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Satan's. Major Weir sat opposite to him, in a red-laced coat, and the Laird's wig on his head; and aye as Sir Robert girned wi' pain, the jackan-ape girned too, like a sheep's

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parlour, where a' was gaun hirdygirdie-naebody to say come in' or gae out.' Terribly the Laird roared for cauld water to his feet, and wine to cool his throat; and, Hell, hell,

in his mouth. They brought him water, and when they plunged his swoln feet into the tub, he cried out it was burning; and folk say that it it did bubble and sparkle like a seething cauldron. He flung the cup at Dougal's head, and said he had given him blood instead of burgundy; and, sure aneugh, the lass washed clotted blood aff the carpet the neist day. The jack-an-ape they ca'd Major Weir, it jibbered and cried as if it was mocking its master; my gudesire's head was like to turn-he forgot baith siller and receipt, and down stairs he banged; but as he ran, the shrieks came faint and fainter; there was a deep-drawn shivering groan, and word gaed through the Castle, that the Laird was dead;

head between a pair of tangs—an ill-hell, and its flames, was aye the word faur'd, fearsome couple they were. The Laird's buff-coat was hung on a pin behind him, and his broadsword and pistols within reach; for he keepit up the auld fashion of having the weapons ready, and a horse saddled day and night, just as he used to do when he was able to loup on horseback, and away after ony of the hill-folk he could get speerings of. Some said it was for fear of the Whigs taking vengeance, but I judge it was just his auld custom-he wasna gien to fear onything. The rentalbook, wi' its black cover and brass clasps, was lying beside him; and a book of sculduddry sangs was put betwixt the leaves, to keep it open at the place where it bore evidence against the Goodman of PrimroseKnowe, as behind the hand with his mails and duties. Sir Robert gave my gudesire a look, as if he wad have withered his heart in his bosom. Ye maun ken he had a way of bending his brows, that men saw the visible mark of a horse-shoe in his forehead, deep-dinted, as if it had been stamped there.

"Are ye come light-handed, ye son of a toom-whistle?" said Sir Robert. "Zounds! if you are

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My gudesire, with as gude a countenance as he could put on, made a leg, and placed the bag of money on the table wi' a dash, like a man that does something clever. The Laird drew it to him hastily-" Is it all here, Steenie, man?"

"Your Honour will find it right," said my gudesire.

66 Here, Dougal," said the Laird, "gie Steenie a tass of brandy down stairs, till I count the siller and write the receipt."

But they werena weel out of the oom, when Sir Robert gied a yelloch that garr'd the castle rock. Back ran Dougal-in flew the livery-menyell on yell gied the Laird, ilk ane mair awfu' than the ither. My gudesire knew not whether to stand or flee, but he ventured back into the

Weel, away came my gudesire, wi’ his finger in his mouth, and his best hope was, that Dougal had seen the money-bag, and heard the Laird speak of writing the receipt. The young Laird, now Sir John, came from Edinburgh, to see things put to rights. Sir John and his Father never gree'd weel-he had been bred an advocate, and afterwards sat in the last Scots Parliament and voted for the Union, having gotten, it was thought, a rug of the compensations -if his father could have come out of his grave, he would have brained him for it on his awn hearth-stane. Some thought it was easier counting with the auld rough Knight than the fair-spoken young ane-but mair of that anon.-(To be continued.)

SAVAGE INDEPENDENCE. -An Arab of the Desert sat at the table of the Caliph, and the latter perceived a hair on the piece of meat, which the other was about to devour. "Arab," cried the Caliph, "there is a hair on your meat, you had better remove it.' "A table," replied the Arab, rising to depart," where the master looks so narrowly at the dishes as to espy a single hair, is no place for a child of Ismael."

SKETCHES FROM NATURE.

No. I.

He was proceeding with the soliloquy—“ "Yet a little while,-and then," -"and then what?" continued a plaintive female voice from behind the curtain, that concealed her slender but lovely form. "Is that you, Marianne, my love!" cried the unfortunate invalid, as he stretched forth his thin white hand to welcome her. His eye gleamed with unearthly brightness, his cheek was suddenly flushed with the hectic of joy, and then gradually resumed its wonted paleness. "I had quite given you up ;-I was endeavouring to persuade myself it was all for the best---that I should never see you more---that I must pass into eternity without receiving and imparting the farewell blessing. I know you will forgive me, but I could not help thinking there was something like unkindness in this last neglect, but now”—and his eye sparkled as he spake---" but now my fears are vanished---I feel as though a load were removed from my heart--as if happiness was yet in store for us"--the tone of tender melancholy, in which he addressed her had thrown her into tears; as he pronounced the last sentence her face was for a moment enlivened by a - gleam of hope, and she involuntarily exclaimed," Indeed!" he saw---he heard her not; he was wrapt in his subject; and Marianne's soft blue eyes were again suffused with tears as he mournfully concluded---" but not here---not in this world."

He was a young man, apparently about nineteen, he could not be more than twenty;---he had been in the army, abroad---had undergone the perils and fatigues of a two years' campaign in the Peninsula; he was advancing in his profession, had at-tained the rank of lieutenant, when

his health declined, his strength gave way, and he returned home with the prospect of recovery---he hoped in the caresses of his parents and the smiles of his Marianne, that his health would quickly be restored ;---but from the hurry of travelling, ere he reached his home, decay had made rapid in

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rived, and his parents knew not of it; they thought him on the mountains of Spain, and he was at their threshold ---overpowered by a multitude of feelings, scarce was he able to throw himself into their arms;---they bore him to his bed, and he had been there ever since---it was only three days--to him it appeared an age---his sole enquiries were for his Mariannethey told him she was from home --it evidently preyed upon his spirits ---it was therefore deemed prudent to deceive him no longer;---she had been nigh him, and he saw her not, she had heard him, and knew it not; this was her first interview since his return from the Peninsula. Marianne endeavoured to cheer him---she spoke of the war, of the hardships he had endured, of the laurels he had reaped ---of the prospects before him---she faltered as she spoke---every effort to avert his mind from gloomy forebodings was unavailing ;---he saw through the affectionate little artifice, smiled his thanks, and she was silent ---the tide of feeling was at his height ---one word would have told all---she rose to retire---the big tear trembled in her eye, and ere she had closed the door a convulsive sob burst on the ears of the wretched William, and thrilled through his frame with indescribable anguish. Oh! but there is something in woman's sorrow that insensibly wins the heart, and engages the best feelings of our nature in its behalf;---the lamb-like resignation--the vain attempts to arrest the ebullition of feeling;-the retiring meekIness that seeks to withdraw itself from public gaze;--the calm despair and the wild throb of agony alternate ;---all tend to shew nature loveliest in her weaknesses. It was impossible to witness a scene like this and not inwardly curse the fiendish monster war ;---my soul took an expansive glance over the unknown myriads this single war has swept to an untimely grave; on the tens of thousands it has beggared; and on the millions of hearts it has widowed. I asked myself ;---and will it not be asked in another world? "Why should man raise his hand against his

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fellow?" His faculties, his feelings, his pleasures, and even his pains, bespeak him formed, not for himself alone, but for society, and yet in this particular, we run counter to nature, we become lions---we glory in the reeking blood of thousands, and, like Indians o'er their sacrifices, turn midnight into day, with lighted windows, bonfires, loud huzzas: and thus deJuded thousands, whilst they mourn a husband, father, brother, shout for the general weal. When falls the conqueror, many nations mourn; bards swell the song, and statuaries join to tell posterity his deathless fame; but sons of inercy die and none regards---they pass untrophied to the quiet grave, but not forgotten.—

Oh, no! their tribute is the bounding of the grateful heart, not shouts of multitudes mingled with dying groans

-not widows' tears, but widows' blessings---not the bereaved orphan's anguished cry, but songs of gratitude --not dying soldiers' curses, but their prayers---not the world's fear, but the world's veneration."

I know not how much longer my reverie might have continued, had not the return of Marianne called my attention to what was passing around me: there was a calmness in her aspect that might easily be accounted for; the full heart had overflowedthe tide of her feeling had subsided, and she was now sunk into a deep and settled melancholy. During her absence her lover had fallen into a gentle slumber; fearful of disturbing his repose, she approached his bedside on tiptoe, and, having seated herself beside him, watched his pale and haggard looks with the most fixed and solicitous regard. He appeared to be dreaming, his lips muttered inarticulate sounds-his face became flushed, his brow bedewed with perspiration-his whole frame seemed agitated-she was alarmed; she took his hand, and gently pres-sing it, exclaimed, "William, my love!" he raised himself from his couch, and wildly casting his eyes around, cried, as he earnestly seized her arm, "What, Marianne! here still! methought we were separated for ever-death was the divider-and

I was just casting a last glance on this transitory world;-'twas all a dream-but shadows of truth, for I feel my strength rapidly wasting, and ere long shall be as though I ne'er had been. Yes, yes, I am verging towards eternity; each moment bears me like the boiling billow, farther from the shores of time---my eye is dim, my hand is feeble, my frame is relaxed, but my soul, my immortal soul, is still the same; it lives through all, and flourishes in the midst of ruin,---to feel all the agony of parting, and to experience with more poignant anguish the sad and solemn reflection, that when I am reposing beneath the grass-green turf, there will be one kind and gentle spirit left, lonely and deserted, who must weep unnoticed---sigh uncomforted ---in the hour of gaiety joyless, in the silence of solitude drear and desolate---these are the thoughts that rack---these the reflections that harass me; she who loved me living must mourn unconsoled o'er my memory when dead. Then, Marianne," continued he, "then, when you shall call for me unanswered, save by the hollow echo from the graves---then, if parted souls may visit those they love, mine shall hover round you, watch over your destiny, reverberate your sighs, weep over your sorrows, if disembodied spirits weep---and be the first to hail your trembling spirit when it crosses the threshold of eternity." Those, and those only, who have stood beside the couch, where all that is lovely and valued lies struggling with the last enemy, can imagine the devotional fervour, the something more than mortal interest with which Marianne beheld him. "This," said she, taking a little miniature from her bosom; "this is all that will remain to remind me of a hapless lover---but my heart needs no remembrancer---none, none,'tis withering at the core, and ere long"---The door slowly opened, and an aged lady, whose face bespoke a heart ill at ease, gently approached to his bed-side, enquiring with much anxiety how he felt himself. He smiled, and would have reached forth his hand, but the

effort was too much, and the willing arm fell heavy and languid by his side. "I am better now," said he "much better," although his voice and features evidently bespoke him much weaker. Marianne was in tears, and her deep and repeated sobs at length attracted his attention ---suddenly raising himself in his bed, he stretched forth his arms as if to clasp her, and then sunk exhausted, with his head upon her lap ---she raised him tenderly, and having carefully smoothed his pillow, it. gently placed his head upon

This is the boon, which, through many a wearisome night I have earnestly prayed; to have my pillow smoothed by the fostering hand of early affection---and now I die in peace; let them lay me," continued he with pathetic softness, "let them lay me beside the little yew-tree in the north corner of the church-yard; there shall I sleep in quiet, as I would have lived, but war forbade---there, when all the human race have forgotten me, and not a trace remains to tell that I have been there, shall the rising and the setting sun shed its sweetest beams. Oh, Marianne! do you recollect that happy evening when first we made the vow of mutual love? We stood upon that spot, and lightly talked of many a future year---and then you sighed---but not as now you sigh, in deep despair ---'tis past, 'tis past---all past, and now no more of joy---of love---of life---of hope---remains for us---but bitter dregs---no! no! 'tis misery all---before---behind---around ---whither, oh! whither shall the wretched flee and be at rest!"---His breath seemed departing, his bosom heaved with spasmodic agitation, and it was some minutes before he was able to assure them, with a voice weak and tremulous, that he was recovering. "Heaven is our home," said Marianne," there shall we experience that plenitude of bliss we fondly, vainly looked for here."

It was

pleasing to hear the touching tones of her melodious voice thus breathing the spirit of religious consolation at a moment like this--it had the desired effect--he ceased repining,

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and whispered (it was all he could)
"Yes--there is a Providence that
rules and directs all for the best; and
to his benevolent protection I can
safely commit the dearest and most
valued of earthly beings---the taper
of life waxes short---I am faint and
He
feeble; give me your hand."
pressed it to his lips, then to his
heart. "Mother, your's too." Having
done the same with it, he placed
them in each other, and said, "My
mother, my Marianne; one of you
is about to be childless, the other
loveless: be a daughter, be a mother
to each other; and when all around
is cheerless and unpromising, and I
am no more, think of futurity, of me,.
of heaven.--where we shall all be
united to part no more. I have a
blessing for you, but it will die in
my." His voice faltered---his
lip quivered---his eye rolled carelessly
round:---the last spark of life seemed
nearly extinguished. After a short
struggle he appeared more composed,
but grew gradually weaker and
weaker. The convulsive clasp of his
hand was still the same; Marianne
pressed it to her lips, and looked up-
wards as if in spirit to implore heaven
to spare him yet a little. His fad-
ing eyes were fixed on her; she again
placed his hand to her lips and wept
he looked his gratitude and closed
his eyes---opened them, closed them
again; heaved a gentle sigh, and
then with a faint smile on his coun-
tenance, breathed his last. J. R, W.

ANECDOTE.

M. BOUDOU, an eminent French surgeon, was one day sent for by the Cardinal du Bois, prime Minister of France, to perform a very serious. operation upon him. The Cardinal, on seeing him enter the apartment, said to him, "You must not expect, Sir, to treat me in the same rough manner as you treat your poor miserable wretches at your Hospital of the Hôtel Dieu." "My Lord," replied M. Boudou, with great dignity, "every one of these miserable wretches, as your eminence is pleased to call them, is a prime minister in my eyes."

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THE DISCOVERY-THE PROGRESS- THE WRECK OF BEAUTY.

THE following pathetic incident is extracted from a volume, just published, entituled "Soine Account of the Life of the late Gilbert Earl, Esq." It will doubtless be read with considerable interest:

The author and his friend, one afternoon, were coming home from shooting, it was a very hot day, and we went to a farm-house to make interest for a draught of home-brewed. Dallas proposed it, saying, as he pointed to a substantial cottage at a little distance, that he could not only promise me a mug of admirable ale -but that he would shew me the prettiest country lass within ten miles. He had discovered them himself, he said, only a few days before, on a similar occasion-and he had brought me this way, half on purpose, that he might prosecute his acquaintance with both.

THE DISCOVERY.

It was between four and five -o'clock, and the day had been extremely hot. The sun, however, was now declining,-and as our path lay along the eastern skirt of a wood, the cool deep shade of the trees gave a refreshing and very grateful contrast to the glowing and baked appearance of the open field beyond. We walked gently along, enjoying the change for we had been out many hours. We thus approached the cottage slowly, and were partially concealed in our advance by the trees-the house standing at the extremity of the wood. As we drew nigh, I perceived a girl sitting, with her work, on the bench which is usually placed by the side of cottage doors. She was singing;-Dallas put his hand upon my arm to stop me, and said in a low voice, There she is!?

I had thus means to survey her leisurely and I confess I was surprised. I had expected to see a blowsy Country-girl, with very red cheeks, and still redder arms-whose beauty consisted in youth and freshness, and buxom make, and perhaps a bright pair of eyes. But this was a very different creature. Her form was certainly round and full-and her

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cheek shone with a healthful bloom -but she had none of the coarseness which is the usual concomitant of rustic beauty. I cannot quite say that the band which plied the needle was the whitest I have seen-(the long sleeve prevented my judging of the arm,) but the glimpse of the neck which the crossed handkerchief permitted, betrayed a texture and a colour of skin which many a fine lady might envy as she puts on her pearl necklace. [Par parenthese, nothing is so trying and true a criterion of the complexion as how it shews with pearls; and I strongly recommend no lady to wear them without the fullest certainty that they assimilate, instead of contrasting, with the skin on which they rest.] The pretty cottager seemed to possess this most delicate ingredient of female loveliness; and the fine relief which it furnished to the beautiful hair which was clustered (somewhat artistement, I thought) from beneath her cap, added greatly to that absence of ali coarseness of appearance, of which I have spoken. Her voice, too, was not what we should expect in one of her degree; -that is, her singing voice-for the sweetness of the natural organ knows no limit of birth or station, while its application to music is affected (independently of direct tuition) by a familiarity with modulated sounds scarcely attainable in humble, or at least in rustic, life. But maugre this my theory, they were certainly very sweet notes, sung in a very simple yet expressive manner, which I heard yesterday, as we stood gazing on that charming picture-a beautiful woman-made more charming, too, by her unconsciousness of our gaze. I recollect Gilbert used to say-and I always perfectly agreed with him— that painters ought to contrive means to make their studies for portraits when the objects were ignorant that they were so doing. doing. When people sit regularly for their picture, there is always a made-up look-half primness, half pertness, all want of nature; a heavy dull fixedness, or a theatrical assumption of energy or thought, equally far from the real and unstrained expression of the features. (To be continued.)

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