Cathleen's suspicions were aroused, and she, would playfully insist upon having her own way; and, like most women, generally got it in the end. She used frequently to say that their kind care and attention made her feel like a little queen; for she had but to wish, and one or the other flew to gratify it. To the mere casual observer there was little difference in her manner towards them; but Cathleen was no coquette, and her simple and guileless heart betrayed in a thousand ways the broad line of demarcation that existed between her lover and his friendlittle trivial records, of which the world takes no cognizance. An instance of this occurred during one of their evening walks, which we will relate by way of illustration. Cathleen's quick glance had noticed upon the high cliffs above them a tuft of bright crimson flowers, of singular beauty, and unlike any they were accustomed to meet with, and the next moment Dugald was bounding among the rocks in search of it, like a young antelope. Cathleen looked at Willie and smiled. "How kind he is," said she, softly. "Ah, you may well say that. Now he has them, and is waving them towards you. But the cliff trembles beneath his weight! Dugald ! Dugald! He does not hear our cries." "God preserve him!" exclaimed Cathleen, and she grew giddy and shaded her eyes with her hand. But Dugald was aware of his danger, and springing lightly aside, stood a few moments afterwards safe and breathless before them. The friends grasped each other's hands in silence, and there was a tear on Cathleen's bright cheek as she took the proffered flowers. "How beautiful! But they had well nigh been too dearly purchased." "That would be impossible if you are pleased with them." "Ah! you spoil me, you and Willie," said the girl. Presently, as they walked on, her lover stooped down and gathered a handful of wild forget-menots, which he gave to Cathleen, who kissed and placed them in her bosom; and afterwards, when as they talked earnestly together, the crimson flowers, which had cost so much of hazard, were involuntarily pulled to pieces and destroyed; those blue forget-me-nots, hallowed by a word and smile, remained carefully preserved. Dugald sighed as he noticed all this. Cathleen laughed, although she was vexed at her own thoughtlessness. And Willie, when he would have scolded, kissed her instead. About this time the latter began to complain of a difficulty in ascending their favourite cliffs, attended with a shortness of breath, painful and distressing in the extreme. And what was the more extraordinary, Dugald declared that he experienced the very same feeling, but had hitherto endeavoured to conceal it as much as possible, through fear of throwing any obstacle in the way of their usual enjoyment; and it was finally resolved that their walks should be in future confined to level ground. But a fresh source of uneasiness soon arose for poor Cathleen, as she listened to her lover's deep, hollow cough, and strove in vain to conceal from herself that he was rapidly fading away, day by day. When she would have spoken to Dugald about it, his own attenuated form and hectic cheek forbid the communication; and she was frequently puzzled, when they were together, to know from which that cough proceeded, so alike in its warning tones. At her earnest suggestion, one of the first physicians in Cromarty was consulted, and pronounced the young men to be both labouring under the unmistakeable symptoms of a rapid and cureless consumption. Cathleen listened to him like one stricken down by some sudden blow, while the friends threw themselves into each other's arms and wept. 66 "But for her," said Willie, pointing to his betrothed, as she stood with clasped hands, motionless in her deep despair, but for her, I should not mind it so very much." "How often," observed Dugald, “have we prayed never to survive each other!" "But Cathleen, I had not met Cathleen then. We are very young to die!" "It is God's will, my friend.” 66 Ah, if we could but take her with us!" Yes, take me with you!" exclaimed the frantic girl, clinging wildly to her lover. "Oh, if I might but give my life for his!" murmured Dugald, as he gazed upon them. After the first outburst of her wild grief, Cathleen was careful to repress her own feelings, lest she should unnecessarily agitate those of Willie and his friend. It was a sad trial, and God alone could give her strength to bear it as she did. For a long time the progress of this fatal disease seemed pretty much the same in both, and the invalids were enabled to cheer one another with much sweet and affectionate converse, as they spoke of past happiness and future glory, through the merits of their Redeemer; but, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, Willie's heart and thoughts would keep clinging to earth, as indeed it was but natural they should. And Dugald, in his unselfish affection, soon began to wish and pray with him, that he might be spared to comfort poor Cathleen. The doctor gave them no hopes of the remotest possibility of such an event. But then, as Dugald said, nothing is impossible to God! Poor Willie, his heart was sadly divided, and struggled hard against the doom that awaited him. It was the will of God that, of the two friends, Dugald should be the first taken; and he died calmly and peacefully one summer evening, just at that sunset hour which he had ever enjoyed sofmuch while living. Willie stood like a shadow by his bedside, wiping away the death-damps from that pale brow with his own trembling hands, and whispering soothingly of a speedy meeting in that happy land where there are no partings and no tears. Even Cathleen seemed forgotten in the first shock of this terrible bereavement, the effects of which upon his feeble frame rendered it probable that the friends would not be long separated. The dying man smiled up in Willie's face as he bent over him, but his dim glance still wandered round as if in search of some one else. "Cathleen," said he, and the girl hushed her wild sobs, and was by his side in a moment. "Cathleen, one kiss, the first and last. So, that is well-that is happiness indeed! My sister, I have prayed that you may not be left desolate, that Willie may be spared; pray you also, and trust in God!" His eyes closed, his hands relaxed their feeble grasp, his head drooped upon the bosom of his friend-his first and dearest friend, and then both fell back pale and senseless together; but Willie had only fainted. Dugald was dead! So powerful were the effects of the agitating scene we have attempted to describe, upon the survivor, that for hours afterwards it was fully expected every moment would be his last. Even Cathleen abandoned all hope, and forgetting the parting injunctions of her lost friend and brother, gave herself up to the wildest extremes of grief and despair. Nay, she was even jealous of Willie's tender affection for him, and tempted to question, in her agony, whether he were not even dearer than herself. Upon the day of the funeral Willie rallied sufficiently to be able to attend the corpse of his deceased companion to the grave; which he did with tottering steps, and pale, shadowy form, looking more like a spirit than a living and breathing man; so that many thought he was most to be pitied of the two, feeling a melancholy assurance that the time was not far distant when the like kind office would be required for himself. It is a sad thing, that burying away the dead out of our sight, together with the strange, utter loneliness which follows, even though we know they are but gone before us into rest, and flesh and blood strive against it in vain. Willie, upon his return, went straight to his own chamber, and having locked the door, sank down weak and worn out with excitement and fatigue, insensible upon the ground. How long he remained thus he knew not; but it was night when he again unclosed his eyes. Cathleen had been several times in the interim, to listen if all was quiet, and concluding from his silence that he slept, stole back again with a thankful heart to communicate the good news to those who watched below. And now the sick man rose up feebly, and sought his couch in reality; and flinging himself on it, dressed as he was, actually fell at length into a restless and broken slumber, haunted by the events of the day. Horrible visions of open graves, and coffins, all bearing one and the same name and date; of mouldering skeletons that stirred, and beckoned to him as he gazed, followed each other in rapid succession; while the damps of agony and despair stood upon his pale brow like beads; and he clenched his hands and tried to cry out in his fearful trance, but had no power, his parched tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. Gradually, however, a change came over these terrible revelations; he grew calmer, and ceased to toss and moan in his troubled sleep. He was walking, in his dreams, by the sea shore, on a clear summer day, when all of a sudden a low, familiar voice, the voice of his deceased companion, fell distinctly upon his ear; but on turning hastily round, nothing was to be seen; and while he still wondered within himself it spoke once again. "Go on, dear Willie, and fear not; I will meet you at Stormy!" This is a rock in the neighbourhood of Fiddler's Well, so called from the violence with which the sea beats against it when the wind blows strongly from the east. In obedience to the injunction, the dreamer walked on to the place of meeting, but finding no one there, sat down on a bank to await his coming, as though it were a thing of course; but presently recollecting all at once that he was dead, and would never come again, he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears. At this moment a large field-bee came humming from the west, and began to fly round and round his head. And when he raised his hand in impatient irritation to brush it away, it only widened its circle, and then came singing into his ear as before. A second time did Willie attempt to scare away the intruder, but no, the bee was not so easily got rid of; but still kept up its ceaseless humming round and round him, and it sounded like the murmur of far off music; after a time fashioning itself into words, and once more that familiar voice fell lovingly on his ears. "Dig Willie,” it said. "Dig, dear Willie, and drink, and live!" The sleeper felt involuntarily compelled to obey, and had no sooner torn a sod out of the bank, than a spring of clear water gushed from the hollow, sparkling upwards in the bright sunlight. 66 Drink," said the voice again, "Drink, dear Willie, and live!" And now the bee took a wider flight, and a sweeter and more triumphant song, until it was finally lost to view in the blue sky above. Willie gazed after it with a wild, vain longing; while even as he looked the dream faded slowly away, and instead of the green, flowery bank, he found himself resting quietly on his bed, with the early sunlight peeping into the casement, as if curious to know how he found himself after his night's sleep. On the following morning, Cathleen was agreeably surprised to find him so calm and composed, and that he should even propose a walk, and, as he had now reached that fatal crisis when human help is vain, and the fearful mandate has been given forth, "let him do as he will," she immediately complied with his request. "Let us go to the Stormy," said Willie. "Is it not too far for you, dearest?" "No, Cathleen, I think not. At any rate we must try." 66 They walked on in silence, for he was in much pain, and breathed with difficulty, being frequently obliged to pause as they passed along the green pathway which goes winding over rock and stone, by the edge of a range of low-browed precipices, till it reaches a bank, covered with moss and wild flowers, upon which they sat down to rest. "Cathleen," exclaimed her lover, abruptly, while his pale face seemed lighted up with a strange radiance. "Do you believe in dreams?" "Yes, certainly. I think God often sends them for good and wise purposes-or in warning.” 'Or blessing-listen, and I will tell you mine." The girl bent eagerly towards him, and when he had finished speaking, knelt down in all prayer and faith, but with trembling fingers that could but ill perform their task, and having succeeded with his assistance, in loosening and pulling out a sod from the bank, a spring of clear, bright water gushed joyously forth as if glad to be released from its dark prison-house, and went bounding and sparkling down the bank, like molten silver, while the lovers knelt down hand in hand, and poured out their full hearts in prayerful thanksgiving. And a large field-bee which had been resting all the time unperceived among the flowers, flew upwards with a merry hum. "Drink, Willie;" and now it was Cathleen's voice that sounded in his ear. "Drink, dear Willie, and live!" The young man drank eagerly, he laved his hot brow in the cooling waters, and blessed them and God. The following day, exhausted by fatigue and excitement, Willie was totally unable to reach so far as Stormy; but at his earnest request, in which Cathleen joined, the kind neighbours bore him thither in their arms. It is said that from that time the disease began slowly and surely to pass away, so that he was soon strong enough to walk there every morning without assistance, and drink of the healing water in joy and thankfulness, and in the end was completely cured. The Stormy must, we should think, have been a hallowed spot to Willie and his young wife, ever after; and we can fancy the field-bee nestling among the moss, and listening with a pleased hum while they spoke lovingly of the lost Dugald, and the strange events that had come to pass since then. Such is the legend told to this day in the parish of Cromarty, of the Fiddler's Well; which still remains famed for the marvellous cures effected by its charmed waters: which, after all, are not so very much to be wondered at, when we take into consideration that it must be always drank in the morning, as it gushes forth from out of the bank, the pure air, exercise, and early rising, forming no doubt powerful auxiliaries in most cases. As for the legend itself, we are by no means prepared to dismiss it in the same philosophical manner; but love rather, as it has been beautifully said by one of our best modern poets, "to keep clear from the startling improvements of modern innovation, a tiny corner in our minds, sacred to a belief in the most fanciful conceptions of old-world superstition." Like Cathleen, we have a sweet faith in dreamsand a still deeper in Him, "whose ways are not as our ways," and whose name is "WONDER| FUL." AN OLD MANSION. BY CHARLES SWAIN, ESQ. (Author of "The Mind," &c.) There is a mansion sad and lone, Low roof'd and desolate and cold; Where, 'mid tall grass and rank weed thrown, Flits many a shadow thin and old! No casement in the house is found, Nor door, nor gate, to reach the spot; The morning air, which sighs around Its love-lost sweets, can enter not! The mossed and matted gravel shows The inmates of that mansion rest. Still day by day, and year by year, The mansion, inch by inch, decays; The only guests that venture here Are morning dews and evening rays. And all, as Nature were a dream, Moments monotonous waste on, The weary rippling of a stream That sobs and weeps till all is gone! Yet sadly as the moments creep, And wildly as the streams complain, And darkly as the inmates sleep, There's One shall bid them rise again. And though no door, nor casement near, An entrance to their rest supplies, Eternal light shall yet appearA light to bid the sleepers rise! THE EMPTY SEAT. BY WM. JAMES ROBSON. "La Vertu, qui jette un si doux parfum dans la memoire des hommes ne meurt jamais.” FENELON. "No room," said the coachman, who understood the mute appeal; "no room, my fine fellow!-no room!" casting, at the same time, a glance of inquiry at the smart cits. who were leisurely smoking their cigars behind him. "Stand out of the sunlight," growled Diogenes | vacant place as though he envied gentility the from his tub; and the subduer of Greece-the right of filling it. future conqueror of Asia-obeyed, observing that, "were he not Alexander, he would be Diogenes." The speech betrayed the man, gave up to light the cynical heart of him who looked upon Alexander yet as an obscurer of the light of heaven; yet the sullen request of the philosopher shewed as much weakness, and as much pride lodging in his bosom, as did he whom he scorned when he would have been worshipped as a god at Babylon; and though I abhor conquerors, yet the king of Macedon, with all his faults, was far worthier of admiration than the carping, discontented cynic. "Are you in the coal trade, sir?" I am truly unfortunate in the commencements of my paper, over which woman's lovely eye is to wander, and upon which woman's soft and kindly spirit may rest, conferring upon it for the time, both worth and merit, as does the moon's chaste beam light up to splendour the dead, starving branch of some old, decayed king of the forest. "Are you in the coal trade, sir?" Pardon me, fair creatures, and pardon him who uttered the question; for it was put, in all simplicity of spirit, with all innocence of heart, and by one who imagined that to be a vendor of carbon was the height of human happiness-the hill-top of human ambition. Curious, how excellence is measured differently by different minds. Curious, how our ideas of greatness and honour cling to that which furnishes us with daily hopes and with daily bread; that which appears most excellent in the eyes of one man is beneath the contempt of another everything under the light of heaven admits of different aspects, and we should so govern our hearts as not too rashly to draw conclusions from the words and actions of others, and weigh them well in the balance ere we decide that they are wanting." * The omnibus was full inside, and there was but one "empty seat" out: standing on the footpath was a coal-heaver-dirty he truly was, his clothes were not over new, and age had certainly something to do with a few grey hairs that were falling over his forehead; he eyed the "No, no-no room," said a short, punchy figure, with a vile mouth, who was sitting beside me. "No room," drawled out an over-dressed clerk. "No room," echoed every one; and so it was agreed there was no room. They loved not the touch of poverty-'twas the poor fellow's heinous sin; and how dare he, guilty as he was, think of taking his place side by side with the spotless ones-the children of Gold? "I poveri sono vostri amici, fratelli ed anche commensali," writes the elegant Ganganelli. Yes, in the dark corners of the earth, but not in the market-place-in a night cellar, but not on an nibus. Wealth draws a chalk line on the highway of life, and Poverty may not step across it! "It's a long way to walk, gemmen, and its wery late," urged the suppliant; a dog holding an old hat for a halfpenny might have been caressed. "Can't help that, sooty, you should have started before," observed the dandy; laughing at his own brutal vulgarity. 66 The man was beaten-beaten to the dust. Pity," thought I, "that there is not a kindlier spirit beneath that gaudy vest; but who expects a sweet song from the peacock?" "God bless ye, gemmen, I sha'nt dirt ye—it's only coal; and I'm quite honest." Honest, forsooth! I was quite aghast; I could have laughed outright at the fellow's impudence: who ever saw honesty in rags?who ever heard of worth in the heart of poverty? at the same time, with a knowing hand, across "No room," repeated coachy, laying his whip his wearied beasts. The man looked up at the empty seat, and could he have been blamed, had he cursed in his heart that pride which compelled him, old and tired, to walk, while those who were young and healthful rode in slothful ease? He looked up, shook his head, gazed for an instant wistfully upon the sweet moon that was struggling to free herself from the dark clouds that hung around, well as nobility its pride of birth; and I will not her. Poor fellow! what were his thoughts then? affront humanity by demanding which is the Did he think that she, in all her soft beauty, better, both in the eye of God and of his creamight have melted hearts into sympathy?-or tures; and I would not have exchanged that did he wonder whether pride and harshness grateful emotion which swelled the poor fellow's found room in a place so lovely? Poor soul! heart when he said he was honest; that conour earth is not a whit less beautiful amid the scious uprightness which lightened his bosom, gems of heaven, for all the wicked deeds and for all the haughty pride that lurks like a decruel hearts that are acted and that beat upon it! ceiving angel in the thoughts of the long of He looked upon the moon, turned his head to lineage. the ground, and sighed, as he said—" Well, gemmen, I wont come a-nigh ye; I'll crawl home as best I may." "No, by heavens!" uttered I. "Tis ridiculous to play the Quixote in these iron, I beg their pardon, golden days; but the Don was a gentleman, and surely, after all, 'tis no shame to break a lance in his name; so I pressed more closely to my companion, and bade the man mount by my side; he touched his hat to me ere he did so; it was not cringingly done, but thankfully, and I felt myself his debtor for it. The omnibus started, and for some time my companion remained silent; at length, turning to me, he said, "I shan't dirt ye, young man.' "And what if you do?" returned I; " 'twill brush off. I shall be none the worse for borrowing a little from the jacket of honesty." "No, no; to be sure not, sir. If it won't be asking too great a liberty, are you in the coal trade, sir?" 66 "Faith, my friend, I have not that honour." "Well, I thought you was, sir, 'cause you said you did not mind me a dirting your coat." Jugez des hommes par leurs actions, et non par leurs discours." I had no alternative; I could judge of this man but by his words, and I looked upon him with reverence. Who could have imagined that aught but black ideas could have lodged beneath a sooty jacket? Who could have dreamed of goodness ever struggling through so vile a covering? And yet, upon this man's humble stage of life I'd warrant were performed as many good actions as in the palaces of kings. His observations to me were natural and rational; they were truthful deductions drawn from correct premises; his horizon of perfection was very limited, and it hemmed in but a little world of his own; and those who employed him and supplied his few humble wants, were the brightest and highest creatures in it. I had paid him a little act of kindness, no wonder he thought me one of his elect; and I felt at the time honoured and gratified; and I would that I had owned half Newcastle that I might have been as he thought me. That man's happy, thought I, for he is honest; I have his word for that, and I would pledge it against the richest jewel in a duke's coronet. Doubt it! no, not for one of those heaven's lights that is glistening in the blue ether, like a dewdrop on a violet's petal. Doubt it! no, there's a silent satisfaction carried to the heart, in believing good of those you would have good; the riches of us all consist in our reputation; without that we are but as straws upon the water; and poverty surely has its pride of honesty, as "Dixit impius in corde suo, non est Deus," surely 'tis not more evil to whisper this to one's heart than to say there is no goodness in one of God's people, because he may happen to be poor and lowly, to lodge in a humble shed and feed upon the worst. We are too apt to look on poverty as we look on the poisoned weed, from which a wholesome medicine may be distilled; we allow it to exist in our sight because we know that when we will we may draw benefit to ourselves from it; we detest the cause but cherish the effect; we neglect the man as man, but hold his exertions sacred when we are the gainers; we strain his strength, tax his faculties till both are exhausted, and then he is thrown aside as the lees of wine. We would have them have eyes, and not allow them to see; with ears, and not allow them to hear; they smell of poverty, and their rags offend us, not because they are reproaches to our consciences-for, God forgive us, we have none-but we deem morally, habitually bad, all those who carry about them the stamp of wretchedness; crime and ingratitude, sloth and evil passions are associated in our minds with the hungry stomach and the ragged coat; and the very essence on our handkerchiefs forbids their approach; they reek with the odour of lowliness, and our very boots are too proud to spatter them with their fellow mud. Can poverty have rights or wrongs? Ridiculous! Can the poor have hearts of affection, and nerves strung so as to vibrate to the touch of sweet sensibility? Absurd! Can they be awake to all the goodly feelings that hallow life, those tendernesses of thought, those yearnings of solicitude, that pride of manhood and of independence which lives in the hearts of other men? Can the raggedly clothed mother look upon the child of her womb with love, and the father with pride? Oh no, no, no! they are formed of the dross cast aside by the maker of the children of wealth, and are the Yahoos of society, sans feeling, sans worth, sans everything; they are creatures to lash with the thong of scorn, vile things to spit upon, to pass by and be forgotten. Tremble, ye proud of heart and uncourteous of spirit; one day ye will be side by side with those ye now despise, when there will be no distinction, no line drawn between the rich and the poor; where the humble weed of this earth will claim and obtain place with the proudest flower. Tremble, and think ye of Lazaruss school your hearts; bow your spirits to that holy charity which would bid you consider yourselves but as stewards, and all as equal in |