While he was in Ireland, an event occurred to which he owes his high and permanent rank among British writers. His friend Steele determined to start a new literary periodical, and, accordingly, in April, 1709, it was announced that Isaac Bickerstaff, Esquire, astrologer -an entirely imaginary person-was about to publish a paper called the Tatler.' Addison had not been consulted about this scheme; but as soon as he heard of it, he determined to give it his assistance. In his early contributions his peculiar powers were not fully developed; yet from the first his superiority to all his coadjutors was apparent. Some of his later Tatlers' are fully equal to anything that he ever wrote. Among the portraits we most admire Tom Folio, Ned Softly, and the political upholsterer. The proceedings of the Court of Honour, the Thermometer of Zeal, the story of the Frozen Words, the Memoirs of the Shilling, are excellent specimens of that ingenious and lively species of fiction in which Addison excelled.

·

During the session of Parliament which commenced in November, 1709, and which the impeachment of Sacheverell has made memorable, Addison resided in London. The Tatler' was now more popular than any periodical had ever been; and his connexion with it was generally known. It was not known, however, that almost every good thing in the 'Tatler' was from his pen. The truth is, that the fifty or sixty numbers, which we owe to him, were not merely the best, but so decidedly so, that any five of them are more valuable than all the two hundred numbers in which he had no share.

three-sevenths of it was Addison's; and though it is dangerous to select where there is so much that deserves the highest praise, a person who wishes to form a just notion of Addison's powers, would do well to read at one sitting, the two Visits to the Abbey, the Visit to the Exchange, the Journal of the retired Citizen, the Vision of Mirza, the Transmigration of Pug the Monkey, and the Death of Sir Roger de Coverley."

At the close of 1712, the 'Spectator' ceased to appear. It was felt that the short-faced gentleman and his club had been long enough before the town; and, to supply the vacuum, the Guardian' was started in March, 1713. At this time Addison was busy finishing his 'Cato,' the first four acts of which had been lying in his desk since his return from Italy, and he did not contribute to the 'Guardian' till sixty-six numbers had appeared. By that time its fate was sealed. It lingered on, however, till the following September, when it was given up. 'Cato' being now completed, Addison gave it to the managers of Drury Lane, without stipulating for any advantage to himself. They, therefore, thought themselves bound to spare no cost in scenery and dresses. The prologue was written by Pope; the hero was excellently played by Booth; Steele undertook to pack a house. The boxes were in a blaze with the stars of the Opposition peers. The pit was crowded with friendly listeners from the Inns of Court and the literary coffeehouses; and Sir Gilbert Heathcote, governor of the bank, was at the head of a powerful body of auxiliaries from the city. But these precautions were quite superfluous. The Tories regarded Addison with no unkindly feelings. Accordingly, every shout that was raised by the members of the Kit-Cat, was re-echoed by the High Churchmen of the October; and the curtain at length fell amidst thunders of unanimous applause. This was in April; and in April, a hundred and thirty years ago, the London season was thought to be far advanced. During a whole month, however, Cato' was performed to overflowing houses, and brought into the treasury of the theatre twice the gains of an ordinary

6

In the following year, Addison conceived the idea of adding an eighth volume to the 'Spectator.' In June, 1714, the first number of the new series appeared, and during about six months three papers were published weekly, containing perhaps the finest essays, both serious and playful, in the English language.

The accession of George I. again turned the tables, and the Whigs were restored to power. Sunderland was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Addison again went to Dublin as Chief Secretary. But he soon returned to London, relinquishing his secretaryship for a seat at the Board of Trade. In the same year, 1715, his comedy of the 'Drummer' was produced, but not with any great success. Towards the close, too, of the same year, and while the rebellion was still raging in Scotland, he published the first number of the Freeholder,' a paper entitled to the first place among his political works.

He required, at this time, all the solace which he could derive from literary success. The trial of Sacheverell produced an outbreak of public feeling scarcely less violent than those which we can ourselves remember in 1820 and in 1831. The Queen dissolved Parliament; the Tories carried it among the new members six to one; and the Whig ministry were turned out. None suffered more in the general wreck than Addison. He had just sustained some heavy pecuniary losses, of the nature of which we are imperfectly informed, when his secretary-spring. ship was taken from him. He had reason to believe he should also be deprived of the Irish office which he held by patent. He had just resigned his fellowship. It seems probable he had already raised his eyes to a great lady, and that he had been 'permitted to hope;' but Mr Addison the chief secretary, and Mr Addison the ingenious writer, were, in her ladyship's opinion, two very different persons. All these calamities, however, could not disturb his serene cheerfulness; and he told his friends that he had lost at once his fortune, his place, his fellowship, and his mistress, that he must think of turning tutor again, and yet that his spirits were as good as ever. The new ministry suffered Steele to retain his place in the Stamp Office, on an implied understanding that he should not be active against the government. Isaac Bickerstaff, accordingly, became silent upon politics, and the article of news altogether disappeared from the Tatler's' pages. Indeed it had completely changed its cha- In August, 1716, Addison married the Countess Dowager racter; and Steele resolved to bring it to a close, and of Warwick, by whom he had one daughter, who died, commence a daily periodical. On the 2d of January, unmarried, in 1797; and early the following year he was 1711, appeared the last Tatler.' On the 1st of March appointed Secretary of State. But, alas! scarcely had he following, appeared the first of an incomparable series of entered the Cabinet when his health began to fail. From papers by an imaginary spectator. The Spectator' him- one serious attack he recovered in autumn; but a relapse self was conceived and drawn by Addison; and the por- soon took place, which incapacitated him from dischargtrait, no doubt, was meant to be in some features a like-ing the duties of his post. Accordingly, he resigned, and ness of the painter. The others were first sketched by Steele. Four of the club, the templar, the clergyman, the soldier, and the merchant, were uninteresting figures, fit only for a background. But the other two, an old country baronet and an old town rake, though not delineated with a very delicate pencil, had some good strokes. Addison took the rude outlines into his own hand, and retouched and coloured them, and was in truth the creator of the Sir Roger De Coverley and the Will Honeycomb with whom we are all familiar. The success of the 'Spectator' was immense; the demand for some particular numbers, it is said, exceeded 20,000. About

was succeeded by his friend Craggs; who, had he lived, would probably have been the most formidable of all the rivals of Walpole.

Rest of mind and body partially re-established his health; but the fatal complaint soon returned. He bore up long and manfully: but at length he abandoned all hope, dismissed his physicians, and calmly resigned himself to die. His works he intrusted to the care of Tickell; and dedicated them, a few days before his death, to Craggs,

* Nos. 26, 329, 69, 317, 159, 343, 517. These numbers are all in the first seven volumes; the eighth must be considered as a separate work.

in a letter written with all the sweet and graceful eloquence of a Saturday's 'Spectator. His last moments were perfectly serene. When he found his end approaching, he sent for his step-son, the young Earl of Warwick, whom he was most anxious to reclaim from irregular habits and irreligious opinions, and grasping him by the hand, he gazed on him for a moment with a mild yet solemn look, 'See,' he said, 'in what peace a Christian can die!' He expired on the 17th of June, 1719, having just entered his forty-eighth year.

His body lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber, and was borne thence to the Abbey at dead of night. The choir sung a funeral hymn. Bishop Atterbury met the corpse, and led the procession, by torchlight, round the shrine of Saint Edward and the graves of the Plantagenets, to the Chapel of Henry the Seventh. On the north side of that chapel, in the vault of the house of Albemarle, the coffin of Addison lies next to the coffin of Montagu!

As a writer of the English language, Addison has no superior. A fertility of fancy-a matchless delicacy of satire a gentleness and light-heartedness which had in it no alloy of bitterness-these were among his most prominent characteristics. His piety was sincere and ardent. His services to the true religion, a defence of the evidences of which he wrote, have been duly appreciated. As a sacred poet, too, his name has long been dear to the church. The beautiful hymn which opens thus, 'When all thy mercies, oh, my God!' if deficient in its advertence to the main object of Christian gratitude, is still a fine burst of piety. While that other sublime ode, commencing The spacious firmament on high,' is almost without a match among similar compositions.

CAWDOR CASTLE-MACBETH

SUPERSTITION.

with the treasure contained in the coffer, on the precise spot where the animal happened to stop. Asses are seldom intrusted with such important missions, being, as every honest cadger knows to his cost, a stiff-necked and unruly generation. The ass of Cawdor, however, proved himself to be an excellent arbiter, and a lover of the picturesque. He made the tour of a fine level holm, girt with wood and water, and having paced the boundaries of the castle round three large hawthorn trees, he stopped at the centre one, conscious, no doubt, of having discharged his duty to his master. The latter was so well satisfied with the taste and discretion of his surveyor, that he built the tower round the third hawthorn tree, enclosing the precious stem; and there it still remains, after the lapse of above three centuries, a memento of the sagacious animal and his employer.

The building thus singularly begun is a strong feudal structure, guarded with moat, drawbridge, and battlements, and bosomed high in tufted trees.' The walls are above eight feet in thickness, and the different niches and embrasures of such gigantic dimensions that they might serve for the accommodation of a whole gipsy encampment. The massive walls, dark passages, and narrow winding staircases, strongly remind the visiter of times happily long gone by, when might too often usurped the place of right, and a successful foray or vanquished enemy was more esteemed than a clear conscience." There are some old family portraits in the castle, and one of the apartments is hung with tapestry, worked by Lady Henrietta Stuart, in the sixteenth century, with her own hands. Among the paintings is a good likeness of Montrose, and some female portraits, evidently by a coarse imitator of the style of Sir Peter Lely. On the roof of the castle is a small recess, called Lovat's Hole, being the spot where the arch-traitor of the Forty-five' concealed himself for some time after the defeat at Culloden.

It is strange that neither his opulent widow nor any of his powerful friends should have thought of placing even a simple tablet, inscribed with his name, on the walls of the Abbey. It was not till three generations had laughed and wept over his pages that the omission was supplied by the public veneration. At length, in our * On digging lately in a field near Cawdor, a human skeleton was own time, his image appeared in Poet's Corner; and found with a rope round its neck, which was supposed to be the mortal remains of Callum Beg, a notorious cattle lifter of the truly was such a mark of respect due to the unsullied Highlands, who was hanged some centuries ago by order of the statesman, to the accomplished scholar, to the master of laird, and buried, as tradition avers, in the very spot where these pure English eloquence, to the consummate painter of life relics have been found. The name of Callum Beg will be familiar and manners, but, above all, to the great satirist, who and applied it to the hopeful page of Fergus Mac Ivor, but the to most persons, as Sir Walter Scott has adopted the cognomen, so well knew how to use ridicule without abusing it, who, exploits of the doughty mountaineer survive only among a few without inflicting a wound, effected a great social reform, lovers of legendary lore. If tradition may be believed, Callum Beg and who reconciled wit and virtue, after a long and dis-occasions, interfered on behalf of his retainer, when the latter had was a dependant of the laird of Cawdor; and the patron, on many astrous separation, during which wit had been led astray the misfortune to endanger his life or liberty by forays on the neighby profligacy, and virtue by fanaticism. bouring estates. One day Callum was brought into the presence of his feudal superior, having been caught with a fang on him, which proved to be a good fat sheep. The laird had a hankering kindness for Callum, and knew not well how to act. At length he ordered the thief and the ewie to be both put into the donjon-keep of the castle, at the same time giving directions that the people should be amply regaled on bread and ale. While the latter were indulging in this repast, the laird slipped out and inquired of Callum if he had got a knife. Being answered in the affirmative, 'Then,' said he,' I shall send you customers for the wether.' Cal pieces, threw them out of a small aperture in the dungeon, conlum took the hint, and killed the sheep, and cutting it into small structed rather for air than light, at the outside of which a pack of dogs were assembled, who quickly devoured the whole. Time having been allowed for the accomplishment of this feat, the laird took his chair of state, and summoned that obdurate thief, Callum Beg, into his presence, together with the fang and the witnesses. The door of the cell was opened, and Callum produced, but not a ves tige of the sheep could be found. Upon the hint the justice spake charging the witnesses with conspiring against Callum, and accordingly setting the prisoner free. Callum, however, was not always so fortunate. On one occasion he fell into the hands of the laird of Kilravock, and was committed to durance vile. His natural chief, the laird of Cawdor, hearing of the jeopardy in which Callum was placed-for it is well known that before the abolition of heritable jurisdiction, after the defeat of the Stuarts, our lairds and barons possessed the right of pit and gallows, and were by no means scrupulous in the use of them-repaired to the ancient mansion of his neighbouring proprietor, on the first day of the new year, and seated himself on the great stair in front of the castle. The usual greetings having passed, the laird of Cawdor was invited into the house, but replied that he had a new year's gift to ask, and unless it were granted he would not enter the house or partake of his neighbour's hospitality. I shall grant you every favour in my power, replied Kilravock, but the life of Callum Beg.- That, replied the other, is the very request I came to make, and being denied, it is unnecessary for me to stay. The laird accordingly departed, and Callum Beg was hanged.

Ir was in the sunny and leafy month of June that I first rambled over that portion of the north countrie' lying east of Inverness, where the wilder features of the Highland landscape are softened by cultivation. Near the town of Nairn stands the ancient residence of the Earl of Cawdor, one of the most entire baronial piles in the kingdom, and the situation of which is no less beautiful than striking and singular. The tower is built partly on a rock, its surface serving as a floor to the lower apartments, and in the midst is an old hawthorn tree, springing from the rock, and shooting its leafless spiral stem from the vault into the interior of the building. According to popular tradition this singular appearance is thus explained :-A certain Thane of Cawdor, a chief of the fourteenth century, whilst meditating the erection of the castle, was told in a dream to build it round a hawthorn tree, on the bank of the brook; and believing the suggestion to proceed from some guardian power, he obeyed it. Another version of the story, however, gives a less poetical origin to the site of the tower. It is said that the Thane, being in doubt where to erect his building, loaded an ass with an iron coffer full of gold, and resolved to build his mansion

The present Earl has made vast improvements in the in barrels, filled with sharp iron spikes, from the top of castle and estate of Cawdor, and is entitled to the special the Cluny, a high hill in the immediate vicinity of the thanks of all lovers of out-door nature,' as the cockneys heath. The sentence was duly enforced, and the lacerated term it, for the excellent walks he has made on each side bodies of the witches interred on the roadside, east of of the burn, and for embellishing and opening up its ro- Forres, where two gigantic stones, called 'The Witches' mantic scenery to all who choose to wander on its banks. Stones,' still mark the spot. Anathemas were fulminated And what higher enjoyment can there be, when the larch against the hill of Cluny, dooming it to eternal barrenhas hung its tassels forth,' and the birch-trees are fullness, and against all who should disturb the stones. of leaf and fragrance-when our northern skies are al- Time rolled on-many forgot and more contemned the most as clear and cloudless as those of Italy, and our warm malediction, and at length the people of Forres resolved heathy braes redolent of bees and birds-than to ramble to plant and adorn the hill of Cluny. The spot is inon the banks of the roaring linn, full fifty fathoms above deed a beautiful one, commanding one of the most exits rocky bed, or forget ourselves among the quiet nooks tensive prospects in Britain, in which the mighty waters and glens, where the lintie' builds her nest, and the of the ocean are interposed betwixt a magnificent range clear popling springs freshen the green sward? Lovely of hills and a lovely expanse of plain, rich with woods, are the calm grassy brooks of England, with their wil- streams, cottages, and other insignia of cultivation. As lows and alders, winding on amidst the pomp of cultivated an inducement to enjoy this view, the inhabitants began nature, or bursting forth from some green coppice or re- by erecting a fine monument to the memory of Nelson, cess like that so exquisitely described by Wordsworth: on the summit of the hill, and then proceeded to decorate it with trees. For some time these grew well, and promised to form a lasting ornament to the place-but one day a fire broke out, nobody could tell how or where, and in a few hours almost every sapling on the ground was consumed or blasted, and instead of the green shady boughs and leaves which graced the scene, nothing was seen but gloomy charcoal spars, and other marks of desolation. This was the first prank of the witches, but, unfortunately, it was not the last. The hill was again planted, again the trees and wilding shoots put forth their gay and glorious garniture, and again the same calamity occurred. Rewards were offered for the apprehension of incendiaries, and punishments threatened to all malicious boys and needy unscrupulous stick-gatherers, but no offender or socius criminis could be discovered. Other attempts were made at cultivation, but invariably with the same result. The young people still had hope, but the more sage and considerate of the inhabitants shook their heads and thought of Macbeth's Witches and the unrepealed sentence of barrenness! Like Hartleap Well, the spot is cursed

'Let us trace this streamlet to its source:
Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound,
And a few steps may bring us to the spot
Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs,
The mountain infant to the sun comes forth,
Like human life from darkness."

But what are all the still, shady, or sedgy brooks of merry
England, though fraught with wild flowers and water-
cresses, to our Highland burns leaping from bank to brae,
in life and light, over rock and scaur, imparting interest
and vivacity to the dreariest landscape? There is something
elevating as well as cheerful in their wild music and
endless gyrations. In England, while loitering by the
meadows, we may be soothed and delighted; but the
imagination is dormant or pruned down, so that we do
not hail the star of the morning, or kindle at the midday
splendour, as on the highland moor or hillside, with its
brawling burn, grey cairn or rock, and feathery birches.
One of the most valuable relics of Cawdor Castle was
destroyed about e or fifteen years ago.
The bed on
which King Duncan slept when murdered by Macbeth,
fell a prey to a fire which broke out in the building, and
nly a few sheds of it remain. This loss was irreparable

Aquaris For the pedigree and identity of the bed well authenticated; yet so much doubt and uncertainty hang over the history of the memorable king, and his rise and fall, that we were half disposed, with the meditative poet, to grieve less for what time had taken away than what it had left behind. Let the traveller who loves to luxuriate in Shaksperian visions, push on a few miles from Cawdor, and he will have ample scope for indulging the musing mood.

According to tradition, the testimony of Hector Boethius, and the imperishable authority of the Bard of Avon, Macbeth met the hags who foretold his future destiny on the blasted heath' of Forres. This memorable spot is situated a little to the west of the town, and is still the same steril moor, undistinguished by aught save its wide black expanse of turf and heather, and undisturbed excepting by the sportsman's gun, or the rattling of the stage-coaches that wind along the road that intersects its dreary surface. A small knoll is pointed out under the name of Macbeth's hillock,' as the place where the Thane was accosted by the Weird Sisters. So little has of late been heard of witches, that it was generally believed they had faded into thin air or common dust, like Michael Scott of famous memory, who smote the Eildon hills in twain, or other personages of the same stamp; or that, if they were still occasionally in the body, they had, like Prospero, abandoned their magic art, and ceased to ply their rites and incantations. Circumstances, however, have occurred which induce a strong suspicion that they still 'round about the caldron' go, and evince their old predilection for blasted heaths, in utter contempt of the efforts of those who, actuated no doubt by the best motives, would seek to improve the character of the soil. Centuries ago, two of the hags are said to have been tried and convicted at Forres, and condemned to be rolled

'Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
The sun on drearier hollow never shone;
So will it be, as I have often said,

Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone.' Wordsworth, let us remark en passant, is an admirable companion in a solitary mountainous journey. We may laugh or weep with Shakspeare, declaim with Milton, delight in Dryden's long resounding lines, lively fancy, and natural energy, but Wordsworth above all seems to strike the key to which the heart vibrates and responds among the hills. There is an antique simplicity and massiveness in his thoughts and diction, which seem in keeping with the grey wildered rocks and streams. We have tried Pope and Campbell, but however excellent they are in winning us back to nature amidst the hum of men, in crowded cities, or in the dry and dusky turmoil of business, they fail to satisfy the heart or fill the imagination. In solitude, Cowper is better; Thomson better still-for he is more glowing and expansive; but for a journey among the mountains, we prefer Wordsworth to them all.

Some men never learn wisdom from experience, even when it is bought, not borrowed. Notwithstanding the startling occurrences and frequent losses on the hill of Cluny, caused by the Weird Sisters, a gentleman lately attempted to break one of the witch stones to furnish materials for building. The whole neighbourhood, however, rose en masse and insisted on the stone being replaced in its ancient situation, where it still continues, bound together with iron bars or clumps. A still stronger instance of obduracy and hardihood remains to be related. The lairds have it actually in contemplation to divide, plant, and cultivate, the identical blasted heath! This has raised a great outcry among the peasants for more reasons than one. The moor has from time immemorial been used as a common, and was familiarly held to be no man's land.' The lawyers are, therefore, they say, worse than the witches, for the latter always secured to

them a range of good outshot pasture.' But hopes are still entertained that the Sisters will protect their own wild domain, and assert their ancient supremacy. The repeated conflagrations at Cluny, and a spontaneous fire which took place lately at the Moss of Inshoch (part of the heath), are held to be indications of supernatural wrath not to be mistaken. 'The moss wi' the fire spurting through it, looked for all the world like the caldron itsel', and a strange serpent was lately seen flying in the air at the same place!' Whether it be possible to find a counterpoise to this supernatural machinery remains to be proved; but men are changed as well as times. The lairds are resolved to cultivate the blasted heath, and the men of Forres to plant the hill of Cluny, trusting rather to closer observation and a better police than dreading the effects of a fast-decaying superstition. No change of circumstances, however, will banish the associations which Shakspeare has attached to this barren spot. Strangers will still ask-'How far is't called to Forres?' and imagination summon up the Weird Sisters in their wild and wasted attire.

THE BROTHERS OF RAVENSHAW.
By Madame WOLFENSBERGER, Authoress of 'The Ward of the
Crown,' &c.

'The wicked are like the troubled sea when it cannot rest. '

WINTER rapidly and visibly drew near, and nature lay subdued before his withering influence in solemn desolation; heavy clouds veiled the summits of the hills, and the snow which had already spread a universal shroud over those elevated regions, came at length on the wings of the tempest, drifting down the valleys, when a solitary horseman rode over the narrow Gothic bridge, which crosses a wild stream near the village of Ravenshaw, in one of the most romantic districts of Northumberland.

He was a stout, weather-beaten man, apparently about sixty, dressed in a coarse greatcoat, above the upturned cape of which an old hat, tied down with a red cotton handkerchief, was just apparent, as he bent forward on his horse, and endeavoured to shield his face from the sleet, which the east wind blew furiously up the stream. His legs were defended by a pair of heavy boots, with tops the colour of mahogany, and a single spur projected from his right heel, which he thrust continually into the bleeding side of his shaggy pony; and his large, red, freckled hands laid a stick across its back every two minutes, though the poor little beast had been trotting for more than an hour at its utmost speed.

But whatever might be the cause of his haste, when he turned into a narrow lane, which wound up a steep bank from the river side, to a solitary farm-house on the top of a broom-covered hill, he was obliged to dismount, and lead his horse up the difficult ascent, which the frost had made almost impassable. The building to which he directed his way was an extensive stone dwelling, erected by the proprietors of the neighbouring castle in the days of their prosperity as a jointure house; when its small windows and the high walls, enclosing the farm-yard and stables, were judged, if not absolutely necessary, at least a prudent precaution against freebooters, in that remote neighbourhood. In summer it commanded a beautiful prospect over hill and valley, of the winding river, and the woods, and the ruined castle on its banks; but the land around it was neglected: the fences were choked with weeds; the scattered trees that grew on the bare green before the door were dying away; and its broken windows and unhinged shutters spoke of nothing but carelessness and discomfort within.

The horseman put his pony into an open stable, and entered the house by a back door, like one well acquainted with the premises, without seeing a living creature. It was in vain he called, and knocked with his iron hand repeatedly against the kitchen table; all was still as the grave through the building, except when heavy steps moved occasionally across the room above. He had pulled

off his wet greatcoat, and stood considering what he
should do next, when an inner door slowly opened, and
the withered head of a cross-looking old woman, in a long-
eared white nightcap, was thrust into the kitchen.
'Richard Douglas-are you there? It is well you are
come,' whispered the old crone.

Is my brother alive yet, Jenny ?' said the man, as he started and turned towards the speaker.

'Just! and that's all; but he wants to see you, and some others besides; so you had better make haste;' and she led the way up the creaking oak stairs as she spoke. 'Whom do you mean?' inquired Richard, as he followed her.

Those you may not like to see. But you had better not thwart him now when he is so near his end.' And without leaving time for further query, she entered the sick chamber.

It was a large, gloomy room, with only one small casement, which was nearly choked up by the drifted snow; but a fire blazed upon the hearth, and its light fell full upon the countenance of the dying laird of Ravenshaw, as he lay eagerly watching the opening door. When he saw who entered, he turned away with evident disappointment, and until his brother went up to the bedside and spoke to him, he took no other notice of his presence.

'I want none of your whining,' he said at length, as Richard endeavoured to look distressed. I shall be dead in another hour, and you are heartily glad of it: so don't think to humbug me; and keep your tears for a better occasion: they'll do you no good now, I can promise you. Did you not say she would come, Jenny ? he added, turning anxiously towards the old woman; ' did you not tell her I was dying? Hush! hush! I hear a noise,' he cried, again fixing his eager glance upon the door; 'she is coming! The Lord in heaven be thanked!'

Who is coming?' inquired Richard, with a countenance scarcely less agitated than that of the dying man. 'One you will not like to see, though she is your own flesh and blood,' returned his brother Mark, in a tremulous voice, as he fell back nearly exhausted on his pillow. What, Rebecca Ainsley ?'

Ay!' who has a better claim to the blessing of a dying man than his own sister?'

What! a vile, ungrateful hussey like that? Mark Douglas, are you mad? but if she is coming hither, it is time for me to be gone, for I have sworn never to stand under the same roof with her to my dying day.'

'It was a wicked oath, and sworn in wrath,' said the laird; and if you quit this house before you break it and forgive her, I will leave you my curse as my only legacy. I know you love money better than your own soul, Richard;' and a mournful smile rested for a moment on his pale lips; 'I have long known it; but look at me-you are but one year younger-and what good can all the riches of this world do you, when you are as I am now? Purify your heart, Richard; learn to love and fear God; for that, and that only, can give peace upon a death-bed." Richard made no reply, but though steps on the stairs were at that moment distinctly audible, he did not leave the room, but stood with a sullen frown by his brother's bed, listening to the approaching sounds.

Old Jenny eagerly opened the door, and with a look of gladness, though her cheek was wet with tears, bid a woman enter, who stood near the threshold, and turning to her master, told him it was Rebecca Ainsley. Had she not done so, the brothers might scarcely have recognised in the tall and care-worn female before them, the pretty girl against whom they had vowed vengeance more than thirty years before, for marrying their father's herdsman. She was wrapped in a patched red cloak, discoloured by age and weather, and her rusty black silk bonnet was covered with snow: but though time had withered her bloom, there was nothing unpleasing in the woman's look; the wrinkles of sorrow were round her mouth, and her hair was sprinkled with grey; but there was a calm and holy resignation stamped upon her brow, a quiet lustre in her large dark eyes, which belong only to those who are