Saxon party," and denouncing anti-French | central government, yet he entered upon views as "heresy." One painful result of office as the representative, not of a party, this state of affairs was to involve Madi-but of the nation. But a position which son in a bitter personal controversy with had well nigh overtasked the moderation his old ally, Hamilton. The president, and forbearance of Washington was far acting by the advice of his cabinet, issued too arduous for his vain and irritable suca proclamation of neutrality. This processor. Seldom have great natural gifts ceeding was impugned by the Democrats, been more inopportunely marred by small both on technical and moral grounds. As yet destructive failings than in John Adto the former point, the best writers on the ams. His integrity was unquestioned, and American Constitution are agreed that the saved him from those base compliances president, in interpreting and proclaiming into which vanity, such as his, might have the duties imposed by treaties on the citi-led a man of weaker principle. His abilizens, was in no way transgressing his ties, and the respect which they won from proper functions. As to the general his equals, should have made him indeground of policy, few would deny that pendent of the opinion of the many, yet Washington and his advisers would have he craved for the popularity which he been greatly to blame had they suffered lacked the power to win. The seeds of America to be engulfed in the whirlpool distrust between Adams and his party had of a great European war. Nevertheless, been sown as early as Washington's first when Hamilton, writing under the signa- election. According to the system then in ture of "Pacificus," defended the presi- force, the vice-president was not separatedent's action, he was answered by Madi- ly elected, but the candidate second on the son in the letters of Helvidius. It is pain- list for president took that office. A numful to find that the recollection of their ber of the Federalists, under the advice of joint labors did not withhold Madison from Hamilton, decided that there must be no a bitter and contemptuous tone in dealing risk about Washington's election, and that with his opponent. Able, too, though the he must be brought in by such a majority letters of Helvidius are, their ability is as to prove incontestably the superiority of rather that of a special pleader than of a his claims. Accordingly, Adams statesman. But though we cannot agree elected to the second place by barely the with Madison, either on the technical number of votes required. Adams resentissue or on more general grounds, yet we ed this as a slight, and felt that Hamilton must make the same allowance here as in had treated him with a want of confidence the case of Hamilton's financial policy. and had acted in a spirit of manœuvre. We must remember that Madison saw in Hamilton and his followers, on the other the action of the president one step in a hand, believed that Adams felt himself agdeliberate scheme to overthrow those lib-grieved by not having been allowed a erties, for which so much blood and treasure had been spent. We must remember, too, that Hamilton's attitude was one peculiarly calculated to alarm an opponent. His doctrine of implied powers was, in the opinion of the Democrats, an attempt to turn the letter of the Constitution against its authors, and to undermine American liberty with that very engine which they had forged for her defence.

was

chance of success against Washington, an imputation which Adams warmly resented. Moreover, there were special grounds of mutual distrust between Adams and Hamilton. The latter remembered the intrigues against Washington during the war, intrigues which all had their source in New England, and he looked on Adams as in some measure identified with them. Adams, on the other hand, had been absent The retirement of Washington was the on diplomatic service while Hamilton had signal for the pent-up storm to break out been achieving his great position, and he in full force. Had his term of office been might be forgiven if he, one of those who prolonged, we can hardly doubt that he had drafted the Declaration of Indepenwould have been driven to identify himself dence, felt sore at being ousted from his with that party, towards which his mod-place among his party by a youth of thirty, erate temper and conservative instincts whom he had left serving as Washington's naturally inclined him, and that the Fed- aide-de-camp. During Adams's vice-preserals might have opened the campaign idency these sources of discord remained with the weight of his name on their side. | in abeyance; but when he attained to the As it was, his influence was sufficient to prevent a party struggle over the appointment of his successor. Adams was well known to have leanings towards a strong

first office they speedily made themselves felt. There was unquestionably, on the part of more than one member of the cabinet, a disposition to treat Adams as a mere

nominal head, and Hamilton as their ac- | few years wisely ruling over his country, tual leader. A party with a real and a pro- at the very epoch which definitely gave fessed leader is in a perilous state, and her a place among the great powers of the when both are men of eager and unyielding ambition the case is well nigh hopeless. By the end of Adams's term of office the Federal party was in a state of anarchy. How complete that anarchy was, is shown by Hamilton's inability to restrain a section of his party from the discreditable intrigue whereby they supported that profligate and unprincipled adventurer, Aaron Burr, for the presidency. It is a melancholy reflection, that by thus first impelling Hamilton to take up an attitude of direct hostility to Burr, they brought about that tragedy which robbed their party of its foremost

man.

The term of Adams's presidency saw Madison completely detached from his old allies and enlisted under the banner of Jefferson. Though Federal writers of a later day have treated his change of position as an act of political perfidy, yet his own contemporaries do not seem to have so regarded it. They appreciated, better than we can, the change which had come over the attitude of the Federal party. Indeed, Madison might with fairness have said that the party had moved away from him, rather than he from it. Questions arising out of the interpretation of the Constitution obviously formed new ground, and, whatever we may think of the Federal policy during the administrations of Washington and Adams, we cannot fairly blame Madison for refusing to be among the followers of Hamilton.

world. Still later, we should see him released from all claims of political ambition, yet turning his view with undiminished clearness to the approaching troubles of his country. There was a curious completeness in the political career of one who served in the Revolutionary Congress, and who lived into the days when the Union was imperilled by the independent action of South Carolina. And there could not be more significant testimony to the wisdom of one who took a part in writing "The Federalist,” and in framing the American Constitution, than the appearance of those dangers which clouded Madison's departing days. We may seem to have touched lightly on Madison's personal character. In doing so, we have but followed the example of Mr. Rives, an example which we could wish to see more widely followed by American biographers. In the case of Madison, there is no great temptation either to extravagant hero-worship or details of petty gossip. His private life was uneventful. He was never married, and though he seems to have been one of the most dutiful and affectionate of sons, yet his family relations show little of that play of character on which a biographer would be glad to dwell. Indeed, throughout our study of Madison, we cannot avoid a feeling that the man is less than his work. In this respect he somewhat resembles his two great contemporaries, Washington and Franklin. The result of Jefferson's election left three men differed widely, but one feature Democracy triumphant, and the Federal was common to them all. Their greatparty a wreck. Two years later, and that ness did not rest so much on the extent great man, great even by the admission of or nature of their abilities as on the manthose who saw his faults most clearly, the ner in which those abilities were employed. one leader whose transcendent abilities In this, as in so many other points, the might yet have rallied the Federal party statesmen of the American Revolution and stemmed the advancing tide of mob remind us of their great prototypes, the tyranny, had perished by a tragic death. | English statesmen of the seventeenth Hamilton had fallen, the victim of political century, the Parliamentary opponents of passion too base and profligate to deserve the Stuarts. Madison and Franklin, like the name of ambition, and the hopes of Pym and Hampden, beyond doubt posFederalism lay buried in his grave. With sessed great powers of action, but it was not his death the possibility of renewed conflict that which raised them so high above the was at an end, and the history of political common run of men. Their true greatness parties may be said for a while to cease. lay in their insight into public opinion, Here we may fitly part from Madison. their calm self-restraint, above all, in that Measured by the standard of political public spirit and temperate love of freedom ambition, the triumph of the Democrats which formed part of their heritage as was the turning-point of his success. If Englishmen.

time would suffer, we should see him in a

The

From All The Year Round.
THE SHADOW OF A DREAM.

A STORY.

I NEVER had any thought of danger during the whole twenty years I made the journey; nothing ever happened to me; and then to think the very first time this youngster goes, he- but I must begin at the beginning.

The way of our bank at Charrendon was just this. We had several branches at distant places-small towns, you understand, where there was not enough business done to pay for keeping a clerk constantly on the spot, so we only had an office, and only opened it on market-days, once a week.

One of us used to go over in the morning and return at night. The railway helped us to three of these journeys, but the fourth, to Meresdene, had to be made by gig. The place lay fifteen miles off, in the very bosom of the downs, and the road ran all in amongst them, and sometimes over their topmost shoulders. It was for the most part lonely, and in winter sometimes very rough and bleak. I had to do the day's business at Meresdene, but, beyond bitter winds, snow, and rain, nothing ever befell me, as I have said, for twenty years. In the summer it was a pleasant drive; in winter, of course, in bad weather, it was an unpleasant one- that was all the impression it ever made upon me. Young Chase, however, never seemed to fancy it; from the first, when it was talked about for him to do, he did not like the idea. He told me so, and I laughed at him. I said, "Oh! you won't mind it; after a bit you'll think nothing of it, no more than I do." You understand, he was not used to the country; he had been born and bred in London, and they drafted him from our chief office there, down here, for the sake of his health. He had been ailing a long while; the doctors said he ought to live out of town; and, being a trusty servant, and liked by our manager, an exchange was arranged.

had impressed him so much. I am afraid I did not greatly sympathize with him; the downs had never been anything to me. Indeed, I don't know that I ever gave them a thought, till he used to speak about them, and yet I have lived hard by them nearly all my life.

Well, as I was saying, he had been with us six months, and it was just about the beginning of November, when I was attacked by rheumatism. They said if I did not take care, I should be laid up, and that I must not expose myself through the coming cold weather. This led to young Chase's having to do my work at Meresdene. So I drove him over one week to show him the road, and the way the work was done, that he might be able to take my place the following week and for the rest of the winter.

Now it was when this was settled that he first seemed to shirk the job. He told me that he had been constantly dreaming about the downs, and, as he seemed to say, one particular part of them. Mind you, he had never seen the place, didn't know there was such a place really; but he said he had dreamt of it over and over again, and it always made him uncomfortable. It was a deep chalk cutting, he said, past which the road wound up the side of a hill from one of the bottoms or valleys. In a sort of way, he described the place to me, but, bless your heart, I never paid any heed to it; I didn't recognize it as any place I knew; and it was only when I was driving him over to Meresdene, that I found out what he meant.

We were exactly half-way on our journey, and had turned on to what are known as the Whiteways; that is, several narrow chalk tracks which show up very white across the turf, and run side by side with the road for some distance, as it descends the steep hill past a great chalk-cutting. This, perhaps, is the most solitary and exposed part of the drive, and lies on one of the highest ridges of the Downs. There is no habitation for a good mile on either hand; Dene's Gate turnpike, at the botHe had been at Charrendon about six tom of the hill, being the nearest; and months, and did not seem much the better when we came to the beginning of the defor the change. He was tall and muscu- scent, where we could see down into the lar, but a thin, pale-faced, large-eyed fel-valley-there's a splendid view, mind you, low, always fond of reading Shakespeare there he almost frightened the life out and the like, and had a dreamy, absent of me by suddenly jumping up from his kind of way with him at times; and was seat and exclaiming: "There! there it is! particularly fond, in his leisure, of wander- that's the place; that's the very place I've ing over our downs with his book. He seen a hundred times before, in my often used to talk to me about them, say-dreams! I have seen it every night, for a ing how beautiful they were, and that no month past!" sort of country that he had ever been in

Sure enough, the road passes the chalk

cutting, but I had never thought anything | and the like, during the day, you under

of that, and it had never occurred to me as being the place he meant.

stand. But, bless your heart, I never had any fear, and I could not understand why anybody else should; so I was quite relieved when young Chase plucked up, and would not hear of having anybody with him.

Well, off he went. We were very busy all day, and I thought no more about him. My time home from Meresdene had usual

--

"Well," I said, "sit down; don't excite yourself like that, you'll upset the gig. If it is the place, it won't bite you!" And then he sank down quietly by my side, his chin dropped on his chest, one of his dreamy fits came on, and he never spoke another word till we reached Meresdene. The little town was busy with the sheep-ly been a little before seven, according to market, and he roused up throughout the day. He was always nimble at his work, soon took in what was to be done, and was quite comfortable until we set out homewards. Then the dreamy fit seemed to come on again. It was past five o'clock, and getting dark, when we stopped at Dene's Gate turnpike to light our lamps. Soon after this, we began to ascend the hill, near the top of which is the chalk-cutting and the Whiteways. I was on the look-out for what he would do here, expecting some oddity, for he was always odd; but he remained silent, and beyond fidgeting in his seat, and looking from side to side of the road, and up at the steep cliff of chalk as far as the twilight and glitter of our lamps would show it him, he did nothing; and when we got back to Charrendon, I said: "Well, there's not much to be afraid of in that day's work, is there? And now that you have seen the reality, perhaps you'll leave off dreaming about the Whiteways." He merely smiled, and said: "Oh, no, of course not; it's only a stupid fancy I had. There's no difficulty about the journey; I shall do it all right enough." Yet I thought he forced himself rather to say this, and didn't mean it.

Well, nothing particular happened during the next week, only I noticed that young Chase was a little more dreamy and odd than usual. I said to him on the Tuesday (as he was to go on the Wednesday): "You don't really mind this job, do you? or would you like to have some one with you? We might send the ostler lad, I think." Whereupon he said, very hurriedly and anxiously, I thought: "Oh dear no; no, certainly not; on no account!" and I answered, "Well, I think you are right; it would look rather silly; you might get laughed at." Though I am bound to say of late years, since the railways have brought London so much closer to us, people have more than once said that they thought it rather foolhardy of me to come back at night alone in the winter, seeing there was always a good sum of money in the driving-seat, the farmers' payings-in,

the roads and the weather. I live over the office, you understand, and I have done so ever since I was made chief clerk. I looked at my watch after I had had my tea, and was astonished to see it was half past seven. I was astonished, that is, because young Chase was not back; and I confess I began to get a little fidgety, when another half-hour passed, and still he had not returned. I looked out of the window and saw there was a thick fogso thick, I could not see the lamps on the other side of the market-place. This accounted for his delay in my mind; the thing had happened to me; but the roads are so white, and Jenny, the old mare, knew them so well, that beyond going slowly there was no difficulty; but still, when ten, half past, and eleven came, and no sign of young Chase - well! I didn't like it, and I was going to send over to the chief of the police, when the horse and gig came trotting up to the door.

I looked out. The fog was all gone, and it was a bright starlight night; but you may judge my state of mind when, going down, who should be at the door but Joe Muzzle, the turnpike-man from Dene's Gate, and another.

Says he, very excited, and hurrying over his words: "Your young man, sir, found for dead just below the Whiteways. We can't tell northin' at alì about it. My missus and I was just going to turn in, when we heerd somethin' clanking agin the gate like: goes out, and there be es a horse and gig, and ne'er a driver, and on examination I find it be'es your gig, reins cut or broke, and dragglin' on the road; there be'es a bit of a fog about, and I sings out, but no one answers, so I routs my youngster out o' bed, and sends him off to Gray's Farm, the nearest house, for help, for I know'd there must ha' been an accident, for I let the young gentleman through the gate at the reglar time, soon after five this afternoon, on his way home, and he gives me a sort of sleepy nod like, without speaking; and 'Now where be'es 'un?' I says to my missus, for it was just nine then, and chaise and he ought to

thief.

have been at Charrendon long ago. This of inspectors and detectives down; our man, Farmer Gray's foreman, comes back bank offered a reward, and so did the with my boy in about half an hour, and government, for the apprehension of the with a couple of lanterns we goes slowly on to the Whiteways, leading the horse and gig with us, 'specting to find the young gentleman pitched out, or somethin' like that. And, sure enough, just when we gets under that there old chalk-cutting, this man here comes upon his body just above the edge of the slope, for the fog had lifted then, and we could see plainly. He seemed quite dead, and we thought the best thing we could do was to take un back to the pike, which we done, in the gig, as quick as possible. Then I sends my boy to Meresdene, for the doctor, and he's with 'un now, and then he sends me on here to tell you. I've spliced the reins up a bit, and we got through, and werry sad it all be'es, bain't it? and now what be'es best to be done?"

This was a puzzling question, truly, but I went and woke up the police, and two or three of our clerks, and then we had some more talk with Joe Muzzle. Joe is quite a character in his way, and if you give him a start, he'll run on, clacking like a clock. I did give him a start, and then he said: "Searching about the place where we found the poor young gen'lman, as well as we could with the lanterns, we finds the cushions pitched out and the whip broke in two-'fraid I left that at the pike; but here be'es some proper mar-drous weepons," and he produced from his capacious pockets a pair of small flint-lock pistols; there warn't nothing else to show what had happ'd but the off gig-step seems to have got a twist-like, and the off lamp be stove in-that, I reckon, was comin' agin' the pike with ne'er a driver." Here we adjourned to the stable, to examine the gig, and you'll understand that all this time my mind was running on the cash. Was that safe, I wondered?

66

To my dismay there was not a sign of it in the driving-seat. This led to more questioning of Muzzle, but he swore there was nothing else found on the road, except what he had produced. It seemed as if he were about right, for, to cut this part of my story short, we could not come on any trace of it, though we knew pretty well to a penny how much young Chase had, and what shape it was in. Afterwards a sort of suspicion did fall on Muzzle, and the man who helped him; their belongings were all overhauled, but with no result. I need not tell you that this affair made a great commotion for miles round. It got into the London papers. We had a host

Young Chase lay at the little turnpike for over a fortnight, quite insensible, like a log. He had received a concussion of the brain, the doctors said; but beyond this, there was no injury apparent. They couldn't quite make it out; no more could anybody, for the matter of that; and even when he had shown signs of life and opened his eyes, he was for a month or two unable to speak coherently, or understand what was said to him. All this while, you can guess that enquiries and examinations were going on in all directions, but there was no clue to the robbery, for robbery there had been, no doubt, or where was the money? One of the pistols was discovered to be loaded, whilst the other, though the hammer was down, did not appear to have been fired; both pan and barrel were quite empty and clean; clearly he had not been shot at. Then to whom did the pistols belong? He was never known to possess any, and they bore no maker's name; at least there were signs that it had been erased. The keenest wits of Scotland Yard were baffled; we could make nothing of it; not a person was apprehended, even on suspicion.

I must now tell you, however, as ill-luck would have it, the news of the poor young fellow's mischance was such a severe shock to his aged mother — the only relative he had, that we knew of that she died two days after she heard it. Hence I was deputed privately by our directors to look over young Chase's room and effects. This led to our getting a sort of clue at least, it made a link in the chain, though perhaps on the whole it rather added to the mystery, as you will say, when you have read this paper. I found it in an envelope inscribed with these words: "To be given to my mother, if I do not return this night from Meresdene. - November 15, 1846."

And this is what the paper contained:

"Years have passed since the first faint shadow of the dream fell across my life. I have put it aside again and again, as an idle and vain imagining, but it has always returned; sooner or later, the vision has always revisited my pillow. Still, how could I, a sensible man with my faculties about me, conceive that it should mean anything more than one of those curious freaks of our uncontrolled sleeping