"Oh, gin Lag were dead and streekit, An' that his ha' wi' mools was theekit!"

when, by means of a six-inch-square skylight, our physiognomy became visible to Janet.

"And what art thou, that's creeping into an old body's dark den, and leaving ahint thee the guid sunshine?"

We responded by mentioning our name.

"Ay, ay," said Janet, "come away and sit thee down on the creepy there, beside the heidstane[B]—thou art freely welcome, for thou art o' the seed o' the faithful, the precious salt of the earth: and the blessing of the God of the Covenant will rest upon its children, even to the third and the fourth generation!" Thus welcomed, we took our position as requested, eyeing all the while the large black cat with a somewhat suspicious regard.

"The beast winna stir thee," said Janet, "it has, like its auld mistress, mair regard for the martyr's seed."

Having hereupon taken advantage of a pause in Janet's discourse, we at once stated the subject of our inquiry.

"Ay, ay," said Janet; "and atweel there is a connection betwixt that bonny angel stane, and the pool ca'ed Porter's Hole. Ay, is there; an an awfu' connection it is. But what comes thou here for to torment an auld body like me, wi' greeting and groaning at my time o' life? Gae awa, gae awa—I canna thole the very thochts o' the story whilk thou ettles to ken."

This only increased our curiosity, and, after some flattering language about Janet's good nature, retentive memory, and Covenanting lineage, the old crone proceeded to the following purpose; and, as nearly as we can mind, (for it is a tale o' fifty years,) repeated it in the following words:—

"Thou ken's the auld ruin, bairn, the auld wa's out by there. That's the auld farm-house o' Dalgarno, ere the new one at the path-head was biggit; and there, within the wa's, was ance a warm hearth, and twa as leal hearts as ever beat against pin or button. John Porter was young, handsome, and the tenant of the best farm in the parish o' Dalgarno; but he was nae frien to the vile curate, and a marked bird, as they ca' it, by Grierson o' Lag, in particular, who had been heard to say, that he would decant his porter for him some day yet, in the shape and colour of heart's bluid. Agnes Milligan was an orphan, brought up at Dalgarno—a sister's son o' the auld Dalgarno, and a fu' cousin, ye ken, o' the young farmer. They had baith fed frae the same plate; sleeped under the same roof; played at the same sports; and dabbled in the same river—the bloody, bloody Nith!—from infancy to youth. Oh! sirs! but I canna get on ava"—— Here Janet sorted her wheel, and apparently shed a tear, for she moved her apron corner to her eye. "Aweel, this was the nicht o' the wedding, bairn—no this nicht, like; but I think I just see it present, for I was there mysel, a wee bit whilking lassie. Lawson, guid godly Lawson, had tied the knot, an' we war a' merry like; but it was a fearfu' spate, and the Nith went frae bank to brae. 'They are comin!' was the cry. I kenna wha cried it, but a voice said it, an' twenty voices repeated it. Lag an' his troop's coming; they're gallopin owre the Cunning-holm at this moment. John Porter flew to his bonnet, an', in an instant, was raised six or seven feet high on his long stilts, with which he had often crossed the Nith when nae mortal could tak it on horseback. Agnes Milligan was out and after; the moon shone clear through a cloud, and she saw the brave man tak the water at the broadest. On he went—for we a' witnessed what he did—on he went, steady, firm, an' unwaverin; but, alas! it was hin' harvest, an' some sheaves o' corn had been carried off the holms by the spate. Ane o' them crossed his upper stilt, an', in a moment, his feet went frae him, an' doon he cam into the roarin flood. He was still near the Closeburn bank, an' we a' ran down the side to see if we could help him out. Again an' again he rose to his feet; but the water was mighty, it was terrible, it just whumbled him owre, an' we saw nae mair o' him. Agnes ran for Porter's Hole, (then only kent as the salmon pool,) an' stood watching the eddy, as it whirled straw an' corn, an' sic like rubbish, aboot. Her husband's head appeared floating in the whirl—she screamed, leaped into the deep, deep pool, an' next day they were found clasped in each other's arms. Oh, my bairn, my bairn!—what brocht ye here the day?"

Janet was found, next morning, dead in her bed—the exertion and excitement had killed her.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] Vide Jameson.



THE RECLUSE.

The situations of farm-houses, or steadings, as we call them in Scotland, are very rarely selected so much for their beauty, with reference to the surrounding scenery, as for conveniency; and hence it is that we find but few of them in positions which a view-hunter would term strikingly felicitous. When they are so, we rather presume the circumstance arises from its happening that eligibility and choice have agreed in determining the point. Yet, seriously, though the generality of farm-steadings have little to boast of as regards situation, there are many pleasing exceptions. Nay, there are some to be found occupying the most choice positions—surrounded with or overlooking all that is beautiful in nature. One of these, most certainly, is the farm-house of West Mains, in the parish of Longorton, Lanarkshire. It stands on the summit of a gentle, isolated eminence that rises in the very centre of a deep and romantic valley, formed of steep green hills, thickly wooded towards the bottom, but rising in naked verdancy from about the centre upwards. The view from the house is thus, indeed, limited; but this limitation is amply compensated by its singular beauty.

About fifty years ago, this beautifully-situated farm-house was occupied by one Robert Adair, who rented also the entire valley in which it is situated. Adair's family, at this time, consisted of himself, his wife, a son, and two daughters, Martha and Rosina, or Rosy, as she was familiarly called. The former was, at the period of our story, in her twentieth year, the latter in her eighteenth. Martha was a good-looking and good-tempered girl; but, in both respects, and in several others, she was much surpassed by her younger sister, Rosy, as we, too, prefer to call her. The latter, with, personal attractions of no common order, was one of the liveliest and most cheerful creatures imaginable. Nothing could damp her buoyant spirit; nothing, be it what it might, could make her sad for longer than ten minutes together. From morning to night she continued pouring out, in a voice of the richest and most touching melody, the overflowings of a light and innocent heart. And scarcely less melodious was the joyous and gleeful laugh, in which she ever and anon gave way to the promptings of a lively and playful imagination. Let it not, however, be thought that all this apparent levity of manner was the result of an unthinking or uncalculating mind, or that it was in her case, as it frequently is in others, associated with qualities which exclude the finer and better feelings of female nature. It was by no means so. With all her gaiety and sportiveness, she had a heart filled with all the tenderest sensibilities of a woman. Her attachments were warm and ardent. In character, simple and sincere, Rosy could have died for those she loved; and so finely strung were the sympathies of her nature, that they were wrought on at will by either mirth or pathos, and with each were found equally to accord.

Rosy's father, Mr Adair, although holding a considerable extent of land, and paying a very handsome rental, was yet by no means in affluent circumstances. Both his name and his credit in the country were on a fair footing, and he was not encumbered with more debt than he could very easily pay. But this was all; there was no surplus—nothing to spare; and the less, that he had been liberal in his expenditure on the education of his daughters. On this he had grudged no cost; they had both passed several winters in Glasgow, and had there possessed themselves of some of the more elegant accomplishments in female education.

In character, Robert Adair was something of an original. In speech, blunt, plain, and humorous; but in disposition, kind, sincere, and generous. He was, in short, in all respects an excellent and worthy man. On the score of education, he had not much to boast of; but this deficiency was, in part at any rate, compensated by great natural shrewdness and vigour of mind.

Such, then, were the inmates of the farm-house of West Mains, at the period to which our story refers, and which is somewhere about the year 1788.

It was at the close of a day of incessant rain, in the month of September of that year, or it may, perhaps, have been of the year following, that a young man, of somewhere about five-and-twenty years of age, respectably dressed, with a stick in his hand, and a small leathern bundle under his arm, presented himself at the door of Robert Adair's house, and knocked for admittance. The door was opened by Robert himself; and when it was so, the person whom we have described stood before him. He was drenched with wet. It was streaming from his hat, and had soaked him all over to the skin. He was thus, altogether, in most uncomfortable plight; for, besides being wet, the night was intensely cold.

"Can you, my good friend," said the stranger, in a tone and manner that bespoke a person of education at least, if it might not be ventured to call him a gentleman—"Can you give me quarters for a night?" he said, on being confronted by Mr Adair. "I am an entire stranger in this part of the country, and do not know of any inn at hand, otherwise I would not have troubled you. I will, very readily, pay for my accommodation."

"A nicht's quarters, frien," replied Adair. "Oh, surely, ye'll get that, an' welcome. Walk in. Save us, man, but ye hae gotten a soakin! Ye're like a half-drooned rat. But stap in, stap in. There's a guid fire there in the kitchen and I'm sure ye're no out the need o' a blink o't."

In a minute after, the stranger was comfortably seated before a roaring fire. But his host's hospitality did not end with this kindness; he insisted on his guest shifting himself; and, to enable him to do so, brought him a whole armfull of his own clothes; shirt, coat, waistcoat, trousers, and stockings. Nor with this kindness did his benevolence yet terminate; he invited the stranger to accept of some refreshment; an invitation which he followed up by desiring his daughter Rosy to cover a small table close by the fire, and to place thereon such edibles as she had at hand. Delighting as much as her father in acts of kindness, Rosy hastened to obey an order so agreeable to her. In a trice, she had the table covered with various good things, conspicuous amongst which was a jolly round of salt beef. In compliance with the request of his host, the stranger drew into the table thus kindly prepared for him; but, to the great disappointment of his entertainer, ate very sparingly.

"Dear help me, man!—eat, eat, canna ye!" exclaimed Adair, every now and then, as he marked the listless manner in which the stranger pecked at the food on his plate. "Eat, man, canna ye!" he said, getting absolutely angry at his guest's want of appetite, which he construed into diffidence. "Lord, man, take a richt whang on your plate at once, and dinna be nibblin at it that way, like a mouse at a Du'lap cheese." Saying this, he seized a knife and fork, cut a slice from the cold round, an inch in thickness, and at least six in diameter, and threw it on the stranger's plate with much about the same grace which he exhibited in tossing a truss of hay with a pitchfork. "There, man, tak half-a-dizzen o' cuts like that, and then ye may say ye hae made a bit supper o't."

Robert Adair was, in truth, but a rough table attendant, but he was a kind one, and in all he said and did meant well, however uncouthly it might be expressed.

Of this the stranger seemed perfectly aware; and, although he could not eat, he appeared fully to appreciate the sincerity of his host's invitations to him to do so.

After persevering, therefore, a little longer, as if to please his entertainer, he at length laid down his knife and fork, and declared that he was now satisfied, and could take no more. On his making this decided movement—

"My faith," said his hospitable landlord, "an' ye be na waur to water than to corn, I think I could board ye, an' no be a loser, for a very sma' matter. Rosy, bring butt the bottle."

Obedient to the command, Rosy tripped out of the kitchen, and in an instant returned with the desiderated commodity—a dumpy, bluff, opaque bottle, of about a gallon contents—which she placed on the table. Adair seized it by its long neck, and, filling up a brimming bumper, tossed it off to the health of his guest. This done, he filled up another topping glass, and presented it to the stranger, with a strong recommendation on the score of excellence. "Ra-a-l guid stuff, sir," he said, "tak my word for't. Juist a cordial. Noo, dinna trifle wi' your drink as ye did wi' your meat, or I'll no ken what to think o' ye at a'."

The stranger, with renewed acknowledgments for the kindness shewn him, took the proffered beverage; but, instead of taking it off as his worthy host had expected, he merely put it to his lips, and replaced it on the table.

"Weel, that cowes the gowan!" said Adair. "Ye'll neither hap nor wyn—neither dance nor haud the candle. Try't again, man, try't again. Steek your een hard, gie ae gulp, an' ower wi't."

The worthy man, however, pressed in vain. The stranger would not drink; but once more acknowledged the kindness and well-meant hospitality of his entertainer.

During all this time, the stranger had neither said nor done any single thing which was capable of imparting the slightest idea of who or what he was—where he was from, or whence he was going. Indeed, he hardly spoke at all; and the little he did speak was almost all confined to brief expressions of thanks for the kindness shewn him. When seen as he was now, under more favourable circumstances than those in which he had first presented himself, shivering with cold and drenched with wet, he exhibited a handsome exterior. His countenance was full of expression and intelligence, but was overspread with an apparently deep-seated and settled melancholy. He appeared, in short, to be a person who was suffering severely either in body or mind; but his affliction exhibited all the symptoms of being of the latter rather than the former. Yet was not the profound gravity of his manner of an unpleasing or repulsive character; it partook of a gentleness and benevolence that rendered it rather graceful than otherwise. The tones of his voice, too, corresponded with these qualities; they were mild and impressive, and singularly agreeable. Altogether, the stranger appeared a mysterious sort of person; and greatly did it puzzle Mr Adair and all his household to conjecture who or what he could possibly be; a task to which they set themselves after he had retired to bed, which he did—pleading fatigue as an excuse—at an early hour. The first ostensible circumstance connected with their guest of the night, which the family divan, with the father of it at their head, took into consideration when discussing the knotty points of the stranger's character and calling, was his apparel. But of this they could make nothing. His habiliments were in no ways remarkable for anything; they being neither good, bad, nor indifferent, but of that indefinite description called respectable. So far as these were concerned, therefore, he might be either a peer of the realm or an English bagman.

Finding they could make nothing of the clothes, the family cabinet council next proceeded to the looks and manners of the stranger; and, with regard to these, all agreed that they seemed to bespeak the gentleman; and on this conclusion from the premises, none insisted more stoutly than Rosy, who, let us observe, although she thought nobody saw her, had taken several stolen glances at the subject of discussion while he was seated at the kitchen fire; and at each glance, let us farther observe, more and more approved of his finely arched eyebrows, his well-formed mouth, dark expressive eyes, and rich black locks that clustered around his white and open forehead. But all this is a secret, good reader, and should not have been told.

So far, then, had the united opinions of the family determined regarding their guest. But what should have brought him the way of West Mains, such an out-of-the-way place, seeing that he had neither gun, dog, nor fishing-rod, and could not therefore have been in pursuit of sport? It was odd, unaccountable. Where could he be from? Where could he be going to? These were questions more easily put than answered; and by all were they put, but by none were they replied to. At length, Mr Adair took speech in hand himself on the subject.

"I kenna, nor, indeed, neither do I muckle care, wha the lad is; but he seems to me to be a ceevil, discreet, young man; and I rather like him a'thegither, although he's a dooms bad haun at baith cap and trencher. A', however, that we hae to do wi' him, is to treat him ceevily while he's under our roof. He's gotten a guid bed to lie in, and in the mornin we'll gie him a guid breakfast to tak the road wi', and there'll be an end o't. It's no likely we'll ever hear or see mair o' him." Having said this, Robert broke up the conclave; gave the long-drawn sonorous yawn that his family knew to be the signal of preparation for bed. In the next moment, Adair's left hand was busily employed in undoing the knee buttons of his small clothes. Another powerful yawn, and he proceeded to perform the same operation on his right leg. In two minutes after, he was snugly buried beneath the blankets; his "honest, sonsy, bawsint face," and red Kilmarnock night-cap, being all that was left visible of him; and, in five minutes more, a magnificent snore intimated to all whom it might concern, that worthy Robin Adair was fairly in the land of Nod, and oblivious of all earthly concerns.

On the following morning, Mr Adair and his guest met at breakfast, when that liking for each other which had begun to manifest itself on the preceding night—although neither, perhaps, could say precisely whence it arose—gradually waxed into a somewhat stronger feeling. Adair was pleased with the gentle and unaffected manners of his guest, while the latter was equally pleased with the sincerity of character and generosity of heart of his entertainer. It appeared, however, as if their acquaintance was to be but of short duration, and as if they were now soon to part, in all probability for ever. Circumstances seemed to point to this result; yet it was by no means the one that followed—an odd incident at once threw out all such calculation.

When breakfast was concluded, and the party who had sat around the table—Adair, his family, and the stranger—had risen to their feet, the latter, smiling through his natural gravity, asked his host if he would be so good as give him a private interview with him. To this Mr Adair, although not a little surprised at the request, consented, and led the way into a small back-parlour that opened from the room in which they had breakfasted.

"Mr Adair," said the stranger, on their entering this apartment, and having previously secured the door, "I am greatly indebted to you for the kindness and hospitality you have shewn me."

"No the least, sir—no the least," replied the farmer, with a decree of respect in his manner with which his guest's air and bearing had unconsciously inspired him, he did not know how or wherefore—"No the least. I am aye glad to shew civility to them that seek the shelter o' my rufe; it's just a pleasure to me. Ye're not only heartily welcome, sir, to a' ye hae gotten, but to a week o't, an' ye like. I dinna think that I wad be the first to weary o't."

"Have you any objection to try?" said the stranger, with a gentle smile.

"None whatever," replied the hospitable yeoman.

"Well, Mr Adair," said the stranger, with more gravity of manner, "to convert jest into earnest, I have a proposal to make to you. I have been for some time looking out for such a quiet retirement as this is, and a family as respectable and agreeable as yours seems to me to be. Now, having found both of these things to my mind here, I will, if you have no objection, become a boarder with you, Mr Adair, paying you a hundred guineas a-year; and here," he said, drawing out a well-filled purse, and emptying its contents on the table—"here are fifty guineas in advance." And he told off from the heap that lay on the table, the sum he named, and thrust it towards his astonished host. "And let me add," went on the mysterious stranger, "that, if you agree to my proposal, and continue to put up as well together as I expect we shall, I will not limit my payment to the sum I have mentioned. What say you to this, Mr Adair?"

To this Mr Adair could say nothing for some time. Not a word. He was lost in perplexity and amazement—a state of mental difficulty and embarrassment, which he made manifest by scratching his head, and looking, with a bewildered sort of smile, alternately at the gold and its late owner—first at the one, then at the other. At length—

"Well," he said, still scratching his head, "this is a queer sort o' business, an' a turn o' matters I didna look for ava; but I hae seen waur things come o' better beginnins. To tell ye a truth, sir," continued the perplexed yeoman, "I'm no oot o' the need o' the siller. But, if ye'll just stop a minute, if ye please, till I speak to the guidwife on the subject."

And, with this, Adair hurried out of the room; and, having done this, he hurried his wife into another, and told her of what had just taken place, concluding with a—"An', noo, guidwife, what do ye think we should do?"

"Tak the siller, to be sure," replied the latter. "He seems to me to be a decent, canny lad; and, at ony rate, we canna be far wrang wi' ae six months o' him, ony way, seein that he's payin the siller afore haun. That's the grand point, Rab."

"Feth, it's that, guidwife—nae doot o't," replied her husband. "Juist the pint o' pints. But whar'll ye put the lad?"

"Ou, tak ye nae fash about that, guidman. I'll manage that. Isna there the wee room up the stair, wi' a bed in't that micht sair the king himself—sheets as white as the driven snaw, and guid stripped druggit curtains just oot o' the mangle?"

"Weel, weel, guidwife, ony way ye like as to thae matters," replied Adair; "and I'll awa, in the meantime, and get haud o' the siller. There's gowd yonner for the liftin. Deil o' the like o't ever I saw." Saying this, he flung out of the apartment, and in the next minute was again in the presence of the mysterious stranger.

On his entering—"Well, Mr Adair," said the latter, "what does your good lady say to my becoming a boarder with her?"

"Feth, sir, she's very willin, and says ye may depend on her and her dochter doin everything in their power to make ye comfortable."

"Of that I have no doubt," said the stranger; "and now, then, that this matter is so far settled, take up your money, Mr Adair, and reckon on punctual payments for the future."

"No misdoubtin that, sir, at a'," said the latter, picking up the guineas, one after another, and chucking them into a small leathern purse which he had brought for the purpose. "No misdoubtin' at a', sir," he said. "I tak this to be guid earnest o' that."

The stranger, then, whoever he was, was now fairly domiciled in the house of Mr Adair. The name he gave himself was Mowbray; and by this name he was henceforth known.

For two years succeeding the period of which we have just been speaking, did Mr Mowbray continue an inmate of West Mains, without any single circumstance occurring to throw the smallest light on his history. At the end of this period, as little was known regarding him as on the day of his first arrival. On this subject he never communicated anything himself; and, as he was always punctual in his payments, and most exemplary in his general conduct, those with whom he resided did not feel themselves called upon, nor would it have been decorous, to make any further inquiry on the subject. Indeed although they had desired to do so, there was no way open to them by which to obtain such information.

During the period alluded to, Mr Mowbray spent the greater part of his time in reading; having, since his settlement at West Mains, opened a communication with a bookseller in the neighbouring country town of ——; and in walking about the country, visiting the more remarkable scenery, and other interesting objects in the neighbourhood.

During all this time, too, his habits were extremely retired; shunning, as much as he possibly could, all intercourse with those whom he accidentally met; and, even at home, mingling but little with the family with which he resided. Privacy and quietness, in short, seemed to be the great objects of his desire; and the members of Mr Adair's household, becoming aware of this, not only never needlessly intruded themselves on him, but studiously avoided involving him in conversation, which they observed was always annoying to him. He was thus allowed to go abroad and to return, and even to pass, when accidentally met by any members of the family, without any notice being taken of him, further, perhaps, than a slight nod of civility, which he usually returned without uttering a syllable.

From all this—his retired habits, deep-seated melancholy, and immoveable taciturnity—it was evident to Mr Adair and his family that their boarder was labouring under some grievous depression of mind; and in this opinion they were confirmed by various expressions of grief, not unaccompanied by others of contrition, which they had frequently overheard, accidentally, as they passed the door of his apartment on occasions—and these were frequent—when Mr Mowbray seemed more than usually depressed by the sorrow to which he was a prey.

With all this reserve and seclusion, however, there was nothing repulsive in Mr Mowbray's manners or habits. He was grave without being morose, taciturn without being churlish, and sought quietness and retirement himself, without any expression of impatience with, or sign of peevishness at, the stir and bustle around him.

As a matter of course, the history and character of Mr Mowbray excited, at least for a time, much speculation in the neighbourhood; and these speculations, as a matter of course, also, as we may venture to say, were not in general of the most charitable description. One of these held forth that he was a retired highwayman, who had sought a quiet corner in which to enjoy the fruits of his industry, and to avoid the impertinences of the law; another held that he was a murderer, who had fled from justice; another that he was a bankrupt, who had swindled his creditors; a fourth, that he was a forger, who had done business in that way to a vast extent.

As to the nature of the crime which Mr Mowbray had committed, it will be seen that there were various opinions; but that he had committed some enormous crimes of some sort or other, was a universal opinion—in this general sentiment all agreed.

Amongst other mysteries, was that involved in the query—where did he get his money? Where did it come from? He did not, indeed, seem to have the command of very extensive resources; but always to have enough to pay punctually and promptly everything he desired, and to settle all pecuniary claims upon him.

His remittances, it was also ascertained, came to him, from whatever quarter it might be, regularly twice a-year, per the English mail, which passed within a mile and a half of West Mains. The exact amount of these remittances, which were always in gold, and put up in a small, neat, tight parcel, was never exactly known; but was supposed, on pretty good grounds, to be, each, somewhere about a hundred and fifty guineas, one of which went to Mr Adair; for Mr Mowbray had, of his own accord, added fifty guineas per annum to the hundred which he had first promised. The other hundred and fifty was disposed of in various ways, or left to accumulate with their owner. Such, then, was the amount of information acquired regarding Mr Mowbray's pecuniary resources; and more, on this point, or any other regarding him, could not, by any means, be arrived at.

By the end of the period, however, which we have above named—namely, two years—public opinion had, we must observe, undergone a considerable modification in Mr Mowbray's favour. He had been gradually acquitted of his various crimes; and the worst that was now believed of him was, that he was a gentleman whom troubles, of some kind or other, had driven from the world.

This favourable change in public opinion regarding him was, in a great measure, if not, indeed, wholly owing to the regularity of his conduct, the gentleness of his manners, his generosity—for he was a liberal contributor to the relief of the necessitous poor in his vicinity—and to the rigid punctuality he observed in all his pecuniary transactions.

In the family in which he resided, where there were, of course, better opportunities for judging of his character, and estimating his good qualities, he came to be much beloved. Adair, as he often said himself, would "gae through fire and water to serve him;" for a more honourable, or "discreet" young gentleman, as he also frequently said, "didna breathe the breath o' existence."

On every other member of the family, the impression he made was equally favourable; and, on one of them, in particular, we might speak of it in yet stronger language. But of this anon.

The general conviction into which the family with which Mr Mowbray resided fell, regarding the personal history of that person, was, that he was a gentleman who possessed a moderate annuity from some fixed sum, and that some disgust with the world had driven him into his present retirement; and in this conviction they had now been so long and so completely settled, that they firmly believed in its truth, and never after dreamed of again agitating the question, even in the most distant manner.

Thus, then, stood matters at West Mains at the end of two years from the period at which our story opens. Hitherto, however, we have only exhibited what was passing above board. We will now give the reader a peep of certain little matters that were going on behind the scenes.

A short while previous to the time of which we now speak, Rosy's sister, Martha, had gone to Edinburgh to spend the winter with a near relative of her father; partly as a friendly visit, and partly for the purpose of perfecting herself in certain branches of female education. This separation was a painful one to the two sisters, for they were much attached to each other; but they determined to compensate it by maintaining a close and regular correspondence; and huge was the budget that each soon accumulated of the other's epistolary performances. Out of these budgets we will select a couple, which will give the reader a hint of some things of which, we daresay, he little dreamed. The first is from Martha to her sister, and is dated from Edinburgh.

* * * * *

"MY DEAR ROSY," (runs this document,) "I received your kind letter by Mr Meiklewham, likewise the little jar of butter for Aunt, who says it is delicious, and that she would know it to be West Mains butter wherever she should have met with it.

"I am delighted to hear that you are all well, and that Mr Mowbray has got better of his slight indisposition. By the by, Rosy, I have observed that you are particularly guarded in all your communications about Mr M. When you speak of him you don't do so with your usual sprightliness of manner. Ah! Rosy, Rosy, I doubt—I doubt—I have long doubted, or rather, I have been long convinced—of what, say you blushing! N'importe—nothing at all. Do you believe me, Rosy?—No, you don't. Does Mr M. fix his fine expressive eyes on you as often and as intensely as he used to do? Eh, Rosy!—Now, there's something you can't deny.

"To be serious, Rosy, my dear sister, I have long been satisfied that you are loved by Mr Mowbray—deeply, sincerely, ardently loved. And, more, my dear Rosy, I am equally satisfied that Mr Mowbray is loved by you. I am certain of it. I have marked many symptoms of it, although I have never mentioned it to you before; and I do it now in order to induce you to unburden yourself of such feelings, as it may relieve you to discover to a sister who loves you tenderly and sincerely," &c, &c.

* * * * *

Our next quotation is from Martha's budget; and we shall select the letter she received in reply to the one above given. It is dated West Mains, and proceeds thus:—

* * * * *

"MY DEAR MARTHA,—It is not in my nature to play a double part. I freely confess, my dear Martha, in reply to your lecture on a certain subject, that Mr Mowbray is not indifferent to me. I have long, I avow it, admired the many good qualities which we have all acknowledged him to possess—his gentlemanly bearing; his accomplishments; the elegance of his manners, and the noble generosity of his nature. These I have indeed, Martha, long admired. But what reason have you for supposing that your sister, with nothing to recommend her but some very homely advantage of person, can have made any impression on the heart of such a man as Mr Mowbray? Here, Martha, you are decidedly at fault, and have jumped to a conclusion which you have rather wished than believed. But, enough of this foolish matter."—And here the fair writer leaps off to another subject, which, as it has no reference to our story, nor any particular interest of its own, we beg to leave in the oblivion in which it reposes. And having quoted enough of the sisters' correspondence for our purpose, we will here, again, throw our narrative into its more direct and legitimate channel.

By the letters above given, we have shewn pretty plainly that, on the part of the one sister, a secret attachment to the unknown lodger was in rapid progress, if it had not indeed already attained a height fatal to the peace of mind of her by whom it was entertained; and that, on the part of the other, a strong suspicion existed, not only that such love had been generated, but that this love was mutual. And was it so? It was. Mr Mowbray had not, indeed, made any very palpable advances, nor displayed any symptoms of the state of his feelings, which any one but such a close and shrewd observer as Martha could have detected. To no other eyes did this secret stand revealed. But there was now, in his general manner towards Rosy, much that such an observer could not fail to be struck with, or to attribute to its real and proper cause. Nor was this change confined to his intercourse with Rosy Adair—to the slight confusion that appeared in his countenance whenever they accidentally met each other, unseen of any one besides, and to the evident pleasure which he took in her society—to the circumstance of his seeking that pleasure as often as he could without making it subject of remark. No, the change that had now come over Mr Mowbray was not confined to what such incidents as these may be presumed to indicate; his spirit also, the whole tenor of his thoughts, the whole constitution of his mind, seemed equally under the influence of his new-born passion. His manner became more cheerful; his eye became lighted up with an unwonted fire; and he no longer indulged in the seclusion which he had so sedulously sought when he first came to West Mains. Mr Mowbray was now, in fact, a changed man, and changed for the better. He was now no longer the weeping, melancholy recluse, but a character evidently much more suitable to his natural temper and dispositions—a gay and cheerful man of the world. It was, indeed, a marvellous change; but so it was.

This, however—referring to the attachment which had thus grown up between Rosy Adair and Mr Mowbray—was a state of matters which could not long remain in the position in which we have represented them; some result or conclusion was inevitable—and it arrived. Mr Mowbray gradually became more and more open in his communications with Miss Adair; gradually disclosed the state of his feelings with regard to her, and finally avowed his love. Miss Adair heard the delightful confession with an emotion she could not conceal; and, ingenuous in everything, in all she said and did, avowed that she loved in return.

"Then, my Rosina, my beloved Rosina," exclaimed Mr Mowbray, in a wild transport of joy—and throwing himself, in the excitation of the moment, at the feet of her whom he addressed—"allow me to mention this matter to your father, and to seek his consent to your making me the happiest of living men."

The liberty he thus sought with such grace and earnestness, was blushingly granted; not indeed, in express words, but with a silence equally intelligible and more eloquent than words.

In five minutes after, Mr Mowbray was closeted, and in earnest conversation with Mr Adair. He had already announced his attachment to his daughter, and had sought his consent to their union. Mr Adair had yet made no reply. The request was one of too serious a nature to be hastily or unreflectingly acquiesced in. At length—

"Weel, Mr Mowbray," said Mr Adair, "I'll tell ye what it is: although I certainly haena a' the knowledge o' ye—that is, regarding yoursel and your affairs—that I maybe hae a richt to insist on haein before giein ye the haun o' my dochter—and this for a' the time that ye hae been under my roof—yet, as in that time—noo, I think, something owre twa year gane by—yer conduct has aye been that o' a gentleman, in a' respects—sober, discreet, and reglar; most exemplary, I maun say;—and, as I am satisfied that ye hae the means o' supportin a wife, in a decent way, no to say that there may be muckle owre either, I really think I can hae nae reasonable objections to gie ye Rosy after a'."

During this speech of the worthy yeoman's, there was on Mr Mowbray's countenance a smile of peculiar meaning; evidently one under which lay something amusing, mingled with the expression of satisfaction which Mr Adair's sanction to his marriage with Rosina had elicited.

Delighted with the success of his mission, Mr Mowbray now flew to the apartment in which he had left Miss Adair, and, enfolding her in his arms, in a transport of joy, informed her that he had obtained her father's consent to their union, and concluded by asking her to name the day which should make her his for ever. This, however, being rather too summary a proceeding, Rosina declined; and Mr Mowbray was obliged to be content with a promise of the matter being taken into consideration on an early day.

Leaving the lovers in discussion on these very agreeable points, and others connected therewith, we will follow Mr Adair on the errand on which he went, after Mr Mowbray had left him. This was to communicate to his wife the unexpected and important proposal which had just been made to him, and to which he had just acceded.

"Weel, guidwife, here's a queer business," said Mr Adair, on joining his thrifty helpmate, who was busy at the moment in scouring a set of milk dishes. "What do ye think? Mr Mowbray has just noo asked my consent to his marrying Rosy. Now, isna that a queer affair! My feth, but they maun hae managed matters unco cannily and cunningly; for deil a bit o' me ever could see the least inklin o' anything past ordinar between them."

"You see onything o' that kind!" replied Mrs Adair, with an expression of the greatest contempt for her husband's penetration in affaires de coeur. "You see't, Robin! No—I dare say no. Although they were sitting under your very nose, wi' their arms aboot ithers' necks, I dinna believe ye wad see that there was onything in't. But, though ye didna see't, Robin, I saw't—and plainly enough, too—although I said naething about it. I saw, mony a day sin', that Mr Mowbray had a notion o' Rosy; and, if truth be tell't, I saw as weel that she had a notion o' him, and hae lang expected that it wad come to this."

"Weel, weel, guidwife, ye hae a glegger ee for thae things than I hae," replied Mr Adair. "But here's the end o' the matter noo."

"And hae ye gien your consent, Robin?"

"'Deed hae I; for I think he's an honest, decent lad; and, no to say he's rich maybe, fair aneuch aff, I think, as to worldly matters."

"As to that, I daresay, there's naething far amiss," replied Mrs Adair, "nor as regards his character either, maybe; but I'm no sure. I dinna ken, Robert, considerin a' things, if ye haena been a wee owre rash in giein your consent to this business. It's a serious affair. And, after a', we ken but little about the lad; although, I canna but say he seems to be a decent, honourable chiel, and I houp'll mak Rosy happy." Here the good woman raised the corner of her apron to her eyes, and gave way, for a second or two, to those maternal feelings which the occasion was so well calculated to excite.

"Tuts, woman; what's the use o' that?" said Mr Adair, with a sort of good-natured impatience. "The thing's a' richt aneuch, and sae'll be seen in the end, nae doot."

"God grant it!" replied his wife, with solemn earnestness; and here the conversation dropped for the time.

We now revert to the proceedings of Mr Mowbray at this eventful crisis of his life; but in these we find only one circumstance occurring between the day on which he solicited, and that on which he obtained, the hand of Rosy Adair. This circumstance, however, was one of rather curious import. It was a letter which Mr Mowbray addressed to a friend, and ran thus:—

* * * * *

"DEAR NARESBY,—The appearance of this well-known hand—well known to you, my friend—will, I daresay, startle you not a little. My letter will seem to you as a communication from the dead; for it is now upwards of two long years since you either heard from me or of me. On this subject I have much to say to you, and on some others besides, but defer it until I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Wansted—a pleasure which I hope to have in about three weeks hence—when we shall talk over old affairs, and, mayhap, some new ones. Would you believe me, Naresby, if I was to say, that the sea had ceased to ebb and flow, that the hills had become valleys, and the valleys had risen into hills; that the moon had become constant, and that the sun had forgotten to sink in the west when his daily course was run? Would you believe any or all of these things, if I were to assert them to be true? No, you wouldn't. Yet will you as readily believe them, I daresay, as that I am to be—how can I come out with the word!—to be—to be married, Naresby! Married! Yes, married. I am to be married—I repeat it slowly and solemnly—and to one of the sweetest and fairest creatures that ever the sun of heaven shone upon. 'Oh! of course,' say you. But it's true, Naresby; and, ere another month has passed away, you will yourself confess it; for ere that period has come and gone, you will have seen her with your own eyes.

"So much then for resolution, for the weakness of human nature. I thought—nay, I swore, Naresby, as you know—that I would, that I could never love again. I thought that the treachery, the heartlessness of one, one smiling deceiver, had seared my heart, and rendered it callous to all the charms and blandishments of her sex. But I have been again deceived.

"I have not, however, this time, chosen the object of my affections from the class to which—I cannot pronounce her name—that fatal name—belonged; but from one which, however inferior in point of adventitious acquirement, far surpasses it—of this experience has convinced me—in all the better qualities of the heart.

"The woman to whom I am to be married—my Rosina Adair!—is the daughter of a humble yeoman, and has thus neither birth nor fortune to boast of. But what in a wife are birth or fortune to me? Nothing, verily nothing, when their place is supplied—as in the case of my betrothed—by a heart that knows no guile; by a temper cheerful and complying; and by personal charms that would add lustre to a crown. Birth, Naresby, I do not value; and fortune I do not want.

"Well, then, Naresby, my period of seclusion is now about over, and I return again to the world. Who would have said this two years ago? If any had, I would have told them they spoke untruly—that I had abjured the world, and all its joys, for ever; and that, henceforth, William Mowbray would not be as other men. But so it is. I state the fact, and leave others to account for and moralize on it."

* * * * *

Such, then, was the letter which Mr Mowbray wrote to his friend, Naresby, during the interval to which we formerly alluded. Several other letters he also wrote and despatched about the same time; but the purpose of these, and to whom written, we must leave the sequel of our story to explain.

Having no further details of any interest wherewith to fill up the intervening period between the occurrence of the circumstances just related and the marriage of Rosina Adair and William Mowbray, we at once carry forward our narrative to the third day after the celebration of that event. On that day—

"Rosy, my love," said Mr Mowbray, smiling, "I have a proposal to make to you."

"Indeed!—what is it, William?"

"Why, I'll tell you what it is," said the latter; "I wish to go on a visit to a particular friend, and I wish you to go with me."

"Oh, surely," replied Mrs Mowbray. "Is it far?"

"Why, a pretty long way; a two days' journey. Will you still venture on it?"

"Surely—surely, William. Anywhere with you!"

"Thank you, my love," said Mr Mowbray, embracing his young wife.

"Now, I have another proposal to make, Rosy," continued the former; "I wish your father and mother to accompany us."

"What! my father and mother too!" exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, in great surprise. "Dear me, wouldn't that be odd, William. What would your friend say to such a cavalcade of visiters?"

"Delighted to see them, I assure you, my love. It's my friend's own express wish; and, however odd it may seem, it is a point which must be conceded me."

"Well, well, William, any way you please. I am content. But have you thought of the expense? That will be rather serious."

"Oh, not in the least, my love," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "Not in the least serious, I assure you. I will manage that part of the matter."

"Well, well; but my father's consent, William. There's the difficulty. To get him to leave his farm for so long a time; I doubt you will scarcely prevail upon him to do that. He would not live a week from home, I verily believe, although it were to make a lord of him."

"I'll try, Rosy; I'll try this minute," said Mr Mowbray, hurrying out of the apartment, and proceeding in quest of Mr Adair, whom he soon found.

"Leave hame for a week!" exclaimed the latter, on Mr Mowbray's making known to him his wishes on this subject. "Impossible! my dear sir; impossible! Wholly out o' the question. I hae a stack o' oats to thrash oot; a bit o' a fauld dyke to build; twa acres o' the holme to ploo; the new barn to theek; the lea-field to saw wi' wheat; the turnips to bring in; the taties to bing; forbye a hunner ither things that can on nae account stan owre. Impossible, my dear sir—impossible. Juist wholly oot the question. But ye may get the guidwife wi' ye an' ye like, Mr Mowbray," said Mr Adair, laughing jocosely; "and may keep her too, if ye like."

"Yes—yes. All very well, Mr Adair; but I must have you too, in spite of the manifold pieces of work you have on hand. I have a particular reason for pressing this point, and really will not be denied."

For a full half-hour did this sort of sparring continue between Mr Mowbray and his father-in-law; both being resolute—the one to carry his point, the other to keep his ground; but, what could hardly be expected, the former finally prevailed. His urgency carried the day; and Mr Adair was ultimately, although we need scarcely say it, reluctantly, prevailed on to promise that he would be one of the intended party. Having obtained this promise, Mr Mowbray farther secured its performance by naming the following day as that on which they should set out.

On the following day, accordingly—Mrs Adair's consent having, in the meantime, been obtained, and with much less difficulty than her husband's—two chaises—unwonted sight—appeared at the door of West Mains House; they had been ordered by Mr Mowbray from the neighbouring country town; and, in a little after, out came the party by which they were to be occupied.

"I wad far rather hae ridden the black mare than go into ane o' thae things," said Mr Adair, looking contemptuously at the couple of chaises that stood at the door. "I never was fond o' ridin in cotches a' my life. Nasty, rattlin, jinglin things. Ane micht as weel be shut up in a corn kist as in ane o' them."

Having expressed this opinion of the conveyance he was about to enter, Mr Adair, notwithstanding of that opinion, proceeded, with the assistance of Mr Mowbray, to help his wife into one of them. This done, he followed himself. Mrs and Mr Mowbray stepped into the other chaise. The doors were shut by the coachman with a bang; and, in the next minute, both the vehicles were in rapid motion.

On the forenoon of the second day after their departure—nothing, in the interval, having occurred worth relating—the party arrived at a certain noble mansion not far from the borders of England. The two chaises having drawn up before the door of this splendid residence, three or four servants in rich livery hastened to release the travellers by throwing open the doors of their carriages, and unfolding the steps, which they did with very marked deference and respect, and with smiles on their faces, (particularly in the case of one not in livery, who seemed the principal of them,) of very puzzling meaning.

On the party having got out of their chaises—"Is this your freen's house, Mr Mowbray?" said Mr Adair, standing fast, and looking up with great astonishment and admiration at the splendid building before him.

"It is, sir," replied Mr Mowbray.

"My feth! an' he maun be nae sma' drink then—that's clear. He has a rare sittin-down here. It's a house for a lord."

"The house is very respectable, certainly," said Mr Mowbray; "and, I think, you'll find the inside every way worthy of the out."

"I dinna doot it—I dinna doot it," replied Mr Adair. "But whar's your freen, himsel?"

"Oh! we'll see him presently. In the meantime let us walk in." And, taking his wife's arm within his, Mr Mowbray led the way into the house, conducted by the principal domestic, and followed by Mr and Mrs Adair; the latter no less overwhelmed than her husband by the grandeur with which she was surrounded.

Having entered the house, the party were led up a magnificent staircase, and ushered into a room of noble dimensions, and gorgeously furnished. All but Mr Mowbray himself, and the servant who attended, were awe-stricken with the splendours around them. Even Mrs Mowbray was oppressed with this feeling; so much so as not to be able to speak a word; and on her father and mother it had a similar effect. Not one opened a mouth, but continued gazing around them in silent amazement and admiration.

When the party had seated themselves—"Shall I serve up some refreshment, sir?" said the servant to Mr Mowbray, with great respect of manner, but with that perplexing smile on his face.

"Yes, John, do," said Mr Mowbray; "and as quick's you like; for we are all, I fancy, pretty sharp-set; and some of us—I speak for myself at any rate—not a little thirsty."

The servant bowed and retired. When he had done so—"'Od, sir, ye seem to be greatly at your ease here," said Mr Adair, who was not a little surprised, with the others, as well he might, at the free and easy manner of his son-in-law in his friend's house, "You and your freen maun surely be unco intimate."

"Oh! we certainly are so," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "I can use any freedom here—the same as if I were in my own house."

"Weel, that's pleasant and friendly like," said Mr Adair. "But isna your freen himsel lang o' makin his appearance?"

"Rather, I confess; but he'll be here shortly, I daresay—something of a particular nature detaining him, I have no doubt; but, in the meantime, we'll make ourselves at home. I know it will please him if we do so." And Mr Mowbray proceeded to the bell-pull, and rung it violently.

A servant instantly appeared, and received an order, fearlessly given, from Mr Mowbray, to hasten the refreshment in preparation.

Mr Adair's countenance expressed increased amazement at this very unceremonious proceeding; and he felt as if he would have said that he thought it the most impertinent thing ever he had seen done in his life; but he refrained. In this feeling Mrs Adair also partook; and in this feeling Mr Mowbray's own wife shared, although not, perhaps, to the same extent. Not the least curious part, let us observe too, of this odd scene, was that Mr Mowbray seemed to delight in the perplexity of feeling which his proceedings excited in his friends, and appeared studiously to do everything he could think of to increase them.

By and by, the promised repast was served up; and an exceedingly handsome one it was. The party took their seats, no host or hostess having yet appeared—Mr Mowbray placing his wife at the head of the table, and himself taking the foot—and proceeded to do justice to the good things before them. The repast over, wine was introduced. This done, Mr Mowbray—who, to the now utterly inexpressible amazement, and even confusion, of both Mr and Mrs Adair, had all this while been ordering away, right and left, as if he had been in a common inn—desired all the attendants to retire. When they had done so, he filled up a bumper of wine, lifted it, rose to his feet and, advancing with smiling countenance and extended hand towards his wife, bade her welcome to her own house!

"What!" shouted Mr Adair, leaping from his chair.

"Eh!" exclaimed his wife, doing precisely the same thing by hers.

"William," said Mrs Mowbray, in a voice faint with agitation, and endeavouring to rise from her chair, into which, however, she was obliged again to sink.

"True, my friends," said Mr Mowbray; "all true. This, Mr Adair, is your daughter's house; all that is within it and around it. Welcome again, my love, to your own fireside!" said Mr Mowbray, embracing his wife, "and long may you live to enjoy all the comfort and happiness which Malton House, and ten thousand a-year, are capable of affording!"

Here, then, ends our story, good reader; and as we do not think you would choose to be much longer detained, especially with dry details of explanation which are all that now remains to add, we shall be brief.

Mr Mowbray was a young man of large fortune, who, having been crossed in love, had imagined that he had been thereby weaned from the world and all its joys; and, under this impression, had sought to retire from the busy scenes of life, with a determination never to return to them again. How he kept to this resolution our story tells.



A HIGHLAND TRADITION.

On the summit of a bluff headland that projects into the Sound of Sky, there stand the grey ruins of an ancient castle, which was once the residence of a Highland chieftain of the name of M'Morrough—a man of fierce nature and desperate courage, but not without some traits of a generous disposition. When about middle age, M'Morrough married the daughter of a neighbouring chief—a lady of much sweetness of manner and gentleness of nature. On the part of the former, however, this connection was one in which love had little share: its chief purpose would have been attained by the birth of a male heir to the name and property of the feudal chieftain; and this was an event to which he looked anxiously forward.

When the accouchement of his lady arrived, M'Morrough retired to an upper apartment of the castle to await the result—having desired a trusty domestic to bring him instant intelligence when the child was born, whether it was a male or a female. The interval he employed in walking up and down the chamber in a fever of impatience. At length the door of the apartment opened, and Innes M'Phail entered. The chieftain turned quickly and fiercely round, glanced at the countenance of his messenger, and there read the disappointment of his hopes without a word being uttered.

"It is even so, then," roared out the infuriated chieftain. "It is a girl, Innes; a girl. My curses on her!"

"Say girls, M'Morrough," said Innes, despondingly. "There are twins."

"And both girls—both!" exclaimed the former, stamping the floor in the violence of his passion. "To the battlements with them, Innes!—to the battlements with them instantly, and toss them over into the deep sea! Let the waves of Loch Sonoran rock them to sleep, and the winds that rush against Inch Caillach sing their lullaby. Let it be done—done instantly, Innes, as you value your own life; and I will witness the fidelity with which you serve me from this window. I will, with my own eyes, see the deed done. Go—go—quick—quick!"

Innes, who had been previously aware that such would be the fate of a female child, if such should unfortunately be born to his ruthless chief, and who had promised to be the instrument of that fate, now left the apartment to execute the atrocious deed. In less than ten minutes after, Innes M'Phail appeared on the battlements, carrying a large wicker basket. From this depository he took out a child, swaddled in its first apparel, and raising it aloft, tossed it over to perish in the raging sea below. The little arms of the infant extended as it fell; but the sight was momentary. It glanced white through the air like an ocean bird, and, in an instant after, disappeared in the dark waters of Loch Sonoran. The murderer followed with his eye the descent of his little victim, till the sea closed over it, when, returning to the basket, he took from it another child, and disposed of it as he had done the first.

During the whole of this dreadful exhibition, M'Morrough was standing at a window several yards lower down than the battlements, but so situated in an angle of the building that he could distinctly see what passed on the former. Satisfied that his atrocious decree had been fully executed, he withdrew from the window; and, avoiding an interview with his wife, whom—stern and ruthless as he was—he dreaded to meet with the murder of her infants on his head, he left the castle on a hunting expedition, from which he did not return for three days. On his return, M'Morrough would have waited on his lady, whom he hoped now to find in some measure reconciled to her bereavement, but was told that she would see no one; that she had caused a small apartment at the top of the castle to be hung with black; and that, immuring herself in this dismal chamber, she spent both her nights and days in weeping and lamentation. On learning this, M'Morrough did not press his visit, but left it to time to heal, or, at least, to soothe the grief of his unhappy wife. In the expectation which he had formed from the silent but powerful operation of this infallible anodyne, M'Morrough was not mistaken. In about a month after the murder of her babes, the lady of M'Morrough, deeply veiled, and betraying every symptom of a profound but subdued grief, presented herself at the morning meal which was spread for her husband. It was the first time they had met since the occurrence of the tragical event recorded above. To that event, however, neither made even the slightest allusion; and, whether it was that time had weakened the impression of her late misfortune, or that she dreaded rousing the enmity of her husband towards herself by a longer estrangement, the lady of M'Morrough showed no violent disinclination to accept of the courtesies which, well-pleased with her having made her appearance of her own accord, he seemed anxious to press upon her. A footing of companionship having thus been restored between the chieftain and his lady, matters, from this day, went on at Castle Tulim much as they had done before, only that the latter long continued to wear a countenance expressive of a deeply wounded, but resigned spirit. Even this, however, gradually gave way beneath the influence of time; and, when seventeen years had passed away, as they now did, unmarked by the occurrence, at Castle Tulim, of any event of the smallest importance, the lady of M'Morrough had long been in the possession of her wonted cheerfulness.

It was about the end of this period, that the haughty chieftain, now somewhat subdued by age, and no longer under the evil influence of those ungovernable passions that had run riot with him in his more vigorous years, was invited, along with his lady, to a great entertainment which was about to be given by his father-in-law. M'Morrough and his lady proceeded to the castle of their relative. The banquet hall was lighted up; it was hung with banners, crowded with gay assemblage, and filled with music. There were many fair faces in that assemblage; but the fairest of all, were those of two sisters, who sat apart by themselves. The beauty of countenance and elegance of form of these two girls, who seemed to be both about the same age—seventeen—were surpassing. M'Morrough marked them; he watched them during the dance; he could not keep his eyes off them. At length, turning to his lady, he asked who they were.

"They are your daughters, M'Morrough," replied the former.

A deadly paleness overspread the countenance of the chief. He shook in every limb, and would have sunk on the floor had he not been supported. On recovering a little, he covered his face with his hands, burst into a flood of tears, and rushed out of the apartment. On gaining a retired and unoccupied chamber, M'Morrough sent for his daughters. When they came, they found him on his knees, fervently thanking God for this signal instance of his mercy and beneficence. He took his daughters in his arms, blessed them a thousand times over, buried his head between them, and wept like a child.



THE SURGEON'S TALES.

THE BEREAVED.

By looking over the memorial of my professional life; and writing out the extended details of my experience, I am, in effect, living my life over again. Most of the scenes I witnessed left such an impression upon my mind, that it requires only the touch of the caduceus of the witching power of memory, to call them all up again with a vividness scarcely less than that by which they were formerly presented to me. There is only this difference, that my remembered experiences, now invested with a species of borrowed light, seem like scenery which one has seen in the glance of a mid-day sun, presented again to the dreamy "evening sense" under the soft blue effulgence of the waning harvest-moon; the trees with the sere leaf rustling under the fluttering wing of the night bird; and the dead silence, which is not broken by the internal voice speaking the words that have been spoken by those who lie under the yew tree. In an early leaf of my journal, I find some broken details of a visit I paid to Mr B——, a rich manufacturer in the town where I began my practice; but which I left when I had more confidence in those humble powers of ministering to the afflicted, which have raised me to an honourable station, and supplied me with the means of passing my old age in affluence. This individual had lost his wife—a very amiable woman, with whom he had lived a period of twenty-five years—and took on grief so heavily, that he was unfit to attend the funeral. He lay in bed, and would not be comforted. Having attended his wife, I continued my attentions to the husband. Three days had passed since his wife had been buried, and during all that time, he had eaten nothing; and, what augured gloomily for his fate, he had never been heard to speak, or sigh, or even to give vent to his sufferings in a single groan. There seemed to have fallen over him a heavy load, which, pressing with deadly force upon the issues of life, defied those reacting energies of nature, which usually struggle, by sighs and groans, to throw off the incubus of extraordinary griefs.

I have met with many wiseacre-sceptics who laugh at the idea of what is vulgarly called a "broken heart," as a direct consequence either of unrequited love or extraordinary grief—admitting, however, in their liberality, that death may ensue from great griefs operating merely as an inductive original cause, which destroying gradually the foundations of health, bring on a train of other ailments, that may, in the end, prove mortal. The admission cares for nothing, as a matter of every-day experience; and the original proposition to which it is objected as a qualification, remains as a truth which may humble the pride of man, and speak to the sceptic through the crushed heart of a fatal experience. I have seen many instances of the fatal effects of grief as a direct mortal agent, killing, by its own unaided energies, as certainly, though not in so short a time, as a blow or a wound in the vital organs of the human body. The common nosologies contain no name for the disease, because, in truth, it cannot properly be called a disease, any more than a stab with a sword can deserve that name; and this, combined with the fact that it is only in a very few instances that the coup works by itself, without the aid of some ailment generated by it, that young practitioners often homologate the vulgar notions that prevail upon this important subject.

Among all the many causes of grief to which mankind are daily exposed, I know not that there is one that strikes so deeply into the secret recesses of the vital principle as the loss of a dearly-beloved wife, who has lived with a man for a lengthened period, through early adversity and late prosperity—borne him a family which have bound closer the tie that was knitted by early affection, and who has left him to tread the last weary stages of existence alone, and without that support which almost all men derive from woman. The effects are often supposed to be proportioned to the affection; yet I doubt if this solves the curious problem of the diversity of consequences resulting from this great privation. There are many men of strong powers of mind, who are so constituted that they cannot but press heavily on the support of another. They seem almost to live through the thoughts and feelings of their helpmates; and the energies they take credit for in the busy affairs of the world, have their source—unknown often to themselves—in the bosom of wedded affection. It is in proportion to the strength of the habit of this leaning, combined, doubtless, with the coexistent affection, that the effects of the loss of a helpmate, in the later period of life, work with such varied influence on the survivor. It may also seem a curious fact, and I have no doubt of the truth of it, that a man when advanced in years is much more apt to break suddenly down under this visitation than a woman; while, again, the consequence would seem to be reversed if the calamity has overtaken them in the more early stages of the connection. These are grounds for speculation. At present I have only to do with facts.

The individual whose case has suggested these observations, presented, when I saw him first after the funeral of his wife, the symptom—present in all cases of an utterly crushed spirit—of a wish to die. I was the first to whom he had uttered a syllable since the day on which she had been carried out of the house which she had so long filled with the spirit of cheerfulness and comfort. His only daughter, Martha, a fine young woman, had contributed but little to his relief—if she had not, indeed, increased his depression by her own emotions, which she had no power to conceal; and his only son had gone off to Edinburgh, to attend his classes in the college, where he intended to graduate as a physician. He was thus, in a manner, left in a great degree alone; for his daughter sought her apartment at every opportunity, to weep over her sorrows unobserved; and she had naturally thought that her father's grief, attended by no exacerbations of groaning or weeping like her own, presented less appearance of intensity than that which convulsed her own heart, and got relief by nature's appointed modes of alleviation. When the heart is stricken with a certain force, all forms of presenting less gloomy views of the condition of the individual, will generally be found to be totally unavailing in affording relief. Nay, I am satisfied that there was genuine philosophy in the custom of the Greeks and the ancient Germans, in forcing victims of great sorrows to weep out the rankling barbed shaft. These had a species of licensed mourners, whose duty it was to soften the heart by melting strains of mournful melody, whereby, as by the application of a bland liniment, the rigid issues of the feelings were softened and opened, and the oppressed organ, the heart, was relieved of the load which defies the force of argument, and even the condolence of friendship. The curing of cold-nips by the appliance of snow, and of burns by the application of heat, could not have appeared more fraught with ridicule to the old women of former days, than would the custom I have here cited to the comforters of modern times. If I cannot say that, amongst some bold remedies, I have recommended it, I have, at least, avoided, on all occasions, officious endeavours to counteract the oppressing burden, by wrenching the mind from the engrossing thought—a process generally attended with no other result than making it adhere with increased force.

The greatest triumph that can be effected with the truly heart-stricken victim, to whom is denied the usual bursts that indicate a bearable misfortune, or, at least, one whose intensity is partly abated, is the bringing about of that more natural condition of the heart, which, indeed, is generally most feared by the ordinary paraclete. In the case of the bereaved husband, there is no charm so powerful in its effects as the vivid portrayment of the virtues of her who has gone down to the grave; and it may well be said, that the heart that will not give out its feelings to the impassioned description of the amiable properties of the departed helpmate, is all but incurable. The sister of Mr B——, who saw the necessity of administering relief, tried to awaken him to a sense of religious consolation; but he was as yet unfit even for that sacred ministration; and all her efforts having failed to rouse him, even from the deathlike stupor in which he lay, she had recourse, by my advice, to probing the wound, to take off the stricture by which the natural humours were pent up. She discoursed pathetically on the qualities of the departed, which, she said, would be the passport of her spirit to a sphere where he would again contemplate them unclouded by the dingy vapours of earthly feelings. She kept in the same strain for a lengthened period; but declared to me, when I visited him again, that he exhibited no signs of being moved by her discourse. He, once or twice, turned his eyes on her for a moment, drew occasionally a heavy sigh, that told, by the difficulty of the operation, the load with which he was oppressed; but his eyes were dry, no groan escaped from him, or any other sign of the heart being aided in an effort to restore the current of natural feeling. The coup de peine had too clearly taken the very core of the heart; the lamp of hope had been dashed out violently, and, under the cloud of his great evil, all things that remained to him upon earth were tinged with its dark hues. He presented all the appearances—except the dilation of the pupil of the eye—of one whose brain had been concussed by a deep fall, or laboured under a fracture of the bones of the cranium. The few words he spoke to me came slowly, with a heavy oppressive sound, as if spoken through a hollow tube; and what may, to some, be remarkable, though certainly not to me, they embraced not the slightest allusion to his bereavement—a symptom almost invariably attendant upon those deeper strokes of grief, which, being but seldom witnessed, are much less understood in their effects than the more ordinary oppressions, whose intense demonstrations and allusions to the cause of the evil, mark the victims as objects for the portrayments of poets.

Two or three days passed off in this way, without the slightest amelioration of his condition. The efforts of Miss B—— had been repeated often without effect. As she expressed herself to me, he would neither eat nor speak, sleep nor weep. "He has not," she added, "even muttered her name. His heart seems utterly broken; and time and the power of Heaven alone will effect a change." Such is the common philosophy of sorrow: time is held forth as all-powerful, all-saving; and while I admit its force, I only insist for the certainty of the existence of exceptions. The eighth day had passed without any support having been taken to sustain the system. A course of maceration, that had been going on during his wife's illness, was thus continued; yet, in the few words I occasionally drew from him, there was no indication of anything like the sullen determination of the suicide; the cause lay in the total cessation of the powers of the stomach—a consequence of the cerebral pressure, whose action is felt not where it operates primarily, but in the heart and other organs, where it works merely by sympathy.

It was on the evening of the eighth day after the funeral, as I have it noted, that I called to see if any change for the better had been effected by the ministrations of his sister. She sat by his bedside, with the Bible placed before her, from which she had been reading passages to him. His face was turned to the front of the bed, but he did not seem to be in any way moved by my entrance. All the efforts his sister had made to get him to enter into the spirit of the passages she had been reading had been fruitless; nor had he as yet made the slightest allusion to the cause of his illness, or mentioned the name of his deceased partner. A few words of no importance, and not related to the circumstances of his grief, were wrung from him painfully by my questions; but it seemed as if the language that represents the things of the world had lost all power of charming the ear; the deadness that had overtaken the heart like a palsy, was felt from the fountain of feelings, to the minute endings of the nerves; and the external senses, which are the ministers of the soul, had renounced their ordinary ministrations to the spirit that heeded them not. Only once his sister had observed a slight moisture rise for a moment in his eye, as she touched some tender traits of the character of the departed; but it passed away rather as an evidence of the utter powerlessness of nature, in a faint heave of the reactive energy, telling at once how little she could perform, yet how much was necessary to overcome the weight by which she was oppressed. I sat for some moments silent by the side of the bed, and meditated a recourse to some more strenuous effort directed to his sense of duty as a parent; though I was aware, that until the heart is in some degree relieved, all such appeals are too often vain, if not rather attended with unfavourable effects, but, in extreme cases, we are not entitled to rest upon the generality of theories where so various and mutable an essence as the human mind is the object to which they are to be applied. I was on the point of making a trial, by recurring to the position of his son and daughter, when I heard the sound of a horse's feet approaching, with great rapidity, the door. The sister started; and I could hear Martha open the window above, to ascertain who might be the visiter. In another moment the outer door opened with a loud clang. Some one approached along the passage, in breathless haste. He entered. It was George B——, under the excitement of some strong internal emotion; his eyes gleaming with a fearful light, and his limbs shaking violently. He stood for a moment as if he were gathering his energies to speak; but the words stuck in his throat, the sounds died away amidst the noise of an indistinct jabbering. I noticed the eye of his father fixed upon him, betraying only a very slight increase of animation; but even this extraordinary demeanour of his son did not draw from him a question; so utterly dead to all external impulses had his grief made him, that the harrowing cause of so much excitement in his son, remained unquestioned by the feelings of the parent. In another moment the youth was stretched across the bed, locking the father in his embrace, and sobbing out inarticulate words, none of which I could understand. The aunt was as much at a loss to solve the mystery of the violent paroxysm as myself; for some time neither of us could put a question; the sobbings of the youth seemed to chain up our tongues by the charm of the eloquence of nature's impassioned language. Meanwhile, Martha entered, ran forward to the bedside, lifted her brother from the position which he occupied, and seated him, by the application of some force, on the empty chair that stood by the side of the bed.

"What is the matter, George?" she cried; the question was repeated by the aunt, and the eyes of the parent sought languidly the face of the youth, which was, however, now covered by his hands. The question was more than once repeated by both the aunt and myself; the father never spoke, nor could I perceive a single ray of curiosity in his eye. He seemed to await the issue of the son's explanation, heedless what it might be—whether the announcement of a great or a lesser evil—its magnitude, though transcending the bounds of ordinary bearing, comprehending every other misfortune that fate could have in store for him, being, whatever its proportions, as nothing to the death-stricken heart of one whose hope was buried.

"This is scarcely a time or an occasion, George," said I, "for the manifestation of these emotions. If the cause lies in the grief, come back with increased force, for the death of your mother, you should have known that there is one lying there whose load is still greater, and who is, unfortunately, as yet, beyond the relief which, as your agitation indicates, nature in the young heart is working for you."

"The death!—the death!" he muttered in a choking voice; "but there is something after the death that is worse than the death itself."

"Are you distracted, George?" said the aunt. "This Bible was the hand-book and the rule of your mother's conduct in this world. A better woman never offered up her prayers at the fountain of the waters of immortal life; no one that ever lived had a better right to draw from the blessing, or better qualified for enjoying it as she now enjoys it. She is in heaven; and will you say that that is worse than death?"

"You speak of her spirit, aunt," replied he, as he still covered his face with his hands. "Her spirit is there!"—and he took away one of his hands from his face and pointed to heaven—"There, where the saints rest, does my mother's soul rest; but, O God, where—where is the body?"

A thought struck me on the instant. I was afraid to utter it. I looked at the father, and suspected, from the sudden light of animation that started to his eye, that the gloom of his mind had at last been penetrated by the thought which had suggested itself to me.

"Where is the body!" responded the aunt. "Why, George, where should it be but in C—— churchyard, beneath the stone that has told the virtues of her ancestors, and will, in a short time, declare her own, greater than those of her kindred that have gone before?"

"It is on Dr M——'s table!" cried the youth, starting to his feet, and again throwing himself violently on the chair. "I purchased it; paid the price for it; and recognised it only when the dissecting-knife was in my hand!" Every one started aghast; terror froze up the issues of speech; a deep groan issued from the bed-ridden patient; he beckoned me to his ear. "Tell the women to go out," he whispered, as he twisted his body convulsively among the bedclothes.

I complied with his request; and the aunt, seizing Martha, who stood as if she had been transfixed to the floor, dragged her out of the room. In the passage, I heard a loud scream; and, in a moment, all was again silence. Mr B——, without uttering a word, raised his feeble body from the bed, and came forth, the spectre of what he was only a few weeks before. His limbs, which were reduced to bony shanks, covered with shrivelled skin, seemed totally unable to support even the decayed, emaciated frame. He staggered as he reached the floor; but, recovering himself, stood firm, and then proceeded to his wardrobe, from which he drew his vestments, and proceeded to attire himself.

"An hour since," he said, in a slow, solemn voice, "I thought these clothes would never again be on my body. My only hope was the winding-sheet, and that grave which has been robbed."

"George may have been deceived," said I, as he was proceeding to dress himself. "I have often thought that I saw resemblances to deceased friends in the features of subjects in the dissecting-room."

"The grave will test it," answered he, with a deep groan, as he proceeded slowly, but resolutely, to put one garment after another on his skeleton body.

He was at length dressed; and, proceeding to the kitchen, he appeared again, in a short time, with a lighted lantern in his hand, the light of which, as it threw its beam on his sallow face—for the candle had, meanwhile, burned down into the socket—exhibited, in its lurid glare, the deep-sunken eyes and protruding bones of his emaciated countenance.

"Come, we shall proceed to the grave of my Isabella," said he.

"You are unable," said I. "Your limbs will not carry you that length; and you are, besides, unfitted by the state of your mind and feelings, for an investigation of this kind. Stay here with your son, and I will go to the churchyard and satisfy myself of the deception under which George, doubtless, labours."

"I feel now more than my former strength," he replied. "I am awakened from a death-stupor of the soul; and I feel that within me which will enable me to go through this trial. I will look into my Isabella's grave; will meet with those eyes again—that countenance through which I have read the workings of love in a spirit that is now far from the precincts of the clay. Deny me not; I will be satisfied of this, if I should come back from her grave to complete that which is begun, and is already visible in these shrunken members, that now obey a supernatural power."

There seemed to be no gainsaying him; his manner was inspired and resolute; and I proceeded to accompany him to C—— churchyard. George, who, in the meantime, had been tossing himself in the chair, rose to make one of the party. The agitation under which he still laboured was in direct contrast to the cold stillness of his father; yet the one was a more living expression than the other; and, while my eye shrunk not from the ordinary indications of suffering, I—maugre all the experience of misery I had had—could scarcely look on the animated corpse thus preparing to visit the grave where the object of all his hopes and affections in this world had been buried, and might now be found to have been desecrated by the knife of the anatomist. We went forth together. George's horse still stood at the door, reeking and bloody. I requested Mr B—— to mount, as we had a full mile to go to the burying-ground, and I deemed it utterly impossible that he could accomplish the distance. He did not answer me, but proceeded onwards with a firm step, in the face of a cold, bleak, east wind, that moaned mournfully among a clump of trees that skirted the road. Some flakes of snow were winging through the air—driven now by the breeze, or lingering over our heads as if afraid to be soiled by the earth, which we were bent to open where the dead then lay—or some time before lay—a mass of putrefaction; yet dear to the feelings of the bereaved, and sought now with greater avidity than when the body was arrayed in the smiles of beauty, and filled with living, breathing love. The husband spoke nothing; and George was silent, save for the deep sobs that burst from him as he looked upon the woe-worn form of his father, who stalked away before us like a creature hurrying to the grave to seek the home there from which a troubled spirit had removed him in the dark hour of night. In this way we wandered on. I was not in a mood to speak. The occasion and the scene depressed me more than ever did the prospect of a deathbed, or the sight of a patient about to submit to a painful and dangerous operation. My habits of thought are little conversant with the poetry of nature, or of man's condition in this stage of suffering—the duties of an arduous profession are exclusive of those dreamy moods of the mind, which have little in common with the doings of every-day life; yet, on this occasion, I felt all the inspiration of the sad muse; and, were I to endeavour to account for it, I could only seek for the cause in the aspect of the night, and the unusual nature of the vocation, operating, at the moment, on a mind loosened from the cares of my profession.

In a much less time than I could have anticipated, from the weak condition of Mr B——, we arrived at the churchyard—a solitary spot, surrounded with an old grey dyke, at the back of which rose in deep shade a wood of firs. The snow lay on the top of the walls, and on the higher branches of the firs, reminding one of streaks of white clouds in the sky, as the darkness of the night, enveloping the lower portions, kept them almost from our view. From a small house at the ridge of the fir-belt, a slight ray of light beamed forth, and, striking upon the top of a monument placed against the wall, exhibited the left all around in deeper gloom. Without uttering a word, Mr B—— made up to the house, and, knocking at the door, a young female appeared. She uttered a scream, and ran back, doubtless from the pale and death-like appearance presented by the face of the visiter. Her place was momentarily supplied by the sexton, who, the moment he saw Mr B——, shrunk back in what I conceived to be conscious fear. I was standing behind, and noticing, what I thought, the guilty expression of the man's face, concluded unfavourably for the sad hope of my friend.

"I have reason to believe that there have been resurrectionists in your churchyard, James," said Mr B—— mournfully.

"Impossible!" replied the sexton; "we have been guarding the ground for some time past. It is a dream, Mr B——; many relations are troubled by the same fears. It was only yesterday that I opened a grave to satisfy the wishes of Mrs G——, whose husband was buried a week ago. The body was as safe as if it had been in her own keeping. Take my advice; be satisfied there is no cause of apprehension; you forget the sacred nature of my trust."

"I can only be satisfied by an examination of the grave," replied Mr B——. "I insist upon having this satisfaction. The cemetery is my property, and I have a right to examine it."

The man hesitated, and said that his assistant was from home. But the bereaved husband was not to be thus diverted from his purpose. He stood resolutely with the lantern in his hand, and demanded admittance into the churchyard. The man at length reluctantly took down the key from a nail in the passage, and bringing another lantern with him, led us to the door, which, in the midst of many grumblings, he opened. He then led the way over the snowy hillocks to nearly the middle of the burying-ground, where the grave of Mrs B——, headed by an ornamented stone, was exhibited to us. Mr B—— bent down, and, moving the lantern backwards and forwards, examined it slowly and carefully, casting his eye over the snow, which presented an unbroken appearance, and examining every chink, as if he there found an evidence of the truth of George's statement.

"That grave has not been touched," said the man. "The head of it is the part to judge by. You will find the turf lies whole and unbroken under the wreath."

"It may be as you say," replied Mr B——, as he bent down in his examination; "but the late snow may have removed the traces of the opening. I cannot return home till I am satisfied. My own bones must mix with those of my Isabella. Proceed to open the grave; I myself will assist you."

At that moment a figure was seen gliding alone amidst the tombstones. It had all the legitimate whiteness like the ideal spirit. I stood and gazed at it, and George's eyes were also fixed upon it; Mr B—— paid no attention; he was too intent upon the investigation he was engaged in; and the grave-digger, whose head was down, did not notice it. I said nothing; but George, pointing to it as it approached, cried—

"See, see! what is that?"

The sexton looked up, and cried—"It is David. He has been out, and is covered with snow. He comes in good time."

It was even so. The man approached, and the implements having been procured, they set about opening the grave. Mr. B—— stood motionless, his head hanging down, and deep sighs occasionally coming from his breast, mixed with the quick breathing of the men, as they plied their shovels. He still held the lantern in his hand, by the light of which the group before me is brought out in faint relief. The silence around was signally that of a churchyard; for the fir belt shrouded the scene from the night breeze, and there was only occasionally heard a low, mournful gust, as it died among the branches of the trees. On that spot only there was quick breathing action. The men had got down pretty far into the grave; and, as they brought their heads within the ray of the lantern, in their acts of throwing up the earth, their flushed faces contrasted strongly with the cadaverous countenance of the husband, who leant over them, watching every motion, and intent upon the expected stroke of the shovel upon the coffin lid. The recollection of the attributes of the German ghoul came over me; nor did the difference between the beings, the motives, and the actions, prevent me from conjuring up the similitude, so unlike a human being did he appear in his complexion, his fixed, dead-like stare into the grave, and the perfect stillness of his body, as he crouched down to be nearer to the object of his search. At length, the sound was heard, the rattle on the coffin lid. The victim's ear seemed chained to the sound, as if he could have augured from it whether or not the chest was empty. In a short time,

"The heavy moil that shrouds the dead"

was entirely removed. The sexton now took his own lamp down into the grave. The screw-nails were undone, the lid was raised, and the body of Mrs B——, arrayed in her winding-sheet and scalloped sere-clothes, was seen, by the sickly, yellow gleam of the lantern, lying in the stillness and placidity of death—

"For still, still she lay, With a wreath on her bosom."

One of the men now came out, and Mr B—— descended into the grave. He lifted off the face-cloth, gazed on the clay-cold face, touched it, and now was opened the

"Sacred source of sympathetic tears."

He burst into a loud paroxysm; and, as if nature had been to take her revenge for her sufferings, under the freezing influence of his sorrow, he wept as if there had been to be no end of his weeping. It was latterly found necessary to force him out of the grave; though, as I was informed by George, he had shrunk from the view of the dead body of his wife, while it lay in the house, and before it was interred. The lid was again placed on the coffin, the screws fixed, and the grave filled up. Mr B—— slipped a guinea into the hand of the sexton, and we took our way back to the town. George informed us, as we went, that he had been for several nights haunted by the image of his mother; and could only thus account for the conviction that had seized him, that the body of the female he had seen in the dissecting-room was that of his parent. It is a remarkable fact, and the one which chiefly induced me to give this narrative, that the scene I have now described wrought so powerfully on the feelings of Mr B——, that the form of his grief was entirely changed. During the whole of the subsequent night, he wept intensely—nature was relieved—his sorrow was mollified into one of those