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since those days, and the restrictions of feudalism have come again upon us in these democratic days that ignore divine right.

George III. had not a large mind, and was rather mean in his small economies. He lost us America by his senseless obstinacy. He trained George IV. to be a scourge of England by the unwise severities and dreary platitudes of his court. But he was well-intentioned, social, and fond of appearing among his subjects. He was charitable and respectable; and he set a good example.* He was affable even to the loss of dignity. Let us not dwell at length on his melancholy old age, his blindness, his loss of reason, or the ingratitude of some among his He acted up to his lights, and our only prayer is that may we never have a worse King to reign over England.

sons.

* On the occasion of a great fire in the City, which destroyed or injured one hundred houses, the King contributed 1000l. to a subscription made for the relief of the uninsured sufferers-a third of the total amount subscribed; and this is only one of several instances of open-handed charity on the part of simple farmer George. Nor was he unmindful of less creditable claims upon his private purse. The Conductor of this Magazine was, when a child, the occasional guest of an elderly gentleman who bore a Corsican-brother-like resemblance to the late Duke of York. He was the reputed son of parents of respectable position; but some time before coming of age, he was informed that 60,0007. had been placed to his credit at a certain bank.-ED, BELGRAVIA,

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EXPLANATION.-The critical contempt for all stories of a sensational character has of late become a fact so notorious, that the Conductor of this Magazine would be wanting in deference to those great Teachers who preside over the Literary Journals of this country, if she failed to recognise the necessity for an immediate reform in the class of fiction provided for the indulgent readers of BELGRAVIA. She is thus compelled to consider the sensational element in fiction as an entirely modern innovation, devised by ignorant and reckless writers, whose only hope of creating interest lies in the employment of those exceptional situations which should properly be excluded from all romance. She has therefore intrusted to the writer the task of providing a series of short stories, conscientiously adapted from those models, so often referred to by critics, as the highest exemplars of art, the works of the dramatists and epic poets of ancient Greece, and modernised in accordance with the prevailing tastes of the novel-reading public. The writer's deviations from the original construction of each legend will be only such as the subject necessitates; and he will exercise no greater license in his treatment of modern history than is accorded to the Romancist. In some cases the supernatural element of a story will be interpreted after the fashion of the German critics, by the aid of natural phenomena; while in other cases, a perilous situation will be altered and adapted after the manner in which our dexterous English playwrights contrive to smooth away the little difficulties in a comedy by Sardou, or a drama by Dumas fils. In compliment to the Eponymous chief of the circulating library, these stories will be entitled "The Mudie Classics."

No. I.

Sir Alk Meyonn, or the Seben against the Elector.

(Adapted from the "Thebais" and the "Alemaonis.")

IN TWO PARTS: PART I.

It was early in the August of that memorable year which beheld the last struggle of hereditary right, and the last glories of the Stuart race. The landing of the seven men of Moidart and their bold young leader was scarcely known at the Court of St. James's; but the tidings of the young chief's coming had thrilled through the hearts of the wild sons of Scotia's wild hills, inspiring as the shrill cry of pibroch or the clash of claymore.

One by one the chiefs had come to offer their lives to this "tall youth of agreeable aspect," who claimed to be heir-apparent to the crown of Britain, that crown with which a disloyal faction had invested a foreign usurper. At first the highland chieftains had been somewhat loth to risk life and goods upon so hazardous an enterprise. Macdonald of Kinloch Moidart had been deaf.to the prayers, the arguments, the commands of that royal adventurer whom he believed to be

his rightful prince, until the enthusiasm of a younger brother turned the scale in the Pretender's favour. Nor was Lochiel himself better inclined for the perilous venture. He came with all speed, in obedience to the summons of his prince; but he came bent upon dissuading the rash youth from so mad a scheme as that which had brought him to Scotland, provided with seven followers, four thousand louis-d'ors, and the mere remnant of a very small supply of arms.

He came, and the influence of the adventurer prevailed. When did Scottish wisdom ever vanquish Scottish loyalty? Were highland chieftains to refuse their aid because their prince was friendless? Were they to shrink from asserting his right because there was peril in the assertion of it? If he came to them unaided by foreign mercenaries, so much the stronger must be his claim upon the service of his loyal countrymen. Lochiel had blown cold at the outset only to blow hottest of the hot before the day was done.

"I will share the fate of my prince, whatever it be," he cried; "and so shall every man over whom nature or fortune has given me power." The generous infection was quick to spread. Swiftly they came, the children of the hills, and rallied round the young heir of that lineage they loved. The ship that had brought the adventurer went back to France. Jacta fuit alea. The Rubicon had been crossed. Every day the little army gained strength, and the hopes of Charles Edward rose high, as the wild faithful creatures pressed and gathered about him in uncouth affection.

In one of the smaller islands off the coast of Inverness, a man held himself aloof from the Prince and his adherents, and would fain have. escaped any part in that wild attempt which, to him of all men, seemed mad and hopeless.

This man, Sir Andrew M Meyonn, was chief of a powerful clan, and could have brought a gallant company to the aid of his royal master had he so pleased. More than this, he was a man whose influence extended beyond the clan which called him chieftain. Throughout those wild hills and valleys the name of M Meyonn was a name of might. Weird and mysterious were the hereditary gifts of that dark race. The fatal power of second-sight had belonged to the sons of McMeyonn in the remote past, and fragments were still extant of a lost Gaelic poem which sung the prophetic powers of the present chief's

ancestor.

Upon a race so superstitious as the Scottish highlanders this reputation exercised a strong influence. They were ready to believe in Sir Andrew as a prophet, a seer, whose superhuman gaze could pierce the cloudy horizon of mortal knowledge, and behold the things to come.

"If McMeyonn of M Meyonn joins the Prince, fortune will favour us," thought the highlanders; "the MMeyonns have the gift of second-sight; they'll not join themselves to ill-luck."

The son of the Stuarts was informed of the influence exercised by M Meyonn, and was eager to secure his adherence. He wrote to the chief, enclosing a letter from his father, the crownless king who waited at Rome for the issue of his son's adventure. McMeyonn returned a loyal and respectful answer, declining to have any share in an attempt that was certain to result in disaster; and entreating Charles Edward to return to France straightway, and await a more favourable hour for his attack upon the reigning government.

"Your highness will doubtless smile at my foolish boldness, when I dare to say that I know this adventure will result in ruin to all, death to many. Yet it is none the less true. To me, as to others of my race, has been granted a power which is but a troublesome boon and a questionable benefit. Let the beginning of your highness's progress be brilliant as it may, the end will be darkness and bloodshed. I have seen these things. If by holding myself apart from so glorious-seeming an endeavour I can hinder others from joining your standard, so much the better for them. If by my indirect influence I may diminish your forces, and thus compel the postponement of your plans, so much the happier for your highness. But let this fall out as it may, I pray you, sir, to pardon my plain-speaking, and to believe that it is no cowardly fear for my own safety or my own life which induces my disobedience, but rather a fervent desire for your ultimate success, which must needs be sorely endangered by the disastrous issue of a most ill-advised attempt. In all respect and obedience,

"Your royal highness's most humble servant,

"M MEYONN."

These were the terms of McMeyonn's refusal; but the Prince did not believe the chief would hold by so disloyal a resolve. "I will see if McMeyonn will hold himself aloof when the son of his king pleads to him in person," he said to his late tutor and faithful follower, Sir Thomas Sheridan. "Lochiel would fain have refused to join the standard of the Stuarts; and Lochiel is now foremost and chief among my adherents. I will take no scribe's answer to my appeal. From the lips of McMeyonn will I receive the assurance that a M Meyonn can desert the cause for which his forebears have shed their heart's best blood."

This speech, or the gist thereof, was repeated to the seer-chieftain by one of his clansmen, who had it from a follower of Lochiel.

Upon this speech the prophet-chieftain meditated as he paced the rugged stone terrace before the windows of that grim castellated building, half manor-house, half fortress, in which his ancestors for many generations past had first seen the light.

His wife joined him in his meditative walk. She was a beautiful woman, sister of one of the lords of those rugged hills, and a staunch Jacobite, but at once frivolous and ambitious.

"The Prince's army is gaining strength every day, nay, indeed, every hour," she exclaimed triumphantly as she approached her lord. "Do you know that an eagle wheeled above the Prince's ship as she neared the Scottish coast? "Tis the King of Birds come to welcome your royal highness to Scotland,' cried Lord Tullibardine. Would you wish a better omen than that, Andrew? Donald tells me the standard of the Stuarts will be waving in the wind ere the week is out."

"Ay, sweet," answered M Meyonn sadly. "But I will not join that fatal banner."

"You are fixed on that, Andrew ?"

"Fixed as fate-as the fate of those who follow that rash youth yonder."

A motion of his hand indicated the dark line of the mainland. Ellinor McMeyonn looked at her husband with ill-disguised contempt.

"What!" she cried; "will you drag the glory of your race in the dust by an act of disloyalty that must stamp you for ever as a craven and a dastard? Will you degrade a name renowned in the annals of Scottish chivalry to the level of those lowland time-servers, who, so long as there is kale in their pot and meal in their barrel, would as soon serve Hanoverian George as the Prince whose ancestor led their forefathers to glorious victory at Bannockburn?"

"Ellinor," said the chieftain earnestly, "I have told you that this struggle-if it commence-will end most fatally for all involved in its issue. The warning I have had is a warning not to be disregarded. Were my own life alone at stake, I would scarce hazard my Prince's disfavour for so poor a cause. Caledonia's hunting-grounds have seen me matched against a foe more deadly than any human adversary. It is not my life which I refuse to my Prince; that he might have to-morrow as a free gift, if the shedding of my blood could do him service. It is my influence which I withhold from him. The faithful sons of my clan, brave as heroes and ignorant as children, shall not be lured by me into an enterprise which I know to be fatal. Nor will I turn the tide of events for those of my countrymen who, although neither of my kindred nor of my clan, would be governed by my example. No, Ellinor, I will not weakly yield to that affection for the Stuart race which is an instinct of every highlander's heart, inborn, inbred. I will set my face against this enterprise with a resolve unwavering as yonder turret, whose massy stones have withstood the tempests of seven centuries."

The

The wife was overawed by the determination of her husband's manner. She could not even pretend to doubt his courage. memory of the Caledonian boar-hunt was yet green. Nor was it only in the chase that McMeyonn had distinguished himself. In the national games at highland festival his arm had been strongest, his power of endurance greatest, amongst Scotia's chiefs. His name was in very

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