Chapter II: Part 2

"Yes, my dear Ethelind; but the deception has been very unpremeditated on my part, as you shall hear. Arriving in England alone, I came down, merely intending to look round, having had some reason to be dissatisfied with Mr. Jones, the acting curate, by whom, when I got to the inn, I was supposed to be the new curate, and as such, I believe, received very differently to what I should have been as the rector; and anxious to know exactly the state of my parishioners, thought, in the humble capacity, they had taken me, I might better do this. In calling to see your mother, who, I thought, from her previous good deeds in the parish, was likely to be an efficient adviser, I was invited to tea, and from the conversation of both you and her, I found, that while as the curate I should have free intercourse at the cottage, as the Hon. Frederic Eardly the doors would be closed on me; added to this, was a lurking hope that I might, eventually, gain your affections, and know that you loved me for myself alone. Your reserve however, dispelled, for a time, that illusion. Beatrice Trevor came and threw out lures I could not resist, and I was fairly entrapped; however, I will not dwell on what has led to such happy results. Bennet, alone, knows my secret."

Lady Eardly now took an affectionate leave. She had brought a splendid wedding dress for Ethelind, but her son insisted on her wearing the plain white muslin she had herself prepared.

A union founded on such a basis, could not fail to bring as much real happiness as mortals, subject to the vicissitudes of life, could expect. Frederic Eardly passed many years of usefulness in his native place, aided, in many of his good works, by his amiable wife. But though blessed with many earthly comforts, they were not without their trials, they had a promising family, but two or three were early recalled; and in proportion to their affection for these interesting children, was their grief at the severed links in the chain of earthly love. The mother, perhaps, felt more keenly than the father, but both knew they were blessings only lent, and they bowed submissively.

Beatrice was not heard of for some time, though Ethelind wrote repeatedly, and named her second girl after her, and some eight or ten years afterwards a letter came, written by Beatrice as she lay on her death-bed, to be given to her little namesake on her seventeenth birth-day. She left her all her jewels and a sum of money, but the letter was the most valuable bequest, as it pointed out the errors into which she had fallen, and their sad results. She had, it would seem, accompanied the friend abroad to whose marriage she had gone, and had once more marred her own prospects of happiness by her folly, and once more had she injured the peace of others. Farther she might have gone on, had she not sickened with the small-pox, of a most virulent kind; she ultimately recovered; but her transcendent beauty was gone, and she had now time to reflect on the past. Her affliction was most salutary, and worked a thorough reformation, which, had her life been spared, would have shown itself in her conduct.

Although Ethelind needed it not, it was a lesson to her to be, if possible, more careful and anxious in the formation of her daughters' principles as they grew up, and more prayerful that her efforts to direct their steps aright, might be crowned with success. Her prayers were heard, and the family proved worthy the care of their excellent mother.

LINES, ON SEEING IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC, "THE WATERLOO WALTZ."

BY A LADY.

A moment pause, ye British fair
While pleasure's phantom ye pursue,
And say, if sprightly dance or air,
Suit with the name of Waterloo?
Awful was the victory,
Chastened should the triumph be;
Midst the laurels she has won,
Britain mourns for many a son.

Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
Nature seemed to mourn the day,
Which consigned before its close
Thousands to their kindred clay;
How unfit for courtly ball,
Or the giddy festival,
Was the grim and ghastly view,
E're evening closed on Waterloo.

See the Highland Warrior rushing
Firm in danger on the foe,
Till the life blood warmly gushing
Lays the plaided hero low.
His native, pipe's accustomed sound,
Mid war's infernal concert drowned,
Cannot soothe his last adieu,
Or wake his sleep on Waterloo.

Charging on, the Cuirassier,
See the foaming charger flying
Trampling in his wild career,
On all alike the dead and dying,
See the bullet through his side,
Answered by the spouting tide,
Helmet, horse and rider too,
Roll on bloody Waterloo.

Shall scenes like these, the dance inspire;
Or wake th' enlivening notes of mirth,
Oh shivered be the recreant lyre,
That gave the base idea birth;
Other sounds I ween were there,
Other music rent the air,
Other waltz the warriors knew,
When they closed on Waterloo.

THE BOY OF EGREMONT.

The founders of Embsay were now dead, and left a daughter, who adopted the mother's name of Romille, and was married to William FitzDuncan. They had issue a son, commonly called the Boy of Egremont, who surviving an elder brother, became the last hope of the family.

In the deep solitude of the woods, betwixt Bolton and Barden the river suddenly contracts itself into a rocky channel, little more than four feet wide, and pours through the tremendous fissure, with a rapidity equal to its confinement. This place was then, as it now is, called the Strid, from a feat often exercised by persons of more agility than prudence, who stride from brink to brink, regardless of the destruction which awaits a faltering step. Such, according to tradition, was the fate of young Romille, who, inconsiderately, bounding over the chasm with a greyhound in his leash, the animal hung back, and drew his unfortunate master into the torrent. The Forester, who accompanied Romille and beheld his fate, returned to the Lady Aaliza, and with despair in his countenance, enquired, "what is good for bootless Bene," to which the mother, apprehending some great misfortune, had befallen her son, instantly replied, "endless sorrow."

The language of this question is almost unintelligible at present. But bootless bene, is unavailing prayer; and the meaning, though imperfectly expressed, seems to have been, what remains when prayer avails not?

--_Vide. Whitaker's History of Craven_

Lady! what is the fate of those
Whose hopes and joys are failing?
Who, brooding over ceaseless woes,
Finds prayer is unavailing?
The mother heard his maddening tone,
She marked his look of horror;
She thought upon her absent son,
And answered, "endless sorrow."

How fair that morning star arose!
And bright and cloudless was its ray;
Ah! who could think that evening's close,
Would mark a frantic mother's woes,
And see a father's hopes decay?

Inhuman Chief! a judgment stern
Hath stopped thee in thy mad career;
And thou, who hast made thousands mourn.
Must shed, thyself, the hopeless tear,
And long, in helpless grief, deplore
Thy only child is now no more.

Long ere the lark his matin sung,
Clad in his hunting garb of green,
The brave, the noble, and the young,
The Boy of Egremont was seen!
Who in his fair form could not trace,
The youth was born of high degree;
He was the last of Duncan's race,
The only hope of Romillé.

In his bright eye the youthful fire
Was glowing with unwonted brightness;
Warm in friendship, fierce in ire,
Yet spoke of all its bosom's lightness.
His mother marked his brilliant cheek,
And blessed him as he onward past;
Ah! did no boding feeling speak,
To tell that look would be her last.
He held the hound in silken band,
The merlin perched upon his hand,
And frolic, mirth and wayward glee
Glanced in the heart of Romillé.

And oft the huntsman by his side,
Would warn him from the fatal tide,
And whisper in his heedless ear,
To think upon his mother's tear,
Should aught of ill or harm befall
Her child, her hope, her life, her all;
And bade him, for more sakes than one,
The desperate, dangerous leap to shun.
He smiled, and gave the herdsman's prayer.
And all his counsel to the air,
And laughed to see the old man's eye,
Fix'd in imploring agony.

Where the wild stream's eternal strife,
Wake the dark echoes into life,
Where rudely o'er the rock it gushes,
Lost in its everlasting foam;
And swift the channeled water rushes,
With ceaseless roar and endless storm;
And rugged crags, dark, grey, and high,
Hang fearful o'er the darkened sky;
And o'er the dim and shadowy deep,
Yawning, presents a deathful leap.
The boy has gained that desperate brink,
And not a moment will he think
Of all the hopes, and joys, and fears
That are entwined in his young years.

The old man stretched his arms in air,
And vainly warned him to forbear:
Oh! stay, my child, in mercy stay,
And mark the dread abyss beneath;
Destruction wings thee on thy way,
And leads thee to an awful death.

He said no more, for on the air
Rose the deep murmuring of despair;
One shriek of agonizing woe
Broke on his ear, and all was o'er;
For midst the waves' eternal flow,
The boy had sank to rise no more.

When springing from the dizzy steep,
He winged his way 'twixt earth and sky,
The affrighted hound beheld the deep,
And starting back, he shunned the leap,
And by this fatal check he drew
Death on himself and master too.

But those wild waves of death and strife
Flowed deeply, wildly as before,
Though he was reft of light and life,
And sunk in death to rise no more.

And he was gone! his mother's smile
No more shall welcome his return.
Ah! little did she think the while,
Her fate through life would be to mourn!
And his stern sire; how will he brook
The tale that tells his child is low!
How will the haughty tyrant look,
And writhe beneath the hopeless blow!
While conscience, with his vengeance sure,
Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure.
Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye
Shall shed the sympathizing tear;
Hopeless and childless shalt thou die,
And none shall mourn above thy bier.
Thy race extinct; no more thy name
Shall proudly swell the lists of fame.

Thou art the last! with thee shall die
Thy proud descent and lineage high;
No more on Barden's hills shall swell
The mirth inspiring bugle note;
No more o'er mountain, vale and, dell,
Its well known sounds shall wildly float.
Other sounds shall steal along,
Other music swell the song;
The deep funeral wail of wo,
In solemn cadence, now shall spread
Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow,
In requiem dirges for the dead.

Why has the Lady left her home,
And quitted every earthly care,
And sought, in deep monastic gloom,
The holy balm that centres there?
Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook
On those deserted scenes to look,
Where she so oft had marked her child,
With all a mother's joy and smiled,
For not a shrub, or tree or flower,
But brought to mind some happy hour,
And called to life some vision fair.
When her young hope stood smiling there.

But he was gone! and what had she
To do with love, or hope, or pride,
For every feeling, warm and free,
Had left her when young Duncan died;
And she had nought on earth beside.
One single throb was lingering yet,
And that forbade her to forget;
Forget! what spell can calm the soul?
Should memory o'er its pulses roll
Through almost every night of grief,
We still hope for the morrow;
But what to those can bring relief,
Who pine in endless sorrow.

--EMMA TUCKER.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

Sad solitary thought! that keeps thy vigils,
Thy solemn vigils in the sick man's mind;
Communing lonely with his sinking soul,
And musing on the dim obscurity around him!
Thee! rapt in thy dark magnificence, I call
At this still midnight hour, this awful season,
When on my bed in wakeful restlessness,
I turn me, weary: while all around,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness,
I only wake to watch the sickly taper that lights,
Me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand of death
I feel press heavy on my vitals;
Slow sapping the warm current of existence;
My moments now are few! e'en now
I feel the knife, the separating knife, divide
The tender chords that tie my soul
To earth. Yes, I must die, I feel that I _must_ die
And though to me has life been dark and dreary
Though smiling Hope, has lured but to deceive,
And disappointment still pursued its blandishments,
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me,
As I contemplate the grim gulf,--

The shuddering blank, the awful void futurity.
Aye, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme,
Romantic schemes and fraught with loveliness;
And it is hard to feel the hand of death
Arrest one's steps; throw a chill blast
O'er all one's budding hopes, and hurl one's soul
Untimely to the grave, lost in the gaping gulf
Of blank oblivion. Fifty years hence,
And who will think of Henry? ah, none!
Another busy world of beings will start up
In the interim, and none will hold him
In remembrance. I shall sink as sinks
A stranger in the crowded streets of busy London,
A few enquiries, and the crowds pass on,
And all's forgotten. O'er my grassy grave
The men of future times will careless tread
And read my name upon the sculptured stone;
Nor will the sound, familiar with their ears,
Recall my vanished memory. I had hoped
For better things; I hoped I should not leave
This earth without a vestige. Fate decrees
It shall be otherwise, and I submit.
Henceforth, oh, world! no more of thy desires,
No more of hope, that wanton vagrant hope;
Now higher cares engross me, and my tired soul,
With emulative haste, looks to its God,
And prunes its wings for heaven.

--KIRKE WHITE.

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

A short time since, I found among other papers, one containing an account of the embarkation of a few detachments to join their respective regiments, then engaged in the Burmese war, in India. It was written almost verbatim, from the description by one, who was not only an eye witness, but who took an active part in the proceedings of the morning. As so very many similar and trying scenes are occurring at the present time, among our devoted countrymen, leaving for the Crimea, it may not be wholly uninteresting now; as it is founded on facts, which alas, must be far, very far, out-numbered by parallel facts and circumstances.

Having business at Gravesend, I arrived there late at night, and took a bed at an Inn in one of the thoroughfares of that place; I retired early to rest, and was awakened in the morning by the sound of martial music; and ever delighting in the "soul-stirring fife and drum," I jumped out of bed and found it was troops, about to sail for India; I therefore, dressed myself and strolled down to the beach to witness what, to me, was quite a novel sight, the embarkation.

It was a clear bright morning in June, and the sun was shining in full splendor, while the calm bosom of the beautiful Thames reflected back all its dazzling effulgence. The river was studded with shipping, and to add to the beauty of the scene, two or three East Indiamen had just anchored there, and as I viewed them majestically riding, I could easily fancy the various feelings their arrival would create, not only in the breasts of those who were in these stately barks, but of the hundreds of expectant friends, who were anxiously awaiting their return. With how many momentous meetings was that day to be filled. How many a fond and anxious mother, who had, perhaps, for years, nightly closed her eyes in praying for a beloved son, was in a few hours to clasp him to the maternal breast. Here, too, might be pictured, the husband and father returning, not as he left his wife and children, in the vigour of health and manhood, but with his cheeks pallid and his constitution enfeebled by hard service in a tropical climate. Some few had, doubtless, realized those gorgeous dreams of affluence and greatness which first tempted them to leave their native land. I once knew one myself, whose hardy sinews had for nearly sixty years, braved the fervid heat of the torrid sun; but he returned to _endure_ life, not to _enjoy_ it. He told me, he had left England at the early age of fourteen. He had, as it were, out grown his young friendships. Eastern habits and associations had usurped the place of those domestic feelings, which his early banishment had not allowed to take root, we might question if the seeds were even sown in his young breast, for he was an orphan, with no other patrimony than the interest of connexions, which procured him a cadetcy in the East India Company's Service. On his departure, he earned no parent's blessing for him, no anxious father sighed, no fond indulgent mother wept and prayed. As I stood musing on the scene, a gentleman, a seeming idler, like myself, joined me, and after many judicious remarks on what was passing around, informed me he was there to meet a widowed sister, who only three years before, had gone out in the very ship in which she now returned, to join her husband,--the long affianced of her early choice. For a short period, she had enjoyed all earthly happiness, but it was only for a brief space; for soon, alas! was she taught in the school of sorrow, that this world is not our abiding place.

But the Blue Peter,[1] gently floating in the scarcely perceptible breeze, betokened the vessel from which it streamed, destined for a far different purpose. It told not of restoring the fond husband to his wife, the father to his children, or the lover to his mistress; it was, in this instance, to sever, for a time, all these endearing ties; for very soon would the father, the husband, and the lover be borne many miles on the trackless ocean, far, very far, from all they hold dear, and some with feelings so deep and true, that for a time, not all the brilliant prospects of wealth or glory, will restore their spirits to their wonted tone.

[1] A flag hoisted always when a ship is preparing to sail.

There was one detachment which greatly struck me; it consisted of about one hundred and fifty fine athletic young men, who though only recruits, were particularly soldier-like in appearance. There was throughout, a sort of determined firmness in their countenances, which seemed to say, "Away with private feelings! we go on glory's errand, and at her imperious bidding, and of her alone we think!" Yet to fancy's eye, might be read an interesting tale in every face. We might trace, in all, some scarcely perceptible relaxation of muscle, that would say, "With the deportment of the _hero_, we have the feelings of the _man_. One young officer was there, belonging to a different regiment, who, certainly, seemed to have none of those amiable weaknesses, none of those home feelings, which characterize the husband or the father. He had not even pains of the lover to contend with. Glory was indeed _his_ mistress, the all absorbing ruling passion of his mind; he dreamt not, talked not of, thought not of aught, but glory!"

Panting to distinguish himself with his corps, he would gladly have annihilated time and space to have reached it, without spending so many tedious months in making the voyage. Led away by his military ardor, he thought not of his anxious parents; little recked he of his mother's sleepless nights, and how her maternal fears would fancy every breeze a gale, and every gale a storm, while he was subject to their influence.

Among those waiting to embark, was one who had just parted from his wife and children; care and anxiety had set their marks on him. He was a man of domestic habits, and was now, perhaps, to be severed for years, from all that gave any charm to life; but the fiat for separation had gone forth, and was inevitable! Soon would immense oceans roll between them; their resources, which, while they were together, were barely sufficient for their wants, were now to be divided; and the pang of parting, severe enough in itself, was sharpened by the fear that poverty and privation might overtake them, ere he could send remittances to his family.

A post chaise now came in sight, when an officer stepped forward, as it drove to the water's edge, and assisted a lady to alight from it. Her eyes were red with weeping and her trembling limbs seemed scarcely able to support her sinking frame. Her husband, for such I found he was, who had gone towards the vehicle, showed little less emotion than herself, which he, however, strove hard to suppress. These were parents, whom each successive wave would bear still further from their lovely offspring, towards whom their aching hearts would yearn, long after their childish tears had ceased to flow. They, poor little things, knew not the blessings they were about to lose, but their fond and anxious father and mother could not forget, that they had consigned them to strangers, who might or who might not be kind to them, and who had too many under their care, to feel, or even show the endearing tenderness that marks parental love.

In regimental costume, also, stood one, quite aloof, and from his history, (which I afterwards learnt,) I found that his position on the beach corresponded with that in which he stood in the world--alone; cared for by none, himself indifferent to all around him; every kindlier affection had withered in his breast. He was careless whither he went or what became of him. Yet was he not always so, for he had known a parent's and a husband's love. His now blighted heart had often beaten with rapture, as the babe, on which he doted, first lisped a father's name, taught by a mother, whose smile of affection was, for years, the sun that gladdened his existence. But these bright visions of happiness had all flown; that being whom he had so fondly loved had dishonoured him, and neglected his boy, and on his return, he found one in the grave, the other living in infamy.

Among the soldiers, I noticed one, on whom not more than nineteen summers had shone; nay, less than that. His light and joyous heart seemed bounding with delight, as he witnessed the busy scene that met his wondering eyes. An aged woman stood near him, whose blanched and withered cheek but ill accorded with the cheerful look of her light-hearted thoughtless son. She took his hand, and sobbed out, "Oh, George, my poor boy, little thought I to see the day when I should be thus forsaken; I did hope you would now have staid with me, and been a comfort in my old days."

"Hush, hush! grand-mother, the boys are all looking at you. Come, now, don't be blubbering so foolishly, I shall soon come back again."

"Come back again, boy! afore that day comes, these poor old bones will be mouldering in the dust. But God's will be done, and may his blessings be upon you; I know there must be soldiers, but oh, 'tis hard, so very hard, to part with one's only child. Oh, after the care I have taken to bring you up decently, to lose you thus; and how I worked, day and night, to buy you off before, and yet you listed again, though a month had not passed over your head. God help me," said she sighing, "for even this trial could not be without God's will, for without that, not a sparrow could fell to the ground. But stay, do wait a bit longer," said she, catching him by the belt, as he was manifesting a restless impatience to join the busy throng.

"You will promise to write to me, George, you will not forget that?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure, mother, I'll write."

The sergeant now began to call the muster roll, and the poor old creature's cheek grew whiter still as the lad exclaimed:

"Now, mother, I must fall into the ranks; good bye, good bye."

"May God Almighty preserve thee, my child; you may one day be a parent yourself, and will then know what your poor old grandmother feels this day."

The lad had by this time passed muster, and was soon after on board. The afflicted grand-mother stood, with her eyes transfixed on the vessel, gazing on her unheeding boy, who, insensible to the agonizing feelings that rent her breast, felt not one single throe of regret, his mind being entirely engrossed in contemplating the bright future, which the sergeant, who enlisted him, had drawn.

Captain Ormsby, who commanded the detachment, was a man of feeling; he had particularly noticed the poor woman's distress.

"Be comforted," said he, "I will watch over the lad, for your sake, and will try and take him under my immediate charge, and if he behaves well, I may be able to serve him. I will see that he writes to you."

"Heaven bless and reward your honour," she exclaimed, "surely you are a parent yourself. Oh, yes, I knew it," said she, as she saw him wipe off the starting tear. "May God spare you such a trial as has this day been my lot."

"Thank you, thank you, my good woman," said he hardly able to speak.

She had touched a tender chord, and its vibration shook his very frame, for he had in the last few days, taken leave of four motherless girls, pledges of love by a wife whom he had fondly loved, and of whom he had been suddenly bereaved. Well might he feel for this poor wretch, for _he_ had known parting in all its bitterness.

A soldier and his wife stood side by side, apparently ready to embark, whose looks told unutterable things; they both seemed young, but their faces betokened the extreme of agony. The name of Patrick Morgan being called, the distracted wife clung to her husband, uttering the most piercing and heartrending cries.

"Sure, and what'll become of me," cried she, "will you then lave me, Pat, dear, lave your own poor Norah to die, as, sure I will, when you go in that big ship? Oh, my dear Captain, and where will I go if your honour isn't plazed to go without him this time? Oh, do forgive me, but do not, oh, do not, in pity, part us. Sure, an' its your honours dear self as knows what it is to part from them ye loves; an' so you thought, when ye tuk lave of the dear childer, t'other day, an' saw the mother's swate face, God rest her sowl, in the biggest of 'em, for sure they're like, as two pays in a bushel, only one is little an' t'other big, barring she's in heaven. Sure, and if your honour's self had to bid 'em good bye over agin you'd, may be, think how hard it was for me to stay behind when Pat goes."

Patrick, who, with national keen-sightedness, saw the internal working which his wife's home appeal had created, now came forward, and said, "Oh, yer honour, if as how I dare be so bowld as jist to ax you this wan'st, to take compassion on us; may be, next time, we could go together, and if Norah was but wid me, what do I care where I goes. Here's Jem O'Connor wouldn't mind going in my stead, and he's neither wife, as I have, nor childer, like your honour to part from." Jem O'Conner now came forward and testified his readiness to go all the world over to serve a comrade.

Words could but poorly convey an idea of the looks of the anxious couple, as they watched the varying countenance of the Captain. The situation of the soldier and his wife touched him to the quick, and the appeal proved irresistible. Jem O'Connor was permitted to go instead of Pat. Morgan, who, triumphantly led off his wife, both of them invoking blessings on his head, whose humanity had thus spared them the pangs of separation.

I stood, perhaps, twenty minutes musing on the scenes that had just been passing before me and was returning, to retrace my steps to the inn breakfast, when I noticed a wretched looking woman, with a baby in her arms. She was walking very fast, towards the water's edge, where the boats were still waiting to take the last of the soldiers on board ship. She had an anxious, nay, a despairing look as she looked around, as I judged, for the Captain, who was not to be seen.

Hushing her little one, whose piteous cry would almost have made one think it was uttered in sympathy with its mother's distress. Casting one more despairing glance, she was, apparently, about to retrace her weary steps with a look that completely baffles description, when her eye fell on a boat returning from the vessel, which that moment neared the water's edge, and she saw Captain Ormsby jump out. Hastily going up to him, she exclaimed, in a tone that seemed almost to forbid comfort.

"Oh, Sir, I am ashamed to be so troublesome, indeed I am, and I fear to ask you if I have any chance this time?"

"Why Kitty, my good girl, had you asked me that question half, nay, a quarter of an hour ago, I could not have given you any hope, but I can now put you in place of Timothy Brennan's wife, who has just altered her mind."

"Sergeant Browne," cried he, "here is Hewson's wife, who went out in the 'Boyne.' Do the best you can for her, she can take Hetty Brennan's place." Joyfully did Kitty Hewson step into the boat, beckoning to a lad who was holding a small deal box, which he placed beside her; but she seemed as if she could hardly believe herself about to follow her husband, till actually on board.

The worthy Captain was, indeed, to be envied such a disposition to lessen the aggregate of human misery, by entering into their feelings. In how very short a space (three hours) had he the power of cheering the desponding hearts of several fellow creatures, without either detriment to the service, or swerving, in the least, from his duty.

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.

This Narrative is supposed to be addressed by an aged Highlander to his Grandson shortly before the battle of Killiecrankie.

Come hither, Evan Cameron,--
Come stand beside my knee;
I hear the river roaring down
Towards the wintry sea.
There's shouting on the mountain side;
There's war within the blast;
Old faces look upon me,
Old forms go riding past.
I hear the pibrock wailing
Amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again
Upon the verge of night.

'Twas I, that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.
I've told thee how the South'rons fell
Beneath his broad claymore,
And how he smote the Campbell clan
By Inverlocky's shore.
I've told thee how we swept Dundee
And tamed the Lindsay's pride;
But never have I told thee yet
How the great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to his foes:
Oh, deed of deathless shame!
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet
With one of Assynt's name,
Be it upon the mountain side,
Or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone,
Or backed by armed men;
Face him as thou wouldst face a man
That wronged thy sire's renown;
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down

They brought him to the watergate
Hard bound, with hempen span.
As though they held a lion there,
And not a 'fenceless man:
They set him high upon a cart,
The hangman rode below,
They drew his hands behind his back
And bared his noble brow.
Then as a hound is slipped from leash
They cheered the common throng,
And blew the note with yell and shout
And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man's heart
Grow sad and sick that day,
To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.
There stood the whig west country lord
In Balcony and Bow;
There sat three gaunt and withered Dames
And daughters in a row,
And every open window
Was full, as full might be,
With black robed covenanting carles,
That goodly sport to see.

And when he came, so pale and wan
He looked, so great and High,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye,
The rabble rout, forbore to shout,
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shuddering
Through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him
Now turned aside and wept.

But onward, always onward,
In silence and in gloom,
The dreary pageant labored
Till it reached the house of doom.
Then first a woman's voice was heard
In jeer and laughter loud,
An angry cry and hiss arose,
From the lips of the angry crowd.
Then as the Græme looked upward
He saw the bitter smile
Of him who sold his king for gold,
The master fiend Argyle.

The Marquis gazed a moment
And nothing did he say;
But Argyle's cheek grew deadly pale,
And he turned his eyes away.
The painted frail one by his side,
She shook through every limb,
For warlike thunder swept the streets,
And hands were clenched at him,
And a Saxon soldier cried, aloud,
Back coward, from thy place!
For seven long years thou hast not dared
To look him in the face!

Had I been there with sword in hand
And fifty Cameron's by,
That day, through high Dunadin's streets,
Had pealed the Slogan cry
Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailed men;
Nor all the rebels of the South
Had borne us backward then.
Once more his, foot on highland heath
Had trod, as free as air,
Or I and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there.

It might not be! they placed him next,
Within the solemn hall,
Where once the Scottish kings were throned
Amidst their nobles all.
But there was dust of vulgar feet
On that polluted floor
And perjured traitors filled the place,
Where good men sat before.
With savage glee came there,
To read the murderous doom
And then up rose the great Montrose
In the middle of the room,--

Now by my faith as belted knight,
And by the name I bear,
And by the bright St. Andrew's Cross,
That waves above us there;
Yea, by a greater mightier oath,
And oh! that such should be--
By that dark stream of royal blood,
That lies 'twixt you and me,
I have not sought in battle field
A wreath of such renown,
Or dared to hope my dying day
Would win a martyr's crown.

There is a chamber far away,
Where sleeps the good and brave
But a better place ye have named for me
Than by my fathers grave,
For truth and right 'gainst treason's might
This hand has always striven,
And ye raise it up for a witness still
For the eye of earth and heaven.
Then nail my heart on yonder tower,
Give every town a limb
And God who made, shall gather them;--
I go from you to him!

The morning dawned full darkly,
The rain came flashing down
And the forky streak of lightning's bolt,
Lit up the gloomy town.
The thunders' crashed across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;
Yet aye broke in with muffled beat
The 'larum of the drum:
There was madness on the earth below,
And anger in the sky,
And young and old and rich and poor
Came forth to see him die.

Oh God! that ghastly gibbet,
How dismal 't is to see,
The great spectral skeleton--
The ladder and the tree.
Hark! hark! the clash of arms
The bells begin to toll,--
He is coming! He is coming!
God have mercy on his soul!
One last long peal of thunder,--
The clouds are cleared away
And the glorious sun once more look'd down
Upon the dazzling day.

He is coming! he is coming!--
Like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero, from his prison
To the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead,--
There was lustre in his eye,
And he never walked to battle
More proudly than to'die.
There was colour in _his_ visage,
Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvelled as he passed them,
That great and goodly man.

He mounted up the scaffold,
And he turned him to the crowd;
But they dared not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he look'd up toward heaven,
And it all was clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether
The eye of God shone through.
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,
As though the thunder slept therein,
All else was calm and still.

Then radiant and serene he rose,
And cast his cloak away;
For he had taken his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him,
Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder,
As it were a path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder's roll,
And no man dared to look aloft,
Fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush!--and then--a groan,
And darkness swept across the sky,--
The work of death was done!

A GHOST STORY, FOR THE YOUNG.

MY DEAR CHARLES--

When I promised to write to you during the holidays, I little thought I should have so much to put in my letter. I actually fancied it would be difficult to find enough to fill one sheet; and now I do really believe two will not be sufficient for all I have to say: but to commence my story, which you must know, is a real Ghost Story! But to begin:--

While we were at breakfast the other morning, papa showed mamma an advertisement in the "Times" newspaper, remarking, at the same time, that it appeared just the thing he had long wanted; and that he would go to the Solicitor's and make enquiries, and if it seemed still eligible, would go immediately and see about it. Upon asking what it was;

I was told it was an estate in South Wales to be disposed of; on which was a large commodious dwelling house, which at a trifling expence, might be converted into a family mansion. It commanded, the paper said, a picturesque view, with plenty of shooting and fishing.--It further stated, that on one part of the grounds, were the ruins of a castle, and a great deal more, in its favor, but you know the glowing descriptions with which these great London auctioneers always set off any property they have to dispose of.

Papa had every reason to be satisfied, that it was what he desired; so it was settled he should start by railway that very evening. And you may judge how delighted I was when he asked if I should like to accompany him. You may be sure I did not refuse; so we got ready, and started by the eight o'clock train.

We travelled all night and arrived at our destination about four next day. Papa thought I should sleep during the night, but I found it impossible, for a gentleman, whom we met in the cars, knew the place, and said so much in favour of it, that I could think of nothing else, but he admitted there was a drawback, and that a great prejudice existed against it, which caused no little difficulty in the disposal of. It was reported to be haunted, and one or two people, who had bought it, had actually paid money to get off the bargain. Of course, hearing this, my mind dwelt much on it, though I said nothing, lest I might be suspected of being afraid. Now, you know, it is not a little, frightens me at school, but I was greatly puzzled at all I heard, and determined I would rally my courage. After dinner, we strolled out to take a look at the proposed purchase. Papa was very much pleased with all he saw. House, grounds, and prospect were, he said, all he could wish, and not even the report of a ghost, did he consider, any disadvantage, but quite the contrary, as he certainly would never else be able to buy it for double the sum they now asked for it.

By the time we got back to the inn, Mrs. Davis, our landlady, had learnt the purport of our visit, and we, consequently, found her in great consternation. We had hardly entered, than she exclaimed:--

"Why surely, Sir, you are not going to buy Castle Hill? Why it is haunted, as sure as my name is Peggy Davis!"

"Well, my dear madam," said Papa, "haunted or not, such is my present intention."

"Why, sir, nobody can live there. Don't you know there's a ghost seen there every night."

"Oh," replied papa, "we shall soon, I think, send the ghost off packing."

"Send a ghost off packing! really, sir, you must pardon me, but you are a strange gentleman. Dear! dear! why do you know that four or five have tried to live there and couldn't, for the ghost wouldn't let 'em. You may laugh, but it's a real truth, that it drove every mother's son away; yes not one of them could stay."

"Well, my good Mrs. Davis, we shall soon see whether I can or not; at any rate I shall try."

"Well you certainly are a stout-hearted gentleman, and you must please remember, whatever comes of it, I warned you. Why, there was James Reece, a bold reckless fellow and a very wicked one into the bargain, who feared nothing nor nobody, agreed, for five pounds to stay the night, and was never heard of any more, and some go so far as to say, his ghost has been seen alongside the others once or twice."

"The others," repeated papa, "why you don't mean to say there is more than one?"

"Yes, sure sir, two or three; but 'tis no use telling you, for I really think you are unbelieving as a Jew," and away trotted the old dame, talking to herself as fast as she chatted to papa.

The next morning, after another ineffectual effort from Mrs. Davis, to persuade him to give it up, papa went and concluded, what appeared to him, an excellent bargain, with the lawyer, who was too anxious to serve his employer, not to try and make light of the reports, and not only this, but to fix papa so, that he could not possibly retract.

He came to the Inn and dined with us. Poor Mrs. Davis appeared rather in awe of him; as she never spoke a word, but as she came in and out with different things, she gave papa some very significant looks; but always behind Mr. Crawford's back. No sooner had that gentleman left us, than papa told me, he had made up his mind to take possession of his new purchase, by passing the night in the haunted house.

Charles you are my most intimate friend; and therefore, I may open my heart to you, and tell you honestly, (but mind, not a word to the other boys, when we get back to school) that my heart began to fail me; I know it ought not, for I had been taught better things, and should not have suffered myself to have been influenced, by an ignorant old woman.

There was a bedstead left in one of the rooms, put up by a gentleman who had nearly bought the place, and who, hearing such dreadful stories, determined to try and pass a night there, ere he finally closed:--but people said he heard such strange noises, and saw such odd sights, that he ran away and never returned; the bed and bedding had, the country people believed, all vanished at the bidding of the ghost; indeed, some scrupled not to say, that he had himself been spirited away. Papa said when _he_ heard it, that most likely he was ashamed of his cowardice, and that this prevented his going again to the village.

Papa sent for Mr. Davis, or Griffy Davis, as his wife was pleased to call him; but the old body herself came, and entreated of papa not to try and entice him to accompany us; for it seems that papa's cool and determined manner had made a great impression on Griffy, who, perhaps, got more sceptical on these matters, on account of it. Mrs. Davis was so importunate on the subject, that she obtained the desired assurance, viz., that Griffeth Davis should not be directly or indirectly tempted to encounter the ghost or ghosts, as the case might be. The old man soon came, and you would have laughed to see the old dame's rubicond face, with her large grey eyes, peering over his shoulder; for, notwithstanding; the promise given, she had some doubts that he might be induced to try his prowess in the haunted chamber. Papa asked him if he knew any strong bodied young man whom a good sum of money would induce to accompany him and stay the night. Griffy scratched his head, and pondered some short time; till at length, he said he knew, but one at all likely; they were he said all so plaguey timerous, or timmersome I believe was the word; but he thought Davy Evans might go if well paid, if he were certain papa would remain too; but another doubt was started; Davy had talked of taking some cattle to a fair some miles off, and might be gone: however, it turned out, that he was on hand, and agreeable to go, with the understanding, that he was to have his money, even if papa was conquered by the ghost, or had to run for his ghostship. This was soon obviated; by papa's depositing the money in Mrs. Davis' hands; an arrangement that seemed to give great satisfaction to Davy. The next difficulty was the bedding necessary, this, as Mrs. Davis never expected to see it again, had to be paid for. Davy Evans, seemed a stout stalwart fellow, who had rather a good countenance. Papa who had put the same question before; again asked, "if he were sure he was not afraid."

"Oh no, sir," said Davy, "not a bit, thank God, I never intentionally harmed man, woman, or child, or wronged them, that I of, in any way, and therefore, I may trust in Providence, go wherever I will, and I certainly ain't afraid of the ghosts up there."

"But your courage may fail you, my friend, at the last."

"There's nothing like trying, sir, I haven't been in these parts long; and I know there's strange noises to be heard, but then a little noise breaks no bones and can't hurt me; and as to a ghost, why, seeing its made of air, that can't do much mischief either, especially to flesh and blood, can it now?"

"Well, my friend, we'll try the question, however, very soon," said my father.

I must own, Charles, I again began to feel a little queer, and I think papa noticed it, for he told me to please myself as to going with him or staying at the inn. I was nervous, though I felt sure nothing could really harm me, and then, I recollected, I should always repent, if my courage failed me, so I said boldly out,

"I shall certainly go with you, papa."

"Very well, my son, but even now, if you had rather stay behind, I do promise not to reflect on you afterwards, therefore, act just as your feelings prompt you. I am, myself, so fully persuaded that not anything supernatural can or will harm us, that I am determined to find out what can have led to such extraordinary reports."

"But papa, do you not think ghosts are sometimes to be seen?"

"Frederic," said he, "I will not pretend to say what a guilty conscience or over-heated imagination may have conjured up and fancied, but as I have neither, I do not expect to see anything supernatural; but, as I said before, having heard so much about the mysteries of this place, I think, that even had I not made the purchase, I should like to find them out."

"But if you see the ghost, papa, will you then believe in such things?"

"Wait till, to-morrow, Fred; these are silly suppositions for a religious well educated boy to make, from whom far better things might be expected. Now, only reflect a moment, and then ask yourself what good can these appearances do."

I really now began to be quite ashamed of myself, and thought I was not only foolish, but wicked, in giving credence to the superstitious nonsense I had heard.

Mrs. Davis now coming in with some things papa had ordered to take with him; again ventured to say she hoped he would not repent going to Castle Hill, adding she would pay every attention to the young gentleman, meaning myself, in his absence.

"If I am not mistaken, he would rather accompany me Mrs. Davis, he has been early taught to fear nothing but acting wickedly; and I feel very sure be will not shrink from passing the night where I do; however he can please himself."

Mrs. Davis actually looked aghast! and though I again expressed my readiness and determination to go, I own I was a _little, a very little_ afraid.

"Well, it must be as you please, I see you are a gentleman not very soon turned, when you make up your mind to do a thing."

"What time may we expect, this said ghost to visit us. When does it usually appear?"

"Why, Sir, generally they say from twelve till two; well you may smile," said she seeing papa unable to control his features, "but its not once I have warned you, nor twice either."

"You have done so" said papa "and I feel certainly much obliged by your kind intentions. I always heard the Welsh were superstitious; but could not have believed they carried it to such an extent as you do in this neighbourhood."

"It may be so; but you are so very unbelieving. May be you don't believe in corpse candles."

"Oh yes, when they're lighted I do."

"And ain't they always lighted."

"What do you mean," said papa, "are they not the lights you burn during the night, while a dead body lies unburied."

"Bless your innocent heart! No. The corpse candies, are seen burning and moving of themselves, afore people die; coming down the roads from the houses they live in as a warning."

"A warning for what my dear Mrs. Davis? what earthly purpose can they answer? have we not warning enough in the daily events of our lives to impress us with the instability of life, and yet how rarely does death find us prepared."

"Well, well; you may be as unbelieving as you like, and talk as you will: I shall always believe when I see a corpse candle, there'll be a death but just wait till you pass one night in Castle Hill; may be you'll tell a different story then!"

"The long and the short of the matter, Mrs. Davis is this, I liked the property, and have bought it; and am determined to reside in it if God, spares my life. As to the ghost or ghosts, I am well persuaded that, although some natural causes may render the house and premises untenable; supernatural ones I am sure have nothing to do with it."

Time passed on and the clock struck eight; the hour fixed on, to leave the inn, for Castle Hill: when papa brought a large trunk and basket, which he had tried to fix on Davy's shoulders; but strong as he was, he was unable to carry them both, he therefore got a wheel barrow, for the trunk; while papa and I carried the basket between us, and off we started. A great concourse of people were at the door; many of whom accompanied us to the foot of the hill, and there left us.