raise the M'Gregor war-cry, clapping his hand on his breast as he fell. "Ha!" cried Calum Dhu, for it was he himself; "clap your hand behin'; the arm shot that never sent arrow that came out where it went in;"—a rhyme he used in battle, when his foes fell as fast as he could fix arrows to the bow-string. The two M'Gregors hesitated a moment whether to rush down and cut to atoms the old man who had so suddenly caused the death of their beloved young chief; but seeing him fix another arrow to his bow, of which they had just seen the terrible effects, and fearing they might be prevented from carrying the news of his son's death to their old chieftain, and thus cheat him of his revenge, they started over the hill like roes. But a speedy messenger was after them; an arrow caught Evan as he descended out of sight over the hill: sent with powerful and unerring aim, it transfixed him in the shoulder. It must have grazed the bent that grew on the hill top, to catch him, as only his shoulders could be seen from where Calum Dhu stood. On flew the other M'Gregor with little abatement of speed till he reached his chieftain with the bloody tidings of his son's death. "Raise the clan!" were Black John's first words; "dearly shall they rue it." A party was soon gathered. Breathing all the vengear, of mountain warriors, they were soon far on their way of fierce retaliation, with Black John at their head. Calum Dhu was in the meantime not idle; knowing, from the escape of one of the three M'Gregors, that a battle must quickly ensue, he collected as many of his clansmen as he could, and, taking his terrible bow, which he could so bravely use, calmly waited the approach of the M'Gregors, who did not conceal their coming; for loud and fiercely their pipes flung their notes of war and defiance on the gale as they approached; and mountain cliff and glen echoed far and wide the martial strains. They arrived, and a desperate struggle immediately commenced.

The M'Gregors carried all before them: no warriors of this time could withstand the hurricane onset, sword in hand, of the far-feared, warlike M'Gregors. Black John raged through the field like a chafed lion, roaring in a voice of thunder, heard far above the clash, groans, and yells, of the unyielding combatants—" where was the murderer of his son?" None could tell him-none was afforded time, for he cut down, in his headlong rage, every foe he met. At length, when but few of his foes remained, on whom he could wreak his wrath, or exercise his great strength, he spied an old man sitting on a ferny bank, holding the stump of his leg, which had been cut off in the battle, and who beckoned the grim chief to come nearer. Black John rushed forward, brandishing his bloody sword, crying, in a voice which startled the yet remaining birds from the neighboring mountain cliffs"where was his son's murderer!" "Shake the leg out

o' that brogue," said the old man, speaking with difficulty, and squeezing his bleeding stump with both hands, with all the energy of pain, "and bring me some o' the water frae yon burn to drink, and I will show you Calum Dhu, for he is yet in the field, and lives: rin, for my heart burns and faints." Black John, without speaking, shook the leg out of the brogue, and hasted to bring wata. to get the wished-for intelligence. Stooping to dip the bloody brogue in the little stream, "M'Alp-hooch!" he cried, and splashed lifeless in the water, which in a moment ran thick with his blood. "Ha!" cried Calum Dhu, for it was he again; "clap your hand behin'; that's the last arrow shot by the arm that sent those which came not out where they went in."

LONDON WEEKLY REVIEW.

HANNAH.

THE prettiest cottage on our village-green is the little dwelling of Dame Wilson. It stands in a corner of the common, where the hedgerows go curving off into a sort of bay, round a clear, bright pond, the earliest haunt of the swallows. A deep, woody, green lane, such as Hobbima or Ruysdael might have painted-a lane that hints of nightingales-forms one boundary of the garden, and a sloping meadow the other; whilst the cottage itself, a low, thatched, irregular building, backed by a blooming orchard, and covered with honeysuckle and jessamine, looks like the chosen abode of snugness and comfort. And so it is.

Dame Wilson was a respected servant in a most respectable family, where she passed all the early part of her life, and which she quitted only on her marriage with a man of character and industry, and of that peculiar universality of genius which forms what is called, in country phrase, a handy fellow. He could do any sort of work, was thatcher, carpenter, bricklayer, painter, gardener, game-keeper, every thing by turns, and nothing long." No job came amiss to him. He killed pigs, mended shoes, cleaned clocks, doctored cows, dogs, and horses, and even went as far as bleeding and drawing teeth in his experiments on the human subject. In addition to these multifarious talents, he was ready, obliging, and unfearing; jovial withal, and fond of good-fellowship; and endowed with a promptness of resource which made him the general adviser of the stupid, the puzzled, and the timid. He was universally admitted to be the cleverest man in the parish; and his death, which happened, about ten years ago, in consequence of standing in the water, drawing a pond for one neighbor, at a time when he was overheated by load

ing hay for another, made quite a gap in our village commonwealth. John Wilson had no rival, and has had no successor; for the Robert Ellis, whom certain youngsters would fain exalt to a copartnery of fame, is simply nobody —a bell-ringer—a ballad-singer-a troller of profane catches-a fiddler-a bruiser-a loller on alehouse benches-a teller of good stories—a mimic-a poet! What is all this to compare with the solid parts of John Wilson? Whose clock hath Robert Ellis cleaned?-whose windows hath he mended ?—whose dog hath he broken?-whose pigs hath he rung?—whose pond hath he fished?—whose hay hath he saved?-whose cow hath he cured?-whose calf hath he killed?-whose teeth hath he drawn?-whom hath he bled? Tell me that, irreverent whipsters! No! John Wilson is not to be replaced. He was missed by the whole parish; and, most of all, he was missed at home. His excellent wife was left the sole guardian and protector of two fatherless girls; one an infant at her knee, the other a pretty, handy lass, about nine years old. Cast thus upon the world, there must have been much to endure, much to suffer; but it was borne with a smiling patience, a hopeful cheeriness of spirit, and a decent pride, which seemed to command success as well as respect in their struggle for independence. Without assistance of any sort, by needle-work, by washing and mending lace and fine linen, and other skilful and profitable labors, and by the produce of her orchard and poultry, Dame Wilson contrived to maintain herself and her children in their old comfortable home. There was no visible change: she and the little girls were as neat as ever; the house had still within and without the same sunshiny cleanliness, and the garden was still famous over all other gardens for its cloves, and stocks, and double wall-flowers. But the sweetest flower of the garden, the joy and pride of her mother's heart, was her daughter Hannah. Well might she be proud of her! At sixteen, Hannah Wilson was, beyond

a doubt, the prettiest girl in the village, and the best. Her beauty was quite in a different style from the common country rosebud-far more choice and rare. Its chief characteristic was modesty. A light, youthful figure, exquisitely graceful and rapid in all its movements; springy, elastic and buoyant as a bird, and almost as shy; a fair, innocent face, with downcast blue eyes, and smiles and blushes coming and going almost with her thoughts; a low, soft voice, sweet even in its monosyllables; a dress remarkable for neatness and propriety, and borrowing from her delicate beauty an air of superiority not its own;-such was the outward woman of Hannah. Her mind was very like her person; modest, graceful, gentle, affectionate, grateful, and generous above all. The generosity of the poor is always a very real and fine thing; they give what they want; and Hannah was of all poor people the most generous. She loved to give; it was her pleasure, her luxury. Rosy-cheeked apples, plums with the bloom on them, nosegays of cloves and blossomed myrtle ;—these were offerings which Hannah delighted to bring to those whom she loved, or those who had shown her kindness; whilst to others, who needed other attentions than fruit and flowers, she would give her time, her assistance, her skill; for Hannah inherited her mother's dexterity in feminine employments, with something of her father's versatile power. Besides being an excellent laundress, she was accomplished in all the arts of the needle, millinery, dress-making, and plain work; a capital cutter-out, an incomparable mender, and endowed with a gift of altering, which made old things better than new. She had no rival at a rifacemento, as half the turned gowns on the common can witness. As a dairy-woman, and a rearer of pigs and poultry, she was equally successful: none of her ducks and turkeys ever died of neglect or carelessness, or, to use the phrase of the poultry-yard on such occasions, of "ill-luck." Hannah's fowls never dreamed