In the case of the child brought up in the Catholic Church, the Church, which is the medium of Christ, instructs the child through its various agents. The child's reason apprehends, through the same probable evidence by which it learns other facts and truths, that the truth presented to him comes through the church, and through Christ, from God, who is immediately apprehended in his primitive idea. The light of faith which precedes in him the development of reason, illuminates his mind from the beginning to apprehend with infallible certitude that divine truth which is proposed to him through the medium of probable evidence. This faith is a fixed principle of conscience, proceeding from an illuminated intellect, inclining him to submit his mind unreservedly to the instruction of the Catholic Church on the faith of the divine veracity. It rests there unwaveringly, without ever admitting a doubt to the contrary or postponing a certain judgment until the evidence of revelation and the proofs of the divine commission of the church have been critically examined. It may rest there during life, and does so, with the greater number, to a greater or lesser degree; or, it may afterward proceed to investigate to the utmost limits the rationale of the divine revelation, not in order to establish faith on a surer basis, but in order to apprehend more distinctly what it believes, and to advance in theological science.

Some one may say: "You admit that it is impossible to attain to a perfect certitude of supernatural truth without supernatural light; why, then, do you attempt to convince unbelievers that the Catholic doctrine is the absolute truth by rational arguments?" To this we reply, that we do not endeavor to lead them to faith, by mere argument; but to the "preamble of faith." We aim at removing difficulties and impediments which hinder those from attending to the rational evidence of the faith; at removing its apparent incredibility. We rely on the grace of the Holy Spirit alone to make the effort successful, and to lead those who are worthy of grace beyond the preamble of faith to faith itself. This grace is in every human mind to which faith is proposed, in its initial stage; it is increased in proportion to the sincerity with which truth is sought for; and is given in fulness to all who do not voluntarily turn their minds away from it. If we did not believe this, we would lay down our pen at once. [Footnote 130]

[Footnote 130: The doctrine taught by Cardinal de Lugo and Dr. Newman, in regard to which some dissent was expressed in a former number, seems to the author, on mature reflection, to be, after all, identical with the one here maintained.]

From Once A Week.

A DAY AT ABBEVILLE.

BY BESSIE RAYNOR PARKES.

Twenty years ago, we posted into Abbeville by night, and were deposited in an old-fashioned inn, with a large walled garden. In the morning we posted further on across country to Rouen. Since then, many a lime has the Chemin de Fer du Nord borne us flying past the ancient city oft visited by English kings and English men-at-arms; not, perhaps, deigning to stop to take in water; for Abbeville, once upon the highway of nations, now lies just, as it were, a shade to one side; just a shade--the distance between the station and the ramparts. Yet this is enough to cause the maître d'hôtel to shake his head and say in a melancholy accent, "Abbeville est presque détruite."

On asking for the Hôtel de l'Europe, I was told that the Hôtel Tête de Boeuf was "all the same." Which, however, was far from being the case, as neither the building nor the master was what we had known twenty years ago. Query as to the degree of affinity required by the French intellect to produce the degree of identity? In fact, the Hôtel de l'Europe no longer existed. The house was possessed by a body of religious, the sisters of St. Joseph, and their large school for young ladies. The Tête de Boeuf had been a small château; two still picturesque brick turrets bearing witness of its ancient state.

In the morning I walked over almost the length and breadth of Abbeville, surprised to find it so large and, apparently, flourishing; and yet, in spite of tall chimneys upon the circumference, full of the quaintest old houses in the centre. Some of them have richly carved beams running along the edge of the overhanging stories. Such may still be seen in a few English towns; I remember them at Booking, in Essex. The glory of the place is its great church, or rather the nave, for this is all that ever got completed of the original design of the time of Louis XII., the king who married our Princess Mary, sister of Henry VIII. The choir has been patched on, and is about half the height of the nave. The latter is a glorious upshoot of traceried stone, with two towers; perhaps all the more impressive from having been thus arrested in the very act of creation. It is like a forest tree which has only attained half its development; and one feels as if it ought to go on growing, pushing out fresh buttresses and arches, till its fair proportions stood complete. There is an excellent stone staircase up one of the towers, and from the top a wide view of the town and the fields of Picardy, even to the sharp cliff marking where the sea-line must be. The windings of the Somme may be traced for many miles. I was told that the tide used to swell almost up to the town, and that several little streams, once falling into the river, were dried up. Even now, as there are several branches, one is here and there reminded of Bruges, by the little old-fashioned bridges, crossing a canal in the middle of a street. A broad girdle of water seemed to me to surround great part of the town; but I could obtain no map and no guide-book, though I anxiously inquired at the best shop. Only a history of Abbeville was dug out of the museum at the Hôtel de Ville, which building had a strong but plain tower reported of the eleventh century. {591} The Abbevillois care little apparently for their antiquities, though they are many and curious.

This ground, though somewhat bare and barren in appearance, has been thickly occupied by humanity from the earliest ages of history. Keltic barrows have been found here in abundance, and though many of them have been destroyed in the interests of agriculture, enough remain to delight the antiquary by their flint hatchets and arrows, their urns, and their burnt bones. One such barrow, near Noyelles-sur-Mer, when opened, was found to contain a large number of human heads, disposed in a sort of cone. In 1787, one was opened at Crécy, and in it were found two sarcophagi of burnt clay, in each of which was an entire skeleton. Each had been buried in its clothes, and one bore on its finger a copper ring; its dress being fastened likewise by a brooch or hook of the same metal. Endless indeed is the list of primitive instruments in flint, in copper, in iron, in bronze, found hereabouts; likewise vases full of burnt bones, not only of our own race, but of various animals--mice, water-rats, and "such small deer;" and in the near neighborhood, of boars, oxen, and sheep. Succeeding to these wild people and wild animals came the Romans. Before they pounced down upon us, before they crossed over to Porta Lymanis, and drew those straight lines of causeway over England which make the Roman Itinerary look something like Bradshaw's railway map, (only straighter,) they settled themselves firmly in the north of France; notably, they staid so long near St. Valery, (at the mouth of the river which runs through Abbeville,) that they buried there their dead in great numbers, whereof the place of sepulchre is at this day yet to be seen. Their own nice neat road also had they, cutting clean through the Graulic forests. It came from Lyons to Boulogne, passing through Amiens and Abbeville, and was in continuation of one which led from Rome into Gaul! And wherever this people of conquerors travelled, thither they carried their religious ceremonies and their domestic arts, so that we find still all sorts of medals, vases of red, grey, or black clay, little statuettes, ex votos, and sometimes larger groups of sculpture, such as one in bronze representing the combat of Hercules and Antaeus. Carthaginian medals have also been turned up here, brought from the far shores of the Mediterranean; and those of Claudius, Trajan, Caracalla, and Constantine. This long catalogue is useless, save to mark the rich floods of human life which have successively visited the banks of the Somme.

In the first year of the fifth century the barbarians made their way up to the Somme, fighting the Romans inch by inch. Attila burst upon this neighborhood, and fixed his claws therein; the tide of Rome rolls back upon the south, and new dynasties begin, and with them comes in Christianity; not, however, without much difficulty. The faith appears to have gradually spread from Amiens, where St. Finius preached as early as 301; but even 179 years later, St. Germain, the Scotchman, was martyred, and St. Honoré, the eighth bishop of Amiens, labored daily, for thirty-six years, in conjunction with Irish missionaries, to infuse Christianity into the minds of people equally indisposed, whether by Frankish paganism or Roman culture, to accept the doctrines of the Cross. Indeed, the learned historian of this part of the country, M. Louandre, believes that even Rome itself had never been able to destroy the old Keltic religion. He says that, as late as the seventh century, the antique trees, woods, and fountains were still honored by public adoration in this part of France; and St. Rignier hung up relics to the trees to purify them, just as in Rome itself the old pagan temples were exorcised. And after a time the old gods of all sorts were known either as idols or demons; no particular distinctions being drawn among them; they lie as débris beneath the religious soil of this part of Picardy, just as the bones of those who adored them are confounded in one common dust.

Late in the seventh century appears St. Rignier, a great saint in these parts. He was converted and baptized by the Irish missionaries, and thereupon became a most austere Christian indeed; only, says his legend, eating twice a week--Sundays and Thursdays. King Dagobert invited the saint to a repast, which the holy man accepted, and preached the Gospel the whole time they sat at table--a day and a night!

We must now take a great leap to the days of Charlemagne, because in his days the Abbey of St. Rignier, near to Abbeville, was very famous indeed, both as monastery and school, and contained a noble library of 256 volumes; the greater part whereof were Christian, but certain others were pagan classics; let us, for instance, be grateful for the Eclogues of Virgil and the Rhetoric of Cicero. Of this library but one volume remains; I have seen it, and with astonishment. It is a copy of the Gospels, written in letters of gold upon purple parchment. It was given by Charlemagne to the Count-Abbot, Saint Augilbert. This one precious fragment of the great library is in the museum of Abbeville. The school was, indeed, an ecclesiastical Eton and Oxford. The sons of kings, dukes, and counts came here to learn the "letters," of which Charlemagne made such great account.

Now the town of Abbeville first gets historic mention in the century succeeding Charlemagne. It is called Abbatis Villa, and belonged to this great monastery of St. Rignier; wherefore I have introduced both the good saint and his foundation. It grew, as almost all the towns of the middle ages did grow, from a religious root--a tap-root, striking deep in the soil. Of course, having thus begun to grow, its history has made interesting chapters a great deal too long to be copied or even noted here; it will not be amiss, however, to look for its points of occasional contact with England. Firstly, then, it was from St. Valery, the seaport of the Somme, that William the Conqueror set out for England. Then, in 1259, our Henry III. met St. Louis at Abbeville, and Henry did homage for his French possessions. Then, in 1272, our great King Edward I. married Eleanor, heiress of Ponthieu--she who sucked the poison from her husband's wound; and the burgesses of Abbeville, misliking the transfer, quarreled violently with the king's bailiff, and killed some of the underlings. Eleanor's son, Edward II., married Isabel, the

This unamiable specimen of her sex lived at Abbeville in 1312; but during her reign and residence, and that of her son Edward III., the inhabitants of Abbeville ceased not to kick indignantly. The King of France, her brother, struck into the contest "pour comforter la main de Madame d'Angleterre. " The legal documents arising from these quarrels partially remain to us. So they go on, quarreling and sometimes fighting, until the great day of Crécy, when Edward III., the late king's nephew, tried to get the throne. The oft-told tale we need not tell again. In 1393, France being in worse extremities, we find Charles VI. at Abbeville, and Froissart there at the same time. Perhaps, in respect of battles and quarrels, those few notices are sufficient; I only wished to indicate that Abbeville was on the borderland between the English and the French, and came in for an ample share of fighting. Two royal ceremonials enlivened it in the course of centuries, whereof particular mention is made in the history. Louis XII. here met and married Mary of England, in 1514: "La Reine Blanche," as she was afterward called, from her white widow's weeds. In the Hôtel de Cluny at Paris is still shown the apartments she occupied. Louis was old, and Mary young, when they married; but the French historian recounts her exceeding complaisance and politeness to the king, and his great delight therein.

In 1657, young Louis XIV. came here with his mother, and lodged at the Hôtel d'Oignon. Monsieur D'Oignon, the noble owner, had everything in such beautiful and ceremonious order for their reception, that he became a proverb at Abbeville--"As complete and well arranged as M. d'Oignon." A sort of rich Richard.

The antiquarian who goes to Abbeville and dips into the history (by M. Louandre) at the Museum, will find plenty of interesting matter about the manners and customs of the Abbevillois, rendered all the more striking by so many of the old houses being yet just where they were, and as they were. But few impressions of the book seem to have been printed off, for it is no longer sold, though the obliging librarian did say he knew where a few copies remained at a high price. This for the benefit of any long-pursed antiquary, curious in local histories. It is such a book as can only be written by a devoted son of the soil digging away on the spot.

In the Revolution, Abbeville fortunately escaped any great horrors; but the trials of the middle ages afford plenty; especially one of a certain student, condemned for sacrilege. Now, it is a peaceful, well-governed town, busy in making iron pots and cans, and other wrought articles from raw materials brought by the railway. It proves to be only in respect of the hotel interest that Abbeville est presque détruite.

Translated from the French

"GOD BLESS YOU!"

BY JEROME DUMOULIN.

"Thank you, master Jerome!" my reader replies; "yes, to be sure, may God bless me! But I have not sneezed, that I know of, for a quarter of an hour, at least; and apropos de quoi do you say that? or rather, why and wherefore do they always say so to people who sneeze? I suspect that you want to talk about it, and, in fact, I should not be displeased to hear you discuss for a little while this odd custom; so begin, master Jerome."

Very well, dear reader, such is my idea, and I think you will not find uninteresting the little history of it which I intend to give; and I assure you beforehand, that if I fail to convince you, you must be very difficult.

Settle it first in your mind, that in whatever you may have heard heretofore upon this subject, there was not one word of truth. Among the most probable histories of this kind is that of a pestilence, which in the time of Pope Saint Gregory, ravaged Italy, the peculiar characteristic of which was to cause the sick person to die suddenly by sneezing. When the patient sneezed, which was for him, the passage from life to death, the assistants gave him this fraternal benediction, saying to him, "God bless you!" which was the equivalent or translation of Requiescat in pace. This account, I repeat, would be much more acceptable, if it were not contradicted by a positive fact, namely, that the use of the expression is many centuries anterior to Pope Saint Gregory; anterior even to the Christian era, and borrowed, of course, from the pagans, as I am about to prove from authentic testimony.

But in the first place, let us remark that in the highest antiquity sneezing was a circumstance in regard to which they drew auguries, especially if a person sneezed many times consecutively. Xenophon relates that one of his corporals having sneezed, he drew from it a good augury by a process of reasoning which I did not quite understand, but which his troops, apparently, found sufficiently conclusive. Going back again some eight centuries, we find in the "Odyssey" an adventure of the same kind, but more droll. In the eighteenth book of this poem, the divine Homer relates that one day Telemachus began to sneeze in such a manner as to shake the whole house. That put madam Penelope in good humor, who calling her faithful Eumacus the swineherd: "Do you hear, old fellow," she said; "he is well cared for! and what an augury of happiness the gods have given us. Jupiter has spoken by the nose of my dear Telemachus, and he announces to us that we are about to be freed from these scamps of gallants who bore me with their pursuits, and who beside put to sack our poor civil list; for every hour our cattle, goats, and little pigs, which you love like so many children, are sacrificed to the voracity of these rascals. Now, my good fellow, I have an idea: go you to the door of the palace, where for some days I have seen that beggar that you know. Take him from me these pantaloons and this shirt, which I am sure he needs very much; and promise him beside a magnificent frock-coat, which he will have only if he shall answer in a satisfactory manner the questions which I shall propose." In fact the good queen suspected that the ragged peasant might be the wise Ulysses in disguise. But let us proceed with our subject.

In the second chapter of his twenty-eighth book, the elder Pliny expresses himself thus: Cur sternumentis salutamus? Quod etiam Tiberium Caesarem in vehiculo exegisse tradunt, et aliqui nomine quoque consalutare religiosius putant. Thus the custom was already established among the Romans of wishing health and good fortune to persons who sneezed, and the last word but one of the phrase indicates that this wish had a religious character. In many authors health is wished to persons who sneeze; salvere jubentur, is the consecrated expression, which corresponds to "God guard you;" and according to the passage cited above, it appears that when Tiberius, driving in his chariot, sneezed, then, and only then, the populace were obliged to cry. Long live the emperor! a formula which included the impetration of life and health by the protection of the gods. This custom existed then at the time of Pliny, and going back still further among the Romans, let us see what we find. Here then is a story extracted from the "Veterum Auctorum Fragmenta,"' and inserted by Father Strada in his "Prolusiones Academicae." I give a free translation, it is true, but I will guarantee the perfect exactitude of the substance, and of the formulas.

One day when Cicero was present at a performance at the Roman opera, the illustrious orator began to sneeze loudly. Immediately all rose, senators and plebeians, and each one taking off his hat, they cried to him from all parts of the house: "God bless you! Omnes assurrexere--salvere jubentes. " Upon which three young men, named severally Fannius, Fabalus, and Lemniscus, leaning upon their elbows in one of the boxes, began the interchange of a succession of absurd remarks, and finally started the question of the origin of this custom. Each gave his own opinion, and the three agreed at once that the usage dated back as far as Prometheus. It was then, at Rome, a common tradition of very ancient date, as we see, according to some, even as ancient as the epoch of the tower of Babel. {595} But if they were agreed as to the groundwork, they embellished their canvas in very different fashions. The stories related by Fannius, and by Fabalus I will spare you for the sake of brevity and for other reasons; contenting myself only with the version of Lemniscus, which will suffice for our object.

Following then, this respectable authority: The son of Japetus moulded, as every one knows, with pipe-clay, a statue which he proposed to animate with celestial fire, and his work finished, he put it into a stove in order that it should dry sufficiently; but the heat was very great, and acted so well, or so ill, that independently of other damages, the nose of the work became cracked and shrunken in a manner very unfortunate for a nose which had the slightest self-consciousness. When the artist returned to the stove and saw this stunted nose, he began to swear like a pagan as he was; but perceiving that the flat-nose gained nothing thereby, he took the wiser part of re-manipulating the organ, adding thereto fresh clay, and in order to facilitate the work of restoration, he conceived the idea of inserting a match in one of the nostrils of his manikin. But the mucous membrane, already provided with sensibility and life, was irritated at the contact of the sulphuric acid, and the consequence was such a tremendous sneezing that all the teeth, not yet quite solid in the jaw, sprang out into the face of the operator. Dismayed by this deluge of meteors, and expecting to see his little man get out of order from top to bottom "Ah!" cried Prometheus, "may Jupiter protect you!"--Tibi Jupiter adsit! "And from this you see two things," continued Lemniscus: "First, why they always say to people who sneeze, 'May Jupiter assist you!' and also, why this morning, in a similar case, I said nothing at all to this old mummy Crispinus, since from time immemorial his last tooth has taken flight. He might sneeze like an old cat without the slightest danger to his jaw."

Here terminates the colloquy of our young men. I am far from intending to guarantee the contents, either as to the conduct and exploits of Prometheus, or the misfortunes of his little man, since I have not under my eye the authentic records; but what follows incontestably from this recital, is, that at the time of Cicero, the usage of which we speak was already very ancient, since they traced it back to one of the most ancient heroes of fable. But moreover, and this it is which renders this passage particularly precious, we find in it the precise form of salutation which other passages contain in the generic phrase--salvere jubent. This formula consists in these three words: Tibi Jupiter adsit! I do not intend to say that this wish and this deprecatory formula were only used in the special case of which we speak. Undoubtedly, in a thousand other circumstances, persons addressed each other as a mark of good will. Deus tibi faveat! Dii adsint! Tibi adsit Jupiter! etc, etc.; but in the special case of sneezing, the phrase was obligatory among persons of gentle breeding.

Now, reader, attention! and will you enter into a Roman school, in the time of Camillus or Coriolanus? There we shall find in the midst of about fifty pupils, an honest preceptor bearing the name of Stolo, or Volumnus, or Pomponius, perhaps. Very well, let it be Pomponius. Now on a certain day the good man began to sneeze, but magisterially, and in double time, following the form still used among the moderns, that is to say, he emitted this nasal interjection----ad----sit! which you have observed and practised a thousand times. Upon which one of the young rogues, remarking the homophony of the thing with one of the three words of the deprecatory formula which he had heard in numberless cases, added, in a mocking tone--tibi Jupiter!and instantly all the crowd repeated in chorus after him, ad--sit--tibi Jupiter.

Here you have, dear reader, the solution of the enigma. But let us observe the sequel. What did master {596} Pomponius under the fire of this gay frolic? Somewhat astonished at first, he immediately recovered himself, and took the thing in good part; and being something of a wag himself, that style of benediction suited his humor. I see him now running his glance along the restless troops, raising the right hand, then the fore-finger, which he carries to his nose, then calming their terrors by these soothing words:

You will not suppose that the little boys failed in this duty. From the school of Pomponius it passed through all the line of the university establishments, and improving upon it, the children saluted with--Jupiter ad----sit!----first the heads of their classes, then fathers, mothers, and all respectable persons. The elders failed not to imitate the little ones: it permeated the whole of society. Then came Christianity, which changed Jupiter into God; and the formula, Jupiter protect you! was naturally transformed into God bless you!

Thus it is verified that this formula is of Roman origin; and if anything is simple, natural, and manifest, it is its derivation from the physiological phenomena with which it is connected, and of which it represents phonetically the energetic expression. If any of my readers can find a better explanation of it, I beg him to address me his memorandum by telegraph.

I owe you now the quotation from the "Anthology," which I promised above. Among the Greek epigrams of all epochs, of which this collection is composed, there is one which relates precisely to the custom of which we speak. The Zeu Soson of this epigram is the translation of the Jupiter adsit of the Latins. I say the translation and not the original. For this is not one of those fragments which may be of an epoch anterior to that in which we have placed, and in which we have a right to place master Pomponius and his little adventure. In extending their empire over the countries of the Greek tongue, the Romans imported there a great number of their customs and social habits: the Jupiter adsit must have been of this number, and therefore we find it under Greek pens. I dare not venture here upon the Greek text of the "Anthology," which would perhaps frighten our fair readers, and I give only the Latin translation in two couplets:

Very well! I yet have scruples in regard to my Latin, which may not be understood by some of the ladies and especially by the bachelors of the bifurcation. Therefore, to put it into good French verse, I have had recourse to the politeness of our friend Pomponius, and the excellent man has willingly given the following translation of the second distich, which alone relates to the circumstance:

This epigram, undoubtedly, is not much more than two thousand years old; and why may it not have been written by Pomponius the ancient? For the Pomponius of our day, to him also, "how often and whenever," he shall sneeze--and without that even, God bless him!

[ORIGINAL.]

THEREIN.

A SONG.

From The Lamp.

UNCONVICTED; OR, OLD THORNELEY'S HEIRS.

CHAPTER V.

THE VERDICT AT THE INQUEST

From the time that suspicions as to the manner of Gilbert Thorneley's death had been communicated to Scotland Yard, the house in Wimpole street was taken possession of by the police, and all egress or ingress not subject to the knowledge and approval of the officer in charge was prohibited. Merrivale had been allowed on the previous day to see the body of poor old Thorneley, but with much difficulty, as the police had strict orders not to allow any strangers access to the chamber of death. He told me this on our way to the inquest.

"By the by," he said, "did you know that Wilmot is acting as sole executor of his uncle, and has taken upon himself the responsibility of ordering everything about the funeral? I asked Atherton about it yesterday evening, and he says Wilmot came to him and asked what was to be done, as Smith and Walker had said that he and Atherton, as only relatives of the deceased, were the proper persons to open the will, and see who were left his executors. Atherton, with his usual thoughtlessness for his own interests, bade him act as he considered right in everything, and was too much overwhelmed with his own sorrow to think of anything else. Wilmot then went to Smith's and opened the will, which was deposited there, and finds he is left sole executor; and, mind you, I fancy he's sole heir likewise, for he's as coxy as ever he can be. Mark my words, Kavanagh, there'll be a hitch about that will as sure as I'm alive."

I felt that Merrivale spoke with a purpose; but I answered him coolly: "I think so too; and Wilmot will find himself in the wrong box."

"If I thought it was any use," continued he, "I would ask you once more to confide to me the nature of the business which took you to Thorneley's on Tuesday evening."

"It will transpire in due time, Merrivale. I pass you my word it is utterly useless knowledge now; nor does it in any way affect Hugh Atherton's present position. God knows that nothing should keep me silent if I thought that silence would injure in the smallest degree one so dear to me--Will he be present to day?" I asked in a little while.

"Yes; he seemed very anxious to watch the proceedings; and on the whole I thought it better he should. I never saw such a man," said Merrivale, with a burst of enthusiasm very unlike his usual dry, cold manner; "he thinks of every one but himself. He is principally anxious to be there that he may detect any flaw in the evidence, or find any clue that may lead to the discovery of the real murderer of his uncle, apparently without any thought of saving himself, as if that were a secondary consideration. He seems to think more of the old man's death and take it to heart than of anything which has happened to himself; except when he speaks of Miss Leslie, and then he breaks down entirely. I have prepared him for having to hear your evidence, and I likewise mentioned that his uncle had sent for you the night of his death; and that you considered yourself bound in honor not to mention yet what transpired at the interview, but you had assured me it would throw no light upon our present darkness."

"Darkness, indeed! O my poor Hugh!"

"He expressed great surprise, and said; 'Well, this will be the first and only secret affecting either of us which John has ever kept from me. Wilmot hinted that some one had been at work who was not friendly to me; but I told him I didn't believe I had an enemy: and I don't and won't believe it now.' Then I asked him if he wouldn't like to see you, and I think in his heart he would; but he seemed to hesitate, and at last said: 'No, it is best not, best for us both--at least until after this,'--meaning the inquest--'is over.'"

The first secret! No, not the first, Hugh, not the first; but the other could never have divided us, could never have raised one shadow between us, I had buried it deep down in its lonely grave, and laid its ghost by the might of my strong love for you, my friend and brother!

The house in Wimpole street looked gloomy enough, with its close-shut blinds and the two policemen keeping guard on either side the door, suggestive of death--of murder! There was a small crowd collected round; not such a crowd as had assembled before the police-station, but something like. Street-children, errand-boys, stray costermongers with their barrows, passing tradesmen with their carts or baskets, and women--slatterns from neighboring alleys and back-streets, Irish women from the Marylebone courts and slums; and each arrival caused fresh agitation and excitement amidst that crowd of upturned eager faces gathered there, waiting for the verdict.

"That's him," cried a voice as our cab drove up to the door--"that's Corrinder Javies!"' "No, it an't, bless yer innercence! the corrinder wears a scarlet gownd and a gold-laced 'at." "Tell ye he don't; he wears a black un, and ers got it in his bag." "Yah!--the lawyer, the nevy's lawyer!" followed by a yell of imprecations. The nearest gamin on the door-step had heard Merrivale give his name to the policemen and demand admission, and had handed it down to his fellows. So, with the sounds of the brutal mob ringing in our ears, we passed the threshold of the murdered man's house. A cold shudder seized me as I stood in the hall, and I seemed to feel as if the spirit of the dead were hovering about in disquiet, and unable to rest. A superintendent of the police received us in the hall, and we asked him if we could go up to see the body. After some demur he went up-stairs with us, and unlocked the chamber of death. There in his shell lay all that remained of Gilbert Thorneley, he whose name and fame had been world-wide. Fame, for what? For amassing wealth; for grinding down the poor; for toiling, slaving, wearing himself out in the busy march of life, with no thought but for that life which perishes heaping up riches which must be relinquished on the grave's brink; which could bring him no comfort nor solace in the valley of the shadow; which perchance, in the inscrutable designs of providence, had been used as an instrument of retribution against him. I looked at his worn face--seamed with the lines of care, furrowed with the struggles that had brought so little reward--and remembered that last evening when I had seen and spoken with him--of the secret he had confided to me, of what he had so darkly hinted at; and I fancied I could read in his unplacid face that death had visited him in all its intensity of bitterness, that the bodily suffering had been nothing compared to the ocean of remorse which had swept over his soul. He rested from his weary labors, and the fruits of them had not followed him. God alone knew the complete history of his life; God only could supply what had been wanting from the treasures of his mercy; God only could tell whether that last flood of remorseful anguish had been the sorrow that could be accepted for the sake of One who had died for him.

Whilst we yet stood gazing on the corpse, word was brought us that the coroner had arrived, and was going to open proceedings. The superintendent once more turned the key upon the dead; and we descended to the first-floor.

"I must divide you, gentlemen, now," said he. "You, sir," to Merrivale, "will please to come with me to the inquest-room; and you, Mr. Kavanagh, must wait in this back drawing-room until we send for you. I thought you'd prefer being alone, to going along with the other witnesses."

"Yes," I said; "I should much prefer it."

I avail myself of the newspaper-reports, together with Mr. Merrivale's notes, for an account of the inquest; and I have also used his observations made on the personal appearance, manner, etc, of the witnesses and others who took part in it. For myself, I remained in that dark dingy back-room until my turn came to give evidence.

I heard the dull tramp of the jury-men as they went up-stairs and entered the room overhead to view the body, and their hushed murmurs as they came down. I heard the hum of voices in the front drawing-room, where the witnesses were assembled, and the distinct orders issued at intervals by the police. I remember standing at the window looking into the dismal back-garden, noting mechanically the various small sights in the back-gardens opposite. I remember staring for a quarter of an hour at two cats fighting on the wall--a black and a tabby; and listening to their dismal squalls. If they had been two tigers tearing each other to pieces on that back garden-wall in the midst of this eminently civilized city, I don't think it would have made more impression on my brain than did those two specimens of the feline race. And last, I remember walking, as in a dream, into the dining-room, where sat the coroner at the head of the long table, and ranged on either side of him the twelve jury-men. I remember seeing a man whom I recognized as one of the deceased's solicitors, Mr. Walker, occupying a chair at a small side-table with his clerk, and on the opposite side of the room at another table sat Merrivale: while just behind him, guarded--ay, guarded--by a policeman, sat Hugh Atherton; and that as I came and took a chair placed for me at the other end of the long table, he raised his eyes and looked full upon me, and that I knew then the deadly influence which had been at work--for it was no longer the friendly, trustful look of old; I knew--yes, I knew that our warm friendship had died the death, that a traitor's hand had helped to slay it. I knew, and knowing it the pain was so intense, so like a knife entering my heart, that unconsciously I raised my hand as though to ward off the agony that had come upon me, and a cry escaped my lips--"Hugh, Hugh!" And then I heard the coroner addressing me in the calm business tones of a man accustomed to do his terrible work.

The first witness called was Mr. Evans, surgeon. He said:

"I am a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, and live at 138 Wimpole street. I was summoned to Mr. Thorneley's house about seven o'clock on the morning of the 24th; and was taken up into deceased's room. He was in bed, lying on his back, the eyes partially open, and the forehead and mouth contracted, as though great pain had preceded death. He had apparently been dead some hours. There was a stiffness, however, about the body, and an unusual rigidity of the limbs, which excited my suspicion. The feet were likewise arched. The housekeeper and the man-servant were in the room with the deceased at the time I arrived. I asked what he had taken last before going to bed. The housekeeper replied he had taken his bitter {602} ale as usual about nine o'clock. I asked to see the bottle out of which he had taken the ale. The housekeeper bade the man go down to his master's study and fetch up the tray. On it were a pint-bottle of Bass's bitter ale, a tumbler, and a plate of hard biscuit. There were a few drops at the bottom of the glass. I smelt and tasted them; there was no peculiar smell, but the taste was unusually bitter. It suggested to me that strychnine might have been introduced. In the bottle about half a tumblerful of ale was left. I took possession of it for the purpose of analysis, with the tumbler still containing a few drops. I said to the housekeeper: 'Information must be sent at once to the police.' This was done. I remained until the superintendent arrived, and then proceeded to my house with the ale-bottle and glass. I immediately subjected the contents of both to the usual process. In the few drops contained in the glass I discovered the appearance of strychnine. The contents of the bottle were perfectly free." (Sensation.) "I then went back to Mr. Thorneley's house, and reported the results to the police-officer, who communicated with Scotland Yard, the deceased's relative Mr. Wilmot, and his lawyers. I demanded that the family medical man should be summoned. On his arrival we made a post-mortem examination, and removed the stomach with its contents, sealed and despatched them to Professor T---- for analysis. We both refused a death-certificate until the results of that analysis had been ascertained. We agreed ourselves in suspecting death had originated through poison, and that the poison had been strychnine. There was no appearance of any disease in either heart, lungs, or brain, which should cause sudden death. All three organs were in a perfectly healthy state."

Dr. Robinson, physician, and the usual medical attendant of deceased, corroborated the above evidence in every particular.

Professor T---- next deposed that he received the stomach of deceased with its contents from Dr. Robinson and Mr. Evans. That he had analyzed the latter, and had detected and separated strychnine in very minute quantities; on further test, positive proof of the existence of the poison was afforded by the colors produced. Upon introducing some of the suspected matter into the body of a frog, death had been produced from tetanic convulsions; thus demonstrating the existence of strychnine. His opinion was that deceased had died from the effects of strychnine administered in bitter ale; that the quantity administered had been about one grain, not more--it might be less.

Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, was then examined. She was a woman past fifty in appearance; her face was remarkable; so perfectly immobile and passionless in its expression. Her hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes were of a pale sandy color; and her drooping eyelids had that peculiar motion in them which novelists call "shivering." She gave her answers in clear low tones; but seldom raising her eyes to the interrogator; they were of a cold bluish-gray, with a dangerous scintillating light in them. Her manners and appearance were those of a woman above her station in life; her language quite grammatical, though tinctured by a slightly foreign idiom and accent; her deportment perfectly self-possessed. She deposed that the deceased had appeared in the same health as usual up to the evening previous to his death, when on taking in his bitter ale and biscuits she observed that he looked very much flushed and agitated, and his voice had sounded loud and angry as she came up the stairs. He and Mr. Atherton seemed to be having a dispute; and as she came into the room she distinctly heard Mr. Atherton say to her master, "You will bitterly repent to-morrow what you have said to-night." She could swear to the words, for they made an {603} impression upon her. Had not heard Mr. Wilmot speak whilst in the study. The ale had been brought up from the cellar by Barker, who uncorked it down-stairs, as usual, in presence of the other servants. Barker had accompanied her to the study-door, and opened it for her. Always took in the ale when her master was alone, or when only the young gentlemen (Wilmot and Atherton) were there; and waited to receive his orders for the next day. Deceased always took bitter ale at nine o'clock, with hard biscuits.

Mr. Merrivale: "Did you not pour some ale out into the tumbler before taking it up-stairs?"

"I did not."

"Would you swear you did not?"

"Certainly I would swear it."

Evidence continued: To her knowledge he had taken nothing since the ale. The young gentlemen never took bitter ale: Mr. Atherton didn't like it, and Mr. Wilmot could not drink it. Only one tumbler had been brought up. The tray had remained in the study just as Mr. Thorneley had left it, and had not been touched until the following morning, when the doctor asked to have the bottle and glass brought to him. Barker, the man-servant, had fetched the tray from the study. No one had entered the study from the time Mr. Thorneley had gone to bed, until Barker had gone there for the tray the next morning. She had locked the door on the outside as she went up to bed, but had not gone into the room. On the morning of the 24th she was roused by a violent knocking at her door, and by Barker saying, in a very agitated manner, "For God's sake get up directly, Mrs. Haag, and come to master; for I fear he's dead!" Had hurried on a few clothes, and gone instantly to Mr. Thorneley's room. The deceased was in bed, the eyes partially open, and the mouth contracted, as if in an agony of pain. She had touched his hand and found it quite cold. Then they both had stooped to listen if he breathed; but he did not. Barker said: "I fear it's all up with him; he must have had a fit and died in the night. What's to be done, Mrs. Haag?" Replied, "Send at once for a doctor." The other servants now came crowding in, and one of them ran off immediately for the nearest surgeon. He arrived in less than half an hour. No one had touched the body until the arrival of the doctor; they had all feared lest they might do harm by touching it. Had lived in the service of deceased nearly thirty years; he had been a severe but just master to her. Was a Belgian by birth; but had lived nearly all her life in England. Was a widow; had no children living, nor any relations alive that she knew of. Examined as to what had transpired before taking the ale to the study, Mrs. Haag deposed that Mr. John Kavanagh had called on Mr. Thorneley at seven o'clock, and been closeted with him for an hour; that a short time before he went away the study-bell rang, which was answered by Barker, who came down into the servants'-hall and told Thomas the coachman to go up with him to his master's room. When they came down, they said they had been signing their names as witnesses to some paper, which both of them had supposed was a will; but that neither their master nor Mr. Kavanagh had told them so. She had put on her things whilst they were upstairs, and just after they returned she went out--Questioned as to her errand, said she went to buy some ribbon she wanted at a shop in Oxford street; that returning home by Vere street she saw Mr. Atherton coming out of the chemist's shop at the corner of Oxford street, and heard him speak to Mr. Kavanagh. Heard the words "Kavanagh," "Atherton," and saw them shake hands. Could swear to their identity.--Questioned by Mr. Merrivale, solicitor for the prisoner, as to how it had come about that she had been witness to the meeting between the two gentlemen at {604} the corner of Vere street and Oxford street, and yet was met only in the middle of Vere street--a very short street--at least five minutes afterwards by Mr. Kavanagh, denied meeting Mr. Kavanagh at all in Vere street; had passed the two gentlemen at the corner, and gone straight home. Had worn no veil that evening.--Examination resumed by the coroner: Had not seen her master since taking the ale into the study; had gone to the door after the gentlemen had left, but found it locked, and received for answer, he was busy, and did not require anything. Mr. Wilmot had left some time previous to Mr. Atherton; she had seen neither to speak to them that evening. This was the pith of the housekeeper's evidence.

John Barker was the next witness called, who corroborated everything deposed by Mrs. Haag. Asked by a juryman if it was he who signed the paper on the evening before Mr. Thorneley's death, replied it was. Was he aware of the nature of the document? No; but both he and Thomas the coachman, who had likewise signed, fancied it must be a will. Had lived nearly twenty years with his master, and often witnessed business papers, but never asked what they were.--Questioned by Mr. Merrivale as to whether he had noticed any conversation which passed between Mr. Wilmot and Mr. Atherton in the hall the night before the deceased died, replied he had caught one or two words.--Told by the coroner to repeat them. After seeming to recollect himself for a moment or two, said he had heard Mr. Wilmot say he must get some money out of the governor; to which Mr. Atherton had replied in rather a low voice; but he had heard the words, "won't live long," and "to be worried," and "our affairs."--Asked by the prisoner if the sentence had not been, "He is getting very old, and won't live long; he ought not to be worried with our affairs"? Replied he could not say; it might have been so; but what he had repeated was the whole of what he had distinctly heard. He wished to say that he believed Mr. Atherton to be innocent; for he was very fond of poor master, and his uncle always seemed more partial to him than to any one else--much more than to Mr. Wilmot.

Thomas Spriggs the coachman, the cook, and the housemaid, were then examined respectively, and their evidence corroborated every statement made before; only one fresh feature presented itself. The cook volunteered to state that she had been awoke, in the middle of the night on which her master died, by some noise, and had fancied she heard stealthy footsteps on the stairs.--Questioned upon this, said that she meant the stairs leading from the third story where the women-servants slept, to the second story..

Were they front or back-stairs?

Front-stairs; the back-stairs only reached the second floor. That the housekeeper occupied one room to herself, she and the housemaid another, and the third was empty. She had not dared to get out of bed, believing it was the ghost.

What ghost?

Oh! the house was haunted; all the servants know it and believed it, except the housekeeper, who had laughed at her shameful, and called her a superstitious woman. But then they had never been what she might call comfortable nor friendly together; for Mrs. 'Aag 'eld herself 'igh and 'orty with all the company in the 'all. Couldn't say at what hour she had been awoke; had drawed the clothes over her 'ed, and said her prayers, and supposed she had fell asleep again, being that way inclined by natur'.

Mr. Merrivale: "Have you and the housekeeper ever fallen out, cook?"

Witness: "Well, no, sir. I can't say as we ever 'ave; and I've nothing to bring against her except as she was 'igh and close, which isn't agreeable, sir, when the position of parties is {605} ekally respectable, which mine is, sir, 'aving come of a greengrocer's family as kep' their own wehicle and drove theirselves; and whose mother could afford to be washed out, and never sat down to tea on Sunday without s'rimps or 'winkles or something to give a relish."

Coroner: "That is enough, cook.--Bring in the next witness."

Mr. Lister Wilmot, who appeared much agitated, next deposed: "I went to visit my deceased uncle on the evening of Tuesday last, and whilst taking off my outer coat in the hall, my cousin, Mr. Atherton, arrived. We went into my uncle's study together. Very little conversation passed between us. I mentioned my intention of asking my uncle for some money that evening, which I needed, having some pressing bills to pay. My cousin replied something to the effect that he, my uncle, would probably not live long, and we ought not to worry him with our affairs. I think he simply said it with a view to stopping me from making the application: he thinks I am extravagant. He asked me how much I wanted. I said, £500. He said: 'That is a large sum, Lister; we shall never get the governor to come down as handsome as that.'"

Mr. Merrivale: "Did Mr. Atherton say, 'we shall,' or 'you will'?"

Witness (hesitating:) "I am not quite clear, but I think he said 'we shall.' It was simply a kindly way of speaking. We found my uncle more than usually taciturn and abstracted; but I was so hard pressed I was obliged to brave him, and ask him for money. To my astonishment, instead of venting his anger on me, he turned it all upon my cousin Hugh, and accused him of leading me into extravagance."

Coroner: "Was this so?"

"It was not. Hugh and I are the best of friends; but our pursuits and tastes are totally opposite. I said so to my uncle, and tried to appease him in vain. At last he worked himself into such a rage that he seemed quite reckless of what he said; and hinted that Hugh might pay my debts for me, and if he couldn't do so out of his own pocket, he might get Kavanagh to advance me some out of his future wife's dividends; that I might have got the girl for myself if I had chosen; but as it was, he dared say Kavanagh would marry her in the long-run, for it was easy to see how the wind lay in that quarter."

Mr. Merrivale: "Can you swear to those words?"

"I can. My cousin got very angry at this, and said: 'You have no right to make such remarks or draw any such conclusions; they are false. You will repent of this to-morrow.' I can swear to those words. Just then Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, brought in my uncle's ale and biscuits, as usual. Barker opened the door for her: I remember that fact. There was only one tumbler with the bottle brought up. Neither myself nor my cousin ever touch that beverage. When Mrs. Haag had left the room, Hugh got up and went to the table where the tray had been placed, and brought a glass of ale to my uncle with a plate of hard biscuits."

Coroner: "Did you see the prisoner pour out the ale? Where was he standing with regard to yourself?"

"He had his back toward us; I was sitting by the fire opposite my uncle; the table was in the middle of the room. To get the ale Hugh must turn his back to us."

"How long was he at the table?"

Witness, (after a moment's thought:) "A minute or more; but I could not speak positively."

"Sufficient time to have put anything in the ale?"

Witness, (much agitated:) "Am I obliged to answer this?"

"You are not obliged; but an unfavorable interpretation might be put upon your silence."

Witness (in a very low voice:) "There was time."