prices of farm produce were low, and few improvements going on. But would not the proposed change in the currency bring back such wretchedness? for it would injure the tenantry, by raising their rents, and diminishing the price of their articles: that is one effect; another would proceed from the great difficulty that there might occasionally be in such remote situations as Yell, in Zetland, and the distant shores of the Hebrides, to have gold; so that a proper circulating medium would be wanting altogether, and men might have to resort to the expedient of the savages in Nootka Sound, and use a particular species of rare shells as money, or betake themselves to the former custom of barter; in any of which cases, society, instead of advancing, would be rolled backwards centuries, and men reduced once more to something like the savage, or the barbarous state.

Great is certainly the utility and importance of the system of cash credits, though Mr Bradwardine has slighted them with no great propriety. But is it not evident, that a golden currency would cripple and impede that excellent expedient in business? for what banker but would hesitate about granting such credits, in the uncertainty to what extent they might be used, and in the view of being always obliged to have gold, at whatever expense, in his coffers, to answer such contingent drafts? The day that should put an end to paper currency I conceive would close almost every cash-account in the country.

And now, Sir, having thus gone through all my regular heads of discourse, I come to iny grave and concluding reflections, and the text of them shall be the valuable Scottish maxim of "let weel byde," much more aptly brought into view by Malachi than I can attempt it, rude and slow of diction as I am. To say much of it would be commonplace; but while I remind you of one old instance of the truth of it from our schoolmaster Esop, I shall tell you another of more recent date, and nearer home, as it occurred in my own experience.

That taken from the learned ancient, is the apologue well known to

all our children of the widow woman's hen, which was laying for her conveniently an egg every day; but the grecdy wife, with the view of making her still more prolific, fed her up, and put a stop to her laying altogether. The instance of later occurrence related to a member of a family, with whom, in these letters, you are already acquainted.

Old Timothy Christal, the brother of Mr Malachi's friend of that name, was a little jobbing tailor in St. Mary's Wynd, with great store of old small-clothes, and cast, but well-brushed coats and waistcoats, hanging at his door: industry and great frugality made him rich in his line, and every broker in the lane looked up to and respected him. I knew him well; for frequently was I with him in the way of my calling, and I often remarked the smiling faces and gay chearfulness of both him and his thrifty wifie, whose own needle was never a-wanting, on a pinch, to help on with the work when trade was good. But their very prosperity sowed the seeds of their ruin. They gave their family what is called a good education, that is, their daughters got French and filligree, painting and the piano; and their son Tom, though he had no intention of throwing down for good the family scissors, and leaving the vocation of his forefathers, was sent for a single season to the college to study the Latin classics. Now, Sir, as the Roman tunic and toga bore no resemblance to our modern garbs, I was not aware what benefit this young snip would gain at the University, and in fact he got nonefor even the Ars poetica of Horace, and the famous Omnibus in terris of Juvenal, made him neither shape nor sew one whit better. The truth is, that the smack of culture which, perhaps injudiciously, was given to all the branches of the family, did them much harm. They rapidly became all too genteel for the old clothes shop, and a trip of the young man to London, with a residence of a few months with a noted fashioner there, resolved the father and son to take a new shop on the South Bridge, with a heavy rent and a gay sign, styling them" clothiers, tailors, and habit-makers." A very short time,

however, sent them packing as bankrupts into the Gazette; and I shall never forget the deploring look and the mournful voice of the old man on the event, when he said to his son, "Oh! Tam, man, had you but let weel byde !" The application of these to our present subject is too easy to require comment." Let us only alone," said the merchant to the King of France; and we implore no more of our own Government on this great and important occasion.

At the great meeting in the Waterloo Tavern regarding us notes, I was present; and near, but towards the left of the Lord Provost, who presided there with the greatest propriety, supported by Lord Rollo and Sir James Ferguson. I lay snugly in the pocket-book of the gentleman to whom I have dictated these my memoirs and opinions, and as little Tomy Puck, the tiny sprite mentioned in the poem of Anster Fair, sprung from the mustard-pot and called aloud, I at one time intended to have started from my friend's pocket, and to have stood upright

before his Lordship and harangued the meeting; but, Sir, though my zeal is strong, my voice is weak, and I have considered it better to give thus my sentiments in writing. I have only just to add, that, should your readers find some of the arguments here which the great Parliamenters, or Mr Malachi, have used, remember that "wits jump ;” and though I claim priority of composition to some of them, I candidly admit that I gave them no hints. It is a common saying, " that a good story is not the worse of being twice told." That, though a proverb, is not true, because the second telling of a story is always less amusing than the first. But a good argument is the better of being repeated, since truth then becomes clearer; and the just views of this great question can never be rendered too familiar to those who regard the best interests of their country.

I am, till death,

Sir,

Your obedient Servant,
A SCOTCH GUINEA NOTE.*

Or all countries, ancient or modern, France has produced the greatest number of illustrious women. There, the female sex rules with resistless sway, and there, more palpably than any where else, has it left the stamp of its powers upon society. From the times of Clovis down to the present day we notice a succession of distinguished women. The State, in some instances, has been indebted to their valour for its preservation, as in the case of Joan of Arc. In others, we have a Maintenon, a Ninon, and a Pompadour, guiding the helm of government according to their wills, and ruling, by the united influence of beauty and talent, over monarchy itself. Then appears a de Stael, exalting the sex by powers of intellect, which might well excite the admiration and the envy of man, and rearing up monuments of genius which will hand down her name to the latest time.

Women, and above all, French women, are more distinguished, in general, by gaiety and sprightliness, than by other more energetic quali ties; but, not unfrequently, these qualifications are blended with others of a grander character; and while the exterior is buoyant and airy, a heart lies within endowed with more than Roman virtue and Roman cou→ rage.

The Revolution, so pregnant with human suffering, furnished many such examples. In that awful convulsion, no age, or rank, or sex, was spared. Virtue and vice perished together. Royalty met the fate of its meanest subject. Wisdom and folly, science and ignorance, prince, and priest, and peasant, were blend ed in the same destruction. The scaffold which shed the blood of Louis, and his queen, and sister, was also glutted with that of Lavoisier and Robespierre ;-the one, the amiable disciple of philosophy; the other, the demon of cruelty and dis

cord.

Madame Rolland, wife of the virtuous Minister of the Interior, and authoress of those incomparable political documents which bear his

name, was one of those whose fate excited the most lively interest; not so much from her rank as from her personal character, her exalted taleuts, and the memorable circumstances which attended her death. The words of this high-minded lady to the judges who condemned her are deserving of notice :-"You do me then the honour of bestowing upon me the same treatment as upon those great men whom you have assassinated, and of sending me to enjoy their companionship for ever."

In prison, she showed the most perfect indifference to her fate. There was one victim (a man) who was her companion in misfortune. He was sadly broken down in spirit at the doom which awaited him; but when they were carried together to the place of execution, she consoled him tenderly, employing every effort to revive his courage. In those cases where more than one were to be executed together, it was deemed a favour to be guillotined first. The noise of the falling axe, the head tumbling from the trunk, and the blood flowing in streams around, were dreadful to the imaginations of those who came after. Being a woman, she had the precedence, but she proposed to her poor fellow-sufferer that it should be taken by him. "It will, at least," said she, "save you the pain of seeing my blood flow." On arriving at the scaffold, she entreated this last favour of the executioner. He refused, alleging that his orders prevented him from complying. "You will not surely deny a lady her last request ?" said she with a smile. “Come, my good friend, grant me this small boon." The man relented, and her companion was first disposed of. Her ap pearance is described as being noble and interesting. She was dressed in white, and her whole demeanour was full of calmness and dignity. When her head was placed upon the block, and before the weapon of death came down, she raised it towards the statue of liberty, which was placed opposite the guillotine. "Ah! Liberty, what crimes have been committed in thy

name!" These were her last words. Another moment, and this noble spirit was removed from the earth. Her husband was horror-struck at her death, and died shortly afterwards, broken-hearted.

But noble and becoming as was the death of Madame Rolland, it yields in interest to that of the beautiful and heroic Charlotte Corday. Greece or Rome, in their most devoted times, never produced a finer instance of patriotism or intrepidity; and Brutus and Thrasybulus, with their glory around them, can hardly claim a higher rank among the liberators of mankind than this young heroine. She lived in the town of Caen in Normandy, one of the provinces of France, and appeared in the hottest period of the Revolution, when Marat, the infamous friend of Robespierre, was on his pinnacle of power. This man, a native of Geneva, was originally of low origin, having been at one period of his life a hawker of toys about the streets of Paris. He afterwards became editor of a revolutionary journal; and at length, by dint of talent and finesse, was appointed a Deputy to the French Convention. Here he distinguished himself by that sort of eloquence which takes among the vulgar, and still more by the ferocious nature of his propositions, which made him noted for cruelty, even in this sanguinary assembly. His deeds it were vain to relate. They realised all that fiction has told us in its wildest tales, and more than realised the barbarities attributed by history to Antiochus and the worst of the Roman Emperors. Suffice it to say, they aroused the spirit of Charlotte Corday; and with a perfect conviction of the consequences of such an attempt, she formed the vast design of ridding her country of one whom she considered its bitterest foe.

For this puspose, she came to Paris, and on the morning of the 12th of July 1793 wrote to Marat, informing him, that she had matters of the deepest importance to communicate, and requesting an immediate audience. To this no answer was returned; and she again addressed to him a note in the following words: "Have you received my letter?

If you have received it, I rest on your politeness. It is enough that I am unfortunate, to claim your attention." This was on the 13th of the month, and on the evening of the same day she was admitted into his presence. He had just stepped out of the bath, and was only half clothed, when Charlotte was announced. She would have retired an instant till he had finished his toilet, but he ordered her straightway to enter his apartment.

"What do you wish with me?" were his first words, as he cast his lascivious eyes on the beautiful girl, who stood undauntedly before him. "I demand justice," was her reply. "I come to plead the cause of the unfortunate Deputies who have taken refuge at Caen." She held a scroll in her hand: it professed to be their petition, and Marat took it from her and glanced it over. It was never known how this petition came into Charlotte's possession. It has been alleged that one of the unhappy Deputies was her lover, and that he intrusted it to her hands for the purpose of being delivered to the tyrant. It has also been conjectured, that if he had granted its prayer, and extended mercy to these persecuted men, she might for the time have waved her fatal purpose. Another and a more probable opinion is, that it was framed by herself, to serve as an excuse for intruding upon Marat, and enabling her more easily to carry her scheme into execution. Be that as it may, it produced no effect upon his savage heart. He read it with a sneer. Young woman,” said he, you have come upon a useless errand. The fate of these men is sealed. I have already given orders for their apprehension. Their deaths will soon follow." " Villain!” cried Charlotte; and drawing a poignard from her bosom, she plunged it into the heart of the monster. He reeled backwards, and fell upon a couch. His only words were, "Traitress, you have murdered me-seize herseize her!" She gave him but one look of disdain and horror, and dashing down the bloody weapon, strode with fearless grandeur out of the room.

She went home leisurely, nor made the slightest attempt to escape. Her

mind had been made up as to the result of the dreadful tragedy she had just acted. Meanwhile, the report that Marat was killed spread like wildfire over Paris. A sort of dreadful anxiety and suspense pervaded this vast metropolis. Vice trembled at the loss of its most terrific minister, while all the nobler and more heroic passions were wrought into estacy, at the reported destruction of one of the most execrable wretches that ever disgraced humanity.

Charlotte was apprehended, but she exhibited no sign of fear; and when told that death would assuredly follow the deed she had committed, she heard it with the most sovereign contempt. On being brought before the tribunal, and questioned as to her motives for killing Marat, she showed the same unshaken firmness. She defended the deed on the grounds of justice and necessity. Marat, though not tried and condemned by an official tribunal, was already looked upon by his country as a criminal deserving of death. She only did that which the laws ought to have done, and which future times would applaud her for doing. "I slew him," continued she, "because he was the oppressor of my country-I slew him, that France might have rest from his cruelties I slew him, to save the lives of thousands who would have perished by his decrees; and my sole regret is, that I did not sooner rid the earth of such a monster."

She heard the sentence of death passed upon her with an unconcern which would have done honour to stoicism itself. For a short time she conversed with her counsel and some of her friends, and rising up, walked quietly away to the prison. During the interval between her condemnation and death, she wrote three letters. Two of these were to her friend Barbouroux, relating her adventures from the time of her quitting Caen. The third, to her father, was couched in the most solemn and affectionate strain, and concluded with the celebrated line of Corneille,

"C'est le crime qui fait la honte, et non pas l'echafaud."

""Tis crime which brings disgrace, and not the scaffold."

The front of the Tuilleries was the place selected for her execution. A multitude of people had assembled to witness the ceremony; among others were crowds of barbarous women, who drew together for the express purpose of insulting her last moments. However, when she came forth from the prison, she appeared so lovely and interesting, that their base purpose was laid instantly aside, and not a voice was raised against her. She was elegantly dressed, and appeared smiling upon the scaffold; her dark and beautiful locks waving gracefully over her shoulders. When the executioner removed the kerchief which covered her neck and bosom, she blushed deeply, and when her head was held up after death, it was observed that the face still retained this mark of offended modesty. A deep feeling was produced among the spectators, all accustomed as they were to such scenes; and when the fatal axe descended, there was a shudder, which showed that the death of this young heroine excited admiration and pity more than any thing else. By an emotion of generous respect, almost all the men uncovered themselves; those of her own sex who came to revile her stood mute and abashed. Many of both sexes were observed to weep; and when the crowd separated, it was with a melancholy which proved that, even at this dreadful period, the kinder affections were not unsusceptible of emotion.

- When on her way to the scaffold, a circumstance occurred, which, from its romantic nature, well deserves to be mentioned:-A young man named Adam Lux, a commissary from Mayence, was at this moment accidentally passing. He saw her, and in an instant fell in love with her. His heart became so overpowered with this strange affection, that, from loving her, he came at length to love the guillotine-regarding it as a sacred altar, at which the blood of royalty, and beauty, and virtue, was offered up. He immediately published a pamphlet upon the occasionproposed to erect a monument to her memory with the inscription,