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he too had resolved steadfastly to observe the same forbearance. But though Julia could be so self-denied, she was not the less inwardly racked, as she reflected on her own unhappy rashness. Her father's murder was a dreadful aggravation to her distress, which was still farther heightened by the harsh treatment of her husband, Stewart, who was conscious, probably, that his wife had never loved him. The loss of her first-born boy, who was, unhappily, drowned in a well, brought the terrible consummation. Poor Julia went mad, and night after night (for her brutal husband cared little for her) she might be seen, when the image of the full moon was shining down in the bottom of the well, sitting on its bank, and inviting passengers to come and see her little white boy swimming in the water. From week to week she grew more violent in her insanity, and after many years of woful alienation, she ended her days in that very cell where Antonio Marli had once lain.

A few days after the second burial of Antonio Marli, Frederick Hume went to London. There he found means of being present at a ball to see the great Nelson, who was that year in this country. It was most glorious to see the swan-like necks and the deep bosoms of England's proudest beauties bending towards him, round about, when he entered—that man with his thin weatherworn aspect. And never did England's beauties look so proudly, as when, thus hanging like jewels of his triumph around their manly and chivalrous sailor, who had given his best blood to the green sea for his country. He, too, felt his fame, for the pale lines of his face, as if charged with electricity, were up and trembling, as in the day of his enthusiastic battle.

At sight of this unparalleled man, Frederick was struck to the heart. He bethought him how much more noble it was, since his life was now of little value to him, to lose it for his country, than waste it away in selfish unhappiness. Accordingly, our Doctor gave up his more peaceful profession, and with the consent, and by the assistance of his patroness, Mrs Mather, he entered the navy. In his very first engagement he found the death which he did all but court, and his body went down into the deep sea for a grave.

Thomas Aird,


An old writer* mentions a curious tradition which may be worth quoting. "By east the Isle of May," says he, "twelve miles from all land in the German seas- I yes a great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very dangerous for navigators, I *cause it is overflowed everie tide. It Is reported in old times, upon the saide rocke there was a bell, fixed upon a tree or timber, which rang continually- being moved by the sea, giving notice to the saylers of the danger. This bell or clocke was put there and maintained by the Abbot of Aberbrothok, anil being taken down by a sea pirate, a yeare thereafter he perished ul'on (he same rocke, with ship and goodes. In the righteous judgement of (iod."—Stoddart-* Remark, on Scotland.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,The ship was still as she could be; And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape Float.Her sails from heaven received no motion, Her keel was steady in the ocean. Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound,

The bubbles rose and burst around i [ liock Without either sign or sound of their shock Quoth Sir Ralph, " the next who comes to theThe waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock; Wo'u'l bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok,"So little they rose so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell. Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away.

He scour'd the seas for many a day; The Abbot of Aberbrothok And now grown rich, with plunder'd store,Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; He steers his course for Scotland's shore.On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung. And over the waves its warning rung. So thick s haae o'erspreads the sky

They cannot see the sun on high; When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, The wind hath blown a gale all day, The mariners heard the warning bell; At evening it hath died away.And then they knew the perilous rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. On the deck the Rover takes his stand,

No dark it is they see no land. The sun in heaven was shining gay, Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon.

All things were joyful on that day; For there is the dawn of the rising Moon."

The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round.

And there was joyaunce in their sound. "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers ton?

For methinks we should be near the shore." The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen "Now, where we are I cannot tell, A darker speck on the ocean green; But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell."

Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,

And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck. They hear no sound, the swell is strong;Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
He felt the cheering power of spring, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering ihevk,—

It made him whistle, it made him sing; "Oh Christ i it is the Inchcape Rati."
His heart was mirthful to excess.

But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair;
Hiseye was on the Inchcape Float; The waves rush in on every side,

Quoth he, '- My men, putout the boat. The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,

And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." But even in his dying fear One dreadful sound could the Rover heir,
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, A sound as if, with the Inchcape Hell,

And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 1he Devil below was ringing his knell.

Kohekt >OUTIIBY.

* See a Brief Description of Scotland, etc. hy J. M., Ib33.

Edward Stanlev was a gentleman of good family, and liberal education, and held an official situation of considerable trust, and proportionate emolument. He was married, very early in life, to a lady, in the choice of whom he was guided rather by her personal attractions, than a regard to similarity of taste and congeniality of disposition. He devoted much of his time to the cultivation of the belles lettres, and delighted in the society of men of learning and genius, many of the most distinguished of which class were frequent guests at his table. His lady, on the other hand, was the daughter of persons of humble origin, who, from successful speculations, had risen suddenly into comparative wealth, by means of which they were enabled to give her an education at one of the fashionable finishing-schools, where, with the tinsel accomplishments of the day, she acquired notions as much at variance with common sense and proper feeling, as they were unfitted for the society in which she had been accustomed to move. As one of a large family, she brought her husband a very moderate fortune: she knew, however, that his income was ample, and resolved to make it subservient to the taste for expense and display which her education had engendered, and which Mr Stanley, who loved her affectionately, was too weakly indulgent to oppose.

They had one daughter, their only child, of whom her fatherwas both fond and proud. Her mother, also, loved her, but she loved pleasure more, and, consequently, resigned her offspring to the care of menials in her infancy, and, subsequently committed her education to a governess. The latter, however, was a young woman of piety, as well as ability, whose endeavours were not less strenuously applied to regulate the heart, than to improve the understanding of her pupil. Mrs Stanley was too much absorbed by the business of fashionable life to afford the time, if she had cherished a wish, to interfere with the system of instruction adopted in the case of her daughter, who was, on the other hand, preserved from the taint of her mother's example, by the latter's reluctance to "bring her out," and, thereby, introduce into her circle a rival claimant for that admiration which she was still eager to attract

Much, however, as Mrs Stanley's vanity was gratified by the notice which her splendid parties procured her, it was occasionally subjected to severe mortifications, and she was often painfully reminded of the humble sphere in which she and her parents had

* From the Second Series of ' Tales of a Physician.' By W. H. Harrison. previously moved. Among her relations, there was one who happened to be a tailor, and who, to her inconceivable horror, had the undisputed honour of being her first cousin, and bearing the family name. Had he kept a chandler's shop, he might have been designated a provision merchant; or, if a cheesemonger, he might have been described by the style and title of a bacon factor; but a tailor is a tailor, all the world over, and there is no synonyme in our vocabulary by which to dignify the calling.

Her dread of being associated, in any shape, with this industrious member of a most useful trade, was said to have exhibited itself in the most ridiculous extremes. A table vegetable, vulgarly supposed to be symbolical of the sartorial art, was never admitted at the banquet, lest its presence should give rise to an unuttered sarcasm, or a mental sneer, among her fashionable guests. Nay, it was even insinuated, that no other reason could be assigned for the stopping up of a side window in the house, than the fact of its commanding a view of a certain cutler's, who, by way of a sign, had adopted a Patagonian pair of shears, which spanned his door posts, like a Colossus.

But Cousin Tomkins, the tailor, was as little ambitious of contact with his fair and proud relative, as she could be of his connexion. He was a sturdy and independent spirited man, who had too much good sense to be ashamed of a calling, by which he was not only gaining a livelihood, but accumulating wealth. He was, moreover, better informed than the generality of his caste, for he had studied other pages than his pattern book, and, above all, was well read in that volume, compared with which the wisdom of the most subtle philosophy that ever dazzled the world is foolishness and vanity. Never, but on a single occasion, and that an urgent one of a family nature, did Tomkins intrude himself on the presence of his fashionable cousin- whose contemptuous civility supplied him with little inducement to repeat the visit. Stung by the sense of treatment, from which common decency, if not his relationship, should have protected him, he was hurrying back through the lacquey-lined hall, when his progress was arrested by a fairhaired, blue-eyed girl, of about six years old, who, looking up in his face with an innocent smile, accosted him by the appellation of cousin, and, thrusting a little bunch of violets into his hand, dismissed him at the door with a laughing "good-bye." It was little Clara Stanley, whom some of the servants, probably in sport, had informed of the visitor's relationship, and whose mother took occasion, on being told of the circumstance, severely to reprehend, for the familiarity of which she had been guilty. Children, however, are sorry casuists, and Mrs Stanley's eloquence utterly failed in convincing Clara that there was less impropriety in romping with her cousin the guardsman, than in shaking hands with cousin Tomkins, the tailor. Tomkins, on his part, was much affected by the child's behaviour, and, on his return home, he placed the little bunch of faded violets between the leaves of his Bible, alleging that he should daily be reminded of the incident, and learn to forgive the unkindness of the parent, for the sake of the innocence of the child.

But time passed on: the girl began to grow into the woman, and the work of education drew to a close. Her preceptress, however, in resigning her charge, had the consolation of feeling that, though the temptations, to which her pupil was about to be exposed, were many and strong, she was provided with panoply of proof against their power, in the humility of her mind, and her dependance upon God. Her taste, moreover, had not been corrupted into a relish for the dissipations of fashionable life. An authority, to which her piety, as well as filial affection, taught her to yield obedience, forced her occasionally into the ball-room; but, as love of display had never a place in her bosom, the scene had little charms for her, and she had discrimination enough to perceive that it was not, even to those who most frequented and most lauded it, the elysium which they would have it be accounted. To a few, the assembly may be, and doubtless is, a scene, if not of refined, yet of innocent enjoyment; but is it a scene of happiness, I ask, to the lover, who, like a moth flitting around the lamp, hovers about the goddess of his idolatry, only to see her coveted smiles lavished upon another, and to behold the easy profligate and the shallow coxcomb preferred before him? Is it a scene of happiness to the fading beauty, when she finds the spell of her attraction broken; or to the pining girl, who beholds the homage, which she had deemed exclusively and securely her own, heartlessly transferred to some triumphant rival? Is it a scene of happiness to the manceuvring mother, who, when she has flown her daughters at herons of the highest soar, beholds them stoop to inferior game, and strike at the wrong bird? Oh, no! we can see the smile which mantles on the cheek of the revellers, but we cannot see the envy, the rancour, the jealousy, and the disappointment, which lurk beneath, and change the cup of pleasure into bitterness and poison!

Averse, however, as she was from the dissipations of high life, she was no stranger to the enjoyment arising from the cultivation of the polite arts. Her harp, her pencil, and her books, were the sources on which she drew for recreation; nor, ardent as was her piety, did she, in the gloomy spirit of fanaticism, deem the chords which were so often struck to the praises of her God, profaned by

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