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soon done ; two pines, with the branch- for the purpose of encouraging idlees lopped, that only about six inch- ness in those of a man." Accordes of each remained to serve as ingly, when he wended to the presbystairs, were let into holes in the floor ; tery, which usually met in a little another was laid across for a breast town on the coast, about fifteen miles beam; the tops served as joists; the distant, he set out staff in hand, and branches as wattles; and the whole took a short cut across the mountains. being covered with turf, the gallery But he was at length cured of that was complete. The costume of the saving by a waggish brother. The people rendered some of the ascents Reverend Walter Morrison, of the and descents a little picturesque ; but adjoining parish, had the misfortune to as they were met in the kirk, and for be a wit, and thus did not thrive so religious purposes, harm and humor well, although he was by a dozen would have been equally sin. “ The years at least the older man, and had occasion” was of a different charac- the better living. But Wattie fished ter. There was a good deal of the and fiddled, while Donald bred sheep picturesque in it; but there was still and sold barley to the smugglers; and more of the sublime.

Wattie applied caustic, where Donald Though one would have thought was in the habit of administeringoil. In there were few of the elements of one thing they were alike: they both wealth about him, yet the minister walked to the presbytery ; though for waxed warm, not merely in the glen, different reasons-Donald from parsibut among his brethren in the presby- mony, and Wattie because he had no tery. His glebe was of considerable horse. The parishes were in glens that size, both in arable and in sheep- lay opposite, so that though the extrewalk, and he rented a good deal of mities were more than forty miles asunboth in addition. In the management der, the manses were not two miles; and of these farms he was imitated by they were within view of each other. many of his parishioners, and was re Wattie had a spy-glass, with which he ally the means of altering the whole used occasionally to make observaappearance of the glen. The hovels tions on the manse of Inverdonhuil. were replaced by cottages; the na One day, just as he was about to set tional grey clothes gave place to tar- out for the meeting of the presbytery, tan; a few artisans came to reside in he saw Donald leave his house, and the glen; a general shop was opened; toil up the foot-path on the hill. WatEnglish began to be spoken ; a few tie instantly posted off to the manse of religious tracts were sold and read; Inverdonhuil; acted lameness a little ; and, though not without some crying mentioned where the white horse, the of “ Shame” at this innovation, the saddle, and the bridle were ; and asminister's wife appeared at church in sured Mrs. M'Cra that her husband a cloak and bonnet of black silk. had kindly lent them to him for the

Parsimony, no doubt, aided indus- day. The evidence was too circumtry much in increasing the goods of stantial for being doubted; the horse the minister. His meals were frugal; was got, saddled, bridled, mounted, the every-day costume of all his fami- and off Wattie rode. About half way ly was homely; and though he was he overtcok his reverend brother, broilnot without his potation himself, or at ing in the heat of a day in July, which all a niggard of it to strangers, Do- is often very ardent in that district. nald Chisholm could best tell how far Wattie smiled and nodded, but, withthe procuring of that wasted his out speaking, switched the horse and

Though he had horses, and rode on. Donald was in high chafe; even after some years a saddle and a but what with the action of his limbs, bridle (which were a twelvemonth's what with the evaporation from his wonder in the glen), he used them body, it was fought down, and he began very seldom, upon the plea that “it to think of the luxury of riding home. was sinful to waste the legs of a beast When Wattie reached the village,

means.

he rode to the blacksmith, told him to jeers of the party, as to what sort of put a set of new shoes upon the mi- “lion in the path” might have delaynister of Inverdonhuil's horse, for ed his coming, while the cruel Wattie which the minister would pay; and became his crocodile defender, and, as the horse was so skittish, from after some time, invited him to the under-working, that the minister was chair, upon pretence of having a will afraid to ride him, a little exercise in to make. Donald took the bait, fora cart or harrow would be very desir- gave the tormentor in his heart, able. The blacksmith took the hint, and proposed his health to the compaand, by the time that Donald came, ny, with an eulogium upon his talents. be found his horse tugging and stum- Wattie did not return to give thanks, bling among the clods in the black- but, calling for the horse, intimated smith's field. The cup of Donald's that Mr. M.Cra would call and pay indignation was now brimming, and, for the shoeing, and so rode home. but for his holy calling, he would The minister, assured of his ride doubtless have doomed his annoyer to home, remained longer than usual ; but ruin. He strode to the church where his company getting thin, and his pathe presbytery met, but the doors tience thinner, he went for his horse, were closed. The fact is, that Wat- and found that he had to walk home, tie, who was “ moderator,” or chair- which occupied him the greater part of man for the day, had got to the village the night. two hours in advance, accelerated The doors of conciliation were, of both the business and the dinner, up- course, shut against Wattie; and, as on some plea or other, and poor Do- his health soon gave way, Mr. M‘Cra nald reaching the inn after the cloth had interest to effect the " annexation had been removed, was greeted, by of the two parishes,” which bettered Wattie and the rest, amid peals of his living, and even led to the erection sacerdotal glee, with full bumpers to the of a new kirk and manse, and the standing presbytery, preserving, like- honor of a D.D. from the Senatus wise, “ The memory of our late bro- Academicus of the King's, in which ther.” Donald, finding Wattie thron- the stipulated fee dispensed ed in office, and knowing the danger with. From this time he became a of attacking him there, fought down new man; did the state some service his anger and his appetite in gnawing in 1793 ; saw a vista opened for his at the drumsticks of that goose of sons in consequence; and when, in which he had hoped to taste the dain- the fulness of years, he was gathered tiest slice ; while he bad afterwards to to his fathers, a marble tablet on the pay his “fine,” and submit to the church wall recorded his virtues.

was

THE VISION OF TEARS.

BESIDE her death-pale daughter's bed In life's all-heaving sea.
The mourning mother stands;

Her spirit like a flower sprung up,
The day is dead-slow night bath fled In love's own light she grew ;
Yet still the mother's hands,

Filling her heart, that fragrant cup, All night and day, are lifted there

With passions pure as dew;
In many a soul-taught, silent prayer; But gifted with so high a sense,
And still the sigh of dumb despair,

Formed in such utter innocence-
Love's wild farewell—the natural knell So finely strung, so quickly wrung,

Of hopes and hours remembered well A whisper from an infant's tongue
Goes forth upon the sickened air,

Affected her with thoughts intense:
And makes the virgin-sufferer weep 'Twas rare to see, in one so young,
When most her lids seemed sealed in That deep, divine intelligence.
sleep.

And now, when death is at her side,
A delicate and graceful girl,

She grieveth less, in pain or pride,
A grown-up child was she;

To feel the cloud of sickness fall
A clear and ever tranquil pearl

Over her spirit, like a pall,

Than for the trust, the ties, that must
Dissolve upon her darkened dust.
She weeps to see her mother weep,

And sickens with her sighs;
She cannot keep her soul asleep,

Though night be in her eyes.
At length the moaning mother yields

Her grief to slumber's shadowy folds ;
And lo! along its phantom-fields

A vision she beholds.
She sees a band of beauty glide,

A troop of children fair,

With snow-eclipsing brows, and hair
In heaven's first sunshine dyed.
In each uplifted white hand shows

A torch, whose flame is purer far

Than ever fell from sun or star;
"Tis Life, without its veil of woes;
The Mind that brightens with our birth,
The innate heaven of human earth.

If as a sign those torches shine,
The light within us is divine.

The mother's eye hath found,
Among those angel-children, one,
Her own—the death-dim child of sun.

She comes with wild buds crowned,

And every unnamed Aower

That courts the crystal shower.

Along the golden ground,
That seemeth not by footstep pressed,

With many a seraph-sound
She moves more radiant than the rest.

And side by side together glide
The Mother and her Pride.

But lo! the flame so bright before,
The spirit-fire her fair child bore,
It burneth in the sighing air
A trembling token of despair.
" Ah! see, my lovely child, behold,
Thy light, thy life, is quenched and cold;
The other torches bear no blot

But thine-it beameth not !
Some wind hath touched its holy flame,
Some dew that from the desart came.
Where nothing seems designed to fade,
Why walk'st thou in the shade ?"
Strange light is in the maiden's eyes,

Sad music in ber tone.
" Alas !" the virgin-victim cries,

“ The shade by thee is thrown!
Thy tears, my mother, how they fall

In glee or grief the same;
Oh! weep them, mother, on my pall;

Those tears have dimmed my fame.
Each still and solemn shower-each sigh
Hath doomed my dazzling hope to die.
These life-like fires that round thee shine
Are sudden, sacred things; but mine,
Oh! mine was formed so sensitive,
That whilst you weep it cannot live !"
The mother hears the Voice, and wakes.
The bright forms fade, the vision breaks ;
But, like a bird, each breathing word
Held music which her heart hath heard.
She finds that oft our life depends
Even on the tone, the glance of friends.
She tends her child without a sigh;
She watches, and her eyes are dry.

THE WINTER CRUISE.

A custom exists among the smug are the property of individuals who glers and fishermen, in the towns and have realized considerable sums in villages on the Kentish coast, of en- these speculations, and a fortune is gaging with shipowners residing there frequently embarked in one vessel. for the perilous adventures of a cruise The smuggler looks forward to the to effect the landing of contraband success of these adventures with sangoods on some distant shore. Ireland guine hopes and a beating heart; and, is chiefly the course these expeditions while lamenting over past favors, prays are bound for; and many a smuggler's for future good luck, which, if but wife, while listening to the dashing of moderate, makes him comfortable for the rough waves on the shore of her life. During the absence of the men, home, and the loud winds blowing their wives are allowed by the proharmlessly over the roof of her dwell- prietors of the vessels a weekly stiing, bas breathed a prayer that the pend, sufficient for their maintenance; same storm may be landing her hus- but, on the arrival of disastrous news, band's cargo in safety on some un the payments are discontinued. Maguarded beach, or filling the sheets ny a hard hand has been softened by of his good ship in eluding the pursuit the tears mutually shed at the deof a revenue-cutter. These outfits partures for the Winter Cruise ; and are invariably made on the approach many a young wife has seen all that of November, and are denominated she loved launched on the ocean, to “ The Winter Cruise.” The vessels sleep in its bosom forever.

A mo

ther, while bestowing her best wishes “in that very hollow of the fire, I can for a son's success, and endeavoring almost fancy I see my James on the to smile away her apprehensions of deck of the Mary, looking through bis what might befal, has looked upon glass to catch a glimpse of some dishim for the last time; he has depart- tant sail. Ah! now it has fallen in, ed-hoping much, fearing little-ne- and all looks like a rough sea.-Poor ver more to be seen or heard of. fellow !” This was spoken in that

Folkstone, the scene of this tale, abstracted tone of voice, that monotois only relieved by the hereditary nous sound of melancholy, where good-nature of the inhabitants from a every word is given in one note, as if prevailing melancholy which every the speaker had not the spirit, or even where presents itself, as bereaved the wish, to vary the sound. mothers are pointed out to you, and “ That's what I so repeatedly tell widowed homes marked in every you of,” said a fat old woman of the street.

group; " you will have no other It was late one night in the month thought ; morning and night hear but of January, when the flower of the the same cry from you.

Look at me young men of Folkstone were absent -is'n't it fifteen years ago, since my on the Winter Cruise, that four wo- William, rest his soul, was shot dead men were seated round a sea-coal while running his boat ashore on fire, listening to the heavy rain falling Romney Marsh ? and am I any the in the street, and the scolding wind worse for it? I loved him dearly ; as it echoed and rumbled in the chim- and when I was told of the bad news, ney of the warm fire-place. One of I did nothing but cry for whole days ; the party-from her occupying the but then it was soon over-I knew low-seated, patchwork-covered chair, that fretting would'n't set him on his and the peculiar attention paid to her legs again ; so I made the best of a by an indolent cat, who stretched, and bad berth, and thought, if I should purred, and quivered her nervous tail, have another husband, all well and wbile peering sleepily in her protec- good ; if not,—why I must live and tor's face-appeared to be the mistress die Widow Major-and there was an of the house. She was a young wo- end of it.” man, about five-and-twenty, with all “Ah! neighbor,” replied the young the happy prettiness of a country woman, “ you knew the fate of your beauty-albeit an indulged grief had husband-you were acquainted with thrown a pale tinge over the clear red the worst-you had not to live in the that still shone in her cheek, as if cruel suspense I endure ; but if I knew struggling for mastery with an intrud- that he was dead”—(and her voice ing enemy. Her features, though grew louder, while the blood rushed somewhat irregular; if but carelessly into her fair cheek)—“ I should think viewed, failed not to secure the be- of him as much as I do now, and holder's stedfast observance, from the would think and think, and try to peculiar interest which a full blue eye bring thoughts every day heavier on and light arched brow lent to the my heart, till it sunk into the grave.” contour. She was resting her face This burst of affection for her husupon her hand, and looking at the red band was amen’d with a loud laugh coals in the stove before her ;-theby a young, black-eyed, round-faced others seemed to have just concluded girl, sitting in the opposite corner, a bit of country scandal, or the suc- who, leaning over to the speaker, laycess of the sale of a secreted tub of ing one hand on her knee, and looking hollands, from the pursing-up of their archly in her face, chuckled out lips, and the satisfaction with which “ Come, come! she sha'nt take on each appeared to lean back in her so; if her first husband is gone, Susan chair.

shall have a second to comfort her.” “ There,” said the young woman, A second husband, Anne !-No!

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no second husband for me. I could her brow. She trembled from head never wake in the morning, and look to foot-her companions stood like on a face sleeping on the pillow beside statues—the lock flew back, the door me, where had rested the head of one opened-nothing was seen but the I had loved, and who was dead. No black night, and the large drops of -I was asked three times in church, rain which sparkled in the beams of and married to him lawfully; and I the ca on the table. There is am certain that, when a couple are no one,” said she, panting for breath; once joined in marriage and in true “ but, as I stand here a living woman, love—their only separation is in death; 'twas his voice.- James ! James !" and that is but for a time—they will she cried, and put out her head to hereafter meet, and never, never part listen. She heard quick, heavy footagain.”—And then she looked up with steps hastily advancing at the end of her sweet blue eyes, and heaved such the street : presently a party of six or a sigh, and smiled such a smile, that seven blockade-men rushed by the proved to her gossips how confirmed door, dashing the wet from the pavewas her innocent belief.

ment in Susan's face. They passed “ How fast it rains !” ejaculated a with no other sound than that made shrivelled old woman, who had hither- by their feet, and were quickly out to remained silent. - How fast it of hearing. rains !"--and she drew her chair

“I wish I may die,” said old Marcloser to the fire. “ It was just such gery, “but the blockade-men are a night as this when— What's chasing some poor fellow who has that-the wind ? Ah! 'tis a rough been obliged to drop his tubs ; for I night ; I suppose it must be near ele- saw the blade of a cutlass flash in my ven o'clock.–Now, I'll tell you a eyes, though I couldn't see the band story that shall make you cold as that held it.” stones, though you crowd ever

My bonnet! my bonnet !" cried close to this blazing fire. It was just Susan; “ there has more befallen this such a night as this —

night than any here can tell. 'Twas “Gracious Heaven !” cried Susan, his voice-stay in the house till I “I hear a footfall coming down the come back, 'twas his voice !"-and street so like that which I knew so she ran out through the still driving well, -listen !—No, all is silent.- rain, in the direction of the party that Well, Margery, what were you going had just passed. They took the street to tell us ?”

that led to the cliffs ; not a light was “ Eh ! bless us !" replied Margery, to be seen-lamps in a smuggling town “you tremble terrible bad, surely ; being considered a very obnoxious what's the matter ?”

accommodation ; and, though there “Nothing-nothing, dame,-go on.” may be a rate for watching, the inha.

“Well,” said the old woman, “it bitants take especial care there shall was just such a night as this

be none for lighting, inasmuch as a “ Susan !” cried a voice at the lamplighter never yet breathed the door, in that tone which implies haste, air of Folkstone. Susan reached the and a fear of being heard—“ Susan ! cliffs ; the wind blew fresh and strong open the door.

off the sea, and the rain appeared “Good God !” shrieked Susan, abating. She thought she saw figures “ that voice !”—and all the women descend the heights; and quickening rose at one moment, and stood staring her pace, stood on the edge, straining at the door, which Susan was unlock- her sight to distinguish the objects ing. “ The key won't turn the lock, flitting to and fro on the beach. She 'tis rusty ;-who's there ?" she breath- heard a faint « balloo !”—the sound lessly exclaimed, as in the agony of thrilled through every nerve-it was suspense she tried to turn the key, the voice she had heard at her door. while the big drops stood quivering on She returned the salute; but the bus

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