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because the repetition of the act showed that the man derived pleasure from it.

It is right, however, to state that Bentham foresaw these consequences, and accordingly, to obviate them he says that we are not to conclude that an action is good unless the exercise of it has been free, that is, as he explains it, unless it "was not of a character to be visited by reward or punishment from any extraneous source." The first question which suggests itself here is, what extraneous sources does he refer to? What actions are not of a character to be visited with reward or punishment? One day, before the tribunal of their God, all men will be called to account for their actions, and according as they are good or bad, will they be rewarded or punished. But as we have shown that Bentham does not take this into account at all, we will not insist on it. Confining ourselves, therefore, to the present state, and taking the phrase in its most general signification, it will be obvious, that if an action is not of a character to be rewarded or punished, or in other words, to be praised or blamed, it can neither be good nor bad, and consequently cannot be productive either of good or evil. Now, Bentham asserts that the habitual exercise of an act is an evidence that it is productive of good, and then, to obviate the consequences of this assertion, he says that the action must not be of a character to be visited by reward or punishment from any extraneous source. But to praise an action is to visit it with reward, and every good action may be praised,—consequently we are to exclude every good action. And we are also to exclude every action that can be visited with punishment, that is, every bad action. But every action must either be good or bad. If therefore we exclude both, what actions remain, the habitual exercise of which proves them to be productive of good? Now this interpretation of the words "reward" and "punishment" cannot be objected to, for no one will deny that the praise of their fellow-men is a reward—a reward which is eagerly sought after by many; or that public disgrace is a punishment. A good deal more might be said upon this subject, did our limits permit. It might be shown that the doctrine is equally absurd. Even though the terms "reward" and "punishment" were taken in the most limited acceptation, for then various actions would be excluded, which every one must regard as vicious.

In all this it will be seen that Bentham considerably departs from the principles with which he set out. He begins by stating, that before we can account an action good or bad, we must calculate all the consequences to which that action may give rise. But he soon quits this position, and says, that if a man derives pleasure from anything, he has a right to call it good, leaving the consequences altogether out of view. He does not, however, leave us merely to infer this, for he states, in

the beginning of his fourth chapter, that "every act whereby pleasure is reaped is, all consequences apart, good." And here, to estimate the fatal consequences to which this assertion might lead, we must again bear in mind, that pleasure depends entirely on the will of the agent, or, in his own words, it is what a man's judgment recommends to him as pleasure. Everything, therefore, which a man considers pleasure, he is entitled, all consequences apart, to call good. To trace the results to which this assertion, if generally acted upon, would lead, is altogether unnecessary. It is a fact which cannot be denied, that men more frequently take pleasure in vice than in virtue; and this theory would entitle their actions to be called good, for the simple reason that they are the cause of pleasure to the persons who do them.

From all these considerations, the dangerous character of Bentham's doctrine will be apparent. By making duty subservient to interest, it would lead to a system of the most grasping selfishness; and, by making pleasure synonymous with virtue, and every man the judge of his own pleasures, it must set free all the vicious propensities of our nature, which have hitherto been restrained and kept down by the bonds of duty. W.

GLASGOW PRINTED BY GEORGE RICHARDSON, 35, MILLER STREET.

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"How strange the chances of our fortune!"

It was in the Autumn of 1837 that Allan Roy happened to be occupying for a few weeks a small dwelling in the town of Monmouth, when he accidentally stumbled upon a card containing the address of Mr. Charles Dumont, an old college chum who had often pressed him to visit his residence in the vicinity of Brecon. Fortunately he had then some days of leisure of which he determined to avail himself, and in order that he might see as much of the country to advantage as possible and obtain a further insight to the character and habits of its native people-the descendants of the ancient Britons-he resolved to accomplish his journey on foot, a species of travelling in which he took great delight. He was a Scotchman and had in his younger days, been a frequent rambler and sojourner amid the wildest scenery of his native North; consequently cloudy skies, bleak prospects and rough roads presented in his eyes no impediments to his undertaking. To the experienced traveller, however, the roads of a country are the first object of his consideration; and those of Wales, though not of the best, are, taking the comparative estimate of the two countries, far superior to those of the more rugged Highland North; and though cut through the most forbidding tracks give a smoother surface to the pedestrian. The general aspect of the mountain scenery however sinks immeasurably beneath the variety, grandeur and sublimity of the North. Indeed, variety it may be said

to have almost none, as the eye in many districts has nothing to relieve itself from the contemplation of a long chain of even, unbroken mountain. Mile after mile, in wearisome extent, the wayfarer may pursue his perambulations without coming upon hut, cottage, house or hall; waste desert and wilderness seem every where to encompass him. The ruins of some old grey castle may perchance refresh his ladened soul; but even this romantic ornament of the rock and heath; this noble relic of a Gothic age is left silently to crumble into dust; and the once lofty turrets, whence gaily flaunted the pennon and the banner, now surround its base in melancholy mounds of moss intermingled with ivy and stunted brushwood.

The route which Allan took lay through a rude part of the country, but which he chose that he might have a better opportunity of witnessing the Cambrians in their simplest state; and with a little money in his purse, a knotted oak sapling in his hand, and a change of linen in a light MacIntosh knapsack, he sallied forth brimful of the spirit of adventure. The day was fine and the clear blue sky flung upon the rounded summits of the hills a light of liveliness and beauty. Here and there some scattered flocks sought their pasturage amongst the withering heather and the rocks; and a universal peace seemed to pervade those solitary regions through which our Hero had chosen to travel.

During the day his journey was marked by little incident, and the evening was fast setting in when he came up with a wandering mortal pursuing the same direction as himself. The form of this being was enveloped in the folds of a grey tattered greatcoat; his face was hid by the broad brims of a slouched hat which was partially drawn over his eyes, and he aided his pace by a long staff which might have served for some aged palmer on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. His person was erect and firm; and his step seemed to bespeak a man of purpose far beyond that which characterizes the class to which his habiliments indicated him to belong; to wit that of the country gaberlunzies.

"Good evening Sir !" said Allan as he came up with him; "Do you travel far?"

"Yes, my youth!" replied the other, after a short pause, during which he scanned our Hero from head to foot. "He must travel far that has no where to rest!" he added.

"True!" said Allan, as he took the hint which the language of the gaberlunzie implied, and engaged him, for half-a-crown, to accompany him to Brecon. As they proceeded on their route the beautiful day was gradually succeeded by a dark night accompanied with a raw drizzling shower which chilled the very bones. Deeper and deeper grew the darkness as they entered upon a wild and dangerous part of the road. A long plantation of sombre firs skirted the one

side and on the other, a deep glen separated from it the colossal form of a mountain that heaved its mighty head far into the clouds. The conversation of our travellers unconsciously ceased and they sank into silent communion with their own spirits; nor is this uncommon in human nature when following the track of a dreary path beneath the gloomy solemnity of night, as the soul is ever apt to imbibe impressions in accordance with the scenes that surround it. Their silence was at length broken by the gaberlunzie who, in a half whisper, said: "Let us hasten past this thicket; for it is haunted sometimes by owls that prey best in the dark !"

"What mean you?" asked Allan.

"Mean !" reiterated the gaberlunzie, "I mean nothing; but a flock bed is softer than the rock and a sound skin is sweet to sleep in !" "There is nought to fear I hope!"

"O! Nothing, perhaps, nothing; but the sky is black and the road is narrow, and the chased deer runs swiftest on the plain,” replied the gaberlunzie; but he had no sooner spoken these words than he fell. He had been struck on the temple by a large stone, when three men armed with bludgeons, severally sprang from the thicket. Allan with admirable boldness met the first, struck the weapon from his hand and brought such a clatter of blows about his head that had he not fallen under them he must have met with an untimely end The others followed up with lightning succession, and whilst he stoutly engaged with the second, the third felled him to the ground with a well-directed stroke on the head whence issued a copious stream of blood. The robbers thus victorious rifled the pockets of their victims, when being scared, they hurriedly rolled their bodies for dead down the declivity of the hill which led to the glen, and precipitately fled.

When Allan recovered, he found himself lying in a shepherd's lowly hut filled with smoke, and an old Welsh woman, of the name of Ruth, sitting humming a song by the side of a pallet of fern upon which he was stretched. From the severity of his wound he had fevered and become delirious in which state he had continued two days; and now, when his reason returned he felt his memory completely gone and could form no conception in what part of the country he was. Faint from the loss of blood and sore from his bruises, he experienced such sensations of pain as almost to make him cry, yet he had not sufficient strength to enable him to get up. The first sentence which since his disaster he was conscious of uttering, consisted of an enquiry as to where he was. The old woman, however, scarcely comprehended a word of English and paid no attention to him. Do you not hear me?' said he to her again; but as if still unconscious that he was speaking at all, she proceeded with her song and yet, took no notice of him. A scorching

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