repay, or were desired. To Miss you; and I'll never trouble you about the title or the estates." Sir Francis smiled and shook his head as the other ran on. "I know what you think-you think the claim's a bad one, or you think I'm a fool. Perhaps I am that last; my lawyer tells me so, howwe ever. But I can see the loss to you will be far greater than the gain to me; you were brought up to this sort of thing, you see, and I wasn't. Nor I don't altogether hold with your primogeniture laws. I don't see why my father should have had all the estate, just because he happened to be born a year or two before yours. And a handle to a man's name is no great use in a new country. And the long and short of it all is this: it's more than likely I might not have made my case so clear but for your help; and I think I should expect this old house to fall down and smother me if I turned you out of it." He spoke somewhat roughly, but there was heart in his tone and words. Again Sir Francis warmly disclaimed the other's interpretation. "I say," he continued, "you and yours have treated my sister as if she were one of your own blood. You were right, sir-she is a Hargrave by birth and name." "Indeed," said the baronet. He saw now pretty well what was coming. "I am come on an unpleasant errand, and I want to get it done. My name is Richard Hargrave, son of Richard Hargrave, your father's elder brother." Sir Francis bowed. "You claim to be his lawful heir? "I do. Not exactly in the sense you put it, however. I came to England to make out my right to this baronetcy, and this place, I suppose,' said he, looking round him; "but more than all, I had a fancy to prove I was not the bastard your lawyers chose to call me. I have done it, sir. I have full proof-your lawyers have admitted it-of my mother's marriage, and my own legitimacy. But I offer you terms-fair terms, I think. Acknowledge me as my father's son; give me enough for a fair start in the new country-it suits me better than the old; buy me a farm, and stock it-I leave it to My good sir," said the baronet, as soon as he could get room for a word, "these things are all best left to our lawyers. No doubt you are well advised, but we won't discuss it here." "Look here," said the other, producing a small packet, and, after hastily unfolding it, throwing it on the library table; "there are my proofs. Show them to your lawyers, if you will. I quarrelled with mine this morning before I could get them from him. Or you and I could settle it. Read them, and if I'm wrong, I'm wrong. If not, you'll do what I ask of you, and you may keep them, if you will." "Pardon me, sir," said Sir Francis, somewhat haughtily; "I dispute your claim because I believe it to be unfounded, but you mis take me if you suppose I would keep or take what was not my own." And he pushed the papers back to their owner. They were interrupted by the entrance of a servant. "Mr. Hunt, Sir Francis, wishes to see you." T T T "Show him in." The staid man of business would have started, but that he never allowed himself such an indiscretion, when he saw the visitor with whom the baronet was closeted. I came, Sir Francis "You came just when you were wanted, Hunt. Mr. Freeman wants me to act as my own lawyer, and his too, I believe a responsibility which I decline." "What is it, Sir Francis?" said the lawyer, taking a seat-he was quite at home in that house; "what is it?" Sir Francis shortly explained the claim, and the proposal which had been laid before him. "This young gentleman was so good as to show me these papers this morning," said the lawyer. "I glanced at them at his special request, though, as I told him, it was quite out of the course of business." "And you admitted these certificates were all right," said the Australian. "I told you I saw no reason to doubt that they were genuine," said the lawyer. "Of your own baptism certificate, certificate, indeed, we have a copy in our office, and the existence of the marriage I always thought very possible." Sir Francis Hargrave could not check a half-exclamation of surprise. Mr. Hunt, however, was perfectly composed. "I also told you, if you will be good enough to remember, that we had a complete answer to the case. A certificate of baptism, sir, is unfortunately no evidence as to birth. I did not expect to find you here, but I can have no objection to show you what I brought to show Sir Francis, as soon as we heard of the revival of this claim. Here is the registrar's certificate of the birth of one Richard Hargrave Gordon, son of Mary Gordon, single woman, of Wansford, in 18—. (Just one year previous to the marriage at Ballarat, you will find.) And I have this morning, since you called on me, seen the woman Lester-you remember, Sir Francis-who is prepared to give evidence of the birth." I don't want to enter into any particulars that might be painful to you," continued the lawyer to the young man, who stood silent and perturbed, and had turned very pale, with one hand laid heavily on the library table; "but the subsequent baptism of a Richard Hargrave by the chaplain of the Nemesis at Geelong is, you see, quite compatible with his birth as Richard Gordon two years before. That you were aware of this I do not for a moment assume," he added, hastily, as the other made a sudden exclamation. "Mr. Freeman," interposed the baronet, "you made me a proposition just now in the way of compromise; it was a handsome one. I accept it. Name the locality where you would wish to settle, and Mr. Hunt has my instructions "No!" shouted the Australian; "I wanted justice, not charity. No, Sir Francis Hargrave I beg your pardon, I ought to thank you, but I'm taken aback; you've rather knocked me down, you see. Your tale's all right, I daresay; it's what I've heard before at times, when my mother was in a passion with me. Let me see the paper.-Ay, it's all right enough, no doubt. And this isn't worth a rush," said he, taking up the marriage certificate. He tore it passionately in two, and threw it on the floor. "Richard Hargrave," said he, we are blood relations. Your sister has saved my life. Let me do a kinsman's part by you.--Mr. Hunt, kindly leave us to have a talk together. Come back to dinner, will you ? and we'll have some of your sound advice then." "I'll give some now, gratis," said the old lawyer. "Don't throw away friends, young man; they are not picked up so easily as gold is." Then he bowed and took his leave. Sir Francis followed him civilly to the door, and closed it carefully after him. The young Australian stood silently looking at the torn certificate, which Mr. Hunt had laid on the table. the baronet. "I have a selfish and personal reason for what I ask." He gave way, though with evident reluctance. Grasping his hand, Sir Francis thanked him warmly; then he took him at once to his sister, and left them together. It was not long, however, before Lizzy Hargrave interrupted them. Her brother had told her at least enough of the state of the case to let her into the secret that she and Madeline Hargrave were first cousins, and that he very earnestly desired that they should be good friends. Mr. Hunt's presence at the dinnertable saved, perhaps, some embarrassment to all parties; and before he left, late in the evening, the young Australian's scruples had been in a great measure removed. His sister, it was plain, was considered no intruder in the family; and for her sake he was content to remain a week as a guest at Wanscote. Sir Francis' quiet kindness won the young man's heart before that week was over; he had known most of the rougher side of life hitherto. He went with the baronet to London, and in another month he sailed to take possession of one runs " in Victoria. "You must take your own course as to your future life," said the baronet. "I will say no more now on that head, except that I sincerely feel for your disappointment, and I shall always remember the generous proposal you made to me. But in this at least you will indulge mebe my guest for a few days." The other shook his head. "You owe me a kindness," said grave. But his sister Madeline only accompanied him as far as the steamer which carried him out; and she returned to Wanscote as Lady Har C た HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF THE REIGN OF GEORGE II. NO. XI.-THE SCEPTIC. THERE is no title which has been is not attractive, nor does it appeal more differently applied, or called forth more diverse sentiments, than that by which we have distinguished the subject of the present sketch. To many, perhaps most, readers it is a name of reproach, implying at once intellectual blindness and some degree of moral obliquity. It presents before them the image of a man persistently, and perhaps wilfully, denying the truth, closing his eyes to it, preferring not to see; a man whose evil life moves him to reject the unvarying morality of revelation, or whose self-conceit prompts him to place his own opinion above all authority; a being from whom good deeds and virtuous dispositions are not to be looked for-who is without principle, and therefore not to be depended on in this life, and whom, with a certain satisfaction, the most charitable may set down as likely to wake up very uncomfortably in the life beyond. On the other hand, there are many, in an age which has taken "honest doubt" under its patronage and protection, to whom a sceptic is an interesting being, almost crazed by his efforts to believe in Christianity, sadly acknowledging all its beauties, but bound by hard fate to see more clearly, to sift evidence more closely, to judge more conscientiously, than his fellows. The real character, as we are about to attempt its portraiture, has little in common with either conception. The word sceptic, like the corresponding word enthusiast, describes a certain class of minds rather than a peculiar set of opinions. In this sense there are some who are good Christians and yet sceptics undeniable, just as there are enthusiasts whose minds are untouched by religion. The character to those higher human sympathies which are called forth by manifestations of such qualities as faith, loyalty, and self-devotion; but yet it is a real personality, and not unworthy of attention among the many different types of intellectual life. The character of the true sceptic was never more clearly exhibited than by David Hume, the philosopher and historian, whose name is so well known and firmly established among the greatest of his century, and whose works and influence have produced as much effect upon men's minds and beliefs as it is possible for a perpetual negative to produce. He is not only a born representative of the class, but even to a great extent of his time, which was an unbelieving age, full of profanities, great and small, and an immense and astonishing indifference to everything spiritual and unseen. He was one of the most clear-sighted men of his day -keen in pursuit of truth, not moved by any throes of mental anguish because of his inability to believe one dogma or another, but still far from setting himself up as an authority above other authorities, or arrogating a superior judgment. He was no profligate, eager to cover his sins by the abrogation of moral laws no revolutionary, bent upon satisfying his own ambition by the overturn of all things. Neither was his spirit affected by the gloomy nothingness of the system he believed. He was an honest, cheerful, comfortable, unexcited soul, full of steady power of labour, patience, good-humour, a certain sober light-heartedness whatever was his fortune. The devoutest believer, with all the succours of religion, could not have behaved with more composure and dignity in the presence of death; nor is the sober quiet of his life less remarkable. He was good to his friends, not ungenerous to his opponents. He took success quietly and misfortune undauntedly. Pope Innocent's musings, in Mr. Browning's poem, over the strange and woeful fact that "the Christians in their panoply "do no greater deeds than those performed by "the instincts of the natural man"-could not have had a more remarkable proof than is furnished by this unbeliever. He was in his way a good man, as good as anybody round him. He was a cheerful human creature, quite undaunted by the darkness in which his being was shrouded; accepting life with all its inevitable penalties just as bravely, good-humouredly, and patiently as if the rewards of heaven awaited him at the end, yet believing in no rewards of heaven. The problem is one which it is right to consider on its own merits, and with as little prejudice as we may. David Hume was born in the year 1711, of a good Berwickshire family, well thought of in the country-side, though without any apparent distinction but that of rural gentility. His mother, to whose sole charge he was left at a very early age, was "a woman," as he tells us, "of singular merit, who, though young and handsome, devoted herself entirely to the rearing and education of her children." He passed through the ordinary course of education with success"-though his name, we are informed by Mr. Hill Burton, his biographer, from whose full and able narrative we chiefly quote, does not occur in any list of graduates of his university. His earliest letters are full of clumsy precocious philosophy, quaintly mingled with familiar gossip. "Greatness and elevation of soul," he writes, are to be found only in study and contemplation; this can alone teach us to look down on human assailants;' and then he proceeds to inform |