ment of this fact created throughout the country, was most intense; for all had by this time heard of his courage in battle, as well as of the extraordinary fidelity he had shewn to Charles.

As the day of Donald's trial advanced, public interest in his fate grew deeper and deeper. Never was the sympathy of the community, in the case of any malefactor, so strongly expressed. All knew that the offence with which Donald was charged, could be substantiated by the clearest evidence; and the only hope of his escaping the sanguinary clutches of the law, was in the possibility of a flaw being detected in the indictment. The day of Donald's trial arrived. Never before was Inverness so crowded on any similar occasion. Strangers poured in from all quarters. The court was opened, and Donald's trial proceeded. During the whole time it lasted, the stillness of death pervaded all present. The evidence was so clear, that the jury could not but convict, unless they chose to commit the most wilful perjury. The thing pained them beyond measure. A verdict of guilty was returned.

The counsel for the prisoner then rose, and addressed the Bench in mitigation of punishment. He dwelt most feelingly on the extraordinary display of noble-mindedness which the panel had given in protecting the life of the Pretender, when he knew that by delivering him up he would receive a reward of £30,000; and hoped that one who had displayed so much disinterestedness would not be severely punished for an offence unaccompanied with bloodshed or violence, and to which the unhappy man had been compelled by dire necessity.

The judge proceeded to pass sentence. The tear that glistened in his lordship's eye, and the unusual solemnity of his appearance, told before the words were uttered, the sentence to be pronounced. His lordship then said, that during his whole official career he never met with a case of so affecting a nature; and had the prisoner stood convicted of any other offence, murder excepted, he should have been as lenient as the law would admit; but the crime of stealing cattle being unfortunately so prevalent in that part of the country, examples were urgently called for; and as, moreover, every late case of the kind had been visited with the extreme penalty, it was his duty, however agonizing to his feelings, to sentence the prisoner at the bar to be executed that day six weeks.

The passing of the sentence excited a thrill of the deepest sorrow among all present. There was scarcely a dry eye in the court.

The hour appointed for the execution arrived. Donald mounted the ladder with a firm step. He looked around on the assembled multitude, and after standing silent and motionless for a few minutes, as if his heart had been too full for utterance, he shortly addressed the spectators. He told them that he did not fear death, in so far as he himself was concerned; but he felt reluctant to quit the world, to leave his wife and two sons exposed to scorn. He expressed his satisfaction that it was not for taking away the life of a human crea

ture, or any other crime which the voice of religion or conscience pronounced to be one of a deep die,-that he was about to suffer a disgraceful death. He concluded by making one request; and none of those who were present were likely ever to forget the emphasis with which he made it, or the supplicating looks which accompanied the words. That request was, that nobody would ever cast up' to his wife or sons, the ignominious fate to which he had been doomed, which he was about to meet. If you do,' said he, 'you will shorten Mary's days, and drive the fatherless lads to a country where no heather blooms.'

He would evidently have proceeded, but the heavings of his breast choked his utterance. He dropped the signal, and in a few seconds was in another world. A deep groan simultaneously bursting from the crowd, told how deeply they felt for the unfortunate Donald.

Such is the substance of the story which the old man we met in the Glen of Aultmore told my friend and me. It is nothing to read it, compared with hearing it drop from the lips of the old man. He had it all from his father who witnessed the execution, and who could never allude to his fate without dropping a tear. We felt deeply affected at the recital. And many a hundred times have I since thought of the illustrious fidelity of Donald Kennedy, and denounced both the law and the judge, which, for so trivial an offence as Donald afterwards committed, could have doomed him to an ignominious end.

THE FAMILY SEPULCHRE.

Close by a grave three mourners prayed,
When day was almost done;
And on a tombstone, newly laid,
Beamed the departing sun.

One wore a recent widow's dress;
Her face was pale and fair,
And very sad ;-but there was less
Of grief than patience there.

Two youths were kneeling at her side,

In early boyhood's flush;

And through their veins, in life's first pride,

The pure blood seemed to rush.

His arms were reverently crost
Upon each stripling's breast:
The father they had lately lost,
Was in that place of rest.

Their prayer was ended :-as they rose,

"

The widow joined their hands:

My sons!" she said, "let this world's woes

Draw closer friendship's bands.

"We three have prayed upon the grave

"For us and our's designed;

"It holdeth one so true and brave,
"His like is not behind.

Two old men in a burying place,
Knelt by a moss-clad stone;
One in his hands concealed his face,
And thought himself alone:

But wistfully the other gazed ;-
Hoped, dreaded,-hoped again:
The downcast eyes at length were raised;
They knew each other then.

Those aged men had both returned
From countries far away,

Because their softened souls had yearned,

Upon that grave to pray.

They prayed, and thought of her who slept
The sepulchre within;

And, heart to heart, the brothers wept
O'er years of pride and sin.

Together in that tomb they lie,
And mingle dust with dust:
They lived too long in enmity ;-
They died in love and trust.

LOST AND FOUND;

OR,

THE BUSHRANGER'S CONFEDERATE.

[A TALE OF THE COLONY.]

CHAPTER I.

It was on the 4th June, 18, the commemoration of a Royal Birth-day, that a more than usual bustle was observable in the generally quiet streets of Hobart Town. Three o'clock, the customary hour for the temporary suspension of public business, had arrived, and the public offices were closely shut. Sundry smart and smug

officials, swelling in all the great importance of official rank, were seen moving proudly towards Government-house, to partake of the princely banquet which the Lieutenant Governor, Colonel Saville, had so liberally provided; and the principal carriage-entrance was thronged and blocked up with vehicles of various description. The six old guns at the Battery, too, had been brought into requisition, and, ever and anon, blurted forth their short, sharp, unequal fire, which reverberated in a glorious echo-first from Mount Wellington, and, afterwards, from the rocky recesses of the Dromedary and Mount Direction; while such ships in the harbour, as could mount guns, occasionally broke the "stilly silence" by firing them off, greatly, as was thought, by more than one douce honest man," to the wilful and ungainful waste of a great deal of good gunpowder.

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In her own apartment at Roseville Lodge, at New Town, sat Isabel St. Clair. Her beautiful dark hair hung in luxuriant negligence over her sweet and lovely features, and ornaments of a most costly and elegant description, were spread out on a brightly polished rose-wood dressing table. But the thoughts of Isabel were far-far away from the idle pageantry, in which she was expected to take a distinguished part. She heard the roaring of the guns, announcing the commencement of the forthcoming festivities: but her heart was not with them, and she sat, sad and thoughtful, thinking of one, who, she knew, would not be an invited guest, and deploring the necessity of her own compulsory attendance.

The apartment, which Isabel occupied, commanded a splendid view of the majestic Derwent. It was lighted only by one large window, which opened on a verdant lawn, leading down to the water-side, and cultivated with much taste with several rare shrubs and flowers. Her father, Oliver St. Clair, himself a widower, was gifted with the purest taste, and the most polished imagination. Possessed of extensive property in the Colony, in high favour with the Governor, and leading a life of refined independence, all his feelings and affections-his hopes and fears-were centered in the happiness of his only child-the lovely Isabel: and no one, who has not been similarly circumstanced, can tell how deeply-how fondly, and how fervently Oliver St. Clair loved his child. And well did she deserve this love. Left motherless at an age, when a mother's care and tenderness are most required-especially by a daughter,-she grew up under the vigilant eye of a doating father, compensating, in some degree, for the loss of a wife, whom he tenderly loved. Rigidly secluded from mixed society, till she had reached her eighteenth year, Isabel was not gifted with those free and forward accomplishments, which usually characterize the manner of those, who mix freely with "the world," she was as artless as innocence itself; and, imbued with great sensibility and feeling, she gave vent to the unaffected impulses of nature with a winning simplicity, which was extremely fascinating.

Secluded, however, as Isabel had been, and tenderly watchful as

had been her father, her heart, long before the period of her introduction into society, had become a prey to the spoiler-Love. A youth, apparently of humble origin, had been engaged by her father, as a confidential overseer, or rather manager, of his extensive property at Pitt-water; and, in the frequent intercourse, which necessarily took place between young Edgar Walton and Mr. St. Clair, she had many opportunities of discovering virtues and acquirements, which indicated a spirit of no ordinary mould. Through an apparent, but, evidently, a constrained humility, bursts of high and haughty feeling would occasionally flash forth, which evinced, at least in the estimation of the partial Isabel, the existence of a degree of superiority infinitely above his assumed station; and the delicate and respectful, but yet ardent attentions, which he instinctively and invariably paid to herself, served to augment her admiration for him, and sowed the seeds of much subsequent suffering to both of them.

The mystery, which was attached to young Walton, was considerably increased by his own ignorance of the condition of his parents. All he could recollect was the death of his mother, who died when he was about six years of age, so that even this recollection was vague and imperfect. He remembered, however, that she was a very melancholy lady, and had suffered much from ill-health-that she lived very secluded in a village, near London, and was frequently visited by an elderly gentleman, who, after her death, took him, Edgar, under his protection, placed him at school, where he continued till he was seventeen, when his patron died suddenly, leaving him no other means of subsistence, than such as his education would afford him. Without a friend or a home, he eagerly embraced an opportunity of accompanying a gentleman, in the capacity of clerk and secretary, to Van Diemen's Land, where he arrived about three years before his introduction to Mr. St. Clair, to whom he soon became warmly attached, and who, in return, very highly esteemed his protegé.

From a person of Mr. St. Clair's penetration, sharpened as it was by his affection for his child, Isabel's growing attachment to Edgar Walton could not long remain concealed; and although his love for his child was extremely vehement, still, the pride, which is inseperable from all high-spirited persons, precluded any approbation of such conduct; the consequence, therefore, was, in the first instance, a remonstrance with Isabel ;-in the second, a rupture with Edgar.

The remonstrance with Isabel will explain the individual character and dispositions of both father and daughter, with much more force, than any description we could afford. Edgar was preparing to leave the house at New Town, after exhibiting more than his usual attentions to Isabel, whom he had accompanied into the garden, with the ostensible purpose of explaining to her the peculiar botanical characteristics of some rare native shrubs, as well as of several choice plants from the Cape of Good Hope; but, really, for the purpose of whispering certain soft and tender sentiments into the ear of the not