her ingenuous countenance, Alas! she little knew the agony I suffered in being obliged to leave her, nor the deep, the very deep interest I took in her welfare. I endeavoured to convince her that longer delay was impossible, and that I had already exceeded the time allowed to me. "Well, then," said Adelaide, "if you are indeed going, I have a little gift for you" (and she placed in my hand a small miniature of herself cased in gold)" which will sometimes serve to remind you of a cousin who will ever remember with affection the friend of her youth." I strove to speak; but the words died away on my tongue, and, hastily clasping her to my heart, with the freedom which our long intimacy and relationship warranted, I pressed my lips on her beautiful brow, and rushed from the room. Years have passed away since then, but that interview still lives in my memory! Adelaide Manvers was the orphan child of my father's favourite sister. Both of her parents had died when she was very young. My mother received her under her protection, and she was educated with my sister Catherine. I was ten years the senior of Adelaide; and, when she first became an inmate of our family, I was preparing for the university, and had but little intercourse with my pretty cousin. Years rolled onwards, and the joyous laughing child ripened into a beautiful and artless girl, whose smiles and presence formed to me the chief attraction of my home, and whose grace and engaging simplicity were never-failing objects of interest and delight. Adelaide was, however, unconscious that I entertained for her a sentiment warmer than that of friendship; nor had I the courage to make her acquainted with my feelings, as I feared to interrupt the harmony then existing between us. About this time an opportunity presented itself for my accompanying a gentleman in the continental tour, and as I was much pressed to avail myself of the offer by my father, and could He offer no plausible reason for refusing, I reluctantly consented. I was absent two years, and during that time the sweet image of Adelaide still haunted me, and I thought of her with unabated affection. At length I returned, and hastened to embrace my family, who were then staying at Southampton. Adelaide was with them, and-how beautiful she looked! Every where she was the object of universal attraction; but I thought less of her personal loveliness than of the endearing and estimable qualities of her heart and mind. We renewed our former friendly intercourse, and hope whispered to my heart that I might yet be happy. Soon, however, I learned with dismay, that Sir James Mantravers was an ardent admirer of my cousin Adelaide, and that it was suspected she regarded him with partiality. Here was a death-blow to the airy fabric of happiness which I had been raising. The Baronet was younger than myself; handsome, and of most polished manners. evidently sought to gain Adelaide's affection, and I watched her closely when in company with him. I saw the deepened blush on the cheek of my cousin when the young Baronet addressed her, and the sparkle of her eye as she listened to his welcome conversation: from that moment the long-treasured and secret hopes of my heart died within me. I saw that her young heart's affections were fixed, and that she was lost to me for ever. I resolved that my wretchedness and disappointment should be buried in the recesses of my own heart. Sir James soon after made proposals for the hand of Adelaide, which were accepted. I know not why, but though he was a general favourite in society, I never liked him. I suspected that much of dissimulation lurked beneath his smooth exterior and insinuating address. Though I knew Adelaide would soon be the bride of another, I still lingered near her; willing to listen to her sweet voice, and gaze on her enchanting smile; but when I had been twelve years in India, when my uncle died, and left me the bulk of his property; the remainder to be equally divided between Adelaide and my sister Catherine. When I lost my uncle I had no remaining tie in India, and I felt a longing desire to revisit my native shores, and to embrace my mother and sister-my father had been dead some years. How my heart even then throbbed when I thought that I should see Adelaide! the day of her union was fixed, I averse to scenes of reckless gaiety awoke from my trance, to a full and dissipation. Time soothed my sense of my misery. I felt that I bitter feelings of disappointment, and could not witness her the wife of the novel scenes of activity in which another, and retain my senses. I I engaged, tended to dissipate my resolved to leave England for In- unhappiness, until at length I was dia, where I had an uncle, who enabled to think of Adelaide with had for many years filled an impor- calmness, yet still as a dear and tant post under the Government. cherished being for whose welfare I "I will quit England,” I exclaimed felt the most tender solicitude. in bitter sorrow, "for years, perhaps for ever, and lose, if possible, the remembrance of my misery amid new climes and scenery."-My wish was at first strenuously objected to by my family; but when they saw my settled determination, they refrained from offering further opposition, and a day was named for my departure. Circumstances, immaterial now, connected with the Baronet's family, obliged him to name an earlier day for his marriage than had been anticipated, and it happened to be the very one which was also to witness my departure from Elmwood Park, my paternal home. I was indeed importuned to remain and witness Adelaide's espousals; but I offered so plausible an excuse that it was quite sufficient to satisfy the unsuspecting mind of Adelaide. At length, the morning of my departure came. My parting scene with Adelaide I have already described; but how shall I tell of the bitter dejection with which I sank back in the carriage, as it swept round the lawn, when I saw the wave of Adelaide's hand at the window, and felt that on earth I must behold her beloved form no more, or look on her as the wife of another! While in India I heard frequently from my sister Catherine. She, however, said but little respecting Adelaide, as I half suspect that she had some idea of my unhappy attachment; but I learned that Adelaide was a mother, and that Sir James was extremely gay, and the first to join in every fashionable extravagance. I sighed when I read this, for my heart whispered to me that Adelaide was unhappy, as I knew her habits and disposition were 60 ATHENEUM, VOL. 9, 2d series. I found my mother but little touched by time; scarcely a furrow on her brow, and she wore the same placid smile as ever: and Catherine, dear Catherine, still as lively and good-humoured as when I left her. A tear trembled in my sister's eye, however, when she spoke of Adelaide. Sir James, she told me, was then on the continent; but neither my mother nor herself had seen Adelaide for the last two years, though they yet corresponded. Sir James had looked on them as unwelcome visitors; and they, in their turn, could not conceal the disgust they felt at his neglect of Adelaide, nor bear to witness her dejection, the cause for which she sedulously abstained from speaking of, and they were too delicate to mention, as she seemed to wish to avoid it. Their circumstances were no longer flourishing; for Sir James's debts of honour had dissipated the greater part of his fortune. Adelaide was said to be in ill health! and there were rumours abroad that the Baronet's conduct was exceedingly harsh and unfeeling. Three children had died in their infancy, and one only was now living a girl. I will not endeavour to paint my feelings when I listened to this melancholy recital. Adelaide was unhappy! and I could offer no consolation; but I could see her, and my friendship might yet be of service to her. This resolution I resolved immediately to execute; and a few trifling matters, relative to the fortune which my uncle had left her, formed a sufficient excuse for my soliciting an interview. It was the season of spring when I arrived at Lee Priory, a small estate of the Baronet's in the county of Dorset, and the only one, I believe, which his propensity for gaming had left him. Adelaide had resided there for the last year. The situation of the Priory was in truth beautiful in the extreme: it stood on a gentle eminence, whence the eye looked out on fertile meads, rich in wood and water; and the extreme verge of the prospect was lost in the blue waves of the distant ocean. Yet there was something about the Priory itself which seemed to speak of desolation, as I passed through its beautiful but neglected gardens, and I sighed to think how much it was in unison with the heart of its mistress. I was informed by the servant that Lady Mantravers was at home, and I was shewn into the library, where I had time to collect my scattered thoughts, and to preserve my fortitude, which seemed on the point of deserting me, for the approaching interview. A beautiful whole-length portrait of Adelaide hung over the fire-place, so like, so very like her when I last saw her, that, as I gazed upon it, I almost believed the years that had passed an illusion.—I was awakened from my reverie by a beautiful little girl running into the room, apparently about five years old, with a little basket of flowers in her hand. I had scarcely time, however, to look at her ere I heard Adelaide's voice; and she advanced to meet and welcome me as an old friend. I looked at her, but, gracious heavens! what a change was there! Had it not been for her voice, I could scarcely have believed that it was Adelaide who stood before me. She was very thin-alarmingly so. I looked for the sunny smile which I remembered, but it was gone; the rose had fled from her cheeks-they were very pale, but her hair was still soft and beautiful, and her voice as sweet and gentle as ever. Adelaide saw in a moment the cause of my emotion. "Ah, Mr. Morton!" she said, with a melancholy smile, "I see you have forgotten the years that have passed since we met, and you find me sadly changed." My heart was too full to speak. "I am far from well at present," she continued; "my spirits, too, have left me sadly of late; but I have a little antidote here, which seldom fails to restore me in my melancholy moods;" and she drew forth her little girl and presented her to me. She was a lovely child, the very image of Adelaide herself, when she first came under my mother's protection, save that there was a shade of thoughtfulness over her sweet face, which her mother, at her age, had not. I placed her on my knee, and, encouraged by my caresses, she began prattling to me with all that bewitching artlessness which renders childhood so attractive, "And how is dear Catherine?" said Adelaide. I told her that she was well, and regretted that they did not meet more frequently. "Alas!" she continued, "Catherine cannot regret our separation more than I do. Circumstances, however, forbid our meeting; but I trust that your sister still thinks of me with affection." I endeavoured to assure her that Catherine's regard for her was as lively and undiminished as "You will perhaps smile," replied Adelaide; "but I have a fancy that my time in this world will be short, and the wish nearest my heart is, that your estimable mother and dear Catherine would consent to take charge of my little treasure;"-and she pointed to her infant daughter. I expressed my hopes that she would yet live many years, and regain her former strength and spirits. "My ever. physicians tell me that I shall," she said, "but I know better-the seeds of decay are too deeply sown to be eradicated; nor do I wish to live, save for Adelaide. Life has no charms for me. But, enough of this. Will you take charge of a packet for your sister, wherein I have fully expressed my earnest wishes respecting my child?" I readily promised to do so, and assured her that I felt certain of their being complied with. I, however, hinted that Sir James might not accede. "Sir James," she said, "has seriously promised never to interfere with any arrangement of mine respecting Adelaide; and I think he would respect the dying request of his wife."- "Then all shall be as you wish," I exclaimed; "and for myself, I will cherish your little Adelaide with a father's kindness. She shall be the object of my solicitude, and the heiress of my fortune!" "God bless you, Horace!" said Adelaide; and her whole countenance lighted up for a moment with unusual brilliancy. "I believe, and accept your kind offer. Oh, you know not the weight of anguish from which you have relieved me." She bent her head, and her eyes were filled with tears, which little Adelaide observing, she stole gently on the sofa behind her mother, and, throwing her arms round her neck, sought to soothe her by her infantile caresses. I was visibly affected, and I spoke of a change of climate, which might, I thought, have a beneficial effect upon Adelaide's health. She shook her head. "No! No!" said she, "no change of climate will benefit me: it is too late: my illness is here-here ;" and she laid her hand on her heart: "this is broken-withered-miserable." She stopped for a moment, and I dared not trust myself to reply. "This may be our last interview, Horace," she continued; "why, then, O why, should I seek to hide from you, the friend of my youth, that my marriage with Sir James has been productive of misery! An unhappy pro pensity for play lured him from his home; he seemed to exist only in a crowd. I was neglected and forgotten, and he threw from him the love which I bore to him then.-Then, did I say?" cried Adelaide, as she hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. "Alas! alas! my affec tion knows no decay-it will not fade until death. Hear me," continued Adelaide; "watch over my child, I charge you, and save her from her mother's fate. Let her not give her heart and affections to one who will break her gentle spirit by his unkindness, and then leave her to sorrow and scorn. "I will shield her from every evil, Adelaide, that human foresight can guard against; but, tell me," I said, "wherein can I serve you? Any thing that the most sincere friendship can- "No! No!" said she, hastily; "for myself I have nothing to ask. Think of me as of one whose sand of life is nearly run out, and whose cares and sorrows will soon be hushed in the tranquillity of the tomb. Farewell, Horace," she said, as she extended her band to me. "My blessing and my prayers shall follow you, who have promised to be the faithful guardian of my child." -"God for ever shield you, Adelaide," I cried, as I tenderly kissed her hand; and, disengaging myself from the grasp of her little girl, I quitted the apartment. It was my last interview with Adelaide.-I saw the being whom I had so fondly loved no more! When the cold winds of autumn swept the leaves from the trees, Adelaide was at rest in the grave; her gentle spirit had passed away from this scene of sin and suffering. I have faithfully fulfilled my promise respecting her child. Ten years have now passed away since she came under my roof; and her affectionate attentions and engaging cheerfulness enliven my declining years, and soothe the many melancholy thoughts which, even now, often press on my spirits, when I think of her mother-of Adelaide, my first and only love. er. WITCHCRAFT. ITCHCRAFT! does there exist a believer in witchcraft in 1828? Doubtless, exclaims the readYes, I maintain that though the "march of mind" is making sad inroads on the "wisdom of our ancestors," yet several instances within the last three years will bear out my assumption, that a belief in witch craft still prevails amongst the peasantry of our country to a considerable extent. I allude to those cases where the offenders were brought to the bar of public justice. The swimming case in Suffolk in 1825 must be fresh in the minds of my readers. Leaving these "modern instances," which form no part of the object of the present paper, I shall proceed briefly to trace the origin of witchcraft, with such anecdotes as may be required to season the subject for the general reader. The progress of intellect in the human race towards perfection, during the last century, has certainly been much more rapid than could have been expected. The "simplicity of old times" consisted in a great measure of a sort of gloomy dogmatism and obtuseness of intellect, the fetters of which happily have lost their effect on mankind. "That maidens pined away, wasting inwardly as their waxen images consumed before a fire-that corn was lodged and cattle lamed-that whirlwinds uptore in diabolic revelry the oaks of the forest-or that spits and kettles only danced a fearful, innocent vagary about some rustic's kitchen, when no wind was stirring," remarks a popular writer, were all equally probable where no law of agency was understood." In short, the age of superstition has passed away-the light of philosophy, so discordant to the lover of witchcraft or a ghost story, has burst in and "scattered them to the winds," and we are no longer troubled and tormented with the flight of wizards on broomsticks, 66 or the visitation of "black spirits and white, blue spirits and gray, with all their trumpery." A witch, according to old descriptions, was generally blessed with a "wrinkled face, a furrowed brow, a hairy lip, a gobber tooth, a squint eye, a squeaking voice, a scolding tongue, a ragged coat on her back, a scull-cap on her head, a spindle in her hand, and a dog or cat by her side ;" and Lord Coke pithily describes a "witch to be a person that hath conference with the devil, to consult with him or to do some act." In former times the most eminent men and philosophers (Sir Thomas Browne for instance) were not proof against the prevailing opinions. A contemporary writer observes, that one would imagine that the establishment of Protestantism would have conduced to the abolition of this lameutable and pernicious credulity. But the Reformation did not arrive with great rapidity at its full extent, and the belief in witchcraft long continued to "overspread the land." Indeed it has been proved by Hutchinson, in his Essay on Witchcraft, that the change of religion at first rather augmented than diminished the evil. A degree of importance, hardly credible in these times, was attached to it; and in the sixteenth century the unbelievers were counted "Sadducees, Atheists, and Infidels." One of the most eminent divines of his day, a strenuous advocate of the belief in witchcraft, characterises them thus in the most forcible language. O tempora! ac It is not surprising, therefore, that the supposed dabblers in the infernal art were hunted out and exposed to the most dreadful cruelty and oppression, not only from those who imagined they had suffered under their charms, but from the very laws of the realm also. The first trial of any note took place in 1593. Three persons, old Samuel and his wife and daughter Agues, were condemned at |