ANGEL VISITS. BY M. O. GRANNIS. Like sunshine on the mountains, As stars shine on, 'mid heaven Like rainbow glories, streaming Thus come dear ones, departed, Come, when morn's gate unclosing A soft, sweet influence stealing, Ofttimes when sad, or weary, Come they, sweet angels, bringing, This life!-oh, say not wrongly, When bound thus close, and strongly, TALES OF THE FIRESIDE. BY AN OLD FRIEND. In an obscure part of the State of Massachusetts many years ago, there lived a poor family, consisting of father, mother, and eight children. They lived in a small, partly finished and poorly furnished house, upon the land of a relative better off in the world, and who exacted but little, if any rent, save sometimes making a home there for himself and motherless children: at which times the oblong table, of sterl ing material and ample dimensions, was too small to accommodate the whole family at a sitting, even with crowding elbows against ribs, but the more bountiful pro visions always present at such times, fully compensated for the slight inconvenience felt, and the little ones, who waited till the older ones were served, felt sure of enough to eat, while the care-worn matron cheerfully performed her augmented task, though already, alas, too heavily burdened; for her heart was eased of any apprehensions of immediate want, while entertaining her wifeless brother-in-law, who had enough and to spare-apprehensions that did sometimes sadden her life; for to be a poor man in an old country is no trifling matter, especially, as in this case, when the head of the family, from some of the numerous causes that tend to keep the poor, poor, becomes discouraged and loses heart to struggle on in vain attempts to rise in the world. How much, then, depends upon the mother! O, if she, too, loses pluck, wo be to the children! And if she does not, theirs is a rugged path for tender feet- more thistles than down, a great sight. But, lest the reader should think this a digression, I will have to saythat it is all requisite, to a proper appreciation of the tales I am about to nar rate, as transpiring around the oblong table. To appreciate them, or rather to know how much they were appreciated by the children of this poor family, one should first become acquainted with their circumstances, so as to understand how much a story was worth to them. Be it remembered then, that the father of these children was so poor, that he took no paper or magazine, and had no library of entertaining books in his house. An old worn Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, ditto, with wonderful pictures, was all this humble abode could boast, save the fewest possible school books then in use: so that these children were indebted to stories for all they dom going to meeting, even after of age to knew of the outside world, very selgo to school one and a half miles. to this the fact that the older children were hired out to work as soon as able to earn anything to support the family, and it can be imagined how eagerly the remaining ones would gather around the family table at night, to listen to the tales of the neighborhood their world from mother, an older brother or sister at home on a visit; Add or perchance some neighbor would come in to spend the evening and tell the news. It was on one of these important occasions that the whole family were electrified by the announcement that "Aunt Ruth had come into the neighborhood on her annual visit." "Aunt Ruth has come," was repeated over and over by the children, and "when will she come here," was asked again and again, while glistening eyes, told an anticipated pleasure in the coming visit, not often realised in a poor family where but few come and go; and also betrayed an interest, not common in children, in one so aged and so seldom seen as "Aunt Ruth," the reason of which will appear in the story I am about to relate; which story had been repeated in this family so often, that although Aunt Ruth made her appearance but once a year, in the neighborhood, yet was she better known to the children than some persons who lived near them. In short, Aunt Ruth was a household word - her presence a benediction - her memory precibus indeed. But who was Aunt Ruth?" the reader is ready to ask; and what made her so attractive to children? I will repeat, as nearly as I can remember, (for it is many long years since I heard the story) the account given me by those who were acquainted with her, and then you can all judge for yourselves. 66 "Aunt Ruth" was a maiden woman of great age and varied experience, who had lived in the same parish with this poor family, and was Aunt to them by kindred ties, being sister of the grandfather of these children, and bearing the same relation also, to, at least, two dozen other children of the same parish. Here, too, her ancestors had lived from the time of the Indians and wild beasts. This accounts for the strong attachment between Aunt Ruth and this parish and its people, in part. There are other causes, too, that my story will develope. But this attachment had been sorely tried by circumstances that induced Aunt Ruth to leave her native soil and the graves of her kindred, and "sojourn in a strange land," with a distant relative. Love of home and scenes of youth, however, were not diminished, for did not the good old aunt return year after year, to the haunts of childhood and the homes of friends, to gladden her heart by living over the past, and to enliven the spirits of all who saw her? and few failed to see her. If she could not visit every house where dwelt some of her numerous relatives and friends, of three generations, the inmates of such house were sure to find her out and obtain a sight of her placid countenance, and hear the kindly tones of her voice. But, "let us have the story, "do tell us all about Aunt Ruth." Just so the children used to talk about her, and sometimes they would talk very familiarly with her, and even venture to coax some little impropriety of language from her lips, that Aunt Ruth might be tried to see if she were without guile. I remember to have heard of an instance of this kind, when myself a mere boy Aunt Ruth was visiting at the house of a niece, who was a widow, whose son had lately married and brought home his bride. Not being acquainted with Aunt Ruth, and being struck with her uncommon benignity of manners and gentleness of speech, she attempted to get her to repeat some 66 'bad word, that somebody had said in her presence, and of which she expressed great disapprobation. "But what were those bad words, Aunt?" said the young wife, "What did he say that was so bad?" No other answer would Aunt Ruth give. No ingenuity could draw from her the repetition of a profane or vulgar word, in story or conversation. She did not seem to think it right to repeat such words after others. "Now for the biography of Aunt Ruth -no more side views-we want to see the picture full in the face." Well, here it is, as given to me. "Aunt Ruth is coming. I saw her up the street on the same horse she has rode every time she has been here since I can remember. And she has on the same hood, and the same red cloth cloak, and, I dare say, the same gown she has worn for years, and-" Ab, yes it is Aunt Ruth, sure enough, just as natural as life-the same equipage throughout the same visage-just as much of heaven beaming from her blue eyes-the same conscious peace resting upon her countenance; and no marvel, for who ever knew Aunt Ruth do a wrong? the same reverence in her tall form, and" -"How do you do, Aunt Ruth. Let me help you off from your horse. You look as young as ever, and your old nag holds his age remarkably. There now, if she 'ant as spry as a cat!" "And Aunt Ruth jumps off, and walks nimbly into the house. She removes the hood and red cloak, as she salutes the household by name; and then she sits in the rocking chair, as much at home as can be the personification of happy old age, smiling on youth and beauty. The usual inquiries are made and answered -congratulations exchanged-gratitude expressed-and Aunt Ruth craves a little rest. From her retirement she soon emerges for rest has flown. She is young again-liv. Her ing over the scenes of her youth. memory is busy with the past. Why should it not be? This is the old homestead. Here lived father, mother, brothers, sisters-and here they died, leaving Aunt Ruth an heir loom to their descendants, and apparently making her heir to all their virtues. Ah! could the web and woof of that loom with all the figures pass before the present, what a commingling of shades and colors would be seen glimmering along the sea of life? What a mirror of the past, the present and the future! What lessons of wisdom! what warnings of vice! what wickedness! what virtue! what changes, in persons, families, and states! But this may not be. Aunt Ruth is now eighty years old, and none of her nieces or nephews seem to know anything of her youth. Nobody can tell why she lived an old maid. No one remembers when she was not the same good, genial soul she is now. Everybody likes her because she loves everybody, and dis likes every bad thing. The liar would blush in her presence. The swearer feel ashamed to take the name of the Most Holy One in vain, though well assured that she would never think of repeating the wicked word, to embellish his story for him-no, if indeed she told the story, the bad words would be left out." Such was Aunt Ruth. Such were her virtues, and in such manner did she make her annual visit on horseback to the ob scure neighborhood in Massachusetts, till one day word came "that Aunt Ruth was dead." We all felt sorry then; for we should see Aunt Ruth no more, as we had done. But her memory is cherished by all who knew her, and many who never saw the venerable maiden, nor heard the voice that waked echoes from the dead past, and the living present, have grown better by bearing her simple story. May the reader do so likewise. MY EARLY FRIEND. BY ANNA M. BATES. In the days of my happy childhood We hunted the purple violets, When the April grass was new, And the nests of the early robins That out in the orchard flew; We wandered down in the valley, We loitered oft by the spring, Where in the oak tree above us The mocking bird used to sing. When the strawberries ripened and reddened, The stars in the quiet eves. We loved one nook in the garden, Its burdens of bloom in the air, We used to gather those roses And push the leaves apart, They were milky and pallid as lilies, With a sunset stain at heart. But where is the dear old garden, And the spots where we used to play; Where is the innocent maiden, Sweet as the blossoms in May? When the strawberries ripen and redden, Where I roved in life's young morn, THE GREAT MARQUIS. BY CHARLIE F. LAURIE. Charles the First, although a good and religious man, was but a poor king. His exalted ideas of the kingly prerogative, and the fines, prosecutions, and imprisonments by which he attempted to restrain the religious opinions of the English people, raised their feelings to the highest pitch of discontent against him. This, perhaps, would never have brought upon him the ruin which it did, if he had not endeavored to do the same with his Scottish subjects. The Scots, being an obstinate race, would not submit to any infraction of their Church Government, and, to protect themselves against his measures, they formed the National Covenant -an instrument which, although it was intendel to defend their religious liberty, soon degenerated into a bond of sedition and rebellion. It was signed by thousands. Young and old, rich and poor, noble and yeoman, crowded around the table, eager to subscribe it. Among its most zealous supporters, while it yet remained true to its original purpose, was James, Graeme, Marquis of Montrose. He was a nobleman whom tradition asserts to have been descended from the Graeme who was the first to scale the wall built by Severus, to protect the Southern part of the Island from the incursions of the Picts and Scots. And it is a remarkable fact, that at three great eras of Scottish history, three Graemes have played conspicuous parts. The first, if we omit the one of tradition, was Sir John Graeme, the bosom friend of the heroic Wallace. He fell, fighting bravely, at the battle of Falkirk, in repelling the invasion of his native land by the English. The second is the subject of the present article. The third was John Graeme, Viscount Dundee, a man to whom most historians, and Lord Macauley in particular, have seen fit to impute every atrocious crime which the traditions and invention of his Covenanting enemies could invent. Some documents, however, which have recently come to light through the researches of Mr. Napier, in the library of the Duke of Queensberry, wipe away every stain from his name, and leave to the gaze of his admirers, a true knight— sans peur et sans reproche. James Graeme was born in 1612. He passed the days of his youth in acquiring the usual gentlemanly accomplishments of the age, such as riding, hawking, golfing, practising with the broad sword and rapier, and shooting with the bow and arquebuss. At the age of fifteen he was sent to the University of St. Andrew's, to acquire a knowledge of Latin and Greek, but before he had been there a year, his father died, and he became Marquis of Montrose. He was advised by his guardians, on account of the troublesome nature of the times, to marry at an early age, as he was the only hope of a numerous and powerful clan. He was introduced to Magdalane Carnegie, the youngest daughter of David, Lord Carnegie, and attracted by her beauty and accomplishments, he made her an offer of his hand. After his marriage, he retired to his castle in the calm sunshine of a love that lasted him through life, though the object of it died before he was twenty-one. He then set out for the Continent, where he remained three years, travelling through France, Germany, and Italy; visiting their Universities, enjoying the society of their distinguished men, and acquiring whatever had been neglected in his educa tion at home. He would have remained longer, but rumors reaching him of the troubles in Scotland, he immediately set out on his return. The Marquis was now twenty-four. In person he was tall, and finely proportioned. His face was oval, his eyes grey, and full of fire; his nose aqualine, and his long locks, in Cavalier fashion, hung in dark masses about his shoulders. Continual exercise had endowed his naturally' vigorous frame with incredible strength and powers of endurance. He was an excellent swordsman, and the best archer of his day in Scotland; and, as; the old chronicle says, from the use of the long, Scottish lance, to the Parmese poigniard, he was inferior to none. The powers of his mind equalled those of his body, and he had cultivated them with the utmost assiduity. On his return, in passing through London, he was advised to wait upon Charles, who received him coldly, his mind having been prejudiced against him by the Marquis of Hamilton, who feared that so accomplished a nobleman as Montrose, would compete with him in the favor of the king; and while he was instilling into the mind of Charles, a dislike of Montrose, he was at the same time inducing that nobleman to believe that the king was determined to reduce Scotland to a dependency of the English Crown. Loving his country as he did, and indignant at the treatment he had received, Montrose departed; and when the king attempted to introduce the forms of the Church of England into that of Scotland, he at once joined the opposing party. Charles, finding that his measures were resisted, assembled an army to enforce them; but was met by an equal number of Scots, under General Leslie, an officer who had served under Gustavus Adolphus in the early part of the thirty years war. Not being desirous to risk a battle with an army of determined men, under so skilful a leader as he knew Leslie to be, while his own troops were disaffected and unreliable, Charles concluded a treaty. It was, however, of short duration. In 1640 he once more collected an army, and marched to the border. He was again met by the Scots, on the Tweed, and in the battle which followed, Montrose forded the river alone, under the fire of the English batteries, to ascertain the depth of the water, and returning, led the two regiments which he commanded, across. This exploit contributed greatly to the fate of the battle; yet, notwithstanding, he had the mortification to see the Earl of Argyle, his hereditary enemy, a man of doubtful courage, preferred above him. In opposing the king, Montrose had only desired to preserve the liberty of his country; but when he saw that the ultimate design of the leaders of the Covenant was to dethrone him, he abandoned them. Peace was again concluded after this battle of Newburn, and Montrose retired to private life. War, however, broke out afresh in 1644, and he at once proceeded to Oxford and joined the king. Charles received him with favor, knowing now the worth of the man whom he had formerly rejected, and he soon after presented him with a commission as Lieutenant-Governor of Scotland. While still at Oxford, he learned that a body of Irish, under the Earl of Antrim, had landed on the northwestern coast of the kingdom. The Earl had promised Charles ten thousand men, and this rumor was supposed to be the herald of their arrival; but judge of the disappointment of the Marquis, when, on joining them at Blair Athole, he found, that instead of the promised ten thousand, the Earl had sent only eleven hundred men. By dint of great exertion, he raised his force to 3,000 men among the Highlanders, and with these he began a career, which, considering the disadvantages under which he labored, is, perhaps, unequalled in either ancient or modern history. He met the Covenanters on the plain of Tippermuir, before the town of Perth, drawn up in battle array. Their force consisted of eight thousand well disciplined and appointed troops, provided with both cannon and cavalry. To oppose these, he had but three thousand undiscip lined levies, many of whom were armed with clubs and scythes. He did not possess a single cannon, and indeed if he had, it would have been useless, as he had but one round of ammunition for the few who bore firelocks, and as for cavalry, there were but three horses in his whole army. In drawing up his men, he placed those armed with claymores and Lochaber axes, on the wings, as they would be able to withstand the attack of the cavalry. The Lochaber axe was a weapon made by placing on one side of a long ashen staff, a sharp axe, on the other a hook, and between the two a pike, so that its possessor might either shred off the head of his enemy with the axe, transfix him with the spear, or unhorse him by the hook. A line of men thus armed, could, by placing |