself:" so saying, and without waiting for a reply, the courageous boy ran on, carolling, in a clear sweet voice, though, perhaps, as much to keep his courage up as to display it Through the Abbey parks of Bangor Holy and blessed Francis!" exclaimed the wearied monk, as he stood panting on the steep, while his only catechumen unconsciously gave this characteristic promise of an unregenerated life; "holy and blessed Francis! he is as wild a freebooter already in his heart as if he had neither been crossed nor christened! But surely he is a beauteous and a brave boy, and I must not desert either him or his people, and they in this trouble:" so saying, the good brother turned once more to the ascent of the mountain. He had not proceeded more than a few steps when Harry Oge, accompanied by two fosterers, appeared over the nearest eminence coming to his assistance. The clansmen had been dispatched the moment their absence was perceived to bring both to the camp without delay, as the progress of the flames in the wood threatened very soon to give the clan Savage an entrance to the Mac Gillmore's hitherto impregnable retreat. As yet, however, the danger was not immediate, for the wood through which the passage was thus opening lay at a considerable distance from the encampment, and the broken ground between offered many obstacles to the advance of an army, even after they should have cut or burned their way through the forest. In the encampment all was hurry and alarm; yet much had already been effected in the way of preparation: the cattle were marshalled in herds upon the pathway leading to the top and back of the hill, ready to be driven off at a moment's notice. The baggage horses were tethered to stakes in front of the booths; guards were duly stationed on all the commanding points, and the flower of the kindred had marched under Owen Grumach to await the irruption of their enemies, and give them battle below. "We stop here for tonight," said Turlogh-" tomorrow we will conclude." MISS MARTINEAU'S TRACTS. WE Confess that we have seldom derived much pleasure or profit from that class of books which their authors announce as at once instructive and amusing, nor perhaps are we singular in this. Many people, besides ourselves, instinctively turn away from books which make this double promise. So far are such books from instructing or amusing us, that if we were to judge of their object from their contents, not from their title-pages, we should conclude that they were written expressly "to tire the patience and mislead the sense." In this age, when the division of labour has been carried to such an extent, we might have supposed that books, like other productions of human industry, would be made, each to serve some one particular purpose, to do only one thing, but to do that one thing very well. We should not indeed consider it desirable, that a philosophical work should be dry and irksome to the reader. On the contrary, one of the greatest recommendations it can possess is, that it should be as interesting and attractive as the nature of the subject will permit. But we do think that the interest should be excited for the information intended to be conveyed, not for something altogether foreign from it; for what requires to be remembered, not for what may be as well forgotten; for the truth taught in the work, not for the fiction which is mixed with it. The pleasure felt in the perusal of a scientific book should be produced by the elegance of its style; by the natural and easy order in which the parts are disposed; by the beauty and importance of the facts which it communicates; by the striking nature and intimate connexion of the truths which it unfolds, and by the clearness and simplicity of the arguments which establish them. These are pleasures of the highest nature which any work addressed to the understanding can inspire, and the perception of them tends to improve the mind, and to give it at once an interest in philosophical pursuits, and a greater capacity for conducting them. But the pleasure (if any) which is afforded by "instructive and amusing stories," is altogether different from this. These profess to teach an abstruse science, while you are reading an agreeable tale. Here we think that the intended amusement and instruction are not consistent with each other. Few people will read a novel more readily for having the thread of the narrative frequently broken by long philosophical or scientific disquitions. Neither will they feel pleased, when engaged and interested in some philosophical discussion, at being called away at the arbitrary will and pleasure of the novelist, to weep for the woes of some imaginary heroine, or to rejoice at her unexpected deliverance from the perils with which she was environed. This would probably be the case, even if the novel and the philosophy were both good in their kind. But this is too favourable a view of the matter, for the philosopher will not be likely to write an interesting novel, and the novelist will be apt to write very puerile philosophy. In short, as scientific instruction and the entertainment afforded by fiction, require a different state of mind in the reader, and a different character of mind in the author, we do not think it a desirable thing that any attempt should be made to unite them in the same work. But all this argument does not alter the fact, which is, that those "amusing and instructive" volumes are frequently very popular, and have a very extended sale and circulation. This is an age of men, wise in their own conceit, who wish to have the credit of possessing learning, but will not take the pains necessary to acquire it. Accordingly as the alphabet is taught in cakes and gingerbread, so the first rudiments of science are turned into toys and games of sport; and the further progress is sought in novels and romances. Among the numerous works of this class which have lately appeared, none have been so remarkable for their success as Miss Martineau's illustrations of political economy; but notwithstanding her success, we remain fully persuaded that political economy is not a science capable of being taught by tales. The perusal of Miss Martineau's tales rather confirms our opinion on this point, than gives us any reason to distrust it; and a short account of her writings will prove that political economy is not distinguished from every other science by a capability of being illustrated by fictitious narratives. The manner in which her design originated, is perfectly in accordance with our opinion. In a letter written to the French translator of her works, she informs the public that she commenced her career as an authoress, by publishing a few remarks addressed to the working classes, to show the impolicy of strikes, and turns-out. After wards, on reading the well-known "Conversations on Political Economy," she says that she found out, to her great amazement, that she had unconsciously been writing political economy. She then offered her services to the "Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge," to write tales in illustration of the principal doctrines of that science. They rejected her offer; and accordingly she wrote and published them on her own account. They were eminently successful as a commercial speculation, but in every other point of view she has, we think, as signally failed. The booksellers may congratulate the fair authoress on her success-the critic must lament her failure-which is however sufficiently accounted for by the nature of the original design. In this account of her initiation, we may observe that what she first attempted to teach, were not doctrines of political economy, so much as rules of prudence, to direct the conduct of individuals in certain situations; and it is precisely to inculcate such rules that examples and illustrations can be used with most effect. The heart of man is deceitful above all things, and is always unwilling to learn how weak it is; but we readily credit the wickedness or weakness of another; and, since the parable of Nathan, it is ever found that the readiest way, in which our misconduct can be displayed to ourselves, is to show a similar instance committed by some other person. Without hesitation, we admit the villainy or folly of such conduct in others, and cannot afterwards deny the application to ourselves. It is thus that Miss Edgeworth has succeeded so well in exposing the dangers of procrastination; or in persuading us to examine whether what we complain of as bad luck, may not be attributable to our imprudence. Still we think that this method of conveying instruction should only be employed to impress upon the minds of children such rules of conduct as are indisputably true, and therefore require no argument to confirm them. For, considered as a kind of proof, this mode of instructing by fictitious examples is liable to this fatal objection, that it can, with equal facility, be turned to the support of falsehood. Some authoress, with the talents of Miss Edge worth or Miss Martineau, may write a tale to show the utility of procrastination, and introduce a hero whose fortunate adventures are always to be attributed to his habit of putting off until tomorrow every thing which ought to be done today. Or for the purpose of showing that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, she may contrast one person age incessantly blundering upon good fortune, with another, whose consummate wisdom is the cause of his being involved in inextricable calamities. As sincere lovers of truth, we cannot approve of a mode of proof which has a tendency to obliterate all distinctions between truth and falsehood. And it is to establish those propositions which Miss Martineau admits to be most furiously controverted that she resorts to this suspicious kind of argument. The incidents appealed to, as illustrations or examples of any disputed doctrine, ought either be such as are known to be true, or else they should he so natural that every one will at once perceive and admit their probability. But if they do not thus appeal to the preexisting knowledge of the reader, or to his common sense, they require to be supported by external evidence. If the author gives no authority except his own, we require that he should confine himself to truth in his work throughout, that is, that he should write a history, not a tale. He would be most unreasonable to expect that we should acquiesce in a theory because we found it conformable to the not very probable incidents contained in a professedly fictitious narrative. For this reason, we do not think the cause of science has gained much by transferring such a circumstance as Mr. Gaubion's successful vindication from a charge of smuggling, from Mr. Huskisson's speech, to a tale of fiction. In the former it had weight, as Mr. Huskisson would refer to proofs in support of his statement. It can serve no purpose in a tale. It does not illustrate any thing, and being unsupported by evidence it proves no position. In this instance, indeed, as in many others, Miss Martineau seems to have become aware of the impracticability of her undertaking, and to It have given up even the attempt to illustrate the doctrines of political economy. She began by a successful attempt to develope the progress of industry, by the instance of a number of people thrown in a strange country entirely on their own resources. has been said that her intention was to proceed methodically to exemplify the progress of society from its first rudiments to its present state, showing at the same time examples of the mode of operation of the different institutions which advanced or retarded this progress. But this design, if she ever conceived it, was very soon abandoned, and under the pressure of the self-imposed necessity of a monthly publication, she took up each subject as it occurred to her, without method or connection. and But In general she takes a remarkably one-sided view of questions admitting at least of some doubt, as in most of her illustrations of taxation. If a law may, in a single instance, possibly operate to the prejudice of an innocent individual, an opponent of the law may fairly, in argument, bring forward that instance, show its unfairness, and the weight of his argument will be determined by the probability of its occurrence. the novelist can insert as many as he pleases into his tales, and Miss Martineau, in her inveteracy against the excise, has availed herself extensively of this prerogative. A female gathers sloe leaves under the hedges and sells them as tea, without knowing there is harm in doing so, or intending any fraud; and in the same manner all the family engaged in different trades, under the superintendence of the excise, commit innocent and accidental breaches of the revenue laws. all the time, these people are represented as being persons who would be willing, under a system of direct taxation, to contribute their fair quota towards defraying the expenses of the state, without fraud or evasion. The fair inference from such examples, given by an author professedly writing to instruct, is, that the adulterator of tea is in general a person innocent of any fraudulent design; and that the breaches of the revenue laws are generally committed accidentally without any fraudulent intention; and that if a And system of direct taxation were introduced, the necessary sums would be paid without inconvenience to the contributors, and without encountering resistance, fraud, or evasion. If these things would not generally take place, is it fair for a person, professing to instruct us, to mention, not the general rules, but the exceptions, as the facts that should guide us in forming our opinions? We have witnessed many revenue trials, and we can safely say that we never saw any person convicted for any breach of the revenue laws which we believed to have been accidental. For laws in general, Miss Martineau seems to entertain very little respect, and she lays it down to be no dishonor to evade, and no crime to break those of which she happens to disapprove. An excise law in particular, is, in her estimation, fair game. The person who violates or evades it, is, in her opinion, merely doing an innocent act which the legislature has unwisely and unjustly prohibited. In this we cannot agree with her. The contraband trader or manufacturer, besides the system of violence or perjury by which he frustrates the laws, is guilty of a double fraud; a fraud on the public, and a fraud on his rivals, and fair competitors in trade. Miss Martineau contends that the distiller, who privately makes spirits, for which he pays no duty, is not guilty of any moral offence, and may probably be a sincerely honest man in the most extended sense of the term. To this, as we have said, we cannot assent. A duty upon spirits is a tax upon the consumers, falling upon each in proportion to the quantity he con sumes. No part of it falls upon the distiller, he is merely the person appointed to collect the tax. He is required to pay it in the first instance, and in return he receives it with a profit from those to whom he sells his spirits. If he receives the tax on that portion which he smuggles by not paying it over, he defrauds the revenue, and to that amount creates the necessity of imposing additional burthens upon his fellow citizens, to raise the sums which are necessary for the public service. If he does not receive the full amount of the tax from the purchasers, he is underselling his rivals in the market, by means of the frauds he is practising on the revenue. Is there nothing in this to shock the conscience of an honest man? or can we believe that the man who would act in this manner without scruple, would, under a system of direct taxation, declare his liabilities without reserve, and without fraud or delay, contribute his fair proportion to the service of the state? This is not the only instance in which Miss Martineau has shown herself destitute of that caution which would become one who professes to be a guide to the blind. Her whole works betray an ardent imagination and very moderate degree of judg ment. Her enthusiastic love for her favourite science, and her disgust at those prejudices which usurped the name of common sense, and opposed the progress of truth and reason, has, in too many instances, led her far beyond the compass of her understanding. Credo Quia impossibile est appears to be her maxim. Her daring disregard of vulgar errors has caused her in every instance, to cede as far as possible from popular opinions. Instead of meeting those prejudices, and stripping them of the title they had usurped, she boldly threw off all allegiance to common sense itself. Paradox is her favorite; incredibility (we suppose on the principle that every demand creates a supply) only operates as an incentive to arouse and call into action a sufficient degree of credulity; and once having received any proposition as a doctrine of political economy, she scorns all reference to the arguments by which it was originally proved, or to the qualifications with which it was accompanied. A confidence in the proofs on which any science rests, will indeed prevent our recurring to them in consequence of any doubt of their truth or force arising in our mind. But this reference is occasionally useful, and even neces sary, in order to guard against mistakes and misinterpretations, and in order to prevent the generality of the terms in which any proposition may happen to be conveyed, from leading us to assume its truth in a sense in which it was never proved. This sophisin (we believe logicians call it amphibolia) is continually besetting us when we prove |