Bruce was a person of the finest sense of honour; and, finding that he had unconsciously and unintentionally made an impression on the bosom- friend of his betrothed, became instantly aware that it behoved him to take some step to dispel the unfortunate illusion, Fortunately the time was speedily approaching, which called him to return, for a season, to his military post in France; but the idea of parting from Mary Gray had become doubly painful to his feelings, from the consideration of the circumstances under which he was obliged to leave her. The ravages of death were extending instead of abating; and the general elements themselves seemed to have become tainted with the unwholesomeness. There was an unrefreshing languor in the air; the sky wore a coppery appearance, and over the face of the sun was drawn as it were a veil of blood. Imagination might no doubt magnify these things; but victims were falling around on every side; and no Aaron, as in the days of hoary antiquity, now stood between the living and the dead, to bid the plague be stayed. With a noble resolution Bruce took his departure, and sorrow, like a cloud, brooded over the bower by the Brauchie-burn. Mary sate in a quiet, melancholy abstraction; but ever and anon the tears dropped down the cheeks of Bessy Bell, as her "softer soul in woe dissolved aloud." Love is lynx-eyed, and Mary saw too well what was passing in the mind of her friend; but, with a kind consideration, she allowed the lapse of a few days to moderate the turbulence of her feelings ere she ventured to impart the cruel truth. So unlooked for, so unexpected was the disclosure, that for a while she harboured a spirit of unbelief; but conviction at once flashed over her, extinguishing every hope, when she was shown a beautiful necklace of precious stones, which Bruce had presented to his betrothed on the morning of his bidding adieu to the bower of the Brauchie-burn. As it were by magic, a change came over the spirit of Bessy Bell. She dried her tears, hung on the neck of her friend, endeavoured to console her in her separation from him who loved her, and bore up with a heroism seemingly almost incompatible with the gentle softness of her nature. She clasped the chain round the neck of Mary, and, kneeling, implored Heaven speedily to restore the giver to her arms. Fatal had been that gift! It had been purchased by Bruce from a certain Adonijah Baber, a well-known Jewish merchant of Perth, who had amassed considerable riches by traffic. Taking advantage of the distracted state of the times, this man had allowed his thirst after lucre to overcome his better principles, and lead him into lawless dealings with the wretches who went about abstracting valuables from infected or deserted mansions. As a punishment for his rapacity, death was thus in a short time brought to his own household, and he himself perished amid the unavailing wealth which sin had accumulated. Fatal had been that gift!-In a very little while Mary sickened; and her symptoms were those of the fearful malady afflicting the nation. Bessy Bell was fully aware of the danger; but, with an heroic self-devotion, she became the nurse of her friend; and, when all others kept aloof, administered, though vainly, to her wants. Her noble and generous mind was impressed with the conviction that she owed some reparation for the unintentional wound which she might have inflicted on the feelings of Mary, in having appeared to become her rival in the affections of her be trothed. As an almost necessary consequence, she was herself seized with the malady of death. The evening heard them singing hymns together-midnight listened to the ravings of delirium-the morning sun shone into the bower of death, where all was still! The tragedy was consummated ere yet Bruce had set sail for France; but the news did not reach him for a considerable time, the communication between the two countries being interrupted. His immediate impulse was to volunteer into the service of the German emperor, by whom he was attached to a squadron sent to assist Sobieski of Poland against the Turks. He never returned; and was supposed to have fallen shortly afterwards, in one of the many sanguinary encounters that ensued. The old Laird of Kinvaid awoke from the paroxysm of his grief to a state of almost dotage, yet occasionally a glimpse of the past would shoot across his mind; for, in wandering vacantly about his dwelling, he would sometimes exclaim, in the spirit so beautifully expressed in the Arabian manuscript, "Where is my child ?" and Echo answered, "Where?" The burial vaults of both the Kinvaid and Lynedoch families, who were related, were in the church of Methven; but, according to a wish said to have been expressed by the two young friends, who were lovely in their lives, and in death were not divided," they were buried near a beautiful bank of the Almond. Several of the poets of Scotland have sung their hapless fate: Lednoch bank has become classic in story; and, during the last century and a half, many thousands of enthusiastic pilgrims have visited the spot, which the late proprietor of Lynedoch has enclosed with pious care. Of the original ballad only a few lines remain: they are full of nature and simple pathos. Bessy Bell and Mary Gray They were twa bonny lasses; They biggit a bower on yon burn brae, They wouldna lie in Methven kirk But they would lie on Lednoch braes, To beek them in the sun. MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT. AIR" Cha till mi tuille." (We return no more.") Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the Clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The Minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, "Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon," "I shall never return: although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!" The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore. MACLEOD'S Wizard flag from the grey castle sallies, Gleam war-axe and broad-sword, clang target and quiver, "Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping; The Banshee's wild voice sings the death dirge before me, But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not shiver, "Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille! Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon. SCOTT. 168 THE SORROWS OF WERTER.* MISS ALICE, or, as she called herself, Miss Alicia, Gaperling, was a small featured, affected little woman, about the age of seven or eight and thirty; she lived in the village of Horsingdean, and gradually, from being the youngest at tea parties, after eating at side tables through her teens, and flirting through five or six generations of curates and attorneys, she found herself still with her maiden name, but rather looked up to as a senior in the society. It was easy, from the style of her conversation, to discover what novel she had been last studying; as she uniformly made the heroine of it her model, and was gay or melancholy, dashing or sentimental, just as the author had described. I was assured that, after studying Rob Roy, she covered her locks with a man's hat and was thrown by her donkey, generally the most patient and pacific of quadrupeds, into a ditch half filled with water, in trying to gallop over a hedge in imitation of the hunting exploits of Diana Vernon. One evening a party of the village fashionables were assembled at her house at tea. Among the guests was Mr Mordent, an eccentric old gentleman, who, in spite of the most benignant look and the kindest manners in the world, was an object of general dislike to the neighbourhood, and of particular aversion to Miss Alicia. His remarks, however severe, could scarcely be taken amiss, as in any point where he blamed another he was sure to lay the heaviest burden on himself; and who can quarrel with a man for accusing one of a fault, of which he confesses that he himself is even more guilty? "It is, indeed, a most interesting volume," said Miss Alicia, looking very sentimental. "His declaration of love is one of the finest scenes in the world, and so very, very natural; don't you think so, Mr Mordent?"-" My dear Miss Gaperling," said the gentleman thus referred to, with one of his sweetest smiles, "people at our time of life should never express any opinion of a love scene. We must leave it to those who are twenty years younger than we are."-" Well," said the lady, tossing her head, and glancing contemptuously at her benevolent looking guest, "I only said I thought it very natural. And then they are both so handsome; Sir Charles so gallant and bold, and Annabella so beautiful with her bright black eyes "_" Ah Miss Alicia, Miss Alicia, you and I, who never owed any thing to nature in the way of good looks, should From "The Bijou." 1830. have strength of mind enough to despise the advantages of beauty, and be reconciled to the plainness that fate has bestowed on us. Nobody will ever think less of you and me because we happen to be old and ugly." This was said with one of his most friendly looks, and the lady thought it better to turn to some other subject, as she considered herself too much a "woman of mind" to show her vexation. She addressed herself, therefore, to Mrs Tompkins, who was as unintellectual a being as a woman with a red face and the name of Tompkins ought to be, and inquired if there were any news in the village. "No indeed, Miss Alice, there's no news at all, except that Mr Tompkins has let the cottage."—"Indeed!” cried Miss Alicia, "and who is going to live with the eglantine and roses, in that most beautiful and romantic retirement? Oh, what a place for a poet or a lover! He must be a man of mind." "I do not know the gentleman's name, and nothing at all about his mind, except that he seems to have a mind to live very retired." -"Is it love?" sighed Miss Alicia; "oh, yes, it must be love. He has seen his soul's idol plighted to another; he has seen his rival happy; he has retired from the uncongenial society of the world to ejaculate words of comfort to his own bruised spirit."— "Perhaps," said Mr Mordent, with his usual smile, "perhaps, Miss Alicia, for you know the best of us are liable to be led astray, he may be a swindler come down to prey on the unwary: but luckily for us, we have neither beauty, nor youth, nor riches enough to tempt him: so you see grey hairs and poverty are as sure a protection to weakness as even wisdom or experience." This he accompanied with a congratulatory shake of the hand, as, greatly to the company's relief, he rose to take his leave. But they still heard him at the door talking with great kindness and condescension to Betty, the maid, who had unfortunately lost an eye:-"My dear Betty, take care of the night air, it is very hurtful to the eyes. You and I, who have partly lost our sight, should be very careful of what remains. It cannot possibly remain to us long. Ah! Betty, Betty, we shall both be stone blind soon." A week had nearly passed, and Miss Alicia's endeavours to ascertain the quality of the stranger had hitherto been in vain; at least she had acquired no certain information on which to ground her theory. She had never even seen the individual in question; but had been informed that he was little and stout, and had a sallow and wan complexion. She had also been informed that he was without "O Miss Alicia!" said one of the Miss Tompkins, "only think; pa's lodger has never a name!" "How child, never a name. |