"To be candid then,—you are right."

"I fancy that you overheard my observations to Major F.?"

"I did."

"Well if you did, I can forgive you for disliking me. When I first saw you, I thought you a very plain person, and judged by your dress, that you held a very inferior rank in society. After listening a few minutes to your conversation with Miss Leigh, who is a highly educated woman, I felt convinced that I was wrong; and that you were far superior to most of the women round me. Of course you thought me a very malicious, vain woman."

Flora smiled, in spite of herself.

"Oh, you may speak it out. I shan't like you a bit the less for speaking the truth. I am a strange, wayward creature, subject at times to the most dreadful depression of spirits; and it is only by affecting excessive gaiety that I hinder myself from falling into the most hopeless despondency."

"Such a state of mind is not natural to one of your age, and who possesses so many personal attractions. There must be some cause for these fits of gloom."

"Of course there is. I am not quite the heartless coquet I seem. My father was an officer in the army, and commanded a regiment in the West Indies, where I was born. I was an only child, and very much indulged by both my parents. I lost them while I was a mere child, and was sent to Scotland to be educated by my grandmother. I was an irritable, volatile, spoilt child, and expected that everybody would yield to me, as readily as my slave attendants had done in Jamaica. In this I was disappointed. My grandmother was a proud, ambitious woman, and a strict disciplinarian; and it was a constant battle between us who should be master. I was no match, however, for the old lady, and I fretted constantly under her control, longing for any chance that might free me from her rule. It was a joyful day for me, when I was sent to finish my education at one of the first schools in Edinburgh, which I did not leave until I was sixteen years of age. I found grandmamma several years older, and many degrees more exacting than she was before. She was so much alarmed lest I should make an unsuitable alliance, that she never suffered me to go out without I was accompanied by herself, or an old maiden aunt, who was more rigid and stiff than even grandmamma herself.

"At this period of my girlhood, and before I had seen anything of the world, or could in the least judge for myself, a very wealthy clergyman, who had been a great friend of poor papa's, called to see me, before he returned to Jamaica; where he had a fine living, and possessed a noble property. Unfortunately for me, he fell desperately in love with the orphan daughter of his friend, and his suit was vehemently backed by grandmamma and aunt. He was a handsome, worthy kind man, but old enough to have been my father. I was so unhappy and restless at home, that I was easily persuaded to become his wife; and I, who had never been in love, thought it was a fine thing to be married, and my own mistress at sixteen. Our union has not been a happy one. I much question if such unions ever are. He is now an aged man, while I am in the very bloom of life, and consequently exposed to much temptation. Thank God! I have never acted criminally, though often severely tried. My home is one of many luxuries, but it has no domestic joys. My children are the only tie that binds me to a man I cannot love; and I have been so long used to drown my disappointment and regret in a whirl of dissipation, that it is only in scenes of gaiety that I forget my grief.

"My own sex speak slightly of me; but I do not deserve their severe censures. My fellow-passengers, I heard from Hector, made a thousand malicious remarks about me yesterday, and that you and Miss Leigh were the only ladies who took my part."

"My conduct," replied Flora, "was perfectly negative. I said nothing either in praise or blame. I may have injured you by thinking hardly of you."

"I thank you for your forbearance, in keeping your thoughts to yourself, for I did not deserve that from you. If I did flirt a little with Major F., it was done more to provoke the spleen of that ill-natured old maid, who acts the part of Cerberus for his proud, pompous wife, than for any wish to attract his attention."

"It is better," said Flora, her heart softening towards her companion, "to avoid all appearance of evil. Superficial observers only judge by outward appearance, and your conduct must have appeared strange to a jealous woman."

"She was jealous of me then?" cried the volatile Mrs. Dalton, clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. "Oh, I am so glad that it annoyed her."

Flora could not help laughing at the vivacity with which she turned her words to make them subservient to her own vanity. But when she described the consternation felt by Miss Mann, on discovering Hector under the table, her eccentric companion laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.

The introduction of Hector insensibly turned the conversation upon the state of the slaves in the West Indies. The excitement of the slave question was just then at its height; but the bill for their emancipation had not yet passed the Houses of Parliament. Upon Flora expressing her abhorrence of the whole system, Mrs. Dalton proceeded to defend it with no little warmth.

"Ah, I perceive that you know nothing about it. You are infected with the bigotry and prejudices of the Anti-slavery advocates. Negroes are an inferior race; they were made to work for civilized men, in climates where labour would be death to those of a different complexion."

"This is reducing the African to a mere beast of burthen—a machine in the form of man. The just God never made a race of beings purposely to drag out a painful existence in perpetual toil and degradation."

"They are better off than your peasants at home," continued Mrs. Dalton, indignantly;—"better fed, and taken care of. As to the idle tales they tell you about flogging, starvation, and killing slaves, they are fearful exaggerations, not worthy of credit. Do you think a farmer would kill a horse, that he knew was worth a hundred pounds, out of revenge for his having done some trifling injury to his harness? A planter would not disable a valuable slave, if by so doing he injured himself. But your slave adorers will not listen to reason and common sense. I have been the owner of many slaves; but I never ill-used one of them in my life."

"Hector is an example of over-indulgence," said Flora. "But still he is only a pet animal in your estimation. Tell me truly, Mrs. Dalton, do you believe that a negro has a soul to be saved?"

"I think it doubtful!"

"And you the wife of a Christian minister?" said Flora, reproachfully.

"If they had immortal souls and reasoning minds, we should not be permitted to hold them as slaves. Their degradation proves their inferiority."

"It only proves the brutalizing effects of your immoral system," said Flora, waxing warm. "I taught a black man from the island of St. Vincent to read the Bible fluently in ten weeks. Was that a proof of mental incapacity? I never met with an uneducated white man who learned to read so rapidly, or who pursued his studies with the ardour of this despised, soulless black. His motive for this exertion was a noble one, which I believe cost him his life—the hope of carrying the glad tidings of salvation to his benighted countrymen, which he considered the best means of improving their condition, and rendering less burdensome their oppressive yoke."

"This was all very well in theory; but it will never do in practice. If the British Government, urged on by a set of fanatics, who, in reality are more anxious to bring themselves into notice, than to emancipate the slaves, madly persist in adopting their ridiculous project, it will involve the West Indies in ruin."

"It were better that the whole group of islands were sunk in the depths of the sea," said Flora, vehemently, "than continue to present to the world a system of injustice and cruelty, which is a disgrace to a Christian community—a spectacle of infamy to the civilized world. And do not think that the wise and good men who are engaged heart and hand in this holy cause, will cease their exertions until their great object is accomplished, and slavery is banished from the earth."

Mrs. Dalton stared at Flora in amazement. She could not in the least comprehend her enthusiasm. "Who cares for a slave?" she said, contemptuously. "You must live among them, and be conversant with their habits before you can understand their inferiority. One would think that you belonged to the Anti-Slavery Society to hear the warmth with which you argue the case. Do you belong to that odious society? for I understand that many pious women make themselves vastly busy in publicly discussing the black question."

"I have many dear friends who are among its staunch supporters, both men and women; whose motives are purely benevolent; who have nothing to gain by the freedom of the slaves, beyond the satisfaction of endeavouring to forward a good work, which if it succeeds, (and we pray God that it may,) will restore a large portion of the human family to their rights as immortal and rational creatures."

"Mere cant—the vanity of making a noise in the world. One of the refined hypocrisies of the present age. By-the-bye, my dear Madam, have you read a tract published lately by this disinterested society, called the History of Mary P.? It is set forth to be an authentic narrative, while I know enough of the West Indies, to pronounce it a tissue of falsehoods from beginning to end."

"Did you know Mary P.?"

"I wonder who does. It is an imaginary tale got up for party purposes."

"You are mistaken," said Flora quietly. "That narrative is strictly true. I was staying the winter before last, with her mistress in London, and I wrote it myself from the woman's own lips."

"You!" and Mrs. Dalton started from the ground as though she had been bitten by a serpent—"and I have been talking all this time to the author of Mary P. From this moment, Madam, we must regard ourselves as strangers. No West Indian could for a moment tolerate the writer of that odious pamphlet."

Mrs. Dalton retired to her berth, which was in the state cabin; and Flora lay awake for several hours, pondering over their conversation, until the morning broke, and the steamer cast anchor off Newhaven.



CHAPTER XX.

EDINBURGH.

The storm had passed away during the night; and at day-break, Flora hurried upon deck, to catch the first glance of—

"The glorious land of flood and fell, The noble north countrie."

The sun was still below the horizon, and a thick mist hung over the waters, and hid the city from her view. Oh, for the rising of that white curtain! how Flora tried to peer through its vapoury folds, to

"Hail old Scotia's darling seat,"

the beautiful abode of brave, intelligent, true-hearted men, and fair good women. Glorious Edinburgh! who ever beheld you for the first time with indifference, and felt not his eyes brighten, and his heart thrill with a proud ecstasy, the mingling of his spirit with a scene, which in romantic sublimity, has not its equal in the wide world—

"Who would not dare To fight for such a land!"

exclaims the patriotic wizard of the North. Ay, and to die for it, if need be, as every true-hearted Scot would die, rather than see one stain cast upon the national glory of his noble country. The character of a people is greatly influenced by the local features of the land to which it belongs; and the inhabitants of mountainous districts have ever evaded most effectually the encroachments of foreign invaders. The Scot may, perhaps, derive from his romantic country, much of that poetic temperament, that stern, uncompromising love of independence, which has placed him in the first rank as a man.

The sun at length rose; the fog rolled its grey masses upwards, and the glorious old castle emerged from between the parting clouds, like some fabled palace of the gods, its antique towers glittering like gold in the sun.

"Oh, how beautiful!" exclaimed Flora, her eye kindling, and her cheek flushing with delight.

"The situation of Quebec is almost as fine," said Captain Forbes, who had been watching with pleasure the effect which the first sight of his native city produced upon her countenance. "It will lose little by comparison."

"Indeed," cried Flora, eagerly turning to the speaker, "I had formed no idea of anything in Canada being at all equal to this."

"You have been there, Captain?" said Lyndsay.

"Yes, many times; and always with increased pleasure. Quebec combines every object which is requisite to make a scene truly magnificent—woods, mountains, rivers, cataracts; and all on the most stupendous scale. A lover of nature cannot fail to be delighted with the rock-defended fortress of British North America."

"You have made me quite happy, Captain Forbes," said Flora; "I have contemplated a residence in Canada with feelings of such antipathy, that your description of Quebec almost reconciles me to my lot. I can never hate a country which abounds in natural beauty."

* * * * *

Boats were now constantly plying to and from the shore, conveying passengers and their luggage from the ship to the pier. The Captain, who had recognised a countryman in Lyndsay, insisted on the voyagers taking breakfast with him before they left the vessel. Mrs. Lyndsay accepted the offer with such hearty good-will, that the Captain laughed and rubbed his hands in the excess of hospitable satisfaction, as he called to his steward to place a small table under an awning upon the deck, and serve the breakfast there.

"You will enjoy it much more in the fresh air, Mrs. Lyndsay," he said, "after your severe illness, than in the close air."

Flora was delighted with the arrangement, and set the Captain down as a man of taste, as by this means he had provided for her a double feast—the beautiful scenery which on every side met her gaze, and an excellent breakfast, served in the balmy morning air.

The rugged grace with which the gallant tar presided at what might be termed his own private table, infused a cheerful spirit into those around him, and never was a meal more heartily enjoyed by our emigrants. James Hawke, who had been confined during the whole voyage to his berth, now rejoined his friends, and ate of the savoury things before him in such downright earnest, that the Captain declared that it was a pleasure to watch the lad handle his knife and fork.

"When a fellow has been starving for eight and forty hours, it is not a trifle that can satisfy his hunger," said Jim, making a vigorous onslaught upon a leg of Scotch mutton. "Oh! I never was so hungry in my life!"

"Not even during those two disastrous days last week, which we spent starving at sea," said Flora.

"Ah, don't name them," said the boy, with an air of intense disgust. "Those days were attended with such qualms of conscience that I have banished them from the log of life altogether. Oh, those dreadful days!"

"Why, Jim, you make a worse sailor than I expected," said Flora; "how shall we get you alive to Canada?"

"Oh, never fear," said the lad, gaily; "I have cast all those horrible reminiscences into the sea. I was very ill, but 'tis all over now, and I feel as light as a feather; you will see that I shall be quite myself again, directly we lose sight of the British shores."

On returning to the ladies' cabin, to point out her luggage to the steward of the boat, Flora found that important functionary, pacing to and fro the now empty scene of all her trouble in high disdain. She had paid very little attention to Mrs. Lyndsay during the voyage. She had waited with the most obsequious politeness on Mrs. Major F. and Mrs. Dalton, because she fancied they were rich people, who would amply reward her for her services. They had given her all the trouble they possibly could, while she had received few commands from Flora, and those few she had neglected to perform. Still, as Flora well knew that the paid salary of these people is small, and that they mainly depend upon the trifles bestowed upon them by passengers, she slipped half-a-crown into her hand, and begged her to see that the trunks she had pointed out were carried upon deck.

The woman stared at her, and dropped a low curtsey.

"La, Mem, you are one of the very few of our passengers who has been kind enough to remember the stewardess. It's too bad—indeed it is. And all the trouble that that Mrs. Dalton gave with her spoilt children, and nasty black vagabond. And would you believe me, she went off without bestowing on me a single penny! And worse than that, I heard her tell the big fat woman, that never rose up in her berth, but to drink brandy-and-water, 'That it was a bad fashion the Hinglish had of paying servants, and the sooner it was got rid of the better.'

"'I perfectly hagrees with you,' said the fat woman; and so she gave nothing;—no—not even thanks. Mrs. Major F—— pretended not to see me, though I am sure I'm no midge; and I stood in the doorway on purpose to give her a hint; but the hideous little old maid told me to get out of the way, as she wanted to go upon deck to speak to the Major. Oh, the meanness of these would-be fine ladies! But if ever they come to Scotland in this boat again—won't I pay them off!"

Flora enjoyed these unsolicited confessions of a disappointed stewardess; and she was forced to turn away her head for fear of betraying a wicked inclination to laugh, which if indulged in at that moment would, I have no doubt, have afforded her great satisfaction and delight. As it was, she made no comment upon the meanness of her fellow-passengers, nor consoled the excited stewardess by complaining of their unlady-like conduct to herself.—What they were in their rank of life, the stewardess was in hers. They were congenial souls—all belonging to the same great family, and Flora was not a little amused by the striking points of resemblance.

Bidding adieu to the Captain of the steamer, the Lyndsays and their luggage were safely landed on the chain-pier at Newhaven; from thence they proceeded to Leith, to the house of a respectable woman, the widow of a surgeon, who resided near the Leith bank, and only a few minutes' walk from the wharf.



CHAPTER XXI.

MRS. WADDEL.

Great was the surprise of Flora, when, instead of entering the house by a front door, they walked up an interminable flight of stone stairs, every landing comprising a distinct dwelling, or flat (as it is technically termed), with the names of the proprietors marked on the doors. At last they reached the flat occupied by good Mistress Waddel, situated at the very top of this stony region. Mrs. Waddel was at the door ready to receive them. She showed them into a comfortable sitting-room with windows fronting the street, where a bright fire was blazing in a very old-fashioned grate. She welcomed her new lodgers with a torrent of kindly words, pronounced in the broadest Scotch dialect, only half understood by the English portion of her audience.

A large portly personage was Mrs. Waddel,—ugly, amiable, and by no means particular in her dress; which consisted of a woollen plaid, very much faded, and both ragged and dirty. Her large mutch with its broad frills formed a sort of glory round her head, setting off to no advantage her pock-marked, flabby face, wide mouth and yellow projecting teeth. She had a comical, good-natured obliquity of vision in her prominent light-grey eyes, which were very red about the rims; and Flora thought, as she read with an inquiring eye the countenance of their landlady, that without being positively disgusting, she was the most ordinary, uncouth woman she ever beheld.

Mrs. Waddel was eloquent in the praise of her apartments, which she said had been occupied by my Leddy W. when his Majesty George the Fourth, God bless his saucy face, landed at Leith, on his visit to Scotland. Her lodgings, it seemed, had acquired quite an aristocratic character since the above-named circumstance; and not a day passed, but the good woman enumerated all the particulars of that memorable visit. But her own autobiography was the stock theme with the good landlady. The most minute particulars of her private history she daily divulged, to the unspeakable delight of the mischievous laughter-loving James Hawke, who, because he saw that it annoyed Mrs. Lyndsay, was sure to lead the conversation slily to some circumstance which never failed to place the honest-hearted Scotchwoman on her high-horse: and then she would talk,—ye gods!—how she would talk—and splutter away in her broad provincial dialect, until the wicked boy was convulsed with laughter.

"Ay, Mister Jeames," she would say, "ye will a' be maken' yer fun o' a' puir auld bodie, but 'tis na' cannie o' ye."

"Making fun of you, Mrs. Waddel," said he, with a sly glance at Flora, "how can you take such an odd notion into your head! It is so good of you to tell me all about your courtship: it's giving me a hint of how I'm to go about it when I'm a man. I am sure you were a very pretty, smart girl in your young days"—with another quizzical glance at Flora.

The old lady drew herself up, and smiled approvingly upon her black-eyed tormentor.

"Na, na, Mister Jeames, my gude man that's dead an' gane said to me, the verra day that he made me his ain—'Katie, ye are nae bonnie, but ye a' gude, which is a' hantle better.'"

"No doubt he was right, Mrs. Waddel; but I really think he was very ungallant to say so on his wedding-day, and did not do you half justice."

"Weel, weel," said the good dame, "every ain to his taste. He was not ow'r gifted that way himsel; but we are nane sensible o' our ain defects."

The great attraction in the small, windowless closet in which James slept, was an enormous calabash, which her son, the idol of Mrs. Waddel's heart, had brought home with him from the South Seas. Over this calabash, the simple-hearted mother daily rehearsed all the wonderful adventures she had gathered from that individual, during his short visits home; and as she possessed a surprisingly retentive memory, her maternal reminiscences would have filled volumes,—to all of which James listened with the most earnest attention, not on account of the adventures, for they were commonplace enough, but for the mere pleasure of hearing Mrs. Waddel talk broad Scotch, from which he seemed to derive the most ludicrous enjoyment. Mrs. Waddel had two daughters, to whom nature had been less bountiful than even to herself. Tall, awkward, shapeless dawdles, whose unlovely youth was more repulsive than the mother's full-blown, homely age,—with them the old lady's innocent obliquity of vision had degenerated into a downright squint, and the redness round the rims of their large, fishy-looking, light eyes, gave the idea of perpetual weeping,—a pair of Niobes, versus the beauty, whose swollen orbs were always dissolved in tears. They crept slip-shod about the house, their morning wrappers fitting so easily their slovenly figures, that you expected to see them suddenly fall to the ground, and the young ladies walk on in native simplicity.

"My daughters are like mysel—na' bonnie," said Mrs. Waddel. "They dinna' tak' wi' the men folk, wha look mair to comeliness than gudeness now-a-days in a wife. A' weel, every dog maun ha' his day, an' they may get husbands yet.

"I weel remember, when Noncy was a bairn, she was the maist ugsome wee thing I ever clappit an e'e upon. My Leddy W. lodged in this verra room, in the which we are no' sittin'. She had a daughter nearly a woman grown, an' I was in my sma' back parlour washin' an' dressin' the bairn. In runs my Leddy Grace, an' she stood an' lookit an' lookit a lang time at the naked bairn in my lap: at last she clappit her hands an' she called oot to her mither—'Mamma! Mamma! for gudeness sake, come here, an' look at this ugly, blear-eyed, bandy-legget child!—I never saw sic an object in a' my life!'

"It made my heart sair to hear her despise a creture made in God's image in that way, an' I bursted into tears, an' said—'My leddy, yer a bad Christian to spier in that way o' my puir bairn, an' that in the hearin' of its ain mither. May God forgive you! but you ha' a hard heart.' She was verra angry at my reproof, but my Leddy W. just then came in, an' she said, with one of her ain gracious smiles—'For shame! Grace; the bairn's weel enough. Let us hope she maun prove a' blessin' to her parents. The straightest tree does na always bear the finest fruit.'

"I ha' met wi' mony crosses and sair trials in my day; but few o' them made me shed bitterer tears than that proud, handsom' young leddy's speech on the deformity o' my puir bairn."

Flora stood reproved in her own eyes, for she knew she had regarded the poor ugly girls with feelings of repugnance, on account of their personal defects. Even Jim, careless and reckless though he was, possessed an excellent heart, and he looked grave, and turned to the window, and tried to hum a tune, to get rid of an unpleasant sensation about his throat, which Mrs. Waddel's artless words had suddenly produced.

"Hang me!" he muttered half aloud, "if I ever laugh at the poor girls again!"

Mrs. Waddel had in common with most of her sex, a great predilection for going to auctions; and scarcely a day passed without her making some wonderful bargains. For a mere trifle she had bought a 'gude pot, only upon inspection it turned out to be miserably leaky. A nice palliasse, which on more intimate acquaintance proved alive with gentry with whom the most republican body would not wish to be on intimate terms. Jim was always joking the old lady upon her bargains, greatly to the edification of Betty Fraser, a black-eyed Highland girl, who was Mistress Waddel's prime minister in the culinary department.

"Weel, Mister Jeames, jist ha' yer laugh oot, but when ye get a glint o' the bonnie table I bought this mornin' for three an' saxpence, ye'll be noo' makin' game o' me ony mair, I'm thinkin'. Betty, ye maun jist step ow'r the curb-stane to the broker's, an' bring hame the table."

Away sped the nimble-footed Betty, and we soon heard the clattering of the table, as the leaves flapped to and fro as she lugged it up the public stairs.

"Now for the great bargain!" exclaimed the saucy Jim; "I think, Mrs. Waddel, I'll buy it of you, as my venture to Canada."

"Did ye ever!" exclaimed the old lady, her eyes brightening as Betty dragged in the last bargain, and placed it triumphantly before her mistress. Like the Marquis of Anglesea, it had been in the wars, and with a terrible clatter, the incomparable table fell prostrate to the floor. Betty opened her great black eyes with a glance of blank astonishment, and raising her hands with a tragic air which was perfectly irresistible, exclaimed, "Mercy me, but it wants a fut!"

"A what?" screamed Jim, as he sank beside the fallen table and rolled upon the ground in a fit of irrepressible merriment; "Do, for Heaven's sake, tell me the English for a fut. Oh dear, I shall die! Why do you make such funny purchases, Mrs. Waddel, and suffer Betty to show them off in such a funny way? You will be the death of me, indeed you will; and then, what will my Mammy say?"

To add to this ridiculous scene, Mrs. Waddel's grey parrot, who was not the least important personage in her establishment, having been presented to her by her sailor son, fraternised with the prostrate lad, and echoed his laughter in the most outrageous manner.

"Whist, Poll! Hould yer clatter. It's no laughing matter to lose three an' saxpence in buying the like o' that."

Mrs. Waddel did not attend another auction during the month the Lyndsays occupied her lodgings. With regard to Betty Fraser, Jim picked up a page out of her history, which greatly amused Flora Lyndsay, who delighted in the study of human character. We will give it here.

Betty Fraser's first mistress was a Highland lady, who had married and settled in Edinburgh. On her first confinement, she could fancy no one but a Highland girl to take care of the babe, when the regular nurse was employed about her own person. She therefore wrote to her mother to send her by the first vessel which sailed for Edinburgh, a good, simple-hearted girl, whom she could occasionally trust with the baby. Betty, who was a tenant's daughter, and a humble scion of the great family tree, duly arrived by the next ship.

She was a hearty, healthy, rosy girl of fourteen, as rough as her native wilds, with a mind so free from guile that she gave a literal interpretation to everything she saw and heard.

In Canada Betty would have been considered very green. In Scotland she was regarded as a truthful, simple-hearted girl. A few weeks after the baby was born, some ladies called to see Mrs. ——. The weather was very warm, and one of them requested the neat black-eyed girl in waiting to fetch her a glass of water. Betty obeyed with a smiling face; but oh, horror of horrors, she brought the clear crystal to the lady guest in her red fist.

The lady smiled, drank the water, and returned the tumbler to the black-eyed Hebe, who received it with a profound curtsy.

When the visitors were gone, Mrs. ——, who was very fond of her young clanswoman, called her to her side, and said, "Betty, let me never see you bring anything into my room in your bare hands. Always put what you are asked for on to a waiter or an ashat."

The girl promised obedience.

The very next day some strange ladies called; and after congratulating Mrs. —— on her speedy recovery, they expressed an earnest wish to see the "dear little baby."

Mrs. —— rang the bell. Betty appeared. "Is the baby awake?"

"Yes, my leddy."

"Just bring him in to show these ladies."

Betty darted into the nursery, only too proud of the mission, and telling nurse to "mak' the young laird brau," she rushed to the kitchen, and demanded of the cook a "muckle big ashat."

"What do you want with the dish?" said the English cook.

"That's my ain business," quoth Betty, taking the enormous china platter from the cook's hand, and running back to the nursery. "Here, Mistress Norman, here is ain big enough to hand him in, at ony rate. Pray lay his wee duds smooth, an' I'll tak' him in, for I hear the bell."

"Are ye duff, lass? Wud ye put the bairn on the ashat?"

"Ay, mistress tauld me to bring what she asked me for on an ashat. Sure ye wud no ha' me disobey her?"

"Na, na," said the nurse, laughing, and suspecting some odd mistake. "Ye sal ha' it yer ain way."

And she carefully laid the noble babe upon the dish, and went before to open the door that led to Mrs. ——'s chamber.

Betty entered as briskly as her unwieldy burden would permit, and with glowing cheeks, and eyes glistening with honest delight, presented her human offering in the huge dish to the oldest female visitor in the room.

With a scream of surprise, followed by a perfect hurricane of laughter, the venerable dame received the precious gift from Betty's hand, and holding it towards the astonished mother, exclaimed, "Truly, my dear friend, this is a dish fit to set before a king. Our beloved sovereign would have no objection of seeing a dish so filled with royal fruit, placed at the head of his own table."

The laugh became general; and poor Betty comprehending the blunder she had committed, not only fled from the scene, but dreading the jokes of her fellow-servants, fled from the house.



CHAPTER XXII.

CLIMBING THE MOUNTAINS.

The Lyndsays, to their infinite mortification and disappointment, found upon their arrival at Leith, that the Chieftain, in which vessel their places had been taken for Canada, had sailed only two days before. To make bad worse, Mrs. Waddel confidently affirmed, that it was the very last vessel which would sail that season.

Lyndsay, who never yielded to despondency, took these contrary events very philosophically, and lost no time in making inquiries among the ship-owners, to ascertain whether Mrs. Waddel was right.

After several days of anxious and almost hopeless search, he was at last informed that the Flora, Captain Ayre, was to leave for Canada in a fortnight. The name seemed propitious, and that very afternoon he walked down with his wife to inspect the vessel.

The Flora was a small brig, very old, very dirty, and with wretched accommodations. The captain was a brutal-looking person, blind of one eye, and very lame. Every third word he uttered was an oath; and instead of answering Mr. Lyndsay's inquiries, he was engaged in a blasphemous dialogue with his two sons, who were his first and second mates. The young men seemed worthy of their parentage; their whole conversation being interloaded with frightful imprecations on their own limbs and souls, and the limbs and souls of others.

They had a very large number of steerage passengers engaged, for the very small size of the vessel, and these emigrants were of the very lowest description.

"Don't let us go in this horrible vessel," whispered Flora to her husband. "What a captain! what a crew! we shall be miserable, if we form any part of her live cargo!"

"I fear, my dear girl, there is no alternative. We may, perhaps, hear of another before she sails. I won't engage places in her until the last moment."

The dread of going in the Flora took a hold of the mind of her namesake; and she begged Jim to be on the constant look-out for another vessel.

During their stay at Leith, Lyndsay was busily employed in writing a concluding chapter to his work on the Cape; and Flora amused herself by taking long walks, accompanied by James, the maid, and the baby, in order to explore all the beauties of Edinburgh. The lad, who was very clever, and possessed a wonderful faculty of remembering places and of finding his way among difficulties, always acted as guide on these occasions. Before he had been a week at Leith, he knew every street in Edinburgh; had twice or thrice climbed the heights of Arthur's Seat, and visited every nook in the old castle. There was not a ship in the harbour of Leith, but he not only knew her name and the name of her captain, but he had made himself acquainted with some of her crew, and could tell her freight and tonnage, her age and capabilities, the port from which she last sailed and the port to which she was then bound, as well as any sailor on the wharf. It was really extraordinary to listen of an evening to the lad's adventures, and all the mass of information he had acquired during his long rambles through the day.

Flora was always in an agony lest James should be lost, or meet with some mishap during his exploring expeditions; but Mistress Waddel comforted her with the assurance, "That a cat, throw her which way you wu'd, lighted a' upon her feet. That nought was never tent—an' they that war' born to be hanget wu'd never be drowned."

So, one fine afternoon in June, Flora took it into her head, that she would climb to the top of the mountain, the sight of which from her chamber window she was never tired of contemplating. She asked her husband to go with her. She begged, she entreated, she coaxed; but he was just writing the last pages of his long task, and he told her, that if she would only wait until the next day, he would go with pleasure.

But with Flora, it was this day or none. She had set her whole heart and soul upon going up to the top of the mountain, and to the top of the mountain she determined to go. This resolution was formed, in direct opposition to her husband's wishes; and with a perfect knowledge of the tale of the dog Ball, which had been one of her father's stock stories, the catastrophe of which she had known from a child. Lyndsay did not tell her positively she should not go without him; and unable to control her impatience, she gave him the slip, and set off with Jim, who was only too eager for the frolic, on her mountain climbing expedition.

Flora was a native of a rich pastoral country; very beautiful in running brooks, smooth meadows, and majestic parks; where the fat sleek cattle so celebrated in the London markets, graze knee-deep in luxuriant pastures, and the fallow deer browse and gambol beneath the shadow of majestic oaks through the long bright summer days. She had never seen a mountain before her visit to the North, in her life; had never risen higher in the world than to the top of Shooter's Hill; and when they arrived at the foot of this grand upheaving of nature, she began to think the task more formidable than she had imagined at a distance. Her young conductor, agile as a kid, bounded up the steep acclivity with as much ease as if he was running over a bowling-green.

"Not so fast, Jim!" cried Flora, pausing to draw breath. "I cannot climb like you."

Jim was already beyond hearing, and was lying on the ground peering over a projecting crag at least two hundred feet above her head, and impishly laughing at the slow progress she made.

"Now Jim! that's cruel of you, to desert me in my hour of need," said Flora, shaking her hand at the young mad-cap. "Lyndsay was right after all. I had better have waited till to-morrow."

Meanwhile, the path that wound round the mountain towards the summit became narrower and narrower, and the ascent more steep and difficult. Flora sat down upon a stone amid the ruins of the chapel to rest, and to enjoy the magnificent prospect. The contemplation of this sublime panorama for a while absorbed every other feeling. She was only alive to a keen sense of the beautiful; and while her eye rested on the lofty ranges of mountains to the north and south, or upon the broad bosom of the silver Forth, she no longer wondered at the enthusiastic admiration expressed by the bards of Scotland for their romantic land.

While absorbed in thought, and contrasting the present with the past, a lovely boy of four years of age, in kilt and hose, his golden curls flying in the wind, ran at full speed up the steep side of the hill; a panting woman, without bonnet or shawl, following hard upon his track, shaking her fist at him, and vociferating her commands (doubtless for him to return) in Gaelic, fled by.

On ran the laughing child, the mother after him; but as well might a giant pursue a fairy.

Flora followed the path they had taken, and was beginning to enjoy the keen bracing air of the hills, when she happened to cast her eyes to the far-off meadows beneath. Her head grew suddenly giddy, and she could not divest herself of the idea, that one false step would send her to the plains below. Here was a most ridiculous and unromantic position: she neither dared to advance nor retreat; and she stood grasping a ledge of the rocky wall in an agony of cowardice and irresolution. At this critical moment, the mother of the run-away child returned panting from the higher ledge of the mountain, and, perceiving Flora pale and trembling, very kindly stopped and asked what ailed her.

Flora could not help laughing while she confessed her fears, lest she should fall from the narrow footpath on which she stood. The woman, though evidently highly amused at her distress, had too much native kindliness of heart, which is the mother of genuine politeness, to yield to the merriment which hovered about her lips.

"Ye are na accustomed to the hills," she said, in her northern dialect, "or ye wa'd na dread a hillock like this. Ye suld ha' been born whar I wa' born, to ken a mountain fra' a mole-hill. There is my bairn, noo, I canna' keep him fra' the mountain. He will gang awa' to the tap, an' only laughs at me when I spier to him to come doon. It's a' because he is sae weel begotten—an' all his forbears war reared amang the hills."

The good woman sat down upon a piece of the loose rock, and commenced a long history of herself, of her husband, and of the great clan of Macdonald (to which they belonged), which at last ended in the discovery, that her aristocratic spouse was a Corporal in the Highland regiment then stationed in Edinburgh, and that Flora, his wife, washed for the officers in the said regiment—that the little Donald, with his wild-goat propensities, was their only child, and so attached to the hills, that she could not keep him confined to the meadows below! The moment her eye was off him, his great delight was to lead her a dance up the mountain, which, as she never succeeded in catching him, was quite labour in vain.

All this, and more, the good-natured woman communicated in her frank, desultory manner, as she led Flora down the steep, narrow path which led to the meadows below. Her kindness did not end here, for she walked some way up the road to put Mrs. Lyndsay in the right track to regain her lodgings, for Flora, trusting to the pilotage of Jim, was perfectly ignorant of the location.

This Highland Samaritan indignantly refused the piece of silver Flora proffered in return for her services. "Hout, leddy! keep the siller! I wudna' tak' aught fra' ye o' the Sabbath-day for a trifling act o' courtesy—na, na, I come of too gude bluid for that!"

There was a noble simplicity about the honest-hearted woman, which was not lost upon Flora.

"If I were not English," thought Flora, "I should like to be Scotch."

She looked rather crest-fallen, as she presented herself before her Scotch husband, who laughed heartily over her misadventure, and did not cease to tease her about her expedition to the mountain, as long as they remained in its vicinity.

This did not deter her from taking a long stroll on the sands "o' Leith," the next afternoon, with James, who delighted in these Quixotish rambles; and was always on the alert, to join in any scheme which promised an adventure. It was a lovely afternoon. The sun glittered on the distant waters, which girdled the golden sands with a zone of blue and silver. The air was fresh and elastic, and diffused a spirit of life and joyousness around. Flora, as she followed the footsteps of her young agile conductor, felt like a child again; and began to collect shells and sea-weeds, with as much zest as she had done along her native coast, in those far-off happy days, which at times returned to her memory like some distinct, but distant dream.

For hours they wandered hither and thither, lulled by the sound of the waters, and amused by their child-like employment; until Flora remarked, that her footprints filled with water at each step, and the full deep roaring of the sea gave notice of the return of the tide. Fortunately they were not very far from the land; and oh, what a race they had to gain the "Peir o' Leith," before they were overtaken by the waves. How thankful they felt that they were safe, as the billows chased madly past, over the very ground, which a few minutes before, they had so fearlessly trod.

"This is rather worse than the mountain, mamma Flora," (a favourite name with James for his friend Mrs. Lyndsay,) "and might have been fatal to us both. I think Mr. Lyndsay would scold this time, if he knew our danger."

"We won't quarrel on the score of prudence. But what is this?" said Flora; and she stepped up to a blank wall, on their homeward path, and read aloud the following advertisement:—

"To sail on the first of July, via Quebec and Montreal; the fast sailing brig Anne, Captain Williams. For particulars, inquire at the office of P. Gregg, Bank Street, Leith.

"N.B. The Anne is the last ship which leaves this port, for Canada, during the season."

"Hurra!" cried the volatile Jim, flinging his cap into the air; "a fig for Captain Ayre and the Flora. I'd lay sixpence if I had it, that we shall sail in the Anne."

"Let us go, James, and look at the vessel," cried Flora, clapping her hands with delight. "Oh, if it had not been for our fright on the sands, we should not have seen this."

Flora hastened home to inform her husband of the important discovery they had made; and before half an hour had elapsed, she found herself in company with him and Jim, holding a conference with Captain Williams, in the little cabin of the Anne.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BRIG ANNE

Was a small, old-fashioned, black-hulled vessel, marvellously resembling a collier in her outward appearance. She was a one-masted ship, of 180 tons burthen, and promised everything but aristocratic accommodations for women and children.

The cabin was a low, square room, meant to contain only the captain and his mate; whose berths, curtained with coarse red stuff, occupied the opposite walls. The table in the centre was a fixture, and the bench which ran round three sides of this crib, was a fixture also; and though backed by the wall, was quite near enough to the table to serve the double purpose of chair or sofa. A small fireplace occupied the front of the cabin, at the side of which, a door opened into a tiny closet, which the Captain dignified with the name of his state-cabin. The compass was suspended in a brass box from the ceiling,—articles of comfort or luxury there were none.

The Captain, a stout, broad-shouldered, red-faced man, like Captain Ayre of the Flora, was minus an eye; but the one which fortune had left him was a piercer. He was a rough, blunt-looking tar, some forty-five or fifty years of age; and looked about as sentimental and polite as a tame bear. His coarse, weather-beaten face had an honest, frank expression, and he bade his guests to be seated with an air of such hearty hospitality, that they felt quite at home in his narrow low den.

He had no cabin-passengers, though a great many in the steerage; and he assured Flora that she could have the very best accommodations, as he would resign the state-cabin to her and the child. Mr. Lyndsay could occupy the mate's berth in the cabin, and they could not fail of being quite snug and comfortable.

The state-cabin was just big enough to hold the captain's chest of drawers, the top of which, boarded, and draped with the same faded red stuff which decorated the outer room, formed the berth that Flora was to occupy. Small as the place was, it was scrupulously neat and clean, and possessed for Flora one great charm—that of privacy. She could, by shutting the door and drawing the bolt, at any time enjoy the luxury of finding herself, though in a crowded vessel, alone.

"Mamma Flora, are you not charmed with the splendid accommodations of your fancy ship?" whispered the mischievous Jim. "There is not room for a flea to hop, without giving him the cramp in his legs."

"It is better than the Flora; so hold your tongue, you wicked imp."

But Lyndsay thought otherwise. The Flora was larger, and was to sail a fortnight earlier. He demurred—his wife coaxed and entreated; but he only went so far as to tell the captain to keep the berths unoccupied until the following day, and he would inform him of his final determination.

Just as they were rising to take leave, a tall, lanky man, stuck his long scraggy neck in at the cabin-door, and, in the broadest Scotch vernacular, exclaimed,—

"To what port are ye bound, man?"

"Quebec and Montreal."

"Wull you tak' a cabin-passenger on reasonable terms?"

"The fare is fixed by the owner of the vessel, P. Gregg, Bank-street, Leith. You had better apply to him."

"Weel, I dinna' think I'll jest go noo. I want to see the Canada lochs. Ane o' these days I'll tak' passage wi' you onyhow."

"Perhaps a glass of brandy and water would serve your purpose at this time," said the captain, with a knowing smile.

"I've noo objections, captain," said the long-visaged traveller to the lochs o' Canada.

"That's one way of getting a glass of brandy for nothing," said the captain, as he accompanied the Lyndsays to the deck. "That fellow has as much notion of going to Canada, as I have of taking a voyage to the moon. But he knows that I will give him the brandy to get rid of him."

"What do you think of the Anne and her captain, John?" said Flora, as she took the proffered arm of her husband. "He is a rough sailor, but looks like an honest man. And the ship, though small, is clean, and offers better accommodations than the Flora, where we should have to share a small cabin with fourteen passengers."

"My dear wife, it may all be true what you say; but I have made up my mind to go in the Flora. She sails so much earlier, that it will be a great saving of time and expense."

Flora's countenance fell; but she only muttered to herself,—

"Oh, I have such a horror of going in that ship!"

At the turning of the street they met Mr. Peterson, the owner of the Flora, to whom Lyndsay had spoken about taking a passage in her the day before.

"Well, Mr. Lyndsay," said he, shaking hands in a friendly manner with him; "have you concluded to take passage in my vessel?"

"Not quite," returned Lyndsay, laughing. "My wife has such an unconquerable aversion to going with your captain and his sons, on account of the reprobate language they used the other day in her hearing, that she has actually found up another vessel in which she wishes me to sail."

"Oh, the Anne, Captain Williams," said Peterson, with a contemptuous smile,—"the last and the most insignificant vessel which leaves our port. The owner, P. Gregg, is not a liberal person to deal with; the captain is a good seaman, but a stubborn brute,—quite as unfit for the society of ladies as Captain Ayre. To tell you the truth, we have little choice in these matters. It is not the manners of the men we employ we generally look to, but to their nautical skill. There is, however, one great objection to your taking passage in the Anne, which I think it right you should know. She has a most objectionable freight."

"In what respect?"

"She is loaded with brandy and gunpowder."

"By no means a pleasant cargo," said Lyndsay. "What do you say to that, Flora?" turning to his wife.

"I will tell you to-morrow: do wait until then."

In order to pacify her evident uneasiness, Lyndsay promised to postpone his decision.

When they reached their lodgings, they found a short, round-faced, rosy, good-natured looking individual, waiting to receive them, who introduced himself as Mr. Gregg, the owner of the Anne. He had learned from Captain Williams, that they had been inspecting the capabilities of his vessel.

"She is a small ship," said he, "but safe; the captain, a steady, experienced seaman; and if Mr. Lyndsay engaged a passage for himself and family, he would grant the most liberal terms."

Lyndsay mentioned his objections to the freight.

"Who told you that?" asked the little owner, somewhat excited.

"Mr. Peterson. We parted from him only a few minutes ago."

"The scoundrel! the mean, dirty scoundrel!" said Gregg, stamping on the floor. "Why, Sir, Mr. Lyndsay, his own ship carries the same freight. What did he say about that?"

"He told me yesterday, she took out a general cargo——"

"Of brandy and gunpowder. Both vessels are employed by the same house, and take out the same freight. You must, however, please yourself, Mr. Lyndsay. The Flora has a great number of passengers of the lowest cast,—is old and crank; with the most vicious, morose captain that sails from this port. I know him only too well. He made two voyages for me; and the letters I received, complaining of his brutal conduct to some of his passengers, I can show you at my office."

"You have said enough, Mr. Gregg, to deter me from taking my wife and child in the Flora. The deceitful conduct of Mr. Peterson alone would have determined me not to contract with him. And now, what will you take us for? Our party consists of my wife and infant, a lad of thirteen years who accompanies us, a servant-girl, and myself."

Mr. Gregg considered for some minutes. "Well," he said, "there is a large party of you; but I will give your wife, child, and self, a cabin passage, finding you in the same fare as the captain, and the lad and servant a second cabin passage, but the privilege of the cabin-table, for thirty pounds. Is that too much?"

"It is very liberal indeed. Peterson asked fifty."

"It is reasonable; but as you have to wait a fortnight longer in order to sail with me, I have taken that into account. Is it a bargain?"

They struck hands; and Mr. Gregg, after drawing up an agreement, which Lyndsay signed, turned to Mrs. Lyndsay, and pressingly invited the whole party to spend the following afternoon with them in a friendly way.

"My wife is a homely little body," he said; "but she will do her best to make you comfortable, and will give you, at any rate, a hearty Scotch welcome."

"Now, Flora, are you not delighted in having it your own way?" said Lyndsay, after Mr. Gregg left them. "But let me assure you, my dear wife, you owe it entirely to the mean conduct of Mr. Peterson. I tell you frankly, that I would not have yielded my better judgment to a mere prejudice, even to please you."

"You are determined, John, that I shall never fulfil the gipsy's prophecy."

"What was that?"

"Did I never tell you that story, nor the girls either? for it was a standing joke against me at home for years. Oh, you must have it then. But be generous, and don't turn it as a weapon against me:—

"Some years ago, a gipsy woman came to our kitchen-door, and asked to see the young ladies of the house. Of course, we all ran out to look at the sybil, and hear her errand, which was nothing more nor less than to tell our fortunes. Partly out of curiosity, partly out of fun, we determined to have a peep into futurity, and see what the coming years had in store for us. We did not believe in gipsy craft. We well knew that, like our own, the woman's powers were limited; that it was all guess-work; that her cunning rested in a shrewd knowledge of character,—of certain likings springing out of contrasts, which led her to match the tall with the short, the fair with the dark, the mild with the impetuous, the sensitive and timid with the bold and adventurous. On these seeming contrarieties the whole art of fortune-telling, as far as my experience goes, appears based.

"Well, she gave husbands to us all—dark, fair, middle-complexioned, short and tall, amiable, passionate, or reserved—just the opposite of our own complexions or temperament, such as she judged them to be; and she showed a great deal of talent and keen perception of character in the choice of our mates.

"In my case, however, she proved herself to be no prophet. I was to marry a sea-faring gentleman—a tall, black-eyed, passionate man—with whom I was to travel to foreign parts, and die in a foreign land. I was to have no children; and he was to be very jealous of me. 'And yet, for all that,' quoth the gipsy, drawing close up to me, and whispering in my ear, but not so low, but that all the rest heard her concluding speech, 'you shall wear the breeches.'"

"She did not bargain that you were to marry a Scotchman," said Lyndsay, laughing.

"Nor did she know, with all her pretended art, that my husband was to be a soldier, fair-haired, and blue-eyed, and that this little lass would give a direct contradiction to her prophecy," and Flora kissed fondly Josey's soft cheek. "Well, I was so tormented about that last clause in my fortune, that I determined it should never come to pass; that whatever portion of my husband's dress I coveted, I would scrupulously avoid even the insertion of a toe into his nether garments."

"You forget, Flora, your trip to the mountain, without my consent?" whispered Lyndsay, mischievously.

Flora coloured, stammered, and at last broke into a hearty laugh,—"I was too great a coward, John, to wear them with becoming dignity. If that was wearing the breeches, I am sure I disgraced them with my worse than womanish fears. I will never put them on again."

"My dear wife, I'll take good care you shan't. When a Scotchman has any breeks to wear, he likes to keep them all to himself."

"Ah! we well know what a jealous, monopolising set you are. Let any one attempt to interfere with your rights, and, like your sturdy national emblem, you are armed to the teeth," said Flora, as she ran off to order tea.



CHAPTER XXIV.

A VISIT TO THE SHIP OWNERS.

Early in the afternoon of the following day our family party set off to pay their promised visit. The weather was delightful, and Flora was in an ecstasy of high spirits, as they turned from the narrow streets of Leith into a beautiful lane, bounded on each side by hawthorn hedges, redolent with the perfume of the sweetbrier and honeysuckle. The breath of new-mown hay floated on the air, and the lilac and laburnum, in full blossom, waved their graceful boughs above the white palings which surrounded many a pleasant country retreat, in which the tired citizen, after the toils of the day in the busy marts of commerce, returned to enjoy a comfortable dish of tea with his family.

A walk of half-a-mile brought them to the suburban retreat of the worthy Mr. Gregg, and he was at the green garden-gate to receive his guests, his honest, saucy face, radiant with an honest welcome.

"I was fearful ye wud not keep your promise," said he: "my youngsters ha' been on the look-out for you for this hour."

Here he pushed the giggling youngsters forward, in the shape of two bouncing, rosy-faced school-girls, who were playing at bo-peep behind papa's broad blue back, and whose red cheeks grew crimson with blushes as he presented them to his guests.

James Hawke seemed to think the merry girls, who were of his own age, well worth looking at, if you might judge by the roguish sparkling of his fine black eyes, as he bounded off with them to be introduced to the strawberry-beds, and all the other attractions of the worthy citizen's garden.

It was a large, old-fashioned house, which had seen better days, and stood on a steep sloping hill, commanding a beautiful view of Edinburgh. The grand old mountain loomed in the distance, and the bright Forth, with all its wealth of white sails, glittered in the rays of the declining sun.

"What a delightful situation!" exclaimed Flora, as her eye ranged over the beautiful scene.

"Ay, 'tis a bonnie place," said Mr. Gregg, greatly exalted in his own eyes, as master of the premises;—"an' very healthy for the bairns. I often walked past this old house when I was but a 'prentice lad in the High-street, o' Sunday afternoons, and used to peep through the pales, and admire the old trees, an' fruits, an' flowers; an' I thought if I had sic a braw place of my ain, I should think mysel richer than a crow'ed king. I was a puir callant in those days. It was only a dream, a fairy dream; yet here I am, master of the auld house, and the pretty gardens. Industry and prudence, my dear madam—industry and prudence, has done it all, and converted my air-built castle into substantial brick and stane."

Flora admired the old man's honest pride. She had thought him coarse and vulgar, while in reality he was only what the Canadians term homely; for his heart was brimful of kindly affections and good feeling. There was not a particle of pretence about him,—of forced growth or refined cultivation; a genuine product of the soil, a respectable man in every sense of the word. Proud of his country, and doubly proud of the wealth he had acquired by honest industry. A little vain and pompous, perhaps, but most self-made men are so: they are apt to overrate the talents which have lifted them out of obscurity, and to fancy that the world estimates their worth and importance by the same standard as they do themselves.

In the house, they were introduced to Mrs. Gregg, who was just such a person as her husband had described: a cheerful, middle-aged woman, very short, very stout, and very hospitable. Early as it was, the tea-table was loaded with good cheer. Large strawberries preserved whole, and that pet sweetmeat of the Scotch, orange marmalade, looked tempting enough, in handsome dishes of cut glass, flanked by delicious home-made bread and butter, cream, cheese, and sweet curds.

A tall, fine-looking woman, very gaily dressed, was presented to the Lyndsays as Mrs. M'Nish, a married daughter. Her husband was a loud-voiced, large-whiskered consequential-looking young man, whose good humour and admiration of himself, his wife, his father and mother-in-law, and the big house, appeared inexhaustible. His young wife seemed to look upon him as something super-human; and to every remark she made, she appealed to Wullie, as she called him, for his verdict of approval.

Little Josey, who made one of the party, was soon on the most intimate terms with the family group. The young married woman, after bestowing upon her many kisses, passed her over to her husband, telling him, with a little laugh, "that she wondered if he would make a good nurse: it was time for him to commence practising." Then she blushed and giggled, and the old man chuckled and rubbed his knees, and the mother looked up with a quiet smile as the jolly bridegroom burst into a loud laugh. "Ay, Jean my woman, it's time enough to think o' troubles when they come." And then he tossed Miss Josey up to the ceiling with such vigorous jerks, that Flora watched his gymnastics in nervous fear lest the child should fall out of his huge grasp and break her neck.

Not so Josey; she never was better pleased in her life; she crowed and screamed with delight, and rewarded her Scotch nurse, by tangling her tiny white fingers in his bushy red whiskers, and pulling his long nose.

"Haut! you're a speretted lass. Is that the way you mean to lead the men?" he said, as he bounced her down into his wife's lap, and told her, "that it was her turn to mak' a trial o' that kind o' wark, an' see how it wud fit: he was verra' sure he sud sune be tired o't." And this speech was received with another giggle, followed by a loud laugh.

The old gentleman was impatient to discuss the important business of tea-drinking; after which he proposed to have the pleasure of showing his visitors the garden, and some other grand sight of which he would not speak now, but which he was certain must be appreciated by every person, who possessed a half-pennyworth of taste.

Flora sat down to the table, wondering what they could be.

Big Wullie stepped to the hall-door, and summoned the children to the evening meal with a loud hallo! which was answered from among the trees by a jovial shout, and in a few minutes the young folks poured into the room, some of them looking rather dull, from their protracted visit to the strawberry-beds.

The fresh air and exercise had given Mrs. Lyndsay an unusual appetite. She enjoyed her meal, but this did not satisfy the overflowing hospitality of her entertainers, who pressed her in every possible manner to take more, till she felt very much inclined to answer with the poor country girl, "Dear knows, I can't eat another bit."

There was no way of satisfying the entreaties of the Greggs, but by making a retreat from the table, and even then they persisted in declaring their guests had been starved, and would not do the least justice to their good cheer.

This mistaken kindness brought to Flora's mind a story she had heard Lyndsay tell of a merchant of Edinburgh who went to the north of Scotland to visit some country folk who were his near relations. The good people were outrageously glad to see him, and literally killed the fatted calf, and concocted all sorts of country dainties in order to celebrate the advent of their distinguished guest, who it seems, in this case, was in less danger of starving than of being stuffed to death.

Having partaken at dinner of all, and perhaps of rather more than he required, he did his best to resist their further importunities for him to eat more, but finding his refusal to do so increased their anxiety to force upon him the good things they had to bestow, he spread a large silk pocket-handkerchief upon his knees, under cover of the table-cloth, into which he contrived dexterously to empty the contents of his plate, whenever the eye of his watchful hostess was off him. At last, even her importunities for him to continue the feast grew fainter, and she wound up by exclaiming, "You ha' made a verra puir dinner, Sir; ye ha' just eaten nothing ava'."

At this speech, hardly able to keep his gravity, he placed his handkerchief upon the table, and displayed its contents of fish, flesh, fowl, and confectionaries, to his astonished entertainers, exclaiming, as he did so, "My dear Madam, think what would have become of me, had I eaten all this!"

It was no feast of reason, at the honest Greggs; the entertainment was of the most animal kind, and Flora felt relieved when it was over, and the whole party issued once more into the pure air.

She was just hastening to a parterre, gay with roses, to rifle some of its sweets, when the old gentleman came panting hard upon her track. "Ye must come an' see my raree-show, before the sun gangs doun," he cried; and Flora turned and followed him back into the house. In the hall the whole family party were collected.

"I'll gang first, father, and open the door," cried a merry boy of fourteen, and beckoning to Jim, they both clattered after each other up the old-fashioned stairs.

Old houses in Edinburgh and its vicinity are so high, one would think the people in those days wished to build among the stars; at least to emulate the far-famed wonders of that language-confounding tower, which caused the first emigration, by scattering the people over the face of the earth.

They went up, and up, and up, until there seemed no end to the broad, short steps. On the last flight, which led to the roof, the staircase had so greatly contracted its proportions, that fat Mr. Gregg could scarcely force himself up it, and he so completely obscured the light which peered down upon them from a small trap-door, opening upon the leads, that Flora, who followed him, found herself in a dim twilight, and expected every moment the panting mountain, which had come between her and the sky, would lose the centre of gravity, and suffocate her in its fall.

No such tragic misfortune, however, occurred. The old gentleman forced himself, after much squeezing and puffing off steam, through the narrow aperture, and very gallantly lent a hand to assist Flora on to the leads.

"This is a strait gate, on a narrow way," he cried. "But tell me, if it does na' gie ye a glimpse o' heaven?"

The old man was right. Flora stood entranced, as it were, with the glorious spectacle which burst upon her sight, the moment she stepped upon the roof of that old house. Edinburgh, and the world of beauty that lies around it, lay at her feet, bathed in the golden light of a gorgeous June sunset. To those who have beheld that astonishing panorama, all description must prove abortive. It is a sight to be daguerreotyped upon the heart.

"Weel, was it not worth toiling up yon weary stair, to get sic a glimpse as that, of the brave auld town?" said honest P. Gregg. "I'm jest thinkin' I must enlarge the stair, or diminish mysel, before I can venture through that narrow pass again. An', my dear leddy, I can do neither the one nor the other. So this mayhap may be my last glint o' the bonnie auld place."

Then he went on, after his quaint fashion, to point out to Mistress Lyndsay all the celebrated spots in the neighbourhood, which every Scot knows by heart, and Flora was so much amused and interested by his narration, that she was sorry when the deepening shades of approaching night warned the old man that it required daylight to enable him to descend the narrow stair, and they reluctantly left the scene.



CHAPTER XXV.

FLORA'S DINNER.

Lyndsay had some literary friends in Edinburgh, whose kindly intercourse greatly enhanced the pleasure of a month's residence near the metropolis of Scotland. The foremost among these was M——, the poet, who, like Lyndsay, was a native of the Orkney Islands. Having been entertained at the house of this gentleman, he naturally wished to return his courtesy.

"Flora," said he, addressing his wife, the day after their visit to the Greggs, "do you think you could manage a dinner for a few friends?"

Flora dropped her work, and opened her eyes in blank dismay at the very idea of such a thing.

"What, in these poor lodgings? and Mrs. Waddel such an impracticable, helpless old body? My dear John, it is impossible!"

Now, Lyndsay had set his heart upon the dinner, which he thought not only very possible, but could see no difficulty at all about it. Men never look behind the scenes, or consider the minor details of such things; and on these trifling items, in their eyes, the real success or failure of most domestic arrangements depend. But Flora had been behind the scenes, and knew all about it, to her cost, for it was with the greatest difficulty she could prevail upon Mrs. Waddel to cook the plainest food. Mrs. Waddel declared she could "na fash hersel about; that dainties were a' verra weel, but the meat ate jest as sweet without them." The idea of such a tardy mistress of the kitchen cooking a dinner for company, appeared perfectly ridiculous to Flora, who knew that any attempt of the kind must end in mortification and disappointment.

"Flora," said Lyndsay, quite seriously, "I am certain that you could manage it quite well, if you would only make the trial."

"It is from no unwillingness on my part that I object to your entertaining your friends. But there is but one cooking range in the house, and that one small and inconvenient, and I fear the cooking utensils are limited to the dimensions of the fire."

"There is a large fireplace in our bed-chamber, Flora," said Lyndsay, unwilling to beat a retreat.

"True," replied Flora, musingly; "I did not think of that. It would do that damp, cold room good to get a fire lighted in it."

Seeing her husband determined upon the dinner, she began to question him as to the items of the entertainment.

"Oh, nothing particular, dear. M—— knows that we are in lodgings, and can't manage as well as if we were in a house of our own. A nice cut of fresh salmon, which is always to be had in the fish-market, a small roast of beef, or leg of mutton, with vegetables and a pudding, will do; and, above all things, Flora, don't look annoyed, if every thing does not exactly please you, or it will only make matters worse. I am going to call upon M—— this morning, and I will ask him and his friend P—— to step over and dine with us at six o'clock."

"What shall we do for wine and spirits?"

"I will order these as I go along. So mind, dear, and have everything as snug and comfortable as you can."

In spite of the anxiety she felt as to the success of the dinner, Flora could not help pausing to admire the spacious fish-market, with its cool stone pavement and slabs of white marble, on which lay piled in magnificent profusion, the most beautiful specimens of the finny rangers of the deep. Filled with marine curiosities, she could have spent hours in contemplating the picturesque groups it presented. There lay the salmon in its delicate coat of blue and silver; the mullet, in pink and gold; the mackerel, with its blending of all hues,—gorgeous as the tail of the peacock, and defying the art of the painter to transfer them to his canvas; the plaice, with its olive green coat, spotted with vivid orange, which must flash like sparks of flame glittering in the depths of the dark waters; the cod, and the siller haddies, all freckled with brown, and silver, and gold; the snake-like eel, stretching its slimy length along the cool stone pavement, among moving heaps of tawny crabs—those spiders of the deep—which seemed to emulate the scorpion-like lobsters near them in repulsive ugliness.

But what most enchanted Flora, was the antique costume of the Newhaven fish-women, as, seated upon their upturned baskets, they called the attention of the visitor to their various stores of fish.

Flora was never tired of looking at these sea-maids and matrons. Their primitive appearance, and quaint, old-fashioned dress, took her fancy greatly—with their short petticoats, their blue stockings and buckled shoes, their neat, striped linen-jackets, and queer little caps, just covering the top of their head, and coming down in long, straight mobs, over their ears; their honest, broad features, and pleasant faces, which had been fair before the sun and the sea air tanned them to that warm, deep brown; their round, red arms, and handsome feet and legs, displayed with a freedom and ease which custom had robbed of all indecorum, and rendered natural and proper.

Flora wished that she had been an artist, to copy some of the fine forms she saw among these fish-girls—forms which had been left as the great God of nature made them, uncrippled by torturing stays and tight vestments. How easy their carriage! with what rude grace they poised upon their heads their ponderous baskets, and walked erect and firm, filling the air with their mournfully-musical cry! The great resemblance between these people and the Bavarian broom-girls, both in features and costume, impressed her with the idea, that they had originally belonged to the same race. The Newhaven sea-nymph, however, is taller, and has a more imposing presence, than the short, snub-nosed Bavarian.

But time, that waits on no one's fancy or caprice, warned her that she must not linger over a scene which she afterwards visited with renewed pleasure, but gave her a gentle hint, that there was work to be done at home—that she had better make her purchases and proceed to business.

She returned, therefore, to her lodgings in high spirits, despatching Jim to the greengrocer's in the next street, and then followed Hannah and her basket into Mrs. Waddel's kitchen.

"Marcy me! what ha' ye got, the noo?" said Mistress Waddel, lifting the napkin from the basket: "meat enough, I declare, to last the hale week. The weather's owr hot, I'm thinkin', for a' they to keep sweet sae lang."

"Mrs. Waddel, I expect two gentlemen to dinner, particular friends of Mr. Lyndsay; and I want you to cook these things for me as well as you can," said Flora coaxingly.

"Twa' gentlemen, did ye say?—There's ten times mair in yon basket than twa gentlemen can eat!"

"Of course there is; but we cannot stint our guests."

"Whist, woman!" cried Mrs. Waddel, "it makes my heid ache only to think about a' that roast an' boil, an' boil an' roast!"

"Pray, how did you contrive to cook for Lady Weyms?" asked Flora, rather indignantly.

"Gudeness gracious! Do ye think, that my Leddy Weyms cared for the cooking o' the like o' me? When his late majestie, God bless him, honoured our auld toon wi' his preesence, folk were glad to get a deecent place to cover their heids, an' war in no wise owr particlar, sae they could get lodged ava."

"So I should think, when a titled lady put up with such as these; where the mistress engages to cook for her lodgers, and has not a whole pot in her culinary establishment."

"My Leddy brought her ain cook, an' she had my twa best rooms jest aff the passage, whar' Captain Macpherson bides the noo."

"And how do you manage to cook for him?" asked Flora, very sullenly.

"He keeps a man. An auld soger, whar' does the cooking himsel."

However, the dinner went off better than could have been expected, though little praise could be conscientiously given to the cooking. The fish was done too much, the ham too little, and the baked fowls looked hard and dry. The pastry was the only thing at table about which no fault could be found.

After the cloth was removed, Flora gave the poet and his friend the history of the dinner, which so amused Mr. M., that he declared it was worth twenty dinners hearing her relate the misadventures of the morning. Flora forgot the disasters of the day while enjoying the conversation of Mr. M. and his friend,—men who had won by their genius no common literary reputation in the world; and the short hour "ayont the twal" had been tolled some time from all the steeples in Edinburgh before the little party separated, mutually pleased with each other, never to meet in this world of change again.



CHAPTER XXVI.

FEARS OF THE CHOLERA—DEPARTURE FROM SCOTLAND.

The cholera, which had hitherto only claimed a few victims in the city, now began to make fearful progress; and every day enlarged the catalogue of the dead, and those who were labouring under this awful disease. People seemed unwilling to name the ravages of the plague to each other; or spoke of it in low, mysterious tones, as a subject too dreadful for ordinary conversation.

Just at this time Flora fell ill, and was forced to keep her bed for several days. During the time she was confined to her chamber, Mrs. Waddel kept up a constant lamentation, declaring that the reputation of her lodgings would be lost for ever, if Mrs. Lyndsay should die of the cholera. Yet, to do the good creature justice, she waited upon her, and nursed her with most unselfish kindness; making gallons of gruel, which the invalid scarcely tasted, and recommending remedies which, if adopted, would have been certain to kill the patient, for whose life she most earnestly and devoutly prayed.

The very morning that Mrs. Lyndsay was able to leave her bed, her husband got a note from Mr. Gregg, informing him that the Anne was to sail at four o'clock the next day.

"My dear Flora," said Lyndsay, tenderly, "I fear you are not able to go in your present weak state."

"Oh yes, I shall be better for the change. This frightful cholera is spreading on all sides. The sooner, dear John, we can leave this place the better. Two persons, Mrs. Waddel told me, died last night of it, only a few doors off. I know that it is foolish to be afraid of an evil which we cannot avoid; but I find it impossible to divest myself of this fear. I look worse than I feel just now," she continued, walking across the room, and surveying her face in the glass. "My colour is returning—I shall pass muster with the doctors yet."

The great business of packing up for the voyage went steadily forward all day; and before six in the evening, trunks, bedding, and little ship stores, were on board, ready for a start.

Flora was surprised in the afternoon by a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Gregg, and the two rosy girls, who expressed the greatest regret at their departure. They had made a plum-cake for Mrs. Lyndsay to eat during the voyage; and truly it looked big enough to have lasted out a trip to the South Seas, while Mrs. Gregg had brought various small tin canisters filled with all sorts of farinaceous food for the baby.

Abundant as their kindness was, the blessings and good wishes they heaped upon the emigrants were more abundant still; the kind-hearted mother and her bonnie girls, kissing them at parting, with tears coursing down their rosy cheeks. Mr. Gregg, who was terribly afraid of the cholera, tried to raise his own spirits, by describing all the fatal symptoms of the disease, and gave them a faithful catalogue of those who had died of it that morning in the city. He had great faith in a new remedy, which was just then making a noise in the town, which had been tried the day before, on a relation of his own—the injection of salt into veins of the sufferer.

"Did it cure him?" asked Flora, rather eagerly.

"Why no, I canna jest say that it did. But it enabled him to mak' his will an' settle a' his worldly affairs, which was a great point gained."

"For the living," sighed Flora. "Small satisfaction to the dying, to be disturbed in their last agonies, by attending to matters of business, while a greater reckoning is left unpaid."

"You look ill yoursel, Mistress Lyndsay," continued the gude man. "Let's hope that it's not the commencement of the awfu' disease."

"I thought so myself two days ago," said Flora. "I am grateful to God that it was not the cholera. Does it ever break out on board ship?"

"It is an affliction sae lately sent upon the nations by the Lord, that we have had sma' experience o' the matter," quoth Mr. Gregg. "Your best chance is to trust in Him. For let us be ever so cautious, an He wills it, we canna' escape out o' His hand."

"Perhaps it is the best way to confide ourselves entirely to His care, and to think as little about it as we possibly can. All our precautions remind me of the boy who hid up in the cellar during a terrible thunderstorm, in the hope that the lightning would never find him there, little dreaming, that his place of safety exposed him to as much danger as a stand on the house-top. A man may run away from a battle, and escape from a fire, but it seems to me of little use attempting to fly from a pestilence which lurks in the very air we breathe, the water we drink, and the food we take to nourish us. Faith in the mercy of God, and submission to His will appear to me the only remedies at all likely to avert the danger we shrink from with so much fear."

"It comes like a thief in the night," said Mr. Gregg; "and it behoves us all to mind the warning o' the Saviour, to watch an' pray, for we know not at what hour the Master of the house cometh."

After the good Greggs had made their adieus, Flora felt so much recovered that she accompanied her husband in a coach, to bid the rest of their kind friends in Edinburgh farewell.

They drove first to the house of Mr. W., where Flora had spent many happy days during her sojourn in Leith. Mr. W. had an only son, who held an official situation at the Cape of Good Hope. Lyndsay had been on intimate terms with this gentleman during his residence in the colony; and on his return to Scotland, he was always a welcome visitor at the house of his parents. They loved to talk of Willie to Lyndsay, and treasured up as household words any little anecdotes they could collect of his colonial life. Mrs. W. and her two daughters were highly accomplished, elegant women. They took a deep interest in the fate of the emigrants, and were always devising plans for their future comfort.

As to the father of the family, he was a perfect original—shrewd, sarcastic, clever, and very ugly. The world called him morose and ill-natured; but the world only judged from his face, and most certainly he should have indicted it for bringing false witness against him. It was a libellous face, which turned the worst aspect to the world; its harsh lines and exaggerated features magnifying mental defects, while they concealed the good qualities of the warm, generous heart that shone like some precious gem within that hard rough case.

Mr. W. loved opposition, and courted it. He roused himself up to an argument, as a terrier dog rouses himself to kill rats; and, like the said terrier, when he got the advantage of his opponent, he loved to worry and tease, to hold on till the last, till the vanquished was fain to cry aloud for mercy; and then his main object in quitting the dispute was to lie in wait for a fresh tussel. Flora laughed at all his blunt speeches, and enjoyed his rude wit, and opposed him, and argued with him to his heart's content, until they became the best friends in the world. Their first meeting was so characteristic, that we must give it here.

Flora had accepted an invitation to dine, with her husband, at Mr. W.'s house. It was only a family party, and they were to come early. On their arrival, they found that Mr. W. had been called away on business, but was expected back to dinner. After chatting awhile to Mrs. W. and her daughters, Flora's attention was strongly directed to an oil-painting which hung above the drawing-room mantelpiece. It was the portrait of an old man, as large as life. The figure was represented in a sitting posture, his head leaning upon his hand, or rather the chin supported in the open palm. The eyes glanced upward with a sarcastic, humorous expression, as if the original were in the act of asking some question which a listener might find it no easy matter to answer; and a smile of mischievous triumph hovered about the mouth. It was an extraordinary countenance. No common every-day face, to which you could point and say, "Does not that put you in mind of Mr. So-and-So?" Memory could supply no duplicate to this picture. It was like but one other face in the world, the one from which it had been faithfully copied. It was originally meant for a handsome face, but the features were exaggerated until they became grotesque and coarse in the extreme, and the thick, bushy, iron-grey hair and whiskers, and clay-coloured complexion, put the finishing strokes to a portrait, which might be considered the very ideal of ugliness.

While Flora sat looking at the picture, and secretly wondering how any person with such a face could bear to see it transferred to canvas, she was suddenly roused from her reverie by the pressure of a heavy hand upon her shoulder, and a gentleman in a very gruff, but by no means an ill-natured or morose voice, thus addressed her.

"Did you ever see such a d——d ugly old fellow in your life before?"

"Never," returned Flora, very innocently. Then, looking up in his face, she cried out with a sudden start, and without the least mental reservation, "It is the picture of yourself!"

"Yes, it is my picture. An excellent likeness—half bulldog, half terrier. Judging from that ugly, crabbed old dog over the mantelpiece, what sort of a fellow ought I to be?"

He said this with a malicious twinkle in his clear, grey eyes, which glanced like sparks of fire from under his thick bushy eyebrows.

"Better than you look," said Flora, laughing. "But your question is not a fair one, Mr. W.; I was taken by surprise, and you must not press me too hard."

"A clear admission, young lady, that you would rather avoid telling the truth."

"It is the portrait of a plain man."

"Pshaw! You did not qualify it as such in your own mind. Plain—is only one degree worse than good-looking. You thought it—"

"Ugly—if you insist upon it."

"Nothing worse?"

"Eccentric—pugnacious—satirical."

"God's truth! But that was not all?"

"Good heavens! what am I to say?"

"Don't swear; 'tis not fashionable for ladies. I do it myself; but 'tis a bad habit. Now shall I tell you what you did think of the picture?"

"I would rather have your opinion than mine."

"To relieve you from the horns of the dilemma? Well then; you thought it the ugliest, most repulsive, and withal the oddest phiz you ever saw; and you wondered how any one with such a hideous, morose countenance, could ever sit for the picture?"

"Indeed I did."

"Good!" cried her tormentor, clapping his hands. "You and I must be friends. You wonder how I came to guess your thoughts; I know them by my own. Had any one asked my opinion of the picture of another man as ugly as that, I should have spoken out plainly enough. Fortunately the qualities of the mind do not depend upon the beauty of the face; though personal beauty is greatly increased by the noble qualities of the mind; and I know my inner man to be as vastly superior to its outer case, as the moon is to the cloud she pierces with her rays. To mind, I am indebted for the greatest happiness I enjoy,—the confidence and affection of my wife and children.

"Mrs. W. was reckoned pretty in her youth; I think her so still. She was of a good family too; with a comfortable independence, and had lovers by the score. Yet, she fell in love with the ugly fellow, and married him, though he had neither fame nor fortune to offer her in exchange. Nothing but the mental treasures he had hid away from the world in this rough casket. My daughters are elegant, accomplished girls; not beauties, to be sure, but pleasing enough to be courted and sought after. Yet, they are proud of being thought like their ugly old father. That picture must be a likeness; it is pourtrayed by the hand of love. My dear girl there drew it with her own pencil, and rejoiced that she had caught the very expression of my face. To her, my dear lady, it is beautiful—for love is blind. She does not heed the ugly features; she only sees the mind she honours and obeys, looking through them."

"Ah, dear papa, who that knows you, as we know you, could ever think you ugly?" said Mary W., laying her hand on the old man's shoulder, and looking fondly and proudly in his face. "But I have forgotten all this time to introduce you to Mrs. Lyndsay."

"My old friend Lyndsay's wife? I ought not to be pleased with you, madam, for you disappointed a favourite scheme of mine."

"How could that possibly be?" said Flora.

"I loved that man of yours; I wanted him for a son-in-law. Of course, neither I nor the girls hinted such a wish to him. But had he asked, he would not have been refused."

"Mrs. Lyndsay!" broke in Mary W., "you must not mind papa's nonsense. He will say just what he likes. Mr. Lyndsay was always a great favourite with us all; and papa would have his joke at our expense."

"Well, my young friend has thought fit to please himself, and I am so well pleased with his wife, that she shall sit by the ugly old man; 'an' I will ha' a spate o' clatter wi' her to mine ain sel.'"

The more Flora saw of the eccentric old man, the more she admired and respected him. In a little time, she ceased to think him ugly—he was only plain and odd-looking; till at length, like all the rest of Mr. W.'s friends, she almost believed him handsome. When did genius ever fail to leave upon the rudest clay, an impress of its divine origin?

It was with feelings of mutual regret that our emigrants took leave, and for ever, of this talented family. Before the expiration of one short year, that happy group of kind faces had passed out of the world! The sudden death of the younger Mr. W., who was the idol of the family, brought his mother in sorrow to the grave. The girls, by some strange fatality, only survived her a few weeks; and the good old man, bereft of every kindred tie, pined away and died of a broken heart!

Some years after Flora had been settled in Canada, a gentleman from Scotland, who had been acquainted with the W. family, told her that he called upon the old gentleman on a matter of business, a few days after the funeral of his youngest daughter. The old man opened the door: he was shrunk to a skeleton, and a perfect image of woe. When he saw who his visitor was, he shook his thin, wasted hand at him, with a melancholy, impatient gesture, exclaiming, "What brings you here, P——? Leave this death-doomed house! I am too miserable to attend to anything but my own burden of incurable grief." He called again the following morning. The poor old man was dead!

The next day the emigrants bade farewell to the beautiful capital of Scotland. How gladly would Flora have terminated her earthly pilgrimage in that land of poetry and romance, and spent the rest of her days among its truthful, high-minded, hospitable people! But vain are regrets. The inexorable spirit of progress points onward; and the beings she chooses to be the parents of a new people, in a new land, must fulfil their destiny.

On the 1st of July, 1832, the Lyndsays embarked on board the brig Anne, to seek a new home beyond the Atlantic, and friends in a land of strangers.



CHAPTER XXVII.

A NEW SCENE AND STRANGE FACES.

Four o'clock P.M. had been tolled from all the steeples in Edinburgh, when Flora stood upon the pier "o' Leith," watching the approach of the small boat which was to convey her on board the ugly black vessel which lay at anchor at the Berwick Law. It was a warm, close, hazy afternoon; distant thunder muttered among the hills, and dense clouds floated around the mountain from base to summit, shrouding its rugged outline in a mysterious robe of mist. Ever and anon, as the electrical breeze sprang up and stirred these grey masses of vapour, they rolled up in black shadowy folds which took all sorts of Ossianic and phantom-like forms—spirits of bards and warriors, looking from their grey clouds upon the land their songs had immortalised, or their valour saved.

Parties of emigrants and their friends were gathered together in small picturesque groups on the pier. The cheeks of the women were pale and wet with tears. The words of blessing and farewell, spoken to those near and dear to them, were often interrupted by low wailing and heart-breaking sobs.

Flora stood apart waiting for her husband, who had been to the ship, and was in the returning boat now making its way through the water to take her off. Sad she was, and pale and anxious, for the wide world was all before her, a world of new scenes and strange faces. A future as inscrutable and mysterious almost as that from which humanity instinctively shrinks, which leads so many to cling with expiring energy to evils with which they have grown familiar, rather than launch alone into that unknown sea which never bears upon its bosom a returning sail. Ah! well is it for the poor trembling denizens of earth that—

"Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate,"

or how could they bear up from day to day against the accumulated ills which beset them at every turn along the crooked paths of life?

Flora had already experienced that bitterness of grief, far worse than death, which separates the emigrant from the home of his love, the friends of his early youth, the land of his birth; and she shed no tear over the mournful recollection, though the deep sigh which shook her heart to its inmost depths, told that it was still felt and painfully present to her memory. She stood alone among that weeping crowd; no kindred hand was there to press hers for the last, last time, or bid God speed her on her perilous voyage. What a blessing it would have been at that moment, to have bent a parting glance on some dear familiar face, and gathered strength and consolation from eyes full of affection and sympathy!

The beautiful landscape which had so often cheered and gladdened her heart, during her brief sojourn, no longer smiled upon her, but was obscured in storm and gloom. The thunder which had only muttered at a distance, now roared among the cloud-capped hills, and heavy drops of rain began to patter slowly upon the earth and sea. These bright globules in advance of the heavy shower whose approach they announced, made small dimples in the waters, spreading anon into large circles, until the surface of the salt brine seemed to boil and dance, which a few minutes before had lain so glassy and still, beneath the hot breath of the coming storm. Flora thought how soon those billows would chafe and roar for ever between her and her native land.

Then the lines of Nature's own bard, the unhappy but immortal Burns, whose fame had become as eternal as those ancient hills, rose to her mind, and she could fancy him standing upon that very spot, breathing out from the depths of his great inspired heart, the painful separation he anticipated, when called by adverse circumstances to leave old Scotia's shores, and the woman he adored—

"The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, The ship rides at the Berwick Law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary."

The words still hovered on her lips when the boat touched the pier, and her husband threw his arms around her, and lifted her and the dear offspring of their mutual love, into the small bark which was to bear them away from the glorious land of Bruce and Burns. The men bent to their oars, and in a few minutes she found herself one among the many strangers that crowded the narrow deck of the emigrant ship.

The downpouring of the thunder-shower compelled her to take instant refuge in the cabin, followed by Hannah and the child. The little dingy place dignified by that name, was crowded with trunks and packages, piled upon each other in endless confusion. And the close atmosphere was rendered more hot and suffocating from the mingled odours of brandy, onions, red-herrings, and tobacco. The smoke from several pipes floated in lazy wreaths through the confined space, and effectually concealed, for the first few minutes, the parties indulging in the dreamy luxury of the fragrant weed.

The gloom occasioned by the passing thunder-clouds produced a dim twilight in the little room, which looked more like the den in a travelling menagerie, appropriated to the use of some imprisoned lord of the desert, than a fitting habitation for civilized men and women.

Flora groped her way to the bench which surrounded the walls, and, for a few minutes, covered her face with her hands, to conceal her agitation and keep down the swelling of her heart, before she gained sufficient courage to reconnoitre the aspect of her temporary home. At length, she succeeded in calming her feelings, and was able to look about her.

The Captain was sitting upon a large trunk in his shirt-sleeves, with a short pipe stuck between his teeth, holding in one hand a tumbler of brandy punch, and in the other a bundle of papers containing a list of his passengers, which he was in the act of proffering for the inspection of the excise officers, who were settling with him sundry matters of business, connected with the cargo of the ship.

Two sinister, ill-looking men they were, who spoke with loud, authoritative voices, and, for the time being, appeared masters of the vessel and all that it contained, examining with provoking exactness, cupboards, bedding, boxes, and binns of biscuit, till there seemed no end to their prying and vexatious system of cross-questioning.

The Captain notified his consciousness of the presence of the new-comers with a short nod of recognition; but he was too much occupied to welcome them with words. He seemed in a desperate ill-humour with his official visitors, and replied to all their queries with a significant elevation of his broad shoulders, and a brief "No" or "Yes," which greatly resembled a growl.

During his absence on deck, whither he accompanied the senior officer, his companion, who was seated on the bench opposite to that occupied by Mrs. Lyndsay and her maid, with his back to an open binn, full of biscuits and other sea-stores, took the opportunity afforded by the Captain's departure, to fill the huge pockets in his large jacket with the said stores, until his tall, lank person, was swelled out into very portly dimensions. He then made a sudden dash at the brandy-bottle (which the Captain had left on the table), and, casting a thievish glance at Mrs. Lyndsay, who was highly amused by watching his movements, he refilled his glass, and tossed it off with the air of a child who is afraid of being detected, while on a foraging expedition into Mamma's cupboard. This matter settled, he wiped his mouth with the cuff of his jacket, and assumed a look of vulgar consequence and superiority, which must have forced a smile to Flora's lips had she been at all in a humour for mirth.