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"It may naturally be asked, what was the offence that merited so severe a punishment? The unfortunate woman who was the subject of it, was the daughter of respectable parents. I knew in Seville her brother, a priest, who lived a considerable time after the execution of his sister. She had lost her sight in her infancy, and the small-pox, the cause of her loss of sight, had greatly disfigured her countenance. Families in Spain, of the middle rauk, generally unite, with a nice sense of honour, a devotion that borders on superstition; and this blind and disfigured child, accustomed from the first dawning of reason, to go to church only, and to discourse with her Confessor, must soon have discovered, that devotion was the only source of pleasure, and even of subsistence, that fortune had not denied her. 1 do not speak here of true piety, which I respect from the bottom of my heart. I allude to a kind of professional holiness, very common ainong Spanish women of a certain class, to whom is given the name of Beatas. This appellation was always applied to the person I am describing, who was as well entitled to it

as most.

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in those cases, in order to obtain the approba tion of the spirit, was one who, from his ideas and professions being at variance, was in a situation very similar to her own. The friendship which took place betwixt this instructor and his pupil was not so spiritual and refined as that of Madame Guyon and the amiable Bishop of Cambray, although like that it gave rise to a theological system on the part of the two devotees. The gross breach of moral duties which this system inculcates has no legal punishment attached to it, but the metaphy. sical part, termed Molinism, is neither more nor less than heresy, and is punished by the stake. As the Beatas are great, though spiritual coquettes, respecting confessors, so this one continued to annoy with her heresy not a few readers, licentiates, and preachers. Some of these reflecting ou the danger they ran of being accused before the Inquistion, or else of being self-coudemned, made what is called by the Inquisition an Espontana (a voluntary confession) accusing themselves equally with their accomplices. quence of this she was seized and thrown into one of the dungeons of the Inquisition in Seville. A house of correction would have been rather too severe for the offence, but that is not sufficient in the case of such as have the madness to meddle with theology. The confinement of the Beata lasted for three or four years, during which there was scarcely any person of character in the place that did not labour at the great work of converting the beretic. The learned exhausted the art of syllogism; but the infatuated woman continued deaf to their weighty entreaties and arguments. She was not fully aware of the risk, she ran, in not suffering herself to be convinced, as the affair was now gradually com

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"Every one has heard of the heated imagination so characteristic of the Spanish woThe boundless field which devotion offers the soul, when refined to a degree of mysticism, can only be conceived by one who has very closely examined the subject. Suffice it to say, that a person of talents, and a lively temper, who commits himself under the guidance of a mystical director, must ultimately become a visionary, or a madman. This was the case with an unfortunate Beata. Prevented by blindness from engaging in any employment, she was occupied in constant meditation. The Monks, desirous to find extraordinary cases similar to those they hading to a crisis. This period at length arrived, read of in their books, quickly gave out that she was a privileged spirit, favoured with heavenly vision. Unfortunately the poor girl grew up to womanhood, but did not grow in grace only. Her poverty precluded all hopes of an honourable establishment, suitable to her young desires; and her blindness forced her to continue the same sanctified course of life she had originally set out with. Among the many divines whom she consulted, as is usual

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and she still persisted to defend her opinions. She was declared an obstinate heretic, and a day appointed for an auto de fe. There was scarcely a person in Seville that did no repair to witness this solemn act. It lasted from break of day till the approach of night. The criminal was led forth seated on au ass, and surrounded by the most learned divines, who by new and weighty arguments strove to vanquish her obstinacy, In the principal church

of the Dominicians her process was read from the pulpit, interwoven with obscene sentiments, expressed in still grosser language. Nothing remained but to deliver her up to the secular Judge, to inflict the punishment of death. Still a recantation would have saved her life; but the unhappy wretch refused to make any, and was accordingly given up. The impending punishment, and her spirits being exhausted by the fatigue of the day, made her desist from her obstinacy, when it was now too late. She made a satis

factory recantation to the divines who were present; notwithstanding which, the punishment could not be even delayed. The only favour granted was, that she should be burued, after being first put to death. She was accordingly strangled at the close of the evening, amidst the tears of all the pious souls who were present, who could not refrain from expressing their admiration of the holy stratagem employed to dispatch her to heaven, by taking away the possibility of a relapse into heresy."

OAKWOOD HOUSE.-AN ORIGINAL NOVEL.

(Continued from Vol. III. Page 308.)

LETTER XIII.

TO MRS. BRUDENELL.

Oakwood, May 23, 1907. THE shades of Oakwood are enlivened in manner I did not foresee. Millichamp is still here, and our regard for him increases, as we know him more. A certain easiness of disposition would, in some measure, account for his lengthened stay. He requires a greater degree of force than most people to be put in motion. But Margaret is the chief spell that holds him here. I have long believed that such a man could not be domesticated under the same roof with such a woman, and look upon her with indifference. An advertisement, inserted in the London papers, by his uncle, has found him out; but even that has failed to move him.

Yesterday my brother, with six or eight men around him, was labouring hard, uear our village road. The weather was warm, and he wore neither jacket, waistcoat, or hat. A chariot and four fine bay horses drove by, with coachman and two out-riders, in very gay liveries; a phenomenon totally unprece dented in the annals of Oakwood. A gentleman about sixty years of age, in a white wig, put his head out of the window, and, calling to the coachman to stop, beckoned my brother to the carriage. He obeyed; while his men, halflittering at the joke, and half afraid of the

consequences, laid by their spades, and stopped their wheelbarrows, to listen.

"My lad," said the gentleman, for young or old workmen are all lads, "who does that house belong to?"

"To 'Squire Oakwood, Sir." "What sort of a man is he?" "Something like me, Sir.”

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Aye, but I mean what sort of a character is he. Do you all like him?"

"I cannot answer for all, Sir; they know best," pointing to his workmen; "but I can auswer for one: I like him myself."

"Perhaps he pays thee well; and we all like the bridge that carries us safe over. I was told he was an odd sort of a man, and worked like a negro."

"Odd enough, Sir; he works so hard you would not suppose him to be a gentleman."

Aye, aye, I thought so. Always two sides to a story. And dost know one Mr. Freeman of this place?" "Yes, Sir."

"Whereabouts does be live?"

"At that farm house, Sir, opposite the park gates."

"Very well. Thee look'st as if thee'dst seen better days. Here's a shilling for thee to drink."

My brother said, "Thank you, Sir," and pocketed the donation, while the chariot drove

on to John Freeman's.

You have already pronounced the gentle- per my brother and I laughed over the converman in the white wig to be Millichamp's uncle,sation with the gentleman in the white' wig. Mr. Satterthwaite.

Mrs. Simpson entered the room where I was sitting, out of breath with the arrival.“Ma'am, ma'am," cried she, "what do you think? An elegant chariot and four is stopped at John Freeman's; and there's a gentleman in it; and he's got out; and they say he's come to pay his addresses to Peggy. He'll ́put Mr. Millichamp's nose quite out o' joint." "No nose can be secure against such an equipage," said I.

"I suppose we must have Mr. Millichamp here,” returned the housekeeper; "for I know they have but one spare bed, and they must turn him out, to let the gentleman have it. To be sure, they might let the gentleman come bere; for ours are the best beds, and the fittest for a gentleman. I ought not to say it, because I seed to the filling of every one of 'em myself; but we've two-and-twenty as good down and feather beds as any's in the North Riding; let the others be where they will; and twenty of 'em's empty now. And I'm sure they're all well aired; for I make the housemaids sleep in 'em round. And so, if you chuse, ma'am, or my master chuses, to have the gentleman here, I'll order a pair of sheets to the fire immediately."

"You calculate far before you, Mrs. Simpson," said I; "but I believe you are right. If there is a stranger at John Freeman's; if he stays all night; and if they cannot accommodate him, we shall certainly have him here."

"O, ma'am, if I had not a little forecast, things would not go on as they do. I always contrive, ma'am. Nobody ever stands still for want of work; and I'm sure nobody's overworked. The spinning wheel fills up all vacancies, ma'am, and I spin myself, of a winter's evening. I've fifty pair of home-spun sheets in a chest, ma'ain, all bran new, besides what's in wear; and they're full ell wide, and almost four yards long, and as fine as holland."

I commended the industry and management of Mrs. Simpson as they deserved; and she retired, proud of my good opinion. At supNo. XXI. Vol. IV.-N.S.

The hour of nine as certainly brought John Freeman, as it did the Beast to Beauty; but this evening he came alone. He brought Millichamp's excuses, on account of the arrival of his uncle, and said Margaret was confined to her room with the head-ach. Poor girl! little heart-ach mixed with it, I am afraid. My brother sent instantly to request the uncle's company with Millichamp's, and to offer the former a bed; and soon after Millichamp entered, introducing Mr. Satterthwaite. He started on seeing my brother, and immediately recognised the labourer in the lord of the mansion.

"Sir, Sir," said he, "I protest I'm ashamed to see you. How could I be such a blockhead as not to find out who you was? But who would have thought of meeting you in such a trim ?"

"I told you," said my brother, with a smile, "you would not suppose me to be a gentleman."

"If Mr. Oakwood chuses to assume the appearance, and perform the work of a labourer," said I, "it is his fault, not yours, that you mistake him. You could only judge by appearances."

Thank you

"That's very true, ma'am. ma'am," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "But I unluckily said something about an odd sort of a man something I'd heard at the inn where I stopt last; and those people don't know how to give a gentleman a good word, when he deserves one. But I beg your pardon, Sir. I'm sure I intended no offence."

"I do not take any," replied my brother; "What you said was very natural; and as it was unexpected, it has given me some amusement."

Millichamp sat silent and thoughtful. Satterthwaite seemed determined not to forget my brother was a gentleman, and not a little proud to be noticed by one. My brother invited them all to dine with him to-day.

When we were summoned into the dining parlour, I observed Satterthwaite single out the best dish, by an intuitive glance, and place himself accordingly. When he had

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helped himself with an unsparing hand, he assured us it was a very good article. When he had emptied his plate, he cried out, "Any lady or gentleman want any thing in my way?" When he had served me, "Ever another customer?" Then thinking he had sacrificed enough to politeness, he put the contents of the dish on his own plate, and asked if any body would give him a commission for chicken.

When the gentlemen joined me at tea, Satterthwaite observed he thought the young men were, now a days, very pig headed. "Here," says he, "when I was young, and out of my time, I was very glad to get into business, and set up for myself. And business was nothing then to what it is now. Now I employ two hundred pair of hands, and set children to work, night and day, that used to get nothing at all, but was a burden to their parents, and, perhaps to their parish. And I've got a deal of money by it; a great deal of money; a great deal of money, indeed. And I live upon the fat o'the land, and eat and drink of the best; and I don't think, Sir, you've any finer horses in your own stables than my coach horses; have you, Sir !"

"No," said my brother. "I admired your horses very much."

"Did you, Sir? I'm glad of that, however. I know these four, and one to match, that the groom rides, cost me five hundred guineas. Very well, Sir; you see these things; and here's my nephew might be a partner in the business directly, and have it all when I'm gone, and I never can get him into the warehouse."

"I cannot believe, Sir," said Millichamn, "that the noble faculties of man were given bim to superintend the drawing out of a thread of cotton, and preparing it for a wo man's petticoat."

"What! Would you have women go witheut petticoats, then," said the uncle? "For we're told the flowers of the field can't spin; and I suppose the birds of the air can't?"

"No," answered Millichamp; "but women might spin their own petticoats. Among the Greeks, the whole process of carding, spinning, weaving, and bleaching the garments of the

family, was under the direction of its mistress; even if she were a princess.”

"O Lord, O Lord!" said Satterthwaite, "that you should always be supposing them heathen Greeks wiser than us; when the scripture itself talks of their foolishness, and calls them stumbling blocks! Stumbling blocks I'm sure I've always found 'em."

"Indeed, Millichamp," said my brother, you are wrong there. No occupation, bowever trifling in itself, can be beneath the dignity of human nature when it provides for the comfort and accommodation of the human species. To say nothing of its relation to commerce, and the influx of wealth, which provide so many other comforts. I look upon the noble faculties of man to be more usefully, nay, more worthily employed, in tilling the ground, fabricating a garment, or rearing a house, than in writing an epic poem."

There, there!" cried Satterthwaite, "what will you say to that! If such a gentleman as Mr. Oakwood, who never was brought up to trade, any more than you; and, besides, has a great estate; if he will speak in its favour, what can you say against it ""

"I suppose," said Millichamp, "Mr. Oakwood will allow that it requires greater talent and intellect to write an epic poem than to follow an ordinary occupation: and is not that the superior employment which demands the greater genius?"

"Farmers, weavers, and masons are now se common," replied my brother, “that we have lost all idea of the original genius which first set them to work. I do not undervalue poets. I am an enthusiastic admirer of Shakspeare, and I am not a tame partizan of Peter Pindar and Burns: but I should blame the man who studied them only, and neglected to provide himself shoes and stockings; or even to make them for others, if that were his trade. In a word, I prize the useful more than the agree able. One benefits all mankind, the other only men of fortune and leisure."

<< Sir, you're a very sensible clever gentleman," said Satterthwaite: "I like your notions. I once begun to read Shakspeare myself; and I have no doubt I should have admired bim as much as you do; only I hap

pened to be very busy just then, and could not awhile to finish him. And as to my nephew, Sir, its all custom. If he would but use himself to the manufactory for twenty years, I'd be bound for it, he'd like it as well as I do." "Your observation is very just," said I; "I knew a man of very great sense and learning, who, in his younger days repented that it was his lot to manufacture linen and when he grew old, he would have been as miserable in a morning out of his warehouse, as in an evening out of his study."

"And I'll warrant that man never got rich," said Satterthwaite, "let him be who he would. Between two stoo's. I say no more ma'am; but business wont be minded by halves."

"He was not rich. He preferred competence and ease to wealth and care. But as trade ought to také a man's whole attention, and as our friend Millichamp would probably bestow half, at least, upon Greek and Latin, I think he would be good for nothing in your counting house."

"I don't know but he'd be worse than good for notking, ma'am. I'll tell you what he did one day. One of my clerks was ill; and so, to oblige me, he would go into the warehouse, on a Saturday. He is very good-natured: that I will say for him. And so he'd occasion to go into another room for a minute, while one of the workmen was there; and, as he was com ing up stairs again, he heard copper jingle. Very well. He came into the room again sooner than the fellow expected, and found him be hind the desk, where he'd no business, standing close to a scuttle full of halfpence. He believed the rascal had been robbing me, and as he knew the quantity of halfpence in the scuttle, he need only have counted them, to have charged him with it. But this he did not chuse to do; and when I asked him the reason, O, Sir, says he, it was my fault, ought not to have left the room. The education of the poor is so neglected, it is no wonder their principles are bad; and poverty on one hand, and money on the other, are temp

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tations not easily withstood.-For my part I think the more the poor are taught, the worse they are. The Sunday schools only teach them to read Tom Paine. The Catholics manage best, that let 'em know nothing, but what the priests tell 'em "

"But, Millichamp," said my brother, "not to detect a thief, when you had it in your power, was to encourage roguery.”

"If the thief had been a child," answered Millichamp, "I should have done it, and frightened him, in hopes of a reformation; but this man was old and poor, and had been em. ployed by my uncle more than ten years, during all which time he had been trusted, and supposed honest."

"His having been trusted was an aggravation of his crime," said I. "Indeed Mr. Satterthwaite, your nephew is not fit for trade, and you had better let him have his way; especially as you have money enough to establish him without."

"Money enough to be sure I have; but I don't see why young folks should always have their way. Here, I've thought of a way of establishing him by marriage; and instead of thanking me, and going to see the lady, and falling in love with her, he likes that no better than manufacturing cotton. But I won't argue with you, ma'am. I've too much regard for the ladies to contradict 'em. I know they're the weaker vessels."

Thus this gross clumsy pitcher, of the coarsest clay, considered us females, who have been called the porcelain of human nature. I made him no answer; for I remembered La Foutaine's Pot de terre, and Pot de fer, and thought it best to keep out of his way.

I wonder how they have managed matters at the farm house. John Freeman and Satterthwaite are civil, but rather shy; and Milli champ looks graver than usual. I will let Margaret know I have discovered the princi pal part of her secret, and engage her to tell me the rest.

(To be continued)

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