“O! Alice, you frighten me to death. There shall be no duels fought for me. Though my bridal bed should be my grave, I shall be true to my word. The bare suspicion of my inconstancy would turn poor Alfred mad. I know how he dotes upon me. I must go to the altar, Alice, like a lamb to the slaughter. Were I to refuse him, you may depend upon it, he would put an end to his existence with five loaded pistols. Only think of that, Alice; what could I say for myself, were his remains found in his bed next morning?"

History does not report what Alice said her mistress might, under such circumstances, say for herself; but it is certain that they remained talking together till the third dinner-bell

rang.

The Fitzclarences were both true to their engagements, but notwithstanding every exertion on the part of the two old gentlemen, they could not exactly bring about that "flow of soul" which they had hoped to see animating the young people. At length, after the cloth was removed, and a few bumpers of claret had warmed Sir Meredith's heart, he said boldly,

"Julia, my love, as Alfred does not seem to be much of a wine-bibber, suppose you show him the improvements in the gardens and hothouses, whilst we sexagenarians remain where we are, to drink to the health of both, and talk over a few family matters.”

Alfred, thus called upon, could not avoid rising from his seat, and offering Julia his arm. She took it with a blush, and they walked off together in silence.

How devotedly he loves me!" thought Julia, with a sigh. "No, no, I cannot break his heart."

44

'Poor girl!" thought Alfred, bringing one of the curls of his whiskers more killingly over his cheek; her affections are irrevocably fixed upon me; the slightest attention calls to her face all the roses of Sharon."

They proceeded down a long gravel walk, bordered on both sides with fragrant and flowery shrubs; but, except that the pebbles rubbed against each other as they passed over them, there was not a sound to be heard. Julia, however, was observed to hem twice, and we have been told that Fitzclarence coughed more than once. At length the lady stopped, and plucked a rose. Fitzclarence stopped also, and plucked a lily. Julia smiled; so did Alfred. Julia's smile was chased away by a sigh; Alfred ¦

66

"It is two years, I think, since we parted." Yes; two years on the fifteenth of this month."

Alfred was silent. "How she adores me!" thought he; "she can tell to a moment how long it is since we last met."-There was a pause.

"You have seen, no doubt, a great deal since you left Malhamdale?" said Julia.

"O! a very great deal," replied her lover. Miss Appleby hemmed once more, and then drew in a vast mouthful of courage.

"I understand the ladies of England and Ireland are much more attractive than those of Wales."

"Generally speaking, I believe they are." 'Sir!"

66

"That is-I mean, I beg your pardon-the truth is-I should have said—that-that-you have dropped your rose.'

"

Fitzclarence stooped to pick it up; but in so doing, the little miniature which he wore round his neck escaped from under his waistcoat, and though he did not observe it, it was hanging conspicuous on his breast, like an order, when he presented the flower to Julia.

"Good heavens! Fitzclarence, that is my cousin Rosalind."

"Your cousin Rosalind! where? how?-the miniature! It is all over with me! The murder is out! Lord bless me! Julia, how pale you have grown; yet hear me! be comforted. I am a very wretch; but I shall be faithful; do not turn away, love; do not weep; Julia! Julia! what is the matter with you?-By Jove! she is in hysterics; she will go distracted! Julia! I will marry you, I swear to you by "

"Do not swear by anything at all," cried Julia, unable any longer to conceal her rapture, "lest you be transported for perjury. You are my own-my very best Alfred!"

Mad, quite mad," thought Alfred.

"I wear a miniature too," proceeded the lady; and she pulled from the loveliest bosom in the world the likeness, set in brilliants, of a youth provokingly handsome, but not Fitzclarence.

"Julia!" "Alfred!"

cannot help wondering at your taste, Julia; that stripling has actually no whiskers!"

"Neither has my cousin Rosalind; yet you found her resistless."

"Well, I believe you are right; and, besides, de gustibus I beg your pardon, I was going to quote Latin."

THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS.

[William Edmondstoune Aytoun, D.C.L., born in Edinburgh, 21st June, 1813; died at Blackhills, Elgin, 4th August, 1865. He was a descendant of Sir Robert Aytoun, a poet who lived in the reigns of James I. and Charles I. He studied at the university of his native city, and was called to the bar in 1840. He gave early indication of his taste for literature, and in 1832 issued a small volume, entitled Poland, Homer, and other Poems. He was appointed professor of belles-lettres and rhetoric in the Edinburgh University in 1845; and his services to the Conservative party were recognized in 1852 by his appointment as sheriff of Orkney. As joint author with Mr Theodore Martin of the Bon Gaultier Ballads, and by his Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers, Professor Aytoun won for himself a distinguished place in literature. He was for a number of years a regular contributor to Blackwood's Magazine; and he produced many translations, chiefly from the German poets Uhland and Goethe. Of his other works the most notable are: Firmilian, a spasmodic tragedy by T. Percy Jones-a satire upon the spasmodic school of poetry; Bothwell, a poem; Norman Sinclair, a novel; Life and Times of Richard I. (1840); and he edited a collection of Scottish Ballads. Mr. T. Martin, who was Aytoun's partner in many bright sketches, poems, and translations, and who has written the biography of his friend, says: "Fashions in poetry may alter, but so long as the themes with which they deal have an interest for his countrymen, his Lays will find, as they do now, a wide circle of admirers. His powers as a humourist were perhaps greater than as a poet. They have certainly been more widely appreciated. His immediate contemporaries owe him much, for he has contributed largely to that kindly mirth without which the strain and struggle of modern life would be intolerable. "2]

The Rhine is running deep and red, The island lies before"Now is there one of all the host Will dare to venture o'er?

1 "Some of the best of these were exclusively Aytoun's, such as "The Massacre of the M Pherson," "The Rhyme of Sir Lancelot Bogle," "The Broken Pitcher," "The Red Friar and Little John." "The Lay of Mr. Colt," and that best of all imitations of the Scottish ballad, "The Queen in France."-Biography by T. Martin.

2 This poem is founded upon an exploit performed by a company of Scottish gentlemen, who, having been officers in the army of Dundee, escaped to France upon the defeat of that general, and took service under the standard of the French King. A work published in London in 1714, entitled An Account of Dunder's Officers after they went to France, by an Officer of the

For not alone the river's sweep

Might make a brave man quail: The foe are on the further side, Their shot comes fast as hail. God help us, if the middle isle

We may not hope to win! Now is there any of the host Will dare to venture in?"

"The ford is deep, the banks are steep,
The island-shore lies wide:

Nor man nor horse could stem its force,
Or reach the further side.

See there! amidst the willow-boughs
The serried bayonets gleam;
They've flung their bridge-they've won the
isle;

The foe have crossed the stream!
Their volley flashes sharp and strong-
By all the saints! I trow
There never yet was soldier born

Could force that passage now!"

So spoke the bold French Mareschal
With him who led the van,

Whilst rough and red before their view
The turbid river ran.

Nor bridge nor boat had they to cross
The wild and swollen Rhine,
And thundering on the other bank

Far stretched the German line.
Hard by there stood a swarthy man
Was leaning on his sword,
And a saddened smile lit up his face

As he heard the Captain's word. "I've seen a wilder stream ere now

Than that which rushes there;
I've stemmed a heavier torrent yet,
And never thought to dare.
If German steel be sharp and keen,
Is ours not strong and true?
There may be danger in the deed,

But there is honour too."

The old lord in his saddle turned, And hastily he said

"Hath bold Duguesclin's fiery heart Awakened from the dead?

Thou art the leader of the Scots-
Now well and sure I know,
That gentle blood in dangerous hour
Ne'er yet ran cold nor slow,
And I have seen thee in the fight
Do all that mortal may:
If honour is the boon ye seek,
It may be won this day-
The prize is in the middle isle,

There lies the adventurous way.
And armies twain are on the plain,
The daring deed to see-
Now ask thy gallant company
If they will follow thee!"

Right gladsome looked the Captain then, And nothing did he say,

But he turned him to his little band-
Oh few, I ween, were they!

The relics of the bravest force
That ever fought in fray.
No one of all that company

But bore a gentle name,

Not one whose fathers had not stood
In Scotland's fields of fame.

All they had marched with great Dundee
To where he fought and fell,
And in the deadly battle strife

Had venged their leader well:
And they had bent the knee to earth
When every eye was dim,

As o'er their hero's buried corpse

They sang the funeral hymn;
And they had trod the Pass once more,
And stooped on either side

To pluck the heather from the spot
Where he had dropped and died;
And they had bound it next their hearts,
And ta'en a last farewell

Of Scottish earth and Scottish sky,
Where Scotland's glory fell.
Then went they forth to foreign lands
Like bent and broken men,

Who leave their dearest hope behind,
And may not turn again.

"The stream," he said, "is broad and deep,
And stubborn is the foe-
Yon island-strength is guarded well-
Say, brothers, will ye go?

arriving too late, the Germans had carried a bridge over into the island, where they had posted above 500 men, who, by order of their engineers, intrenched themselves; which the company of officers perceiving, who always grasped after honour, and scorned all thoughts of danger, resolved to wade the river, and attack the Germans in the island; and for that effect, desired Captain John Foster, who then commanded them, to beg of the Marquis that they might have liberty to attack the Germans in the island; who told Captain Foster, when the boats came up, they should be the first that attacked. Foster courteously thanked the Marquis, and told him they would wade into the island, who shrunk up his shoulders, prayed God to bless them, and desired them to do what they pleased." Whereupon the officers, with the other two Scottish companies, made themselves ready; and, having secured their arms round their necks, waded into the river band in-hand, "according to the Highland fashion," with the water as high as their breasts; and, having crossed the heavy stream, fell upon the Germans in their intrenchment. These were presently thrown into confusion, and retreated, breaking down their own bridges, whilst many of them were drowned. This movement, having been made in the dusk of the evening. partook of the character of a surprise; but it appears to me a very remarkable one, as having been effected under such circumstances, in the dead of winter, and in the face of an enemy who possessed the advantages both of position and of numerical superiority. The author of the narrative adds:-"When the Marquis de Sell heard the firing, and understood that the Germans were beat out of the island, he made the sign of the cross on his face and breast, and declared publicly that it was the bravest action that ever he saw, and that his army had no honour by it. As soon as the boats came, the Marquis sent into the island to acquaint the officers

that he would send them both troops and provisions. who thanked his excellency, and desired he should be informed that they wanted no troops, and could not spare time to make use of provisions, and only desired spades, shovels, and pickaxes, wherewith they might intrench themselves-which were immediately sent to them. The next morning, the Marquis came into the island, and kindly embraced every officer, and thanked them for the good service they had done his master, assuring them he would write a true account of their honour and bravery to the court of France, which, at the reading his letters, immediately went to St. Germains, and thanked King James for the services his subjects had done on the Rhine."

The company kept possession of the island for nearly six weeks, notwithstanding repeated attempts on the part of the Germans to surprise and dislodge them; but all these having been defeated by the extreme watchfulness of the Scots, General Stirk at length drew off his army, and retreated. "In consequence of this action," says the chronicler, "that island is called at present Isle d'Ecosse, and will in likelihood bear that name until the general conflagration."

Two years afterwards, a treaty of peace was concluded; and this gallant company of soldiers, worthy of a better fate, was broken up and dispersed. At the time when the narrative, from which I have quoted so freely, was compiled, not more than sixteen of Dundee's veterans were alive. The author concludes thus:-"And thus was dissolved one of the best companies that ever marched under command! Gentlemen who, in the midst of all their pressures and obscurity, never forgot they were gentlemen; and whom the sweets of a brave, a just, and honourable conscience rendered perhaps more happy under those sufferings than the most prosperous and triumphant in iniquity, since our minds stamp our happiness."

From home and kin for many a year

Our steps have wandered wide,
And never may our bones be laid
Our fathers' graves beside.
No children have we to lament,
No wives to wail our fall;

The traitor's and the spoiler's hand

Have reft our hearths of all.

But we have hearts, and we have arms,
As strong to will and dare

As when our ancient banners flew
Within the northern air.

Come, brothers! let me name a spell

Shall rouse your souls again,
And send the old blood bounding free

Through pulse and heart and vein. Call back the days of bygone yearsBé young and strong once more; Think yonder stream, so stark and red, Is one we've crossed before.

Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood!

Rise up on either handAgain upon the Garry's banks, On Scottish soil we stand! Again I see the tartans wave, Again the trumpets ring; Again I hear our leader's call

Upon them for the King!'
Stayed we behind that glorious day
For roaring flood or linn?

The soul of Græme is with us still-
Now, brothers! will ye in?"

"The current's strong-the way is long-
They'll never reach the shore!
See, see! they stagger in the midst,
They waver in their line!
Fire on the madmen! break their ranks,
And whelm them in the Rhine!"

Have you seen the tall trees swaying
When the blast is sounding shrill,
And the whirlwind reels in fury

Down the gorges of the hill?
How they toss their mighty branches,
Struggling with the tempest's shock;
How they keep their place of vautage,
Cleaving firmly to the rock?

Even so the Scottish warriors

Held their own against the river; Though the water flashed around them, Not an eye was seen to quiver; Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, Not a man relaxed his hold:

For their hearts were big and thrilling

With the mighty thoughts of old.
One word was spoke among them,

And through the ranks it spread--
"Remember our dead Claverhouse!"
Was all the Captain said.
Then, sternly bending forward,
They wrestled on awhile,
Until they cleared the heavy stream,
Then rushed towards the isle.

The German heart is stout and true,
The German arm is strong;
The German foot goes seldom back
Where armed foemen throng.
But never had they faced in field

So stern a charge before,

And never had they felt the sweep
Of Scotland's broad claymore.
Not fiercer pours the avalanche
Adown the steep incline,
That rises o'er the parent-springs
Of rough and rapid Rhine-
Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven
Than came the Scottish band
Right up against the guarded trench,

And o'er it sword in hand.

In vain their leaders forward press-
They meet the deadly brand!

O lonely island of the Rhine-
Where seed was never sown,
What harvest lay upon thy sands,
By those strong reapers thrown?
What saw the winter-moon that night,
As, struggling through the rain,
She poured a wan and fitful light

On marsh, and stream, and plain?

A dreary spot with corpses strewn,
And bayonets glistening round;
A broken bridge, a stranded boat,
A bare and battered mound;
And one huge watchfire's kindled pile,
That sent its quivering glare
To tell the leaders of the host
The conquering Scots were there!

And did they twine the laurel-wreath
For those who fought so well?
And did they honour those who lived,
And weep
for those who fell?

What meed of thanks was given to them
Let aged annals tell.

Why should they bring the laurel-wreath-
Why crown the cup with wine?

It was not Frenchman's blood that flowed
So freely on the Rhine-

A stranger band of beggared men
Had done the venturous deed:

The glory was to France alone,
The danger was their meed.
And what cared they for idle thanks
From foreign prince and peer?
What virtue had such honeyed words

The exiled heart to cheer?

What mattered it that men should vaunt And loud and fondly swear,

That higher feat of chivalry

Was never wrought elsewhere?
They bore within their breasts the grief
That fame can never heal-
The deep, unutterable woe
Which none save exiles feel.

Their hearts were yearning for the land
They ne'er might see again-
For Scotland's high and heathered hills,
For mountain, loch, and glen—
For those who haply lay at rest
Beyond the distant sea,
Beneath the green and daisied turf
Where they would gladly be!

Long years went by. The lonely isle
In Rhine's impetuous flood
Has ta'en another name from those
Who bought it with their blood:
And, though the legend does not live-
For legends lightly die-

The peasant, as he sees the stream

In winter rolling by,

And foaming o'er its channel-bed

Between him and the spot

Won by the warriors of the sword,
Still calls that deep and dangerous ford,
The Passage of the Scot.

MARJORIE DAW.

[Thomas Bailey Aldrich, born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 11th November, 1836. An American miscellaneous writer and poet. Daisy's Necklace; The Ballad of Baby Bell; The Course of True Love; Pampinea, and other poems; Out of His Head, a romance; The Story of a Bad Boy, and other prose works, have obtained much popularity. The following story has been translated into French, and published in the Revue de Deux Mondes, in which the translator says Mr. Aldrich's "style is lively, and even in his easiest sentences there is a certain acid and savage savour which is agreeable to blasé palates."]

I.

Dr. Dillon to Edward Delaney, Esq., at The Pines, near Rye, N.H.

August 8, 187-.

My dear Sir, I am happy to assure you that your anxiety is without reason. Flemming will be confined to the sofa for three or four weeks, and will have to be careful at first how he uses his leg. A fracture of this kind is always a tedious affair. Fortunately the bone was very skilfully set by the surgeon who chanced to be in the drug-store where Flemming was brought after his fall, and I apprehend no permanent inconvenience from the accident. Flemming is doing perfectly well physically; but I must confess that the irritable and morbid state of mind into which he has fallen causes me a great deal of uneasiness. He is the last man in the world who ought to break his leg. You know how impetuous our friend is ordinarily, what a soul of restlessness and energy, never content unless he is rushing at some object, like a sportive bull at a red shawl; but amiable withal. He is no longer amiable. His temper has become something frightful. Miss Fanny Flemming came up from Newport, where the family are staying for the summer, to nurse him; but he packed her off the next morning in tears. He has a complete set of Balzac's works, twenty-seven volumes, piled up by his sofa, to throw at Watkins whenever that exemplary serving-man appears with his meals. Yesterday I very innocently brought Flemming a small basket of lemons. You know it was a strip of lemonpeel on the curbstone that caused our friend's mischance. Well, he no sooner set his eyes upon these lemons than he fell into such a rage as I cannot describe adequately. This is only one of his moods, and the least distressing. At other times he sits with bowed head regarding his splintered limb, silent, sullen, despairing. When this fit is on him-and it